"Good gracious, how awful! But you found them intact? All the same, what you must have been through! What you must have been through! Excuse me, Monsieur, excuse me, Madame, right this way. Here is the suite I have given you; it's on the fourth floor, I do apologise; you will excuse me, won't you?"
"Oh," muttered Corte, "nothing matters at the moment."
"I do understand," said the manager, lowering his head and looking saddened. "Such a tragedy… I was born in Switzerland but I am French at heart. I do understand."
And he stood motionless for a few moments, his head down like a mourner at a funeral who wants to rush to the exit, but feels obliged to pay his respects to the family. He had put on this expression so often in the past few days that his kindly, chubby face had been transformed. He had always walked and spoken softly, as befitted his profession. Now he exaggerated his natural tendencies even further, crossing the room utterly silently, as if he were in a funeral parlour, and when he said to Corte, "Shall I have breakfast sent up?" it was in a discreet and mournful tone of voice, as if he were looking at the body of a cherished relative and asking, "May I kiss him one last time?"
"Breakfast?" Corte sighed, returning with difficulty to reality and the trivial problems of everyday life. "I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours," he added with a faint smile.
That had been true the day before, but not this morning: at six o'clock he had eaten a hearty meal. Nevertheless, he wasn't lying: he had eaten absent-mindedly because of his extreme exhaustion and the concern he felt at the tragedy taking place in France. He felt as though he hadn't eaten.
"Oh, but you must force yourself, Monsieur! I don't like seeing you like this, Monsieur Corte. You mustn't give in. You owe it to mankind."
Corte nodded in resignation; he didn't dispute his obligation to mankind, but at the moment he couldn't be expected to have more courage than the most humble citizen. "My good man," he said, turning away to hide his tears, "it is not just France who is dying, it is Art as well."
"Not as long as you are here, Monsieur Corte," the manager replied warmly, as he had a great number of times since the Fall of France. Corte was, in the list of celebrities, the fourteenth to arrive from Paris since the sad events began and the fifth writer to seek refuge at the luxury hotel.
Corte smiled weakly and asked him to make sure the coffee was very hot.
"Boiling hot," the manager assured him, then gave the necessary orders over the telephone and left.
Florence had gone into her room, locked the door and anxiously looked at herself in the mirror. Her face, normally so soft, so well made-up, so rested, was covered in a shiny coat of sweat; it no longer absorbed the powder and foundation, but turned them into thick lumps, like curdled mayonnaise. Her nose was pinched, her eyes sunken, her mouth pale and limp. She turned away from the mirror in horror.
"I could be fifty," she said to her maid.
This was quite literally true, but she said it with such disbelief and terror that Julie took it as she should: that is to say figuratively, as a metaphor for expressing extreme old age.
"After everything that's happened it's understandable… Madame should take a little nap."
"It's impossible… As soon as I close my eyes I hear the bombs, I see the bridge again, the dead bodies…"
"Madame will forget."
"Never! Could you forget?
"It's different for me."
"Why?"
"Madame has so many other things to think about!" said Julie. "Shall I lay out Madame's green dress?"
"My green dress? With the way I look?"
Florence, who had slumped down into her chair with her eyes closed, suddenly rallied, summoning all her meagre strength like the head of an army who, despite needing rest and acknowledging the inefficiency of his subordinates, pulls himself together and, still weak with exhaustion, leads his troops on to the battlefield. "Listen, this is what you are going to do. First, while you are running the bath, prepare me a face mask, number 3, the American one. Then telephone the hairdresser and ask if Luigi is still there. Tell him to come and give me a manicure in three quarters of an hour. Then get my little grey suit ready, with the pink linen blouse."
"The one with the collar like this?" Julie asked, drawing a low-cut shape in the air.
Florence hesitated. "Yes… no… yes… that one, and the new little hat with the cornflowers. Oh, Julie, I really never thought I would get to wear that little hat. Well… you're right, I mustn't think about it any more, I'd go mad… I wonder if they have any more of that ochre powder, the last one…"
"We'll have to find out… Madame would be wise to buy several boxes. It came from England."
"You don't have to tell me! You know, Julie, we don't really understand what is going on. These events will have an unimaginable impact, believe me, unimaginable… People's lives will be changed for generations. We'll be hungry this winter. Just get out my grey leather handbag with the gold clasp, that's all… I wonder what Paris is like," said Florence walking into the bathroom. But the noise of the running water Julie had just turned on drowned out her words.
Meanwhile, less frivolous thoughts were passing through Corte's mind. He too was lying in the bath. At first he had been filled with such joy, such profound natural peace, that he was reminded of the delights of childhood: his happiness when eating an iced meringue full of cream; dipping his feet in a cool stream; pressing a new toy to his heart. He felt no desire, no regret, no anguish. His head was clear and calm; his body floated in a warm, liquid element that caressed him, gently tickled his skin, washed away the dust, the sweat, insinuated itself between his toes and slid beneath his back like a mother lifting her sleeping child. The bathroom smelled of tar soap, hair lotion, eau de Cologne, lavender water. He smiled, stretched out his arms, cracked the knuckles on his long, pale fingers, savoured the divine, simple pleasure of being safe from the bombs and taking a cool bath on a very hot day. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when bitterness cut through him like a sharp knife through a piece of fruit. Perhaps it was when he happened to glance at the suitcase full of manuscripts on the chair, or when the soap fell into the water and he had to fish it out, the strain to his muscles disrupting his state of euphoria. Whenever it was, at a certain point he frowned and his face, which had been clearer, smoother than usual, almost rejuvenated, became sombre and anxious once again.
What would become of him? What would become of Gabriel Corte? What was happening to the world? What would be the general mood in future? Either people would think only about being able to survive and there would be no place for Art, or they would become obsessed by a new ideal, as after every crisis before. A new ideal? A new fashion, more like, he thought with cynicism and weariness. But he, Corte, was too old to adapt to new tastes. He had already changed his style in 1920. A third time would be impossible. It exhausted him just to think about what was to come, what kind of world was about to be born. Who could predict the shape it would take as it emerged from the harsh matrix of this war, as from a bronze mould. It would be magnificent or misshapen (or both), this universe now showing its first signs of life. It was terrible to look at himself, to see himself… and to understand nothing. For he understood nothing. He thought of his book, his manuscript sitting on a chair, rescued from the fire, from the bombs. He felt intensely despondent. The passions he described, his feelings, his scruples, this history of a generation, his generation-they were all old, useless, obsolete. "Obsolete!" he repeated in despair. And a second time the soap, slippery as a fish, disappeared into the water. He swore, sat up, angrily rang the bell; his servant came in.
"Rub me down," Gabriel Corte sighed, his voice shaking.
Once his legs had been massaged with the glove and the eau de Cologne applied, Corte felt better. Standing naked in the bathroom he began to shave while the servant laid out his clothes: a linen shirt, a lightweight tweed suit, a blue tie.