"What beautiful weather," he murmured.
"Yes, Father," they replied, their voices cold and forced.
Philippe said a few more words to them, then went into the house. Inside it was grey and clean, and the room where he found himself was almost bare, containing only two cane chairs. It was the reception room, where the charges could have visitors, a practice tolerated but not encouraged. In any case, almost all of them were orphans. From time to time some neighbour who had known their dead parents, some older sister living in the country, would remember them and come to visit. But Father Péricand had never met a living soul in this room. The director's office was on the same floor.
The director was a short, fair man with pink eyelids and a pointed nose that trembled like an animal's snout when he smelled food. His charges called him "the rat" or "the tapir." He stretched both arms out to Philippe; his hands were cold and clammy. "I simply do not know how to thank you for your kindness, Father! You are really going to take charge of our boys?"
The children had to be evacuated the following day. He'd just been called urgently to the Midi, to his sick wife's side…
"The supervisor is afraid he'll be snowed under, that he won't be able to manage our thirty boys all alone."
"They seem very obedient," Philippe remarked.
"Oh, they're good boys. We get them into shape, teach the rebellious ones how to behave. But without wishing to seem proud, I'm the one who keeps everything going here. The supervisors are afraid. In any case, the war has claimed one of them and as for the other…" He pouted. "Excellent if he follows a rigid routine, but incapable of taking any initiative whatsoever, one of those people who could drown in a glass of water. Anyway, I was wondering which Saint to pray to in order to evacuate these boys when your good father told me you were passing through, leaving tomorrow for the mountains and that you wouldn't refuse to help us."
"I'll gladly do it. How are you planning to get the children out?"
"We've been able to get hold of two trucks. We've got enough petrol. They're going somewhere that is only about fifty kilometres from your parish, you know. It won't take you too far out of your way."
"I'm free until Thursday," said Philippe. "One of my Brothers is replacing me."
"Oh, the journey won't take that long! Your father tells me you are familiar with the house one of our benefactresses has placed at our disposal. It's a large estate in the middle of the woods. The proprietor inherited it last year and the furniture, which was very beautiful, was sold just before the war. The children can camp in the grounds. They will enjoy doing that in this lovely weather. At the beginning of the war they spent three months camping in another château in Corrèze kindly offered to us by one of these good ladies. We didn't have any heating at all there. Every morning we had to break the ice on the jugs. The children have never behaved so well. The days of peacetime luxury and ease," said the director, "are over."
The priest looked at the clock.
"Would you do me the honour of having lunch with me, Father?"
Philippe declined. He'd arrived in Paris that morning having travelled through the night. He was worried that Hubert might do something hotheaded and had come to get him, but the family was leaving that very day for Nièvre. Philippe wanted to be there when they left: an extra pair of hands wouldn't go amiss, he thought, smiling.
"I'll go and tell the boys you'll be taking my place," said the director. "Perhaps you'd like to say a few words to them to get acquainted. I had intended to speak to them myself, to tell them the whole country's at war, but I'm leaving at four o'clock and…"
"I'll speak to them," said Father Péricand.
He lowered his eyes, joined his hands and placed his fingertips on his lips. His face took on an expression of harshness and sadness as he looked into his heart. He disliked these unfortunate children. He walked towards them with all the kindness and goodwill he was capable of, but all he felt in their presence was coldness and disgust, not a single glimmer of love, nothing of that divine feeling which even the most miserable of sinners awoke in him when begging for forgiveness. There was more humility in bragging atheists, in hardened blasphemers, than in the eyes and words of these children. Their superficial obedience was terrifying. Despite being baptised, despite the holy sacraments of Communion and penance, no divine light illuminated them. They were children of Satan, without even enough spirituality to elevate themselves to a point where they desired divine light; they didn't feel it; they didn't want it; they didn't miss it. Father Péricand thought tenderly of the good little children to whom he taught the catechism. He had no illusions about them, of course. He knew very well that evil had already planted solid roots in their young souls, but at certain moments they showed such promise of kindness, of innocent grace, that they trembled with pity and horror when he spoke to them of the Passion of Christ. He was eager to get back to them. He thought of the First Communion they would celebrate the following Sunday.
Meanwhile, he followed the director into the hall where the boys had been assembled. The shutters were closed. In the darkness, he tripped on one of the steps near the doorway and had to grab on to the director's arm to avoid falling. He looked at the children, waiting, hoping for some stifled laughter. Sometimes a ridiculous incident like this breaks the ice between students and teachers. But no. Not one of them reacted. They stood in a semicircle against the wall with the youngest-those between eleven and fourteen-in front; their faces were pale, their lips tightly clenched, their eyes lowered. Almost all of them were small for their age and scrawny. The older ones, aged fifteen to eighteen, stood at the back. Some of them had the low brow, the thick hands of killers. As soon as he was in their presence, Father Péricand again felt a strange sensation of aversion, almost fear. He must overcome it at all costs. He walked towards them and they stepped back imperceptibly, as if they wanted to sink into the wall.
"My sons, from tomorrow until the end of our journey, I shall be looking after you instead of the director," he said. "You know that you are leaving Paris. Only God knows the fate in store for our soldiers, our dear country; He alone, in His infinite wisdom, knows the destiny of each of us in the days ahead. It is, alas, immensely likely that we shall all suffer dearly, for public misfortunes consist of a multitude of private misfortunes and this is the only time when, poor blind ungrateful creatures that we are, we feel the solidarity which unites us, forms us into a single being. What I would like to have from each of you is a gesture of faith in God. Our lips form the words 'May His will be done,' but deep in our hearts we cry out 'May my will be done, oh Lord.' Yet why do we seek God? Because we hope for happiness: it is man's nature to desire happiness and if we accept His will, God can give us this happiness, right now, without making us wait for death and Resurrection. My sons, may each of you entrust yourself to God. May each of you seek Him as your father, place your life in His loving hands, so divine peace can fill your hearts."
He paused for a moment, looked at them. "Let us say a little prayer together."
Thirty shrill voices indifferently recited "Our Father"; thirty thin faces surrounded the priest. As he made the sign of the Cross over them they lowered their heads sharply, mechanically. Only one lad turned his eyes towards the window. He had a large bitter mouth and the ray of sun that slipped through the closed shutters lit up his delicate freckled cheek, his thin pinched nose.
Not one of them moved or spoke. When the supervisor blew his whistle, they lined up and left the hall.
5
The streets were empty. People were closing their shops. The metallic shudder of falling iron shutters was the only sound to break the silence, a sound familiar to anyone who has woken in a city threatened by riot or war. As they walked to work, the Michauds saw loaded trucks waiting in front of the government buildings. They shook their heads. As always, they linked arms to cross the Avenue de l'Opéra to the office, even though the road, that morning, was deserted. They were both employees of the same bank and worked in the same branch, although the husband had been an accountant there for fifteen years while she had started only a few months earlier on a "temporary contract for the duration of the war." She taught singing, but the previous September had lost all her students when their families took them to the country for fear of the bombings. Her husband's salary had never been enough to pay their bills and their only son had been called up. Thanks to this secretarial job, they just about managed. As she always said, "We mustn't ask for the impossible, my dear." They had been familiar with hardship ever since they left their families to get married against their parents' will. That was a long time ago. Traces of beauty still remained on her thin face. Her hair was grey. He was a short man, with a weary, neglected appearance, but sometimes, when he turned towards her, looked at her, smiled at her, a loving teasing flame lit up his eyes-the same, he thought, yes, truly, almost the same as before. He helped her across the road and picked up the glove she'd dropped. She thanked him by gently pressing her fingers over his as he handed it to her. Other employees were hurrying towards the open door of the bank. One of them came up to the Michauds and asked, "Well, are we finally leaving?" The Michauds had no idea. It was 10 June, a Monday. When they had left the office on Friday, everything had seemed under control. The executives were being sent to the countryside but nothing had been said about the employees. Their fate was being decided in the manager's offices on the first floor, on the other side of two large green padded doors; the Michauds walked past them quickly and in silence. At the end of the corridor they separated. He went upstairs to Accounting, she remained on the managerial floor: she was secretary to one of the directors, Monsieur Corbin, the head of the branch. The second director, the Count de Furières (married to one of the Salomon-Worms), was responsible for the foreign affairs of the bank, whose clientele was most select, and limited, preferably, to wealthy landowners and the most important names in the metal-working industry. Monsieur Corbin hoped that his colleague, the Count de Furières, would make it easier for him to get into the Jockey Club. For several years now he had lived in hope. However, the Count deemed that favours such as invitations to dinner parties and to join the de Furières hunting party were ample compensation for the generous credit facilities allowed to him. In the evening, Madame Michaud would amuse her husband with impersonations of the meetings between the two directors, their sour smiles, Corbin's grimaces, the look on the Count's face. It relieved a bit of the monotony of their working day. But for some time now even this distraction had failed them: Monsieur de Furières had been sent to the Alpine front and Corbin was running the branch alone.