"What's your name?" Charlie asked, favourably impressed.
"Hortense Gaillard, Monsieur."
"All right. And you're looking for work?"
"Well, you see, Monsieur, I left the Countess Barrai du Jeu two years ago to get married. I didn't think I'd have to go back into service, but my husband was conscripted and then taken prisoner, and Monsieur will understand that I have to earn a living. My brother is unemployed and I'm looking after him, his sick wife and a small child."
"I understand. I was thinking of hiring a couple…"
"I know, Monsieur, but maybe I could do instead? I was the head chambermaid for the Countess, but before that I worked for the Countess's mother as a cook. I could do the cooking and the cleaning."
"Yes, that's possible," Charlie murmured, thinking that such a combination would be very advantageous financially.
Naturally, there was also the matter of serving meals. He did sometimes have dinner guests, but then he wasn't expecting too many this winter.
"Do you know how to iron men's clothing? I'm very particular about that, you understand."
"I was the one who ironed the Count's shirts."
"And what about your cooking? I often eat out. I require simple but carefully prepared food."
"Would Monsieur like to see my references?"
She reached into an imitation pigskin handbag and handed them to him. He read them one after the other; they spoke of her in the warmest terms: hard-working, extremely well trained, scrupulously honest, very good at cooking and even making pastries.
"Even pastries? Very good. I think, Hortense, that we can come to an arrangement. Were you with the Countess Barrai du Jeu for long?"
"Five years, Monsieur."
"And is the good lady in Paris? I prefer personal recommendations, you understand."
"I understand completely, Monsieur. Yes, the Countess is in Paris. Would Monsieur like her phone number? It's Auteuil 3814."
"Thank you. Write it down, would you, Madame Logre? And what about wages? How much were you hoping to earn?"
Hortense asked for six hundred francs. He offered four hundred and fifty. Hortense thought for a moment. Her shrewd little dark eyes had seen into the soul of this arrogant, well-fed man. And work was scarce.
"I couldn't do it for less than five hundred and fifty," she said firmly. "Monsieur must understand. I had some savings, but they were all used up during that horrible journey."
"You left Paris?"
"During the exodus, yes, Monsieur. Bombed and everything, quite apart from nearly starving to death on the road. Monsieur doesn't know how bad it was."
"But I do know, I do," Charlie said, sighing. "I too was on the road. Such sad events! We'll say five hundred and fifty, then. But listen now, I'm agreeing because I think you will earn it. I insist on absolute honesty."
"Oh, Monsieur!" said Hortense in a discreetly scandalised tone of voice, as if the thought alone would have wounded her to the core, and Charlie was quick to smile at her reassuringly, to make her see he was only saying it as a formality, that he didn't doubt her absolute integrity for a moment and that moreover the very idea of such dishonesty was so unbearable to him that he wouldn't give it another thought.
"I hope you are good at what you do and careful. I have a collection that is very important to me. I don't allow anyone to dust the most precious pieces, but this display cabinet over here, for example, I would trust you with."
As he seemed to be inviting her to have a look, Hortense glanced at the half-unpacked cases. "Monsieur has some very beautiful things. Before going into service for the Countess's mother I worked for an American, Mr. Mortimer Shaw. He collected ivory pieces."
"Mortimer Shaw? What a coincidence, I know him well! He's an eminent antiques dealer."
"He's retired, Monsieur."
"And were you with him long?"
"Four years. They were the only two jobs I had."
Charlie stood up and saw Hortense to the door, saying encouragingly, "Come back tomorrow for a definite decision, will you? If the verbal references are as good as your written ones, which I don't doubt for a moment, then you're hired. Could you start right away?"
"On Monday, if Monsieur would like."
After Hortense had gone, Charlie hurried to change his collar and cuffs and wash his hands. He had had a lot to drink at the bar. He felt extraordinarily light-headed and pleased with himself. He didn't wait for the lift, an ancient, slow piece of equipment, but sped down the stairs like a young man. He was going to meet his lovely friends, a charming woman. He was delighted to be able to introduce them to the little restaurant he'd discovered.
"I wonder if they've got any of that Corton wine left," he thought. The great courtyard door with its wooden panels engraved with Sirens and Tritons (a marvel, classified a work of art by the Council for Historic Monuments of Paris) opened and closed behind him with a faint creak. Once outside, Charlie was immediately plunged into impenetrable darkness but, feeling as happy and free as a twenty-year-old, he crossed the road without a care and headed for the quayside. He'd forgotten his torch, "But I know every step of the way in my neighbourhood," he said to himself. "All I have to do is follow the Seine and cross the Pont Marie. There won't be many cars." And at the very moment he was mentally saying these words, a car passed two feet in front of him, going extremely fast, its headlights (painted blue in accordance with regulations) giving off only the faintest light. Startled, he jumped backwards, slipped, felt himself lose his balance, flailed his arms about and, finding nothing to grab on to, fell into the road.
The car swerved and a woman's voice screamed in terror, "Watch out!"
It was too late.
"I've had it. I'm going to be run over! To have made it through so much danger to end up like this, it's too… it's too ridiculous… Someone's playing a trick on me… Someone, somewhere is playing this horrible, bad trick on me…"
Just as a bird, terrified by a gunshot, flies out of its nest and disappears, so this final conscious thought went through Charlie's mind and vanished at the same moment as his life. He took a terrible blow to the head. The car's fender had shattered his skull. Blood and brains spurted out with such force that a few drops landed on the woman who was driving-a pretty woman, wearing a hat, hardly bigger than a cocktail napkin, made of two sable skins sewn together and a russet veil over her golden hair. It was Ariette Corail, back from Bordeaux the week before. She looked down at the body. "What rotten luck," she mumbled, devastated, "but really, what rotten luck!"
She was a cautious woman and had her torch with her. She examined the man's face, at least what was left of it, and recognised Charles Langelet. "Oh, the poor guy!… I was going fast, all right, but he couldn't have been paying attention, the silly fool! What am I going to do now?"
Nevertheless, she remembered that her insurance, licence, pass, were all in order, and she knew someone influential who would fix everything for her. Somewhat reassured but her heart still pounding, she sat down for a moment on the car's running board, lit a cigarette, fixed her makeup with trembling hands, then went to get help.
Madame Logre had finally finished cleaning the study and library. She went into the drawing room to get the vacuum cleaner. As she pulled out the plug, the handle of the vacuum cleaner knocked against the table where the Venus at the Looking Glass was displayed. Madame Logre screamed: the statuette had fallen on to the floor. The head of Venus was smashed to bits.