He flicked the ash from his cigar. His money was in America and since his funds were frozen, fortunately, he would have to pay less tax or perhaps even none at all. The franc would remain low for a long time. His fortune, as soon as he could get hold of it, would automatically be worth ten times what it was now. As for his day-to-day expenses, he'd made sure to put something aside a long time ago. It was forbidden to buy or sell gold, and it was already fetching outrageous prices on the black market. He thought with amazement of the wave of panic that had swept through him when he had wanted to leave France to go and live in Portugal or South America. Some of his friends had gone, but he was neither Jewish nor a Mason, thank God, he thought with a scornful smile. He had never been involved in politics and didn't see why he wouldn't be left alone, a poor man like him, very quiet, very harmless, who never hurt anybody and who loved nothing in this world but his porcelain collection. He thought, on a more serious note, that this was the secret of his happiness amid so much upheaval. He loved nothing, at least nothing that time could distort, that death could carry away; he'd been right not to have married, not to have had children… My God, everyone else had been taken in. He'd been the only clever one.
But coming back to that mad idea of emigrating: it had been born of a strange and almost insane belief that, in the space of a few days, the world was going to change into something horrific, a living hell. But look… Everything was the same! He thought of the Bible and the description of the world before the Flood. How did it go? Oh yes: people built houses, got married, ate and drank… Well, the Bible was incomplete. It should have said, "The Flood waters subsided and people began once more to build their houses, to marry, to eat and drink…" In fact, people weren't really very important. It was works of art, museums, collections that should be saved. What was terrible about the Spanish War was that artistic masterpieces had been left to be destroyed; but here the most important works had been saved, except for some of the châteaux near the Loire, of course. Now that was unforgivable. But the wine he'd drunk was so good, he felt inclined to be optimistic. After all, there were some very beautiful ruins. In Chinon, for example, what could be more admirable than the great hall with no roof and those walls-walls that had seen Joan of Arc pass, and where now birds nested and a wild cherry tree grew in a little corner.
After lunch, he wanted to stroll through the streets, but he found them depressing. There were hardly any cars, it was extraordinarily silent, and great red flags with swastikas were flying everywhere. In front of a cheese shop, some women were waiting to be served. This was the first war he'd seen. Everyone was gloomy. Charlie hastened towards the Métro, the only transport working. He would visit a bar where he was often a regular at lunchtime or in the evening. What havens of peace bars like this were! They were extremely expensive, and their clientele consisted of wealthy men, past middle age, who hadn't been affected by either the mobilisation or the war. Charlie was alone for a while, but at about six thirty all the old regulars arrived, safe and sound and in tip-top form, accompanied by charming and beautifully made-up ladies, who called out from beneath their adorable little hats, "But it's him, it's Charlie, isn't it?… Well, now, not too worn out, are you? Come back to Paris?"
" Paris is dreadful, don't you think?"
And almost immediately, as if they were meeting again after the most peaceful, the most ordinary of summers, they began the kind of conversation Charlie called "Fragile-Don't Touch" conversation: lively and light-hearted small-talk, ranging over any number of subjects but dwelling on none in particular. Among other things, he learned that certain young men had been killed or taken prisoner.
"Oh, it can't be! Just imagine… I hadn't the slightest idea, it's awful! Those poor boys!" he said.
The husband of one of the ladies was a prisoner in Germany.
"He writes to me regularly. He isn't too bad, but it's the boredom, you see… I hope to be able to get him out soon."
The more he talked and the more he heard, Charlie found his spirits rising and he recovered the good mood that had been momentarily dampened by the sight of the Paris streets. But what succeeded in cheering him up completely was the hat worn by a woman who had just come in. All the women were well dressed but with a certain pretence of simplicity, as if to say, "We couldn't really dress up, just imagine! First of all, we have no money and, second, it wouldn't be quite right… I'll get some more wear out of my old dresses…" But this woman showed off her hat in a daring, courageous and brazenly happy way. It was a new little hat, hardly bigger than a cocktail napkin, made of two sable skins, with a russet veil over her golden hair. As soon as he saw it, Charlie felt totally reassured.
It was getting late. Since Charlie wanted to stop at home before going out to dinner, it was time he went… but he didn't want to leave his friends.
"Why don't we all have dinner together?" someone suggested.
"That's an excellent idea," Charlie said warmly. And he proposed the little restaurant where he'd had such a good lunch, for he was like a cat by nature, quickly becoming attached to places where he'd been well treated. "I'll have to take the Métro again! It's such a ghastly place, it's making my life miserable," he said.
"I was able to get some petrol and a pass, but I can't offer to drive you back because I promised to wait for Nadine," said the woman in the new hat.
"How did you do that? It's amazing you could manage that!"
"Ah well, there it is," she said, smiling.
"Listen, then, let's meet in about an hour, an hour and a quarter."
"Do you want me to come and collect you?"
"No, thanks, you're very kind; it's only two minutes from my place."
"Be careful, it's pitch black out. They're very strict about that."
She was right, it's really dark, Charlie thought as he emerged from the warm, bright club into the unlit street. It was also raining. Autumn evenings like this were one of the things he used to like so much about Paris, but now you could see fires burning in the distance, and everything was as black and sinister as the inside of a well. Fortunately, the entrance to the Métro was nearby.
At home, Charlie found Madame Logre sweeping the floor in a preoccupied, gloomy sort of way. At least the drawing room was finished. Charlie had the urge to put his favourite Sèvres statuette on the shiny Chippendale table-a Venus at the Looking Glass. He took it out of the packing case, removed the tissue paper it was wrapped in, looked at it lovingly and was taking it over to the table when the doorbell rang.
"Go and see who it is, Madame Logre."
Madame Logre went out and then came back, saying, "Monsieur, I told the concierge at number six that Monsieur needed someone and she's sent this woman who's looking for work."
Seeing Charlie hesitate, she added, "She's a very nice person who used to be a chambermaid for the Countess Barrai du Jeu. She got married and didn't want to work any more, but her husband is a prisoner of war and she needs to earn a living. Monsieur could just see her and then decide!"
"All right, bring her in," said Langelet, putting the statuette on a table.
The woman made a good impression on him. She seemed modest and calm, obviously wishing to please but without being subservient. He could see at once she had been well trained and had worked in fine homes. She was a big woman. Mentally, Charlie reproached her for this-he liked his maids to be thin and a bit austere-but she looked about thirty-five or forty, the perfect age for a servant, when they've stopped working too quickly but are still fit and strong enough to provide good service. She had a broad face, vast shoulders and her clothing was simple but appropriate (the dress, coat and hat definitely hand-me-downs from a former employer).