"Are there any people we know?" asked Corte.
"I don't know, Monsieur. I haven't seen many people, though I've been told a lot of cars arrived last night and then left straightaway for Spain. Monsieur Jules Blanc was here. He went to Portugal."
"Jules Blanc?"
Corte paused, his soapy razor poised in mid-air. Jules Blanc, gone to Portugal, on the run! This piece of news was a bad blow. Like everyone who makes sure they get the most comfort and pleasure from life, Gabriel Corte had a politician in his pocket. In exchange for excellent dinners, wonderful parties, Florence's little attentions, in exchange for a few well-placed and timely newspaper articles, he had had from Jules Blanc (member with portfolio in nearly every Cabinet, twice Prime Minister, four times Minister of War) thousands of the small favours that make life easier. It was thanks to Jules Blanc that he had been commissioned to present his Great Lovers series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte's novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth.
On learning of his friend's fall (Blanc must have been involved in some pretty dishonest business to have taken this desperate measure, since it was he who always liked to say that, in politics, defeat prepares you for victory), Corte felt alone and abandoned at the edge of an abyss. Once again, he was struck with dreadful force by the existence of a new world, unknown to him, a world where everyone would become miraculously chaste, selfless and full of noble ideals. Already, that tendency to imitate which is an integral part of the survival instinct for plants, animals and people, made him declare: "Ah, so he's left? The day of these hedonists, these political wheeler-dealers is over…" After a moment's silence he added, "Poor France…"
Slowly he put on his blue socks. Naked, except for his black silk suspenders and socks, his skin a shiny white with yellowish tinges, he did some arm and chest exercises, then looked at himself approvingly in the mirror. "Now that is definitely better," he said, as if he expected the words to make his servant very happy. Then he finished dressing.
He went down to the bar just after noon. There was a certain panic going on in the lobby and it was clear that distant disasters were sending tremors through the rest of the universe. People had left their luggage piled untidily on the stage that was normally used as a dance floor; shouting was coming from the kitchens; pale, dishevelled women were wandering around the corridors looking for a room; the lifts weren't working; and an old man was crying, standing in front of a porter who refused to give him a bed.
"You must understand, Monsieur, it's not that I don't want to, but it's impossible, simply impossible. We're full to bursting, Monsieur."
"Just a tiny little corner room, that's all," begged the poor man. "I told my wife I would meet her here. We got separated in the bombing in Etampes. She'll think I'm dead. I'm seventy years old, Monsieur, and she's sixty-eight. We've never been apart before." He took out his wallet, hands trembling. "I'll give you a thousand francs." And on this ordinary Frenchman's honest, modest face you could see his shame at having to offer a bribe for the first time in his life, and his fear at having to spend all his money.
But the porter refused to take it. "I'm telling you, Monsieur, it's impossible. Try in town."
"In town? But I've just come from there! I've been knocking at doors since five o'clock this morning. They treat me like a dog! I'm not just anyone. I'm a physics teacher at the Saint-Omer sixth-form college. I've been decorated for services to education."
But he finally realised the porter had stopped listening a long time ago and had turned his back on him. Picking up a little hatbox he'd dropped on the ground, which clearly contained all his belongings, he left without saying a word.
The porter was now fighting off four Spanish women with black hair and heavy make-up. One of them was clutching his arm. "Once in a lifetime, all right, it happens, but twice is too much," she exclaimed in bad French, her voice hoarse and loud. "To have lived through the war in Spain, escaped to France and then end up in this mess, it's too much!"
"But Madame, there's really nothing I can do!"
"You can give me a room!"
"That's impossible, Madame, impossible."
The Spaniard tried to think of some scathing reply, an insult, but her mind was blank. For a moment she was choked with anger; then she exclaimed, "Well, you're not what I call a man!"
"Me?" shouted the porter, suddenly losing all his professional passivity and jumping up and down in outrage. "And what about you? Have you quite finished insulting me? Just remember you're a foreigner-so shut up or I'll call the police." Regaining a little of his dignity, he held open the door and pushed out the four women who were still shouting insults in Castilian.
"What hard days, Monsieur, and nights," he said to Corte. "The world has gone mad, Monsieur!"
Corte walked into a long, cool room; it was silent and dark, and the bar was quiet. All the commotion stopped at this doorway. The closed shutters on the large windows protected him from the heat of the raging sun; the aroma of quality leather, excellent cigars and vintage brandy hung in the air. The Italian barman, an old friend of Corte's, welcomed him impeccably, expressing his joy at seeing him again and his sympathy at France 's misfortunes. He did this with such dignity and tact, mindful of his inferior status with regard to Corte and aware that the terrible events demanded respect, that Corte felt immediately comforted. "I'm pleased to see you as well, my good man," he said gratefully.
"Did Monsieur have difficulty leaving Paris?"
"Ah!" was all Corte said. He raised his eyes to heaven. Joseph, the barman, made a discreet little gesture with his hand as if to prevent Corte from confiding in him, refusing to be the one to bring back such fresh, painful memories, and in the same way a doctor might say to a patient who is having a fit, "Drink this first, then you can tell me all about it," he murmured, "Shall I fix you a martini?"
With the chilled glass and two small dishes of olives and crisps in front of him, Corte took in the familiar surroundings with the weak smile of a convalescent. He then looked at the men who had just joined him in the room. Well, well! They were all there: the academic and the former minister, the important industrialist, the editor, the head of a newspaper, the MP, the playwright and the writer who, under the pseudonym "General X," wrote articles for an important Parisian magazine in which he summarised military events for the masses in great technical detail and with the utmost optimism, while always managing to remain vague: "The next military theatre of operations will be in northern Europe or the Balkans or the Ruhr or all three simultaneously, or else at some point on the globe impossible to predict." Yes, they were all here and in perfect health. For a brief moment Corte was stunned. He couldn't have said why, but for the past twenty-four hours he had thought the old world was crumbling and he was the only man left amid the rubble. It was an inexpressible relief to see once again all his famous friends, even his enemies. Today, any disagreements seemed unimportant. They were all on the same side, they were all together! They were living proof that nothing was changing. Contrary to belief, they weren't witnessing some extraordinary cataclysm, the end of the world, but rather a series of purely human events, limited in time and space, which, all in all, affected only the lives of people they didn't know.