The Prefect, a short stout man named Bereaud, politely listened to their complaints, promised he was looking into the situation, but, of course, nothing was done at all. This was a general policy of police administration: the Montmartre was looked upon as a kind of a safety valve for the population in general, with laws enforced loosely or not at all. As a result of this attitude, con-artists, prostitutes, criminals of all kinds, literally got away with murder and every other crime in the book. It was well known, all over Paris, that the 18th Arrondisement was much more corrupt than other districts, the place to be if you messed around outside the law. In the Montmartre, Maurice was just another drunken bum, lumped with the other inebriates, but one, in their eyes, with a redeeming talent, that encouraged them to look the other way--which they did.
In Maurice's case, there is no doubt that the art superceded his criminal activities, protecting him from the justice he deserved. Despite this, even with the police blinking their eyes, it was readily apparent that he couldn't get away with his lifestyle forever, that some kind of punishment was inevitable: and most likely, severe. Naly, who was on good terms with Beraud and some higher political figures, said that the matter of Maurice's crimes was not, as it appeared, being ignored. "Politicians are alert about problems like this," he explained, "not moving until it hurts personally, but, when it does, watch out, things are bound to happen!" I knew, by this time, that the wild ride Maurice was on, couldn't continue forever. I had known this the day the officers from the Department of the Seine had come, many years ago, to take him to the mental asylum at Saint Anne. To hope, with conditions worse than they had been then, that he could remain free for any extended period of time, was pure self-delusion. Naly, always the realist about life, had warned me that Maurice's freedom was in jeopardy, that the politicians were just sitting on it before they moved, and that when they decided to move, it would be quick, a disappearing act for Maurice. What I worried most about was that the scandal involved; an unbalanced inebriate, coddled by the authorities, might become something more than just going off to nuthouse for a few months. There is no doubt that the elected officials were worried, and who wouldn't be with the prospects of elections coming up and having a bunch of frenzied females screaming on your doorstep? There is no doubt that when they made up their minds, the curtain would come down, only God knew what would happen after that, and it didn't take much to convince me that whatever it was, wasn't going to be a a picnic.
As the prospects of a move by the authorities appeared imminent, I receive numerous warnings of the impending action, something which did little to quiet my unsettled state of mind. I sat at the flat, unable to move from my wicker rocker, looking out at the gray sky sweeping over Paris, depressed by the realization that the future of my son, and perhaps, that of myself, was completely out of my hands. I had tried everything possible within my limited means to try to figure some angle which could provide a reasonable answer to the dilemma, but, as I reflected on what the possibilties were, I couldn't come up with a single idea which might, possibly, change the inevitable climax which was just around the corner. In thinking about this, I compared Maurice's fate with my own and I could see little difference if you discount the alcoholism and criminal acts. The river carried both of us, we were subject to its flow and turns, both of us unable to function in a narrowed social system which had definitive laws about what was and what was not permissible. The thought blackened everything because I saw no hope, in the future, for free choice; not for Maurice, nor for myself, unless some sort of miracle occured which might free us from our social responsibilities. I was aware, however, that to do so, flew in the face of the stark realities which closed in on us.