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!"