"None like this, I hope," his wife replied. "Still, we can't pretend we'll be able to replace it easily if the war drags on."

"You make it seem almost sinful," said Maurice, breathing in the wonderful aroma wafting up from the coffee pot.

After their light meal, they sat down by the open window. They both had a book open on their laps but they weren't reading. They finally fell asleep, side by side, holding hands.

They spent several days rather peacefully. Since there was no post, they knew they couldn't get any news, good or bad. All they could do was wait.

At the beginning of July, Monsieur de Furieres returned to Paris. It was said, after the armistice of 1919, that the Count de Furieres had had a "good war": he had faced danger heroically for a few months, then married a very rich young woman while on leave. After that he cared a little less for the idea of getting himself killed, which was understandable. Nevertheless, he refused to take advantage of his wife's excellent connections. If he no longer sought out danger, he didn't run away from it either. He finished the war without once being wounded, pleased with himself for his commendable behaviour in battle, his inner confidence and his military decoration. In 1939 he held an excellent place in society: his wife was a Salomon-Worms, his sister had married the Marquis de Maigle; he was a member of the Jockey Club; his receptions and hunting parties were famous; he had two charming daughters, the elder of whom had recently become engaged. He had considerably less money than in 1920 but was now better equipped than before to do without it or to get hold of some when necessary. He had accepted the position of Director of the Corbin Bank.

Corbin was quite simply an uncouth individual who had begun his career in a lowly and almost vile manner. (It was said he had been a bellboy in an establishment offering loans on the Rue Trudaine.) But Corbin was also extremely adept when it came to banking and, in the end, he and the Count got along rather well. They were both very intelligent and understood how useful they were to each other; understanding this created a sort of friendship based on cordial contempt, just like certain liqueurs, which are sharp and bitter on their own but have a pleasant taste when mixed together. "He's a degenerate, like all aristocrats," Corbin would mutter. "The poor man eats with his fingers," Furieres would say with a sigh. By dangling the prospect of the Jockey Club in front of Corbin's eyes, the Count got whatever he wanted from him.

All in all, Furieres had organised his life most comfortably. When the second great war of the century broke out, he felt almost like a child who has worked hard at school, done nothing wrong and is thoroughly enjoying himself when someone tells him he must once again be dragged away from his pleasures. "Once, all right, but twice, that's just too much!" he was tempted to cry out. "Pick on someone else, dammit!" How could this be happening? He had already done his duty. He had given five years of his youth and now they wanted to steal his precious middle years-those beautiful years when a man finally understands what he is about to lose and is eager to make the most of it. "No, it's going too far," he remarked despondently to Corbin when he said goodbye to him the day everyone was mobilised. "I'm doomed. I'll never get out alive again."

He was an officer in the Reserves; he had to go. He could have fixed it . . . but his desire for continued self-respect held him back-a very strong inner desire that allowed him a severe, ironic att.i.tude towards the rest of the world. He left. His chauffeur, who was in the same situation as him, said, "If you have to go, you go. But if they think it'll be like '14, they've got it all wrong." (The word "they" in his mind meant some mythical council whose purpose and pa.s.sion was to send other people to their deaths.) "If they think we'll do that that again" (flicking his nail on his tooth), " again" (flicking his nail on his tooth), "that on top of what is strictly necessary, well, I'm telling you, they've got another thing coming." on top of what is strictly necessary, well, I'm telling you, they've got another thing coming."

The Count de Furieres would certainly not have expressed his own thoughts in this way, but they were nevertheless very similar to his chauffeur's and simply reflected the state of mind of many former soldiers. A large number of men went off to war this way, feeling muted bitterness or hopeless rebellion against fate, which twice in their lifetimes had played this horrible trick on them.

During the June debacle almost the entire regiment of de Furieres fell into enemy hands. He himself had the chance to escape and he took it. In '14 he would have preferred to be killed rather than survive the disaster. In '40 he preferred to live. He returned to his wife, who was already mourning his death, to his charming daughters, the eldest of whom had just got married (to a young inspector of Public Finances), and to the de Furieres chateau. The chauffeur wasn't as lucky: he was taken to Stalag VII A and became prisoner number 55,481.

Upon his return, the Count got in touch with Corbin, who had remained in the Free Zone, and they both set about trying to bring the bank's scattered sections back together. The Accounting Department was in Cahors, the executives in Bayonne, the secretaries had headed for Toulouse but had got lost somewhere between Nice and Perpignan. No one seemed to know where the bank's papers had ended up.

"It's chaos, a mess, unspeakable mayhem," Corbin said to de Furieres the morning of their first meeting.

He had crossed the demarcation line during the night and welcomed de Furieres into an apartment empty of servants. They had all fled during the exodus, and he suspected them of having taken some brand-new suitcases and his morning coat, which aroused within him even more patriotic fury.

"You know me, don't you? I'm not usually emotional, but I nearly cried, my dear man, nearly cried like a baby when I saw the first German at the border. Very correct he was, none of this casual French demeanour, you know, as if to say 'we're pals.' No, really very correct, a brief salute, confident stance, but without being stiff, very correct . . . Well, what do you think? Aren't our officers just the worst!"

"Excuse me," said Furieres curtly, "but I don't see how you can reproach our officers. What do you expect them to do with no weapons and a load of hopeless troops who only want you to p*** off and leave them in peace. First give us some real men."

"Oh, but they they say 'there was no one in charge,' " said Corbin, delighted to offend Furieres, "and just between us, old boy, I saw some pathetic sights . . ." say 'there was no one in charge,' " said Corbin, delighted to offend Furieres, "and just between us, old boy, I saw some pathetic sights . . ."

"Without the civilians, without everyone panicking, that wave of refugees blocking up the roads, we would have had a chance."

"Well, you're right there! The panic was terrible. People are extraordinary. For years we've heard nothing but 'it's all-out war, all-out war'-you would have thought they'd have expected it. But no! Immediately there's panic, chaos, exodus, and why? I'm asking you, why? It's insane! I I only left because the banks were ordered to go. Otherwise, you know . . ." only left because the banks were ordered to go. Otherwise, you know . . ."

"Was it terrible in Tours?"

"Absolutely terrible . . . but again for the same reason: the flood of refugees. I couldn't find a room outside Tours so I had to sleep in the city and, naturally, we were bombed, forced out by the fires," said Corbin, thinking indignantly of the little chateau in the countryside where they had turned him away because some Belgian refugees were staying there. They They hadn't been hit, not them, while he, Corbin, had nearly been buried under the rubble in Tours. "And the chaos," he repeated, "everyone thinking only of himself! Such egotism . . . It makes you wonder about mankind . . . As for your staff, they were the worst of all. Not one of them was able to meet me in Tours. They all lost contact with each other. I'd told all our departments to stay together. Do you think they cared? Some are in the Midi, some are up north. You can't count on anyone. These are the circ.u.mstances in which you can judge a man, his drive, his energy, his guts. A bunch of drips, I'm telling you, a bunch of drips! Only interested in saving their own skin, without a thought for the bank or me. Well, some of them are going to get the sack, I can a.s.sure you of that. Besides, I don't imagine we're going to have much business." hadn't been hit, not them, while he, Corbin, had nearly been buried under the rubble in Tours. "And the chaos," he repeated, "everyone thinking only of himself! Such egotism . . . It makes you wonder about mankind . . . As for your staff, they were the worst of all. Not one of them was able to meet me in Tours. They all lost contact with each other. I'd told all our departments to stay together. Do you think they cared? Some are in the Midi, some are up north. You can't count on anyone. These are the circ.u.mstances in which you can judge a man, his drive, his energy, his guts. A bunch of drips, I'm telling you, a bunch of drips! Only interested in saving their own skin, without a thought for the bank or me. Well, some of them are going to get the sack, I can a.s.sure you of that. Besides, I don't imagine we're going to have much business."

The conversation turned to more technical matters, which gave them a pleasant feeling of their own importance, barely diminished, despite recent events.

"A German group," Corbin said, "is going to buy out Eastern Steelworks. We're not in too bad a position there. Though it's true that the business with the Rouen Docks . . ."

They became depressed. Furieres said goodbye. Corbin wanted to walk him out, but when he tried to turn on the lights in the drawing room where the shutters were closed, there was no electricity. He started swearing.

"This man is so vulgar," the Count thought. "Give them a call," he advised. "They won't take long to fix it. The telephone's working."

"You just can't imagine how chaotic everything is here," Corbin said, choking with rage. "The servants have all taken off-all of them, I'm telling you-and I wouldn't be at all surprised if they made off with some of the silver! My wife isn't here. I'm lost in all this mess, I'm . . ."

"Is Madame Corbin in the Free Zone?"

"Yes," Corbin grumbled.

He and his wife had had a painful row: in the chaos of the hurried departure, or perhaps out of malice, the chambermaid had put a small framed picture belonging to Monsieur Corbin in Madame Corbin's bag; it contained a photograph of Arlette, stark naked. The nudity itself might not have offended his wife-she was a person with a great deal of common sense-but the dancer was wearing a magnificent necklace. "But it's not real, I promise you!" Monsieur Corbin had said with venom. His wife refused to believe him. As for Arlette, there was no sign of her. He had heard she was in Bordeaux and was often seen in the company of German officers. Thinking of this only made Monsieur Corbin's mood worse. He pushed his buzzer with all his might.

"All I have left is a typist I met in Nice. Stupid as they come but rather pretty. Oh, there you are," he said suddenly to the young brunette who came into the room. "The electricity's been cut off. See what you can do about it. Telephone them and give them a good talking to. Well, get on with it-and then bring me the post."

"The post hasn't been brought up?"

"No, it's with the concierge. Chop chop. Go and get it. Do you think I'm paying you to do nothing?"

"I'm leaving," said Furieres. "You frighten me."

Corbin caught a glimpse of the Count's slightly scornful smile; his anger increased. "Poseur, crook," he thought. Out loud he replied, "What do you want me to do? They're driving me crazy."

The post contained a letter from the Michauds. They had gone to the bank's head office in Paris but no one could tell them anything definite. They had written to Nice and the letter had just been forwarded to Corbin. The Michauds were asking for instructions and some money.

Corbin's vague bad temper finally found something to latch on to. "Ha! That's a good one!" he exclaimed. "They've got some nerve! You run around bending over backwards for people, nearly get killed on the roads of France. Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Michaud have a nice holiday in Paris and then have the cheek to demand money. You're going to write to them," he said to the terrified typist. "Take this down:"

Monsieur Maurice MichaudParis, 25 July 1940 23 rue Rousselet 23 rue Rousselet Paris VIIe Paris VIIe Monsieur On 11 June we gave both you and Madame Michaud the order to take up your duties in the city to which the bank had been evacuted, that is to say Tours. You will not be unaware that during these crucial moments, every employee of the bank, and you in particular since you hold a position of trust, is like a soldier. You know what it means to abandon your post in times such as these. The result of your failings was the complete disintegration of the departments entrusted to you-the Secretarial and Accounting Services. This is not the only thing for which we hold you responsible. As we already informed you on 31 December last year when, despite my goodwill towards you, it was not considered possible to award you the increased bonus of three thousand francs that you requested, it has been pointed out that your department's efficiency is minimal in comparison with that of your predecessor's. Under the circ.u.mstances, while regretting you have waited such a long time to get in touch with the management, we consider your failure to contact us as a resignation, both by you and Madame Michaud. This resignation, which derives entirely from you and was without any notice, means we are not required to pay you any compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, taking account of your long employment at the bank as well as the current situation, we are making an exception and, purely as a gesture of goodwill, we are allocating you compensation equivalent to two months' salary. Please find enclosed, therefore, a cheque drawn on the Bank of France in Paris, made payable to you in the sum of . . . francs. Would you please notify us of its safe arrival. On 11 June we gave both you and Madame Michaud the order to take up your duties in the city to which the bank had been evacuted, that is to say Tours. You will not be unaware that during these crucial moments, every employee of the bank, and you in particular since you hold a position of trust, is like a soldier. You know what it means to abandon your post in times such as these. The result of your failings was the complete disintegration of the departments entrusted to you-the Secretarial and Accounting Services. This is not the only thing for which we hold you responsible. As we already informed you on 31 December last year when, despite my goodwill towards you, it was not considered possible to award you the increased bonus of three thousand francs that you requested, it has been pointed out that your department's efficiency is minimal in comparison with that of your predecessor's. Under the circ.u.mstances, while regretting you have waited such a long time to get in touch with the management, we consider your failure to contact us as a resignation, both by you and Madame Michaud. This resignation, which derives entirely from you and was without any notice, means we are not required to pay you any compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, taking account of your long employment at the bank as well as the current situation, we are making an exception and, purely as a gesture of goodwill, we are allocating you compensation equivalent to two months' salary. Please find enclosed, therefore, a cheque drawn on the Bank of France in Paris, made payable to you in the sum of . . . francs. Would you please notify us of its safe arrival. Yours sincerely, Yours sincerely, Corbin Corbin

Corbin's letter plunged the Michauds into despair. They had only five thousand francs in savings, as Jean-Marie's studies had been expensive. This and their two months' salary came to barely fifteen thousand francs and they owed money to the taxman. It was almost impossible to find work now; jobs were rare and badly paid. They had lived a solitary life; they had no relatives, no one to ask for help. They were exhausted by the journey and depressed by their anguish over their son. When Jean-Marie was little and she had faced difficulties, Madame Michaud had often thought, "If only he were old enough to manage by himself, nothing would really matter." She had known she was strong and in good health, she felt courageous, she feared nothing for herself, nor for her husband, who thought the same way.

Jean-Marie was a man now. Wherever he might be, if he were still alive, he didn't need her. Yet this thought offered little consolation. First of all, she couldn't imagine that her child could do without her. And at the same time she realised that now she she needed him. All her courage abandoned her; she recognised Maurice's frailty: she felt alone, old, ill. How would they find work? What would they live on when their fifteen thousand francs ran out? She had a few small pieces of jewellery; she cherished them. She had always said, "They're not worth anything," but now she couldn't bring herself to believe that the charming little pearl brooch, the modest ruby ring, gifts from Maurice when they were young, which she loved so much, might not perhaps be sold for a good price. She offered them to the jeweller in her neighbourhood, then to a larger establishment on the Rue de la Paix, but both turned her away: the brooch and the ring were pretty but they were only interested in the stones and they were so small it wasn't worth buying them. Madame Michaud was secretly happy at the thought she could keep them, but facts were facts: it had been their only option. needed him. All her courage abandoned her; she recognised Maurice's frailty: she felt alone, old, ill. How would they find work? What would they live on when their fifteen thousand francs ran out? She had a few small pieces of jewellery; she cherished them. She had always said, "They're not worth anything," but now she couldn't bring herself to believe that the charming little pearl brooch, the modest ruby ring, gifts from Maurice when they were young, which she loved so much, might not perhaps be sold for a good price. She offered them to the jeweller in her neighbourhood, then to a larger establishment on the Rue de la Paix, but both turned her away: the brooch and the ring were pretty but they were only interested in the stones and they were so small it wasn't worth buying them. Madame Michaud was secretly happy at the thought she could keep them, but facts were facts: it had been their only option.

By the end of July their savings were almost gone. They had considered going to see Corbin to explain that they had done their very best to get to Tours and that if he insisted on letting them go, he at least owed them the normal compensation. But they both had enough experience of him to know they didn't stand a chance. They didn't have the money to take him to court and Corbin was not easy to intimidate. They also found it wholly repugnant to think of approaching this man whom they loathed and mistrusted.

"I just can't do it, Jeanne. Please don't ask me to, I just can't," Maurice said in his soft, low voice. "I think if I found myself standing in front of him I'd spit in his face and that wouldn't help matters."

"No," said Jeanne, smiling in spite of herself, "but we're in a terrible situation, my poor darling. It's as if we're heading towards a deep hole, watching it get closer and closer with each step without being able to escape. It's unbearable."

"But we have to bear it," he replied calmly.

He'd used the same tone of voice with her when he'd been wounded in '16 and she'd been called to his bedside at the hospital: "I think my chances of pulling through are about four in ten." He had then stopped a moment to think and added conscientiously, "Three and a half, to be exact."

She placed a tender hand on his forehead and thought despairingly, "Oh, if only Jean-Marie were here, he would look after us, he would save us, I know he would. He's young, he's strong . . ." Deep inside, she felt a strange intermingling of her need to protect as a mother and her need to be protected as a woman. "Where is he, my darling boy? Is he still alive? Is he in pain? My G.o.d, he can't be dead, it just isn't possible!" And her blood ran cold as she realised how very possible it actually was. The tears she had courageously held back for so long welled up in her eyes.

"But why are we always the ones who have to suffer?" she cried out in indignation. "Us and people like us? Ordinary people, the lower middle cla.s.ses. If war is declared or the franc devalues, if there's unemployment or a revolution, or any sort of crisis, the others manage to get through all right. We're always the ones who are trampled! Why? What did we do? We're paying for everybody else's mistakes. Of course they're not afraid of us us. The workers fight back, the rich are powerful. We're We're just sheep to the slaughter. I want to know why! What's happening? I don't understand. You're a man, just sheep to the slaughter. I want to know why! What's happening? I don't understand. You're a man, you you should understand," she said angrily to Maurice, no longer knowing whom to blame for the disaster they were facing. "Who's wrong? Who's right? Why Corbin? Why Jean-Marie? Why us?" should understand," she said angrily to Maurice, no longer knowing whom to blame for the disaster they were facing. "Who's wrong? Who's right? Why Corbin? Why Jean-Marie? Why us?"

"What do you want to understand? There's nothing to understand," he said, forcing himself to stay calm. "Certain laws govern the world and they're neither for nor against us. When a storm strikes, you don't blame anyone: you know the thunder is the result of two opposite electrical forces, the clouds don't know who you are. You can't reproach them. And it would be ridiculous if you did-they wouldn't understand."

"But it's not the same thing. What we're going through is down to people and people alone."

"It only seems like that, Jeanne. It all seems caused by this man or that, by one circ.u.mstance or another, but it's like in nature: after the calm comes the storm; it starts out slowly, reaches its peak, then it's over and other periods of calm, some longer, some shorter, come along. It's just been our bad luck to be born in a century full of storms, that's all. They'll die down."

"Yes," she said, although she didn't really follow this abstract argument, "but what about Corbin? Corbin's hardly a force of nature, is he?"

"He's a harmful specimen, like scorpions, snakes, poison mushrooms. Actually, we're a little bit to blame. We've always known what Corbin was like. Why did we carry on working for him? You wouldn't eat bad mushrooms and you have to be careful with bad people. There have been several times when we could have found other jobs, with a bit of courage and determination. And remember, when we were young I was offered that job as a teacher in So Paulo, but you didn't want me to go."

"All right, that's ancient history," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"No, I just meant . . ."

"Yes, you just meant we shouldn't hold it against anyone. But you said yourself if you ran into Corbin you'd spit in his face."

They continued arguing, not because they hoped or even wished to win the other over, but because talking helped them forget their painful problems.

"Who could we speak to?" Jeanne finally exclaimed.

"You mean you still don't understand that n.o.body cares about anybody?"

She looked at him. "You're strange, Maurice. You've seen people at their most cynical, their most disillusioned, and at the same time you're not unhappy, I mean, not really unhappy inside! Am I wrong?"

"No."

"So what makes it all right, then?"

"My certainty that deep down I'm a free man," he said, after thinking for a moment. "It's a constant, precious possession, and whether I keep it or lose it is up to me and no one else. I desperately want the insanity we're living through to end. I desperately want what has begun to finish. In a word, I desperately want this tragedy to be over and for us to try to survive it, that's all. What's important is to live: Primum vivere Primum vivere. One day at a time. To survive, to wait, to hope."

She listened to him without saying a word. Suddenly, she got up and grabbed her hat from the mantelpiece. He looked at her in astonishment. "And what I I say," she replied, "is 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.' Which is why I'm going to speak to Furieres. He's always been nice to me and he'll help us, even if it's only to annoy Corbin." say," she replied, "is 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.' Which is why I'm going to speak to Furieres. He's always been nice to me and he'll help us, even if it's only to annoy Corbin."

Jeanne was right. Furieres spoke to her and promised that she and her husband would each receive compensation totalling six months' salary, which brought their capital up to about sixty thousand francs.

"You see, I managed and heaven helped me," Jeanne said to her husband when she got home.

"And I did the hoping," he replied, smiling. "We were both right."

They were very happy with the outcome but sensed that now that their money worries were off their minds, at least for the immediate future, they would be completely overwhelmed by their anguish over their son.

29.

It was autumn when Charlie Langelet returned home. The porcelain hadn't been damaged by the journey. He unpacked the large crates himself, trembling with joy when he felt, beneath the straw and tissue paper, the cool smoothness of a pink gla.s.s vase or a Sevres statuette. He still couldn't believe he was really home, reunited with all his wonderful possessions. He would raise his eyes now and again to look through his windows (which still had their strips of coloured paper) at the delightful curve of the Seine.

At noon, the concierge came up to clean; he hadn't yet hired any servants. Important events-whether serious, happy or unfortunate-do not change a man's soul, they merely bring it into relief, just as a strong gust of wind reveals the true shape of a tree when it blows off all its leaves. Such events highlight what is hidden in the shadows; they nudge the spirit towards a place where it can flourish. Charlie had always been careful with money, a penny-pincher. When he got back after the exodus, he felt truly miserly. It gave him real pleasure to save money whenever possible and he was aware of this for, to top it all off, he had become cynical. Before, he would never have considered moving into a disorganised house full of dust; he would have recoiled at the idea of going to a restaurant the very day he returned. Now, however, he had been through so much that nothing frightened him. When the concierge told him that anyway she couldn't finish the cleaning today, that Monsieur didn't realise how much work there was to do, Charlie replied sweetly but firmly, "You'll manage somehow, Madame Logre. You'll just have to work a bit faster, that's all."

"Fast and good don't always go together, Monsieur!"

"This time they will. The good old days are over," Charlie said sternly, then added, "I'll be back at six o'clock. I trust that everything will be ready."

And after an imperious glance at the concierge, who was furious but said nothing, and a final loving look at his porcelains, he left. As he went down the stairs he calculated what he was saving: he wouldn't have to pay for Madame Logre's lunch any more; she could work for him two hours a day for a while; once the heavy work was done, it wouldn't take much to keep the apartment in order, and he could take his time to find some servants, a couple probably. Until now he had always had a couple, a valet and a cook.

He went and had lunch by the river, in a little restaurant he knew. He didn't find the food too bad, all things considered (he never ate much anyway), and the wine he drank was excellent. The owner whispered in his ear that there was still a bit of real coffee left. Charlie lit a cigar and felt that life was good. That is to say, no, not good as such, one mustn't forget the defeat of France and all the suffering, all the humiliation that resulted from it, but for him, Charlie, it was good because he took life as it came, without moaning about the past or fearing the future.

He flicked the ash from his cigar. His money was in America and since his funds were frozen, fortunately, he would have to pay less tax or perhaps even none at all. The franc would remain low for a long time. His fortune, as soon as he could get hold of it, would automatically be worth ten times what it was now. As for his day-to-day expenses, he'd made sure to put something aside a long time ago. It was forbidden to buy or sell gold, and it was already fetching outrageous prices on the black market. He thought with amazement of the wave of panic that had swept through him when he had wanted to leave France to go and live in Portugal or South America. Some of his friends had gone, but he was neither Jewish nor a Mason, thank G.o.d, he thought with a scornful smile. He had never been involved in politics and didn't see why he wouldn't be left alone, a poor man like him, very quiet, very harmless, who never hurt anybody and who loved nothing in this world but his porcelain collection. He thought, on a more serious note, that this was the secret of his happiness amid so much upheaval. He loved nothing, at least nothing that time could distort, that death could carry away; he'd been right not to have married, not to have had children . . . My G.o.d, everyone else had been taken in. He'd been the only clever one.

But coming back to that mad idea of emigrating: it had been born of a strange and almost insane belief that, in the s.p.a.ce of a few days, the world was going to change into something horrific, a living h.e.l.l. But look . . . Everything was the same! He thought of the Bible and the description of the world before the Flood. How did it go? Oh yes: people built houses, got married, ate and drank . . . Well, the Bible was incomplete. It should have said, "The Flood waters subsided and people began once more to build their houses, to marry, to eat and drink . . ." In fact, people weren't really very important. It was works of art, museums, collections that should be saved. What was terrible about the Spanish War was that artistic masterpieces had been left to be destroyed; but here the most important works had been saved, except for some of the chateaux near the Loire, of course. Now that that was unforgivable. But the wine he'd drunk was so good, he felt inclined to be optimistic. After all, there were some very beautiful ruins. In Chinon, for example, what could be more admirable than the great hall with no roof and those walls-walls that had seen Joan of Arc pa.s.s, and where now birds nested and a wild cherry tree grew in a little corner. was unforgivable. But the wine he'd drunk was so good, he felt inclined to be optimistic. After all, there were some very beautiful ruins. In Chinon, for example, what could be more admirable than the great hall with no roof and those walls-walls that had seen Joan of Arc pa.s.s, and where now birds nested and a wild cherry tree grew in a little corner.

After lunch, he wanted to stroll through the streets, but he found them depressing. There were hardly any cars, it was extraordinarily silent, and great red flags with swastikas were flying everywhere. In front of a cheese shop, some women were waiting to be served. This was the first war he'd seen. Everyone was gloomy. Charlie hastened towards the Metro, the only transport working. He would visit a bar where he was often a regular at lunchtime or in the evening. What havens of peace bars like this were! They were extremely expensive, and their clientele consisted of wealthy men, past middle age, who hadn't been affected by either the mobilisation or the war. Charlie was alone for a while, but at about six thirty all the old regulars arrived, safe and sound and in tip-top form, accompanied by charming and beautifully made-up ladies, who called out from beneath their adorable little hats, "But it's him, it's Charlie, isn't it? . . . Well, now, not too worn out, are you? Come back to Paris?"

"Paris is dreadful, don't you think?"

And almost immediately, as if they were meeting again after the most peaceful, the most ordinary of summers, they began the kind of conversation Charlie called "Fragile-Don't Touch" conversation: lively and light-hearted small-talk, ranging over any number of subjects but dwelling on none in particular. Among other things, he learned that certain young men had been killed or taken prisoner.

"Oh, it can't be! Just imagine . . . I hadn't the slightest idea, it's awful! Those poor boys!" he said.

The husband of one of the ladies was a prisoner in Germany.

"He writes to me regularly. He isn't too bad, but it's the boredom, you see . . . I hope to be able to get him out soon."

The more he talked and the more he heard, Charlie found his spirits rising and he recovered the good mood that had been momentarily dampened by the sight of the Paris streets. But what succeeded in cheering him up completely was the hat worn by a woman who had just come in. All the women were well dressed but with a certain pretence of simplicity, as if to say, "We couldn't really dress up, just imagine! First of all, we have no money and, second, it wouldn't be quite right . . . I'll get some more wear out of my old dresses . . ." But this woman showed off her hat in a daring, courageous and brazenly happy way. It was a new little hat, hardly bigger than a c.o.c.ktail napkin, made of two sable skins, with a russet veil over her golden hair. As soon as he saw it, Charlie felt totally rea.s.sured.

It was getting late. Since Charlie wanted to stop at home before going out to dinner, it was time he went . . . but he didn't want to leave his friends.

"Why don't we all have dinner together?" someone suggested.

"That's an excellent idea," Charlie said warmly. And he proposed the little restaurant where he'd had such a good lunch, for he was like a cat by nature, quickly becoming attached to places where he'd been well treated. "I'll have to take the Metro again! It's such a ghastly place, it's making my life miserable," he said.

"I was able to get some petrol and a pa.s.s, but I can't offer to drive you back because I promised to wait for Nadine," said the woman in the new hat.

"How did you do that? It's amazing you could manage that!"

"Ah well, there it is," she said, smiling.

"Listen, then, let's meet in about an hour, an hour and a quarter."

"Do you want me to come and collect you?"

"No, thanks, you're very kind; it's only two minutes from my place."

"Be careful, it's pitch black out. They're very strict about that."

She was right, it's really dark, Charlie thought as he emerged from the warm, bright club into the unlit street. It was also raining. Autumn evenings like this were one of the things he used to like so much about Paris, but now you could see fires burning in the distance, and everything was as black and sinister as the inside of a well. Fortunately, the entrance to the Metro was nearby.

At home, Charlie found Madame Logre sweeping the floor in a preoccupied, gloomy sort of way. At least the drawing room was finished. Charlie had the urge to put his favourite Sevres statuette on the shiny Chippendale table-a Venus at the Looking Gla.s.s Venus at the Looking Gla.s.s. He took it out of the packing case, removed the tissue paper it was wrapped in, looked at it lovingly and was taking it over to the table when the doorbell rang.

"Go and see who it is, Madame Logre."

Madame Logre went out and then came back, saying, "Monsieur, I told the concierge at number six that Monsieur needed someone and she's sent this woman who's looking for work."