And what about him? What was he doing here? His heart full of disgust and hatred, he was just pretending to pray for Philippe. But Philippe was . . . My G.o.d! Philippe, my beloved brother! He whispered these words and, as if they had some divine power to console, his painful heart relented. Warm tears flooded down his cheeks. Thoughts of kindness, forgiveness, ran through him. They did not come from within him but from beyond, as if some friend had leaned down to whisper in his ear, "A family that produced Philippe can't be all bad. You're being too harsh. You've only seen things from the outside, you can't look into their souls. Evil is visible, it burns, it smugly displays itself for all to see. There is only One who can count the sacrifices, who can measure all the blood and tears."

He looked at the marble plaque engraved with the names of those who had died in the war . . . the last war. Among them were some Craquants and Pericands-uncles, cousins he'd never known, children barely older than he, killed at the Somme, Flanders, Verdun, killed twice since they had died in vain. Little by little, out of this chaos of contradictory feelings, was born a strange, bitter feeling of peace. He had gained valuable experience, knowledge; no longer in an abstract, bookish way, but in his heart, which had beat so wildly, in his hands which had been torn to shreds trying to defend the bridge at Moulins, in his lips which had kissed a woman while the Germans celebrated their victory. Danger, courage, fear, love: now he knew the real meaning of these words . . . Yes, even love . . . He felt better now, stronger, and very confident. He would never see the world through anyone else's eyes again. But more than that, anything he might love and believe from now on would come from himself, and no one else. Slowly, he put his hands together, lowered his head and, finally, prayed.

The Ma.s.s was over. Outside the cathedral he was surrounded by people wanting to kiss him and congratulate his mother.

"And he still has those lovely cheeks," the women all said, "after all he's been through . . . He's hardly lost any weight, he hasn't changed at all. Dear little Hubert . . ."

27.

Gabriel Corte and Florence arrived at the Grand Hotel at seven o'clock in the morning. Collapsing with exhaustion, they looked around fearfully, as if they expected, once through the revolving doors, to plunge back into the nightmare of an incoherent world, with refugees sleeping on the cream carpets of the writing room, a hotel manager who didn't recognise them and refused to give them a room, no hot water for a bath and bombs falling in the lobby. But, thank G.o.d, this Queen of French spas had remained intact and the feverish, noisy activity at the lake was simply the way it always was. All the staff were in place. Despite the manager's insistence that they were short of everything, the coffee was delicious, the c.o.c.ktails were mixed with crushed ice and the taps poured out as much water as you liked, cold and boiling hot. At first everyone had been worried: the unfriendly att.i.tude of England made them fear that the blockade would remain in place, thus depriving them of fresh supplies of whisky, but they had a large quant.i.ty in stock. They could wait.

As soon as they set foot on the marble floor of the lobby, Gabriel and Florence felt they had been reborn. Everything was calm. You could barely hear the distant whirring of the great lifts. Through the open bay windows, misty, shimmering rainbows created by the hotel's water sprinklers hovered over the lawns. They were recognised and surrounded. The manager of the Grand Hotel, where they had stayed every year for twenty years, raised his arms to heaven and told them it was all over; they had glimpsed the bottom of the abyss, but now they had to try to restore some sense of duty and n.o.bility in the people. Then he confided in them that they were expecting members of the government to arrive at any moment (their suites had been reserved the previous day), and that the amba.s.sador of Bolivia was having to sleep on a billiard table. However, for him, Gabriel Corte, he would always manage to find something (more or less the same words he had used as a newly promoted deputy manager of the Normandy Hotel in Deauville at the height of the racing season).

Corte wearily pa.s.sed his hand over his painful forehead. "My good man, you could put a mattress in the lavatory if you had to!"

All around him, everything was taking place in an appropriately discreet manner. There were no more women giving birth in a ditch, no more lost children, no more bridges blown up with such ill-calculated amounts of dynamite that they demolished the houses nearby. Here, windows were politely closed to keep out draughts, doors were opened for him, he felt plush carpets beneath his feet.

"Do you have all your luggage? You didn't lose anything? What luck! People have been arriving without pyjamas, without even a toothbrush. There was one unfortunate gentleman who arrived with no clothes on. He was wounded in an explosion and made the entire journey from Tours completely naked, with only a blanket round him."

"Well, I nearly lost my ma.n.u.scripts," said Corte.

"Good gracious, how awful! But you found them intact? All the same, what you must have been through! What you must have been through! Excuse me, Monsieur, excuse me, Madame, right this way. Here is the suite I have given you; it's on the fourth floor, I do apologise; you will excuse me, won't you?"

"Oh," muttered Corte, "nothing matters at the moment."

"I do understand," said the manager, lowering his head and looking saddened. "Such a tragedy . . . I was born in Switzerland but I am French at heart. I do understand."

And he stood motionless for a few moments, his head down like a mourner at a funeral who wants to rush to the exit, but feels obliged to pay his respects to the family. He had put on this expression so often in the past few days that his kindly, chubby face had been transformed. He had always walked and spoken softly, as befitted his profession. Now he exaggerated his natural tendencies even further, crossing the room utterly silently, as if he were in a funeral parlour, and when he said to Corte, "Shall I have breakfast sent up?" it was in a discreet and mournful tone of voice, as if he were looking at the body of a cherished relative and asking, "May I kiss him one last time?"

"Breakfast?" Corte sighed, returning with difficulty to reality and the trivial problems of everyday life. "I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours," he added with a faint smile.

That had been true the day before, but not this morning: at six o'clock he had eaten a hearty meal. Nevertheless, he wasn't lying: he had eaten absent-mindedly because of his extreme exhaustion and the concern he felt at the tragedy taking place in France. He felt felt as though he hadn't eaten. as though he hadn't eaten.

"Oh, but you must force yourself, Monsieur! I don't like seeing you like this, Monsieur Corte. You mustn't give in. You owe it to mankind."

Corte nodded in resignation; he didn't dispute his obligation to mankind, but at the moment he couldn't be expected to have more courage than the most humble citizen. "My good man," he said, turning away to hide his tears, "it is not just France who is dying, it is Art as well."

"Not as long as you are here, Monsieur Corte," the manager replied warmly, as he had a great number of times since the Fall of France. Corte was, in the list of celebrities, the fourteenth to arrive from Paris since the sad events began and the fifth writer to seek refuge at the luxury hotel.

Corte smiled weakly and asked him to make sure the coffee was very hot.

"Boiling hot," the manager a.s.sured him, then gave the necessary orders over the telephone and left.

Florence had gone into her room, locked the door and anxiously looked at herself in the mirror. Her face, normally so soft, so well made-up, so rested, was covered in a shiny coat of sweat; it no longer absorbed the powder and foundation, but turned them into thick lumps, like curdled mayonnaise. Her nose was pinched, her eyes sunken, her mouth pale and limp. She turned away from the mirror in horror.

"I could be fifty," she said to her maid.

This was quite literally true, but she said it with such disbelief and terror that Julie took it as she should: that is to say figuratively, as a metaphor for expressing extreme old age.

"After everything that's happened it's understandable . . . Madame should take a little nap."

"It's impossible . . . As soon as I close my eyes I hear the bombs, I see the bridge again, the dead bodies . . ."

"Madame will forget."

"Never! Could you you forget? forget?

"It's different for me."

"Why?"

"Madame has so many other things to think about!" said Julie. "Shall I lay out Madame's green dress?"

"My green dress? With the way I look?"

Florence, who had slumped down into her chair with her eyes closed, suddenly rallied, summoning all her meagre strength like the head of an army who, despite needing rest and acknowledging the inefficiency of his subordinates, pulls himself together and, still weak with exhaustion, leads his troops on to the battlefield. "Listen, this is what you are going to do. First, while you are running the bath, prepare me a face mask, number 3, the American one. Then telephone the hairdresser and ask if Luigi is still there. Tell him to come and give me a manicure in three quarters of an hour. Then get my little grey suit ready, with the pink linen blouse."

"The one with the collar like this?" Julie asked, drawing a low-cut shape in the air.

Florence hesitated. "Yes . . . no . . . yes . . . that one, and the new little hat with the cornflowers. Oh, Julie, I really never thought I would get to wear that little hat. Well . . . you're right, I mustn't think about it any more, I'd go mad . . . I wonder if they have any more of that ochre powder, the last one . . ."

"We'll have to find out . . . Madame would be wise to buy several boxes. It came from England."

"You don't have to tell me! You know, Julie, we don't really understand what is going on. These events will have an unimaginable impact, believe me, unimaginable . . . People's lives will be changed for generations. We'll be hungry this winter. Just get out my grey leather handbag with the gold clasp, that's all . . . I wonder what Paris is like," said Florence walking into the bathroom. But the noise of the running water Julie had just turned on drowned out her words.

Meanwhile, less frivolous thoughts were pa.s.sing through Corte's mind. He too was lying in the bath. At first he had been filled with such joy, such profound natural peace, that he was reminded of the delights of childhood: his happiness when eating an iced meringue full of cream; dipping his feet in a cool stream; pressing a new toy to his heart. He felt no desire, no regret, no anguish. His head was clear and calm; his body floated in a warm, liquid element that caressed him, gently tickled his skin, washed away the dust, the sweat, insinuated itself between his toes and slid beneath his back like a mother lifting her sleeping child. The bathroom smelled of tar soap, hair lotion, eau de Cologne, lavender water. He smiled, stretched out his arms, cracked the knuckles on his long, pale fingers, savoured the divine, simple pleasure of being safe from the bombs and taking a cool bath on a very hot day. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when bitterness cut through him like a sharp knife through a piece of fruit. Perhaps it was when he happened to glance at the suitcase full of ma.n.u.scripts on the chair, or when the soap fell into the water and he had to fish it out, the strain to his muscles disrupting his state of euphoria. Whenever it was, at a certain point he frowned and his face, which had been clearer, smoother than usual, almost rejuvenated, became sombre and anxious once again.

What would become of him? What would become of Gabriel Corte? What was happening to the world? What would be the general mood in future? Either people would think only about being able to survive and there would be no place for Art, or they would become obsessed by a new ideal, as after every crisis before. A new ideal? A new fashion, more like, he thought with cynicism and weariness. But he, Corte, was too old to adapt to new tastes. He had already changed his style in 1920. A third time would be impossible. It exhausted him just to think about what was to come, what kind of world was about to be born. Who could predict the shape it would take as it emerged from the harsh matrix of this war, as from a bronze mould. It would be magnificent or misshapen (or both), this universe now showing its first signs of life. It was terrible to look at himself, to see himself . . . and to understand nothing. For he understood nothing. He thought of his book, his ma.n.u.script sitting on a chair, rescued from the fire, from the bombs. He felt intensely despondent. The pa.s.sions he described, his feelings, his scruples, this history of a generation, his generation-they were all old, useless, obsolete. "Obsolete!" he repeated in despair. And a second time the soap, slippery as a fish, disappeared into the water. He swore, sat up, angrily rang the bell; his servant came in.

"Rub me down," Gabriel Corte sighed, his voice shaking.

Once his legs had been ma.s.saged with the glove and the eau de Cologne applied, Corte felt better. Standing naked in the bathroom he began to shave while the servant laid out his clothes: a linen shirt, a lightweight tweed suit, a blue tie.

"Are there any people we know?" asked Corte.

"I don't know, Monsieur. I haven't seen many people, though I've been told a lot of cars arrived last night and then left straightaway for Spain. Monsieur Jules Blanc was here. He went to Portugal."

"Jules Blanc?"

Corte paused, his soapy razor poised in mid-air. Jules Blanc, gone to Portugal, on the run! This piece of news was a bad blow. Like everyone who makes sure they get the most comfort and pleasure from life, Gabriel Corte had a politician in his pocket. In exchange for excellent dinners, wonderful parties, Florence's little attentions, in exchange for a few well-placed and timely newspaper articles, he had had from Jules Blanc (member with portfolio in nearly every Cabinet, twice Prime Minister, four times Minister of War) thousands of the small favours that make life easier. It was thanks to Jules Blanc that he had been commissioned to present his Great Lovers Great Lovers series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte's novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth. series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte's novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth.

On learning of his friend's fall (Blanc must have been involved in some pretty dishonest business to have taken this desperate measure, since it was he who always liked to say that, in politics, defeat prepares you for victory), Corte felt alone and abandoned at the edge of an abyss. Once again, he was struck with dreadful force by the existence of a new world, unknown to him, a world where everyone would become miraculously chaste, selfless and full of n.o.ble ideals. Already, that tendency to imitate which is an integral part of the survival instinct for plants, animals and people, made him declare: "Ah, so he's left? The day of these hedonists, these political wheeler-dealers is over . . ." After a moment's silence he added, "Poor France . . ."

Slowly he put on his blue socks. Naked, except for his black silk suspenders and socks, his skin a shiny white with yellowish tinges, he did some arm and chest exercises, then looked at himself approvingly in the mirror. "Now that is definitely better," he said, as if he expected the words to make his servant very happy. Then he finished dressing.

He went down to the bar just after noon. There was a certain panic going on in the lobby and it was clear that distant disasters were sending tremors through the rest of the universe. People had left their luggage piled untidily on the stage that was normally used as a dance floor; shouting was coming from the kitchens; pale, dishevelled women were wandering around the corridors looking for a room; the lifts weren't working; and an old man was crying, standing in front of a porter who refused to give him a bed.

"You must understand, Monsieur, it's not that I don't want to, but it's impossible, simply impossible. We're full to bursting, Monsieur."

"Just a tiny little corner room, that's all," begged the poor man. "I told my wife I would meet her here. We got separated in the bombing in Etampes. She'll think I'm dead. I'm seventy years old, Monsieur, and she's sixty-eight. We've never been apart before." He took out his wallet, hands trembling. "I'll give you a thousand francs." And on this ordinary Frenchman's honest, modest face you could see his shame at having to offer a bribe for the first time in his life, and his fear at having to spend all his money.

But the porter refused to take it. "I'm telling you, Monsieur, it's impossible. Try in town."

"In town? But I've just come from there! I've been knocking at doors since five o'clock this morning. They treat me like a dog! I'm not just anyone. I'm a physics teacher at the Saint-Omer sixth-form college. I've been decorated for services to education."

But he finally realised the porter had stopped listening a long time ago and had turned his back on him. Picking up a little hatbox he'd dropped on the ground, which clearly contained all his belongings, he left without saying a word.

The porter was now fighting off four Spanish women with black hair and heavy make-up. One of them was clutching his arm. "Once in a lifetime, all right, it happens, but twice is too much," she exclaimed in bad French, her voice hoa.r.s.e and loud. "To have lived through the war in Spain, escaped to France and then end up in this mess, it's too much!"

"But Madame, there's really nothing I can do!"

"You can give me a room!"

"That's impossible, Madame, impossible."

The Spaniard tried to think of some scathing reply, an insult, but her mind was blank. For a moment she was choked with anger; then she exlaimed, "Well, you're not what I call a man!"

"Me?" shouted the porter, suddenly losing all his professional pa.s.sivity and jumping up and down in outrage. "And what about you? Have you quite finished insulting me? Just remember you're a foreigner-so shut up or I'll call the police." Regaining a little of his dignity, he held open the door and pushed out the four women who were still shouting insults in Castilian.

"What hard days, Monsieur, and nights," he said to Corte. "The world has gone mad, Monsieur!"

Corte walked into a long, cool room; it was silent and dark, and the bar was quiet. All the commotion stopped at this doorway. The closed shutters on the large windows protected him from the heat of the raging sun; the aroma of quality leather, excellent cigars and vintage brandy hung in the air. The Italian barman, an old friend of Corte's, welcomed him impeccably, expressing his joy at seeing him again and his sympathy at France's misfortunes. He did this with such dignity and tact, mindful of his inferior status with regard to Corte and aware that the terrible events demanded respect, that Corte felt immediately comforted. "I'm pleased to see you as well, my good man," he said gratefully.

"Did Monsieur have difficulty leaving Paris?"

"Ah!" was all Corte said. He raised his eyes to heaven. Joseph, the barman, made a discreet little gesture with his hand as if to prevent Corte from confiding in him, refusing to be the one to bring back such fresh, painful memories, and in the same way a doctor might say to a patient who is having a fit, "Drink this first, then you can tell me all about it," he murmured, "Shall I fix you a martini?"

With the chilled gla.s.s and two small dishes of olives and crisps in front of him, Corte took in the familiar surroundings with the weak smile of a convalescent. He then looked at the men who had just joined him in the room. Well, well! They were all there: the academic and the former minister, the important industrialist, the editor, the head of a newspaper, the MP, the playwright and the writer who, under the pseudonym "General X," wrote articles for an important Parisian magazine in which he summarised military events for the ma.s.ses in great technical detail and with the utmost optimism, while always managing to remain vague: "The next military theatre of operations will be in northern Europe or the Balkans or the Ruhr or all three simultaneously, or else at some point on the globe impossible to predict." Yes, they were all here and in perfect health. For a brief moment Corte was stunned. He couldn't have said why, but for the past twenty-four hours he had thought the old world was crumbling and he was the only man left amid the rubble. It was an inexpressible relief to see once again all his famous friends, even his enemies. Today, any disagreements seemed unimportant. They were all on the same side, they were all together! They were living proof that nothing was changing. Contrary to belief, they weren't witnessing some extraordinary cataclysm, the end of the world, but rather a series of purely human events, limited in time and s.p.a.ce, which, all in all, affected only the lives of people they didn't know.

Their conversation was pessimistic, almost despairing, but their voices light-hearted. Some of them had done very well for themselves; they were at that age when one looks at young people and thinks, "Let them make their own way!" Others were compiling a hasty mental inventory of all the pages they'd written, all the speeches they'd given, which might help them win favour with the new government (and since they had all more or less lamented the fact that France had lost her greatness, lost her daring and was no longer producing children, none of them was very worried). The politicians were rather more anxious, for some of them were in a difficult position and were pondering a change of alliance. The playwright and Corte discussed their own work, without a thought for the rest of the world.

28.

The Michauds never made it to Tours. A bomb destroyed the railway line, the train stopped and the refugees found themselves once more on the road, mingling with the German troops. They were ordered to go back the way they had come.

The Michauds found Paris half empty. They had been away for two weeks and expected to find it different, as one does after a long trip. Instead, they walked home through the untouched streets and couldn't believe their eyes: everything was in its place. The blazing sun shone down on the houses, all with their shutters closed, exactly as on the day they had left; a sudden heatwave had shrivelled all the leaves on the plane trees, but no one had swept them up and the refugees waded through them with weary legs. There didn't seem to be a food shop open. Now and again, this barren landscape threw up a surprise: it looked like a city wiped out by the plague, but just as you were about to scream, "Everybody's either dead or gone," you'd find yourself face to face with a nicely dressed lady wearing make-up or, in the Michauds' case, a woman getting a perm at a hairdresser's nestled between a boarded-up butcher's shop and bakery. It was Madame Michaud's hairdresser. She called to him. He, his a.s.sistant, his wife and the client all ran to the door and exclaimed, "Were you on the roads?"

Madame Michaud pointed to her bare legs, her torn dress, her face covered with sweat and dust. "As you can see! What's happened to our apartment?"

"Well, everything is fine. I was walking past your windows just today," said the hairdresser's wife. "Nothing's been touched."

"What about my son? Jean-Marie? Has anyone seen him?"

"How could you expect anyone to have seen him, my poor darling?" said Maurice who had joined her. "You're not being logical."

"And what about you, always so calm? You'll be the death of me," she replied angrily. "Maybe the concierge . . ." and she turned to go.

"Don't get upset, Madame Michaud. There's nothing for you. I asked as I was pa.s.sing. There's no post any more."

Jeanne tried to hide her cruel disappointment with a smile. "All right, all we can do is wait," she said, but her lips were trembling. She sat down without thinking and murmured, "What should we do now?"

"If I were you," said the hairdresser, a fat little man with a round, sweet face, "I'd start by having your hair washed; it will clear your mind; we could also freshen Monsieur Michaud up a bit, and while I'm doing that my wife can make you something to eat."

So it was agreed. He was ma.s.saging Jeanne's head with lavender oil when his son ran in to announce that the armistice had been signed. She was too exhausted and downcast to take in the importance of the news-just as a person who has shed so many tears at the bedside of someone who is dying has none left for the actual moment of death. But Maurice, remembering 1914, the battles, his wounds, his suffering, felt a wave of bitterness wash over his heart. But there was nothing more to say, so he remained silent.

They were in Madame Josse's salon for more than an hour, then left to go home. People were saying that there were relatively few casualties among French soldiers, but that the prisoners numbered nearly two million. Could Jean-Marie perhaps be a prisoner? They daren't hope for anything more. They reached their house. Despite all Madame Josse's a.s.surances, they couldn't really believe that it was still standing and not reduced to ashes like the burning buildings they had walked past last week in the Place du Martroi, in Orleans. But they could see the door, the concierge's lodge, the letter box (empty!), the key waiting for them and the concierge herself. The risen Lazarus must have experienced the same feeling of astonishment and quiet pride on seeing his sisters and the soup cooking on the fire: "In spite of everything, we've come back, we're home," they thought.

"But what's the point if my son . . ." was Jeanne's second thought.

She looked at Maurice who smiled weakly at her, then said out loud to the concierge, "h.e.l.lo, Madame Nonnain."

The concierge was elderly and half deaf. The Michauds cut short their stories of the exodus as much as possible. Madame Nonnain had gone as far as the Porte d'Italie with her daughter, who was a laundress. She had then had an argument with her son-in-law and come back home. "They have no idea what's happened to me; they probably think I'm dead," she said with some satisfaction. "They probably think they're going to get hold of my savings now. Not that she's a bad sort," she added, referring to her daughter, "she's just a bit too clever for her own good."

The Michauds said they were tired and went up to their apartment. The lift was broken. "Well, that's the last straw," Jeanne moaned, laughing in spite of herself.

While her husband slowly climbed the stairs, she rushed on ahead, recovering the speed and stamina she'd had as a young girl. My G.o.d, to think she had sometimes cursed this dark staircase, their basic apartment with no cupboards, no bathroom (they'd had to get a bathtub put in the kitchen) and radiators that regularly broke down in dead of winter! The cosy world in which she had lived for fifteen years and whose walls contained such sweet, such warm memories, had been returned to her. Peering over the banister, she saw Maurice much further down. She was alone. She leaned forward to kiss the door, then got out her key and opened it. It was her apartment, her refuge. Here were Jean-Marie's room, the kitchen, the sitting room and the sofa on which, after getting home from the bank in the evening, she would stretch out her tired legs.

Remembering the bank suddenly made her shudder. She hadn't thought about it in a week. When Maurice came in, he saw she was worried and that her joy at being home had vanished. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is it Jean-Marie?"

"No, the bank."

"My G.o.d, we did everything humanly possible and more to get to Tours. They couldn't possibly hold it against us."

"They won't hold it against us," she said, "if they want to keep us. But I've only worked there on an interim basis since the war, and as for you, my poor darling, you've never been able to get along with them, so if they want to get rid of us, now's the time."

"The thought had crossed my mind."

As always, when he agreed wholeheartedly and didn't argue with her, she suddenly changed her mind. "Nevertheless, they'd have to be the worst b.a.s.t.a.r.ds . . ."

"They are are the worst b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Maurice said gently, "you know that, don't you? We've had our share of worries. We're together, we're at home. Let's not think about anything else . . ." the worst b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Maurice said gently, "you know that, don't you? We've had our share of worries. We're together, we're at home. Let's not think about anything else . . ."

They didn't mention Jean-Marie. They couldn't even say his name without crying, and they didn't want to cry. They had always had a burning desire to be happy. Perhaps because they loved each other so much, they had learned to live one day at a time, deliberately not thinking about tomorrow.

They weren't hungry. They opened a jar of jam, a box of biscuits and, with infinite care, Jeanne made them some coffee: there was only a quarter of a pound left of the pure mocha coffee they usually saved for special occasions.

"But what more special occasion could there be?" said Maurice.