“Do you have any idea what’s going on at the train stations?”
“It won’t be any better on the roads.”
“You have . . . you have no conscience at all. You’re leaving, you have two cars . . .”
“I need to move the files and some of the staff. What the hell do you want me to do with the staff?”
“Oh, please! Must you be so rude? You have your wife’s car!”
“You want to go in my wife’s car? What a wonderful idea!”
The dancer turned her back on him and whistled for her dog, who bounded in. She put his collar on, her hands trembling with indignation. “My entire youth sacrificed to a . . .”
“For goodness sake! Stop making a scene. I’ll phone you tonight, I’ll see what can be done . . .”
“No, no. I see very well that all I can do now is go and die in a ditch at the side of the road . . .”
“Oh, do shut up, you’re making me furious . . .”
They finally realised that the secretary was listening to them. They lowered their voices and Corbin, taking his mistress by the arm, walked her to the door.
He came back and glanced at Madame Michaud who, finding herself in his path, was the first target of his fury. “Get the section heads together in the meeting room. Right now, if you don’t mind!”
Madame Michaud went out to pass on his orders. A few moments later the employees filed into a large room containing a marble bust of the bank’s founder and a full-length portrait of the current president, Monsieur Auguste-Jean, who had been ailing for some time with a softening of the brain caused by his great age.
Monsieur Corbin received them standing behind the oval table where nine sheets of blotting paper marked the Board of Directors’ places. “Gentlemen, we are leaving tomorrow morning at eight o’clock to go to our branch in Tours. I will take the Board’s files in my car. Madame Michaud, you and your husband will accompany me. As for those who have a car, be in front of the bank at six o’clock to pick up other staff members, that is, the ones I have selected. I will see what I can do for the others but, if necessary, they will have to take the train. Thank you, gentlemen.”
He disappeared and immediately the murmur of anxious voices buzzed around the room. Only two days before, Corbin had declared he could foresee no reason to leave, that the hysterical rumours were the work of traitors, that the bank, the bank, would remain where it was, would fulfil its obligations even if others did not. Given that the “withdrawal,” as it was discreetly called, had been decided so suddenly, all—without doubt—was lost! The women wiped the tears from their eyes. Through the crowd the Michauds found each other. Both of them were thinking about their son, Jean-Marie. His last letter was dated 2 June. Only a week ago. My God, anything could have happened since then! In their anguish, their only comfort was being together.
“How lucky we are not to have to be apart,” he whispered to her.
6
Night was falling but the Péricands’ car was still waiting outside their door. Tied to the roof was the soft deep mattress that had adorned their marital bed for twenty-eight years. Fixed to the boot were a pram and a bicycle. They were trying in vain to cram in all the family’s bags, suitcases and overnight cases, as well as the baskets containing the sandwiches, the thermos flask, bottles of milk for the children, cold chicken, ham, bread and the boxes of baby cereal for the elder Monsieur Péricand. There was also the cat’s basket. At first they had been delayed because their clean linen hadn’t been delivered and the laundry couldn’t be reached by telephone. Their large white embroidered sheets were part of the Péricand-Maltête inheritance, along with the jewellery, the silver and the library: it was impossible to leave them behind. The whole morning had been wasted looking for things. The launderer himself was leaving. He had ended up giving Madame Péricand her sheets in damp, crumpled bundles. She had gone without lunch in order to supervise personally the packing of the linen. It had been agreed that the servants, along with Hubert and Bernard, would get the train. But at all the train stations the gates were already closed and guarded by soldiers. The crowds were hanging on to them, shaking them, then swarming chaotically back down the neighbouring streets. Women in tears were running with their children in their arms. The last taxis were stopped: they were offered two thousand, three thousand francs to leave Paris. “Just to Orléans . . .” But the drivers refused, they had no more petrol. The Péricands had to go back home. They finally managed to get hold of a van, which would take Madeleine, Maria, Auguste and Bernard, with his little brother on his lap. As for Hubert, he would follow the cars on his bicycle.
All along the Boulevard Delessert, groups of people appeared outside their houses—women, old people and children, gesticulating to one another, trying, at first calmly and then with increasing agitation and a mad, dizzy excitement, to get the family and all the baggage into a Renault, a saloon, a sports car . . . Not a single light shone through the windows. The stars were coming out, springtime stars with a silvery glow. Paris had its sweetest smell, the smell of chestnut trees in bloom and of petrol with a few grains of dust that crack under your teeth like pepper. In the darkness the danger seemed to grow. You could smell the suffering in the air, in the silence. Even people who were normally calm and controlled were overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Everyone looked at their house and thought, “Tomorrow it will be in ruins, tomorrow I’ll have nothing left. We haven’t hurt anyone. Why?” Then a wave of indifference washed over their souls: “What’s the difference! It’s only stone, wood—nothing living! What matters is survival!” Who cared about the tragedy of their country? Not these people, not the people who were leaving that night. Panic obliterated everything that wasn’t animal instinct, involuntary physical reaction. Grab the most valuable things you own in the world and then . . . ! And, on that night, only people—the living and the breathing, the crying and the loving—were precious. Rare was the person who cared about their possessions; everyone wrapped their arms tightly round their wife or child and nothing else mattered; the rest could go up in flames.
If you listened closely, you could hear the sound of planes in the sky. French or enemy? No one knew. “Faster, faster,” said Monsieur Péricand. But then they would realise they’d forgotten the box of lace, or the ironing board. It was impossible to make the servants listen to reason. They were trembling with fear. Even though they wanted to leave too, their need to follow a routine was stronger than their terror; and they insisted on doing everything exactly as they had always done when getting ready to go to the countryside for the summer holidays. The trunks had to be packed in the usual way, with everything in its correct place. They hadn’t understood the reality of the situation. They were living two different moments, you might say, half in the present and half deep in the past, as if what was happening could only seep into a small part of their consciousnesses, the most superficial part, leaving all the deeper regions peacefully asleep. Nanny, her grey hair undone, her lips clenched, her eyelids swollen from crying, was folding Jacqueline’s freshly ironed handkerchiefs with amazingly firm, precise movements. Madame Péricand, already in the car, called her, but the old woman didn’t reply, didn’t even hear her.
Finally, Philippe had to go upstairs to look for her. “Come along, Nanny, what’s the matter? We have to leave. What’s the matter?” he repeated gently, taking her hand.
“Oh, leave me be, my little one,” she groaned, forgetting suddenly that she now only called him “Monsieur Philippe” or “Father,” and instinctively returning to the past. “Go on, leave me be. You’re kind but we’re lost!”
“Come now, don’t get so upset, you poor thing, leave the handkerchiefs, get dressed and come downstairs quickly. Mother is waiting for you.”
“I’ll never see my boys again, Philippe!”
“But you will, you will,” he said, then he himself tidied up the old woman’s hair and put a black straw hat on her head.
“You’ll pray to the Holy Virgin for my boys, won??
?t you?”
He kissed her gently on the cheek. “Yes, yes, I promise. Come along now.”
The driver and the concierge passed them on the staircase as they went up to collect the elder Monsieur Péricand. He had been kept away from all the commotion until the very last minute. Auguste and the male nurse were just finishing dressing him. The old man had had an operation a short while ago. He was wearing a complicated bandage and, given the cold night air, a flannel girdle so big and so wide that his body was swaddled like a mummy. Auguste buttoned his old-fashioned boots and pulled a light but warm jumper over his head. As he put on his jacket, Monsieur Péricand, who until now had wordlessly let himself be manipulated like an old, stiff doll, seemed to wake up from a dream and mumbled, “Wool waistcoat . . .”
“You will be too warm, Sir,” Auguste remarked, trying to pay no attention.
But his master stared at him with his pale, glazed eyes and repeated more loudly, “Wool waistcoat!”
He was given it. They put on his long overcoat, the scarf that went twice round his neck and fastened at the back with a safety pin. Then they sat him in his wheelchair and took him down the five flights of stairs. The wheelchair wouldn’t fit in the lift. The nurse, a strong, red-headed man from Alsace, went down the stairs backwards and took the brunt of the weight while Auguste respectfully supported from behind. The two men stopped on each landing to wipe away the sweat running down their faces, while Monsieur Péricand calmly contemplated the ceiling and quietly nodded his beautiful beard. It was impossible to imagine what he thought of this hasty departure. However, contrary to what they might have believed, he was fully informed about recent events. He had murmured while being dressed, “A beautiful, clear night . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if . . .”
He seemed to have fallen asleep and only finished his sentence a few seconds later, at the doorstep: “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were bombed on the way!”
“What an idea, Monsieur Péricand!” the nurse exclaimed with all the optimism befitting his profession.
But already the old man had resumed his look of profound indifference. They finally got the wheelchair out of the house. The elder Monsieur Péricand settled in the right-hand corner of the car, well sheltered from any draughts. His daughter-in-law, hands trembling with impatience, wrapped him up in the Scottish shawl whose long fringes he liked to twist.
“Is everything ready?” Philippe asked. “Good, get going.” If they make it out of Paris before tomorrow morning, they’ll have a chance, he thought.
“My gloves,” said the old man.
They gave him his gloves. It was difficult getting them to fit over his wrists, made thicker by the layers of wool. The elder Monsieur Péricand refused to leave a single button undone. Finally everything was ready. Emmanuel was wailing in his nanny’s arms. Madame Péricand kissed her husband and her son. She didn’t cry, but as she held them tight they could feel her heart beating fast against their chests. The driver started the car. Hubert got on his bicycle.
The elder Monsieur Péricand lifted up his hand. “Just a minute,” he said in a calm, quiet voice.
“What is it, Father?”
But he made a sign that he couldn’t tell his daughter-in-law.
“Did you forget something?”
He nodded his head. The car stopped. Madame Péricand, white with frustration, leaned out of the window. “I think Papa has forgotten something?” she shouted in the direction of the small group left on the pavement, made up of her husband, Philippe and the nurse.
When the car had reversed back and stopped in front of the house, the old man, with a small discreet gesture, called over the nurse and whispered something in his ear.
“What is going on? This is madness! We’ll still be here tomorrow,” exclaimed Madame Péricand. “What do you need, Father? What does he want?” she asked.
The nurse lowered his eyes. “Monsieur wants us to take him back upstairs . . . to do pee-pee . . .”
7
Charles Langelet was kneeling on the parquet floor of his empty drawing room, wrapping up his porcelain himself. He was fat and had a heart condition; the sigh he let out from his heavy chest sounded like a groan. He was alone in the apartment. The servants, who had been with him for seven years, had panicked when, with the rest of Paris, they had woken to a thick man-made fog raining down on them like a shower of ashes. They had left early to get provisions, but had never come back. Monsieur Langelet thought bitterly of the generous wages and all the presents he had given them since they had come into his service, money which had allowed them to buy, no doubt, some peaceful cottage, some secluded little farm in their native towns.
Monsieur Langelet should have left long ago. He admitted that now, but he had been unable to deviate from his normal routine. Frosty, scornful, the only things he loved in this world were his apartment and the objects scattered around him on the floor: the rugs had been rolled up with mothballs and hidden in the cellar. All the windows were decorated with long strips of pink and baby-blue adhesive tape. Monsieur Langelet himself, with his pale, fat hands, had arranged them in the shape of stars, ships and unicorns. They were the envy of his friends, but how could he possibly have lived with a drab, common decor? All around him, in his house, everything consisted of fragments of beauty. Sometimes modest, sometimes valuable, these fragments combined to form a unique atmosphere of soft luminosity—the only one worthy of a cultured man, he thought. When he was twenty he had worn a ring with an inscription inside: This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever (Monsieur Langelet happily spoke English to himself: the language, with its poetry, its force, suited certain of his moods). It was childish and he had got rid of this trinket, but the maxim remained with him and he remained faithful to it.
He pushed himself up on to one knee and looked around with a piercing, hopeless expression that took in many things: the Seine beneath his windows, the graceful curve of the wall between his two reception rooms, the fireplace with its antique andirons and the high ceilings where light floated, a clear light coloured green and as transparent as water because it was filtered through almond-coloured canvas blinds on the balcony.
Now and again the telephone would ring. There were still indecisive people in Paris, idiots who were afraid to leave, hoping for some kind of miracle. Slowly, with a sigh, Monsieur Langelet picked up the receiver. He spoke in a calm, nasal voice, with a detachment, an irony, that his friends—a small, very exclusive, very Parisian group—called “inimitable.” Yes, he had decided to leave. No, he was not afraid of anything. They would not defend Paris. Things would hardly be different anywhere else. Danger was everywhere but it was not danger he was fleeing. “I have seen two wars,” he said. He had in fact spent the war of ’14 at his property in Normandy, exempt from military service because of his heart condition.
“My dear friend, I am sixty years old, it is not death I fear!”
“Why are you leaving, then?”
“I cannot bear this chaos, these outbursts of hatred, the repulsive spectacle of war. I shall withdraw to a tranquil spot, in the countryside, and live on the bit of money I have left until everyone comes to their senses.”
He heard a little snigger: he had the reputation of being miserly and cautious. “Charlie?” people said about him. “He sews gold coins into all his old clothes.” He smiled, an icy, bitter smile. “He knew very well that people envied his luxurious, comfortable life.
“Oh, you’ll be fine!” his friend exclaimed. “But not everyone has your money, unfortunately . . .”
Charlie frowned: he found her lacking in tact.
“Where will you go?” the voice continued.
“To a little house I own in Ciboure.”
“Near the border?” asked his friend, who was clearly losing her composure.
They parted coldly. Charlie again knelt down next to the half-full packing case and caressed, through the straw and tissue paper, his Nankin Cups, his Wedgwood centrepiece, his Sèvres vases. As long as he lived he
would never part with them, never. But his heart was aching; he would not be able to take the dressing table in his bedroom, made of Dresden china, a museum piece, with its trumeau mirror decorated with roses. That would be left to the wolves. He remained still for a moment, squatting down on the floor, his monocle hanging almost to the ground by its black cord. He was tall and strong; on the delicate skin of his head, his fair hair was arranged with infinite care. Usually his face had the smooth, defiant look of an old cat purring by a warm stove, but he was so tired from the previous day that it couldn’t but show and his weak jaw suddenly drooped like a corpse. What had she said, that stuck-up madam on the telephone? She had insinuated that he wanted to flee France! What an imbecile! Did she think she would upset him, make him ashamed? Of course he would leave. If he could just get to Hendaye, he could make arrangements to cross the border. He would stay briefly in Lisbon and then get out of this hideous Europe, dripping with blood. He could picture it: a decomposing corpse, slashed with a thousand wounds. He shuddered. He wasn’t cut out for this. He wasn’t made for the world that would be born of this rotting cadaver, like a worm emerging from a grave. A brutal, ferocious, dog-eat-dog world. He looked at his beautiful hands, which had never done a day’s work, had only ever caressed statues, pieces of antique silver, leather books, or occasionally a piece of Elizabethan furniture. What would he, Charles Langelet, with his sophistication, his scruples, his nobility—which was the essence of his character—what would he do amid this demented mob? He would be robbed, skinned, murdered like a pitiable dog thrown to the wolves. He smiled slightly, bitterly, imagining himself as a golden-haired Pekinese lost in a jungle. He wasn’t like ordinary men. Their ambitions, their fears, their cowardice and their complaints were foreign to him. He lived in a universe of light and peace. He was destined to be hated and betrayed by everyone. He then remembered his servants and snorted. It was the dawn of a new age, a warning and an omen! With difficulty, for the joints in his knees were painful, he stood up, rubbed the small of his back with his hands and went to his office to get the hammer and nails to close up the packing case. He took it down to the car himself: there was no need for the concierge to know what he was carrying.