Suite Francaise (5 page)

“Oh, leave me be, my little one,” she groaned, forgetting suddenly that she now only called him “Monsieur Philippe” or “Father,” and instinctively returning to the past. “Go on, leave me be. You’re kind but we’re lost!”

“Come now, don’t get so upset, you poor thing, leave the handkerchiefs, get dressed and come downstairs quickly. Mother is waiting for you.”

“I’ll never see my boys again, Philippe!”

“But you will, you will,” he said, then he himself tidied up the old woman’s hair and put a black straw hat on her head.

“You’ll pray to the Holy Virgin for my boys, won’t you?”

He kissed her gently on the cheek. “Yes, yes, I promise. Come along now.”

The driver and the concierge passed them on the staircase as they went up to collect the elder Monsieur Péricand. He had been kept away from all the commotion until the very last minute. Auguste and the male nurse were just finishing dressing him. The old man had had an operation a short while ago. He was wearing a complicated bandage and, given the cold night air, a flannel girdle so big and so wide that his body was swaddled like a mummy. Auguste buttoned his old-fashioned boots and pulled a light but warm jumper over his head. As he put on his jacket, Monsieur Péricand, who until now had wordlessly let himself be manipulated like an old, stiff doll, seemed to wake up from a dream and mumbled, “Wool waistcoat . . .”

“You will be too warm, Sir,” Auguste remarked, trying to pay no attention.

But his master stared at him with his pale, glazed eyes and repeated more loudly, “Wool waistcoat!”

He was given it. They put on his long overcoat, the scarf that went twice round his neck and fastened at the back with a safety pin. Then they sat him in his wheelchair and took him down the five flights of stairs. The wheelchair wouldn’t fit in the lift. The nurse, a strong, red-headed man from Alsace, went down the stairs backwards and took the brunt of the weight while Auguste respectfully supported from behind. The two men stopped on each landing to wipe away the sweat running down their faces, while Monsieur Péricand calmly contemplated the ceiling and quietly nodded his beautiful beard. It was impossible to imagine what he thought of this hasty departure. However, contrary to what they might have believed, he was fully informed about recent events. He had murmured while being dressed, “A beautiful, clear night . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if . . .”

He seemed to have fallen asleep and only finished his sentence a few seconds later, at the doorstep: “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were bombed on the way!”

“What an idea, Monsieur Péricand!” the nurse exclaimed with all the optimism befitting his profession.

But already the old man had resumed his look of profound indifference. They finally got the wheelchair out of the house. The elder Monsieur Péricand settled in the right-hand corner of the car, well sheltered from any draughts. His daughter-in-law, hands trembling with impatience, wrapped him up in the Scottish shawl whose long fringes he liked to twist.

“Is everything ready?” Philippe asked. “Good, get going.” If they make it out of Paris before tomorrow morning, they’ll have a chance, he thought.

“My gloves,” said the old man.

They gave him his gloves. It was difficult getting them to fit over his wrists, made thicker by the layers of wool. The elder Monsieur Péricand refused to leave a single button undone. Finally everything was ready. Emmanuel was wailing in his nanny’s arms. Madame Péricand kissed her husband and her son. She didn’t cry, but as she held them tight they could feel her heart beating fast against their chests. The driver started the car. Hubert got on his bicycle.

The elder Monsieur Péricand lifted up his hand. “Just a minute,” he said in a calm, quiet voice.

“What is it, Father?”

But he made a sign that he couldn’t tell his daughter-in-law.

“Did you forget something?”

He nodded his head. The car stopped. Madame Péricand, white with frustration, leaned out of the window. “I think Papa has forgotten something?” she shouted in the direction of the small group left on the pavement, made up of her husband, Philippe and the nurse.

When the car had reversed back and stopped in front of the house, the old man, with a small discreet gesture, called over the nurse and whispered something in his ear.

“What is going on? This is madness! We’ll still be here tomorrow,” exclaimed Madame Péricand. “What do you need, Father? What does he want?” she asked.

The nurse lowered his eyes. “Monsieur wants us to take him back upstairs . . . to do pee-pee . . .”

7

Charles Langelet was kneeling on the parquet floor of his empty drawing room, wrapping up his porcelain himself. He was fat and had a heart condition; the sigh he let out from his heavy chest sounded like a groan. He was alone in the apartment. The servants, who had been with him for seven years, had panicked when, with the rest of Paris, they had woken to a thick man-made fog raining down on them like a shower of ashes. They had left early to get provisions, but had never come back. Monsieur Langelet thought bitterly of the generous wages and all the presents he had given them since they had come into his service, money which had allowed them to buy, no doubt, some peaceful cottage, some secluded little farm in their native towns.

Monsieur Langelet should have left long ago. He admitted that now, but he had been unable to deviate from his normal routine. Frosty, scornful, the only things he loved in this world were his apartment and the objects scattered around him on the floor: the rugs had been rolled up with mothballs and hidden in the cellar. All the windows were decorated with long strips of pink and baby-blue adhesive tape. Monsieur Langelet himself, with his pale, fat hands, had arranged them in the shape of stars, ships and unicorns. They were the envy of his friends, but how could he possibly have lived with a drab, common decor? All around him, in his house, everything consisted of fragments of beauty. Sometimes modest, sometimes valuable, these fragments combined to form a unique atmosphere of soft luminosity—the only one worthy of a cultured man, he thought. When he was twenty he had worn a ring with an inscription inside:
This thing of Beauty is a guilt for ever
(Monsieur Langelet happily spoke English to himself: the language, with its poetry, its force, suited certain of his moods). It was childish and he had got rid of this trinket, but the maxim remained with him and he remained faithful to it.

He pushed himself up on to one knee and looked around with a piercing, hopeless expression that took in many things: the Seine beneath his windows, the graceful curve of the wall between his two reception rooms, the fireplace with its antique andirons and the high ceilings where light floated, a clear light coloured green and as transparent as water because it was filtered through almond-coloured canvas blinds on the balcony.

Now and again the telephone would ring. There were still indecisive people in Paris, idiots who were afraid to leave, hoping for some kind of miracle. Slowly, with a sigh, Monsieur Langelet picked up the receiver. He spoke in a calm, nasal voice, with a detachment, an irony, that his friends—a small, very exclusive, very Parisian group—called “inimitable.” Yes, he had decided to leave. No, he was not afraid of anything. They would not defend Paris. Things would hardly be different anywhere else. Danger was everywhere but it was not danger he was fleeing. “I have seen two wars,” he said. He had in fact spent the war of ’14 at his property in Normandy, exempt from military service because of his heart condition.

“My dear friend, I am sixty years old, it is not death I fear!”

“Why are you leaving, then?”

“I cannot bear this chaos, these outbursts of hatred, the repulsive spectacle of war. I shall withdraw to a tranquil spot, in the countryside, and live on the bit of money I have left until everyone comes to their senses.”

He heard a little snigger: he had the reputation of being miserly and cautious. “Charlie?” people said about him. “He sews gold coins into all his old clothes.” He smiled, an icy, bitter smile. “He knew very well that people envied his luxurious, comfortable life.

“Oh, you’ll be fine!” his friend exclaimed. “But not everyone has your money, unfortunately . . .”

Charlie frowned: he found her lacking in tact.

“Where will you go?” the voice continued.

“To a little house I own in Ciboure.”

“Near the border?” asked his friend, who was clearly losing her composure.

They parted coldly. Charlie again knelt down next to the half-f packing case and caressed, through the straw and tissue paper, his Nankin Cups, his Wedgwood centrepiece, his Sèvres vases. As long as he lived he would never part with them, never. But his heart was aching; he would not be able to take the dressing table in his bedroom, made of Dresden china, a museum piece, with its trumeau mirror decorated with roses. That would be left to the wolves. He remained still for a moment, squatting down on the floor, his monocle hanging almost to the ground by its black cord. He was tall and strong; on the delicate skin of his head, his fair hair was arranged with infinite care. Usually his face had the smooth, defiant look of an old cat purring by a warm stove, but he was so tired from the previous day that it couldn’t but show and his weak jaw suddenly drooped like a corpse. What had she said, that stuck-up madam on the telephone? She had insinuated that he wanted to flee France! What an imbecile! Did she think she would upset him, make him ashamed? Of course he would leave. If he could just get to Hendaye, he could make arrangements to cross the border. He would stay briefly in Lisbon and then get out of this hideous Europe, dripping with blood. He could picture it: a decomposing corpse, slashed with a thousand wounds. He shuddered. He wasn’t cut out for this. He wasn’t made for the world that would be born of this rotting cadaver, like a worm emerging from a grave. A brutal, ferocious, dog-eat-dog world. He looked at his beautiful hands, which had never done a day’s work, had only ever caressed statues, pieces of antique silver, leather books, or occasionally a piece of Elizabethan furniture. What would he, Charles Langelet, with his sophistication, his scruples, his nobility—which was the essence of his character—what would he do amid this demented mob? He would be robbed, skinned, murdered like a pitiable dog thrown to the wolves. He smiled slightly, bitterly, imagining himself as a golden-haired Pekinese lost in a jungle. He wasn’t like ordinary men. Their ambitions, their fears, their cowardice and their complaints were foreign to him. He lived in a universe of light and peace. He was destined to be hated and betrayed by everyone. He then remembered his servants and snorted. It was the dawn of a new age, a warning and an omen! With difficulty, for the joints in his knees were painful, he stood up, rubbed the small of his back with his hands and went to his office to get the hammer and nails to close up the packing case. He took it down to the car himself: there was no need for the concierge to know what he was carrying.

8

The Michauds got up at five o’clock in the morning to have enough time to clean their apartment thoroughly before leaving. It was of course strange to take so much care over things with so little value and destined, in all probability, to be destroyed when the first bombs fell on Paris. All the same, thought Madame Michaud, you dress and adorn the dead who are destined to rot in the earth. It’s a final homage, a supreme proof of love to those we hold dear. And this little apartment was very dear to them. They’d lived here for sixteen years. No matter how hard they tried, they could never take all their memories with them: the best memories would remain here, between these thin walls. They put their books away at the bottom of a cupboard along with the sentimental family photographs, the kind you always promise to put into albums but which are left in a mess, faded, caught in the groove of a drawer. The picture of Jean-Marie as a child had already been slipped deep inside the suitcase, in the folds of a spare dress. The bank had firmly instructed they take only what was strictly necessary: a bit of clothing and some toiletries. Everything was finally ready. They’d eaten. Madame Michaud covered the bed with a big sheet to protect its slightly faded pink silk upholstery from the dust.

“It’s time to go,” her husband said.

“Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you,” she said, her voice faltering.

He went out, leaving her alone. She went into Jean-Marie’s room. Everything was silent, dark, funereal behind the closed shutters. She knelt for a moment beside his bed, said out loud “Dear God, protect him,” then closed the door and went down.

Her husband was waiting for her on the stairs. He drew her close, and then, without saying a word, hugged her so tightly that she let out a little cry of pain: “Maurice, you’re hurting me!”

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice husky.

At the bank, the employees assembled in the large entrance hall, each one with a little bag on his knees, whispering the latest news to one another. Corbin wasn’t there. The manager was giving out numbers: they had to get into the car assigned to them when their number was called. Until noon, departures were carried out in an orderly fashion and in almost total silence. Then Corbin came in, impatient and sullen. He went down to the basement, into the room where the safes were kept, and came back up with a package which he held half hidden beneath his coat.

“That’s Arlette’s jewellery,” Madame Michaud whispered to her husband. “He took out his wife’s two days ago.”

“As long as he doesn’t forget us.” Maurice gave a sigh that was both ironic and anxious.

Madame Michaud deliberately stood in Corbin’s way. “You’re still planning to take us with you, aren’t you, Monsieur?”

He nodded yes and asked them to follow him. Monsieur Michaud grabbed their suitcase and the three of them went outside. Monsieur Corbin’s car was waiting, but as they got closer, Michaud narrowed his short-sighted eyes. “I see our seats have been taken,” he said quietly.

Arlette Corail, her dog and her luggage were piled up in the back of the car. Furiously, she opened the door and shouted, “Are you going to throw me out on to the street, then?”