Madame Michaud collected the post and went into the small room next to the manager's office. A faint perfume lingered in the air, a sign that Corbin was busy. He was patron to a dancer: Mademoiselle Ariette Corail. All his mistresses were dancers. He seemed not to be interested in women of any other profession. Not one secretary, no matter how pretty or young, had ever managed to lure him away from this particular penchant. Whether beautiful or ugly, young or old, he treated all his female employees in the same aggressive, rude and mean-spirited manner. His odd little voice emerged from a head that sat on top of a fat, heavy, well-fed body; when he got angry his voice became as high-pitched and feverish as a woman's.
The shrill sound Madame Michaud knew so well was filtering through the closed doors today. One of the employees came in and said quietly, "We're leaving."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
In the corridor, whispering shadows passed by. People were gathering near the windows and outside their offices. Corbin finally opened his door and saw the dancer out. She was wearing a candy-pink cotton suit and a large straw hat covered her dyed hair. She was slender, with a good figure, but beneath the make-up, her face was hard and tired. Red patches had appeared on her cheeks and forehead. She was obviously furious.
"Do you want me to leave on foot?" Madame Michaud heard her say.
"Will you never listen to me? Go back to the garage at once. Offer them money, promise them whatever they want and the car will be fixed."
"But I'm telling you it's impossible! Impossible! Don't you understand?"
"Look, my dear, what do you want me to say? The Germans are at the gates of Paris and you're talking about taking the road to Versailles. Why on earth would you want to do that? Take the train."
"Do you have any idea what's going on at the train stations?"
"It won't be any better on the roads."
"You have… you have no conscience at all. You're leaving, you have two cars…"
"I need to move the files and some of the staff. What the hell do you want me to do with the staff?"
"Oh, please! Must you be so rude? You have your wife's car!"
"You want to go in my wife's car? What a wonderful idea!"
The dancer turned her back on him and whistled for her dog, who bounded in. She put his collar on, her hands trembling with indignation. "My entire youth sacrificed to a…"
"For goodness sake! Stop making a scene. I'll phone you tonight, I'll see what can be done…"
"No, no. I see very well that all I can do now is go and die in a ditch at the side of the road…"
"Oh, do shut up, you're making me furious…"
They finally realised that the secretary was listening to them. They lowered their voices and Corbin, taking his mistress by the arm, walked her to the door.
He came back and glanced at Madame Michaud who, finding herself in his path, was the first target of his fury. "Get the section heads together in the meeting room. Right now, if you don't mind!"
Madame Michaud went out to pass on his orders. A few moments later the employees filed into a large room containing a marble bust of the bank's founder and a full-length portrait of the current president, Monsieur Auguste-Jean, who had been ailing for some time with a softening of the brain caused by his great age.
Monsieur Corbin received them standing behind the oval table where nine sheets of blotting paper marked the Board of Directors' places. "Gentlemen, we are leaving tomorrow morning at eight o'clock to go to our branch in Tours. I will take the Board's files in my car. Madame Michaud, you and your husband will accompany me. As for those who have a car, be in front of the bank at six o'clock to pick up other staff members, that is, the ones I have selected. I will see what I can do for the others but, if necessary, they will have to take the train. Thank you, gentlemen."
He disappeared and immediately the murmur of anxious voices buzzed around the room. Only two days before, Corbin had declared he could foresee no reason to leave, that the hysterical rumours were the work of traitors, that the bank, the bank, would remain where it was, would fulfil its obligations even if others did not. Given that the "withdrawal," as it was discreetly called, had been decided so suddenly, all-without doubt-was lost! The women wiped the tears from their eyes. Through the crowd the Michauds found each other. Both of them were thinking about their son, Jean-Marie. His last letter was dated 2 June. Only a week ago. My God, anything could have happened since then! In their anguish, their only comfort was being together.
"How lucky we are not to have to be apart," he whispered to her.
6
Night was falling but the Péricands' car was still waiting outside their door. Tied to the roof was the soft deep mattress that had adorned their marital bed for twenty-eight years. Fixed to the boot were a pram and a bicycle. They were trying in vain to cram in all the family's bags, suitcases and overnight cases, as well as the baskets containing the sandwiches, the thermos flask, bottles of milk for the children, cold chicken, ham, bread and the boxes of baby cereal for the elder Monsieur Péricand. There was also the cat's basket. At first they had been delayed because their clean linen hadn't been delivered and the laundry couldn't be reached by telephone. Their large white embroidered sheets were part of the Péricand-Maltête inheritance, along with the jewellery, the silver and the library: it was impossible to leave them behind. The whole morning had been wasted looking for things. The launderer himself was leaving. He had ended up giving Madame Péricand her sheets in damp, crumpled bundles. She had gone without lunch in order to supervise personally the packing of the linen. It had been agreed that the servants, along with Hubert and Bernard, would get the train. But at all the train stations the gates were already closed and guarded by soldiers. The crowds were hanging on to them, shaking them, then swarming chaotically back down the neighbouring streets. Women in tears were running with their children in their arms. The last taxis were stopped: they were offered two thousand, three thousand francs to leave Paris. "Just to Orléans…" But the drivers refused, they had no more petrol. The Péricands had to go back home. They finally managed to get hold of a van, which would take Madeleine, Maria, Auguste and Bernard, with his little brother on his lap. As for Hubert, he would follow the cars on his bicycle.
All along the Boulevard Delessert, groups of people appeared outside their houses-women, old people and children, gesticulating to one another, trying, at first calmly and then with increasing agitation and a mad, dizzy excitement, to get the family and all the baggage into a Renault, a saloon, a sports car… Not a single light shone through the windows. The stars were coming out, springtime stars with a silvery glow. Paris had its sweetest smell, the smell of chestnut trees in bloom and of petrol with a few grains of dust that crack under your teeth like pepper. In the darkness the danger seemed to grow. You could smell the suffering in the air, in the silence. Even people who were normally calm and controlled were overwhelmed by anxiety and fear. Everyone looked at their house and thought, "Tomorrow it will be in ruins, tomorrow I'll have nothing left. We haven't hurt anyone. Why?" Then a wave of indifference washed over their souls: "What's the difference! It's only stone, wood-nothing living! What matters is survival!" Who cared about the tragedy of their country? Not these people, not the people who were leaving that night. Panic obliterated everything that wasn't animal instinct, involuntary physical reaction. Grab the most valuable things you own in the world and then…! And, on that night, only people-the living and the breathing, the crying and the loving-were precious. Rare was the person who cared about their possessions; everyone wrapped their arms tightly round their wife or child and nothing else mattered; the rest could go up in flames.