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).
"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…"