Suite Francaise (23 page)

The conversation turned to more technical matters, which gave them a pleasant feeling of their own importance, barely diminished, despite recent events.

“A German group,” Corbin said, “is going to buy out Eastern Steelworks. We’re not in too bad a position there. Though it’s true that the business with the Rouen Docks . . .”

They became depressed. Furières said goodbye. Corbin wanted to walk him out, but when he tried to turn on the lights in the drawing room where the shutters were closed, there was no electricity. He started swearing.

“This man is so vulgar,” the Count thought. “Give them a call,” he advised. “They won’t take long to fix it. The telephone’s working.”

“You just can’t imagine how chaotic everything is here,” Corbin said, choking with rage. “The servants have all taken off—all of them, I’m telling you—and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they made off with some of the silver! My wife isn’t here. I’m lost in all this mess, I’m . . .”

“Is Madame Corbin in the Free Zone?”

“Yes,” Corbin grumbled.

He and his wife had had a painful row: in the chaos of the hurried departure, or perhaps out of malice, the chambermaid had put a small framed picture belonging to Monsieur Corbin in Madame Corbin’s bag; it contained a photograph of Arlette, stark naked. The nudity itself might not have offended his wife—she was a person with a great deal of common sense—but the dancer was wearing a magnificent necklace. “But it’s not real, I promise you!” Monsieur Corbin had said with venom. His wife refused to believe him. As for Arlette, there was no sign of her. He had heard she was in Bordeaux and was often seen in the company of German officers. Thinking of this only made Monsieur Corbin’s mood worse. He pushed his buzzer with all his might.

“All I have left is a typist I met in Nice. Stupid as they come but rather pretty. Oh, there you are,” he said suddenly to the young brunette who came into the room. “The electricity’s been cut off. See what you can do about it. Telephone them and give them a good talking to. Well, get on with it—and then bring me the post.”

“The post hasn’t been brought up?”

“No, it’s with the concierge. Chop chop. Go and get it. Do you think I’m paying you to do nothing?”

“I’m leaving,” said Furières. “You frighten me.”

Corbin caught a glimpse of the Count’s slightly scornful smile; his anger increased. “Poseur, crook,” he thought. Out loud he replied, “What do you want me to do? They’re driving me crazy.”

The post contained a letter from the Michauds. They had gone to the bank’s head office in Paris but no one could tell them anything definite. They had written to Nice and the letter had just been forwarded to Corbin. The Michauds were asking for instructions and some money.

Corbin’s vague bad temper finally found something to latch on to. “Ha! That’s a good one!” he exclaimed. “They’ve got some nerve! You run around bending over backwards for people, nearly get killed on the roads of France. Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Michaud have a nice holiday in Paris and then have the cheek to demand money. You’re going to write to them,” he said to the terrified typist. “Take this down:”

Monsieur Maurice Michaud                                                                                 Paris, 25 July 1940

23 rue Rousselet

Paris VIIe

Monsieur

On 11 June we gave both you and Madame Michaud the order to take up your duties in the city to which the bank had been evacuted, that is to say Tours. You will not be unaware that during these crucial moments, every employee of the bank, and you in particular since you hold a position of trust, is like a soldier. You know what it means to abandon your post in times such as these. The result of your failings was the complete disintegration of the departments entrusted to you—the Secretarial and Accounting Services. This is not the only thing for which we hold you responsible. As we already informed you on 31 December last year when, despite my goodwill towards you, it was not considered possible to award you the increased bonus of three thousand francs that you requested, it has been pointed out that your department’s efficiency is minimal in comparison with that of your predecessor’s. Under the circumstances, while regretting you have waited such a long time to get in touch with the management, we consider your failure to contact us as a resignation, both by you and Madame Michaud. This resignation, which derives entirely from you and was without any notice, means we are not required to pay you any compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, taking account of your long employment at the bank as well as the current situation, we are making an exception and, purely as a gesture of goodwill, we are allocating you compensation equivalent to two months’ salary. Please find enclosed, therefore, a cheque drawn on the Bank of France in Paris, made payable to you in the sum of . . . francs. Would you please notify us of its safe arrival.

                           Yours sincerely,

                           Corbin

Corbin’s letter plunged the Michauds into despair. They had only five thousand francs in savings, as Jean-Marie’s studies had been expensive. This and their two months’ salary came to barely fifteen thousand francs and they owed money to the taxman. It was almost impossible to find work now; jobs were rare and badly paid. They had lived a solitary life; they had no relatives, no one to ask for help. They were exhausted by the journey and depressed by their anguish over their son. When Jean-Marie was little and she had faced difficulties, Madame Michaud had often thought, “If only he were old enough to manage by himself, nothing would really matter.” She had known she was strong and in good health, she felt courageous, she feared nothing for herself, nor for her husband, who thought the same way.

Jean-Marie was a man now. Wherever he might be, if he were still alive, he didn’t need her. Yet this thought offered little consolation. First of all, she couldn’t imagine that her child could do without her. And at the same time she realised that now
she
needed him. All her courage abandoned her; she recognised Maurice’s frailty: she felt alone, old, ill. How would they find work? What would they live on when their fifteen thousand francs ran out? She had a few small pieces of jewellery; she cherished them. She had always said, “They’re not worth anything,” but now she couldn’t bring herself to believe that the charming little pearl brooch, the modest ruby ring, gifts from Maurice when they were young, which she loved so much, might not perhaps be sold for a good price. She offered them to the jeweller in her neighbourhood, then to a larger establishment on the Rue de la Paix, but both turned her away: the brooch and the ring were pretty but they were only interested in the stones and they were so small it wasn’t worth buying them. Madame Michaud was secretly happy at the thought she could keep them, but facts were facts: it had been their only option.

By the end of July their savings were almost gone. They had considered going to see Corbin to explain that they had done their very best to get to Tours and that if he insisted on letting them go, he at least owed them the normal compensation. But they both had enough experience of him to know they didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t have the money to take him to court and Corbin was not easy to intimidate. They also found it wholly repugnant to think of approaching this man whom they loathed and mistrusted.

“I just can’t do it, Jeanne. Please don’t ask me to, I just can’t,” Maurice said in his soft, low voice. “I think if I found myself standing in front of him I’d spit in his face and that wouldn’t help matters.”

“No,” said Jeanne, smiling in spite of herself, “but we’re in a terrible situation, my poor darling. It’s as if we’re heading towards a deep hole, watching it get closer and closer with each step without being able to escape. It’s unbearable.”

“But we have to bear it,” he replied calmly.

He’d used the same tone of voice with her when he’d been wounded in ’16 and she’d been called to his bedside at the hospital: “I think my chances of pulling through are about four in ten.” He had then stopped a moment to think and added conscientiously, “Three and a half, to be exact.”

She placed a tender hand on his forehead and thought despairingly, “Oh, if only Jean-Marie were here, he would look after us, he would save us, I know he would. He’s young, he’s strong . . .” Deep inside, she felt a strange intermingling of her need to protect as a mother and her need to be protected as a woman. “Where is he, my darling boy? Is he still alive? Is he in pain? My God, he can’t be dead, it just isn’t possible!” And her blood ran cold as she realised how very possible it actually was. The tears she had courageously held back for so long welled up in her eyes.

“But why are we always the ones who have to suffer?” she cried out in indignation. “Us and people like us? Ordinary people, the lower middle classes. If war is declared or the franc devalues, if there’s unemployment or a revolution, or any sort of crisis, the others manage to get through all right. We’re always the ones who are trampled! Why? What did we do? We’re paying for everybody else’s mistakes. Of course they’re not afraid of
us
. The workers fight back, the rich are powerful.
We’re
just sheep to the slaughter. I want to know why! What’s happening? I don’t understand. You’re a man,
you
should understand,” she said angrily to Maurice, no longer knowing whom to blame for the disaster they were facing. “Who’s wrong? Who’s right? Why Corbin? Why Jean-Marie? Why us?”

“What do you want to understand? There’s nothing to understand,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm. “Certain laws govern the world and they’re neither for nor against us. When a storm strikes, you don’t blame anyone: you know the thunder is the result of two opposite electrical forces, the clouds don’t know who you are. You can’t reproach them. And it would be ridiculous if you did—they wouldn’t understand.”

“But it’s not the same thing. What we’re going through is down to people and people alone.”

“It only seems like that, Jeanne. It all seems caused by this man or that, by one circumstance or another, but it’s like in nature: after the calm comes the storm; it starts out slowly, reaches its peak, then it’s over and other periods of calm, some longer, some shorter, come along. It’s just been our bad luck to be born in a century full of storms, that’s all. They’ll die down.”

“Yes,” she said, although she didn’t really follow this abstract argument, “but what about Corbin? Corbin’s hardly a force of nature, is he?”

“He’s a harmful specimen, like scorpions, snakes, poison mushrooms. Actually, we’re a little bit to blame. We’ve always known what Corbin was like. Why did we carry on working for him? You wouldn’t eat bad mushrooms and you have to be careful with bad people. There have been several times when we could have found other jobs, with a bit of courage and determination. And remember, when we were young I was offered that job as a teacher in São Paulo, but you didn’t want me to go.”

“All right, that’s ancient history,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“No, I just meant . . .”

“Yes, you just meant we shouldn’t hold it against anyone. But you said yourself if you ran into Corbin you’d spit in his face.”

They continued arguing, not because they hoped or even wished to win the other over, but because talking helped them forget their painful problems.

“Who could we speak to?” Jeanne finally exclaimed.

“You mean you still don’t understand that nobody cares about anybody?”

She looked at him. “You’re strange, Maurice. You’ve seen people at their most cynical, their most disillusioned, and at the same time you’re not unhappy, I mean, not really unhappy inside! Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“So what makes it all right, then?”

“My certainty that deep down I’m a free man,” he said, after thinking for a moment. “It’s a constant, precious possession, and whether I keep it or lose it is up to me and no one else. I desperately want the insanity we’re living through to end. I desperately want what has begun to finish. In a word, I desperately want this tragedy to be over and for us to try to survive it, that’s all. What’s important is to live:
Primum vivere
. One day at a time. To survive, to wait, to hope.”

She listened to him without saying a word. Suddenly, she got up and grabbed her hat from the mantelpiece. He looked at her in astonishment. “And what
I
say,” she replied, “is ‘Heaven helps those who help themselves.’ Which is why I’m going to speak to Furières. He’s always been nice to me and he’ll help us, even if it’s only to annoy Corbin.”

Jeanne was right. Furières spoke to her and promised that she and her husband would each receive compensation totalling six months’ salary, which brought their capital up to about sixty thousand francs.

“You see, I managed and heaven helped me,” Jeanne said to her husband when she got home.

“And I did the hoping,” he replied, smiling. “We were both right.”

They were very happy with the outcome but sensed that now that their money worries were off their minds, at least for the immediate future, they would be completely overwhelmed by their anguish over their son.

29

It was autumn when Charlie Langelet returned home. The porcelain hadn’t been damaged by the journey. He unpacked the large crates himself, trembling with joy when he felt, beneath the straw and tissue paper, the cool smoothness of a pink glass vase or a Sèvres statuette. He still couldn’t believe he was really home, reunited with all his wonderful possessions. He would raise his eyes now and again to look through his windows (which still had their strips of coloured paper) at the delightful curve of the Seine.

At noon, the concierge came up to clean; he hadn’t yet hired any servants. Important events—whether serious, happy or unfortunate—do not change a man’s soul, they merely bring it into relief, just as a strong gust of wind reveals the true shape of a tree when it blows off all its leaves. Such events highlight what is hidden in the shadows; they nudge the spirit towards a place where it can flourish. Charlie had always been careful with money, a penny-pincher. When he got back after the exodus, he felt truly miserly. It gave him real pleasure to save money whenever possible and he was aware of this for, to top it all off, he had become cynical. Before, he would never have considered moving into a disorganised house full of dust; he would have recoiled at the idea of going to a restaurant the very day he returned. Now, however, he had been through so much that nothing frightened him. When the concierge told him that anyway she couldn’t finish the cleaning today, that Monsieur didn’t realise how much work there was to do, Charlie replied sweetly but firmly, “You’ll manage somehow, Madame Logre. You’ll just have to work a bit faster, that’s all.”