"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.
8
The Michauds got up at five o'clock in the morning to have enough time to clean their apartment thoroughly before leaving. It was of course strange to take so much care over things with so little value and destined, in all probability, to be destroyed when the first bombs fell on Paris. All the same, thought Madame Michaud, you dress and adorn the dead who are destined to rot in the earth. It's a final homage, a supreme proof of love to those we hold dear. And this little apartment was very dear to them. They'd lived here for sixteen years. No matter how hard they tried, they could never take all their memories with them: the best memories would remain here, between these thin walls. They put their books away at the bottom of a cupboard along with the sentimental family photographs, the kind you always promise to put into albums but which are left in a mess, faded, caught in the groove of a drawer. The picture of Jean-Marie as a child had already been slipped deep inside the suitcase, in the folds of a spare dress. The bank had firmly instructed they take only what was strictly necessary: a bit of clothing and some toiletries. Everything was finally ready. They'd eaten. Madame Michaud covered the bed with a big sheet to protect its slightly faded pink silk upholstery from the dust.
"It's time to go," her husband said.
"Go ahead, I'll catch up with you," she said, her voice faltering.
He went out, leaving her alone. She went into Jean-Marie's room. Everything was silent, dark, funereal behind the closed shutters. She knelt for a moment beside his bed, said out loud "Dear God, protect him," then closed the door and went down.
Her husband was waiting for her on the stairs. He drew her close, and then, without saying a word, hugged her so tightly that she let out a little cry of pain: "Maurice, you're hurting me!"
"Sorry," he murmured, his voice husky.
At the bank, the employees assembled in the large entrance hall, each one with a little bag on his knees, whispering the latest news to one another. Corbin wasn't there. The manager was giving out numbers: they had to get into the car assigned to them when their number was called. Until noon, departures were carried out in an orderly fashion and in almost total silence. Then Corbin came in, impatient and sullen. He went down to the basement, into the room where the safes were kept, and came back up with a package which he held half hidden beneath his coat.
"That's Ariette's jewellery," Madame Michaud whispered to her husband. "He took out his wife's two days ago."
"As long as he doesn't forget us." Maurice gave a sigh that was both ironic and anxious.
Madame Michaud deliberately stood in Corbin's way. "You're still planning to take us with you, aren't you, Monsieur?"
He nodded yes and asked them to follow him. Monsieur Michaud grabbed their suitcase and the three of them went outside. Monsieur Corbin's car was waiting, but as they got closer, Michaud narrowed his short-sighted eyes. "I see our seats have been taken," he said quietly.
Ariette Corail, her dog and her luggage were piled up in the back of the car. Furiously, she opened the door and shouted, "Are you going to throw me out on to the street, then?"
The couple started bickering. The Michauds moved back a few steps, but could still hear every word.
"But we're supposed to meet my wife in Tours," Corbin finally shouted, kicking the dog.
It gave a little yelp and hid under Ariette's legs.
"You brute!"
"Oh, do shut up, will you! If you hadn't been gadding about the day before yesterday with those English pilots… two more I'd like to see at the bottom of the ocean…"
"You brute! Brute!" she repeated over and over again, her voice growing shriller and shriller. Then suddenly, with the utmost calm, she said, "I have a friend in Tours. I won't need you once we get there."
Corbin gave her a savage look but seemed to have made up his mind. He turned towards the Michauds. "I'm sorry, there isn't enough room for you, as you can see. Madame Corail's car was in an accident and she has asked me to take her with me to Tours. I cannot refuse. There's a train in an hour. It will probably be a bit of a crush but it's a very short journey… Whatever happens, make sure you manage to join us as soon as possible. I am counting on you, Madame Michaud. You are more energetic than your husband and, speaking of which, Michaud, you must really try to be more dynamic"-he stressed the syllables "dy-nam-ic"-"than recently. I will no longer tolerate your attitude. If you want to keep your job, take this as a warning. Both of you must be in Tours the day after tomorrow at the latest. I must have all my staff."
He waved them away, got into the car next to the dancer and drove off. The Michauds were left standing on the pavement, looking at each other.
"Well, that's the way to do it," Michaud said, lightly shrugging his shoulders, his voice nonchalant. "Give the people you should be apologising to a good telling off, that's it!"
In spite of themselves, they started to laugh.
"What are we going to do now?"
"We're going to go home and have lunch," his wife said, furious.
It was cool back in their apartment, the kitchen without many provisions, the furniture covered up. Everything seemed secretive, friendly and sweet, as if a voice had whispered from the shadows, "We were expecting you. Everything is as it should be."
"Let's stay in Paris," Maurice suggested.
They were side by side on the sitting-room sofa and, with a familiar gesture, she stroked his forehead with her thin, delicate fingers. "My poor darling, that's not possible. We have to live and we haven't any savings left since my operation, as you know only too well. I only have one hundred seventy-five francs in my account. Don't you think Corbin would jump at the chance to get rid of us? After a blow like this, all the branches are going to reduce their staff. We must get to Tours at all costs!"
"I think that will be impossible."
"We have to," she repeated.
She was already standing up, putting her hat back on, picking up the suitcase again. They left and headed for the train station.
They would never manage to get inside the large departure area; it was closed, locked, blocked off by soldiers and by the jostling crowd crushed against the barriers. They stayed until evening, struggling in vain. All around them people were saying, "Too bad. We'll have to walk."
Everyone spoke with a kind of devastated astonishment. They clearly didn't believe what they were saying. They looked around and expected some miracle: a car, a truck, anything that would take them. But nothing came. So they headed out of Paris on foot, past the city gates, dragging their bags behind them in the dust, then on into the suburbs, into the countryside, all the while thinking, "This can't be happening! I must be dreaming!"