They spent several days rather peacefully. Since there was no post, they knew they couldn’t get any news, good or bad. All they could do was wait.
At the beginning of July, Monsieur de Furières returned to Paris. It was said, after the armistice of 1919, that the Count de Furières had had a “good war”: he had faced danger heroically for a few months, then married a very rich young woman while on leave. After that he cared a little less for the idea of getting himself killed, which was understandable. Nevertheless, he refused to take advantage of his wife’s excellent connections. If he no longer sought out danger, he didn’t run away from it either. He finished the war without once being wounded, pleased with himself for his commendable behaviour in battle, his inner confidence and his military decoration. In 1939 he held an excellent place in society: his wife was a Salomon-Worms, his sister had married the Marquis de Maigle; he was a member of the Jockey Club; his receptions and hunting parties were famous; he had two charming daughters, the elder of whom had recently become engaged. He had considerably less money than in 1920 but was now better equipped than before to do without it or to get hold of some when necessary. He had accepted the position of Director of the Corbin Bank.
Corbin was quite simply an uncouth individual who had begun his career in a lowly and almost vile manner. (It was said he had been a bellboy in an establishment offering loans on the Rue Trudaine.) But Corbin was also extremely adept when it came to banking and, in the end, he and the Count got along rather well. They were both very intelligent and understood how useful they were to each other; understanding this created a sort of friendship based on cordial contempt, just like certain liqueurs, which are sharp and bitter on their own but have a pleasant taste when mixed together. “He’s a degenerate, like all aristocrats,” Corbin would mutter. “The poor man eats with his fingers,” Furières would say with a sigh. By dangling the prospect of the Jockey Club in front of Corbin’s eyes, the Count got whatever he wanted from him.
All in all, Furières had organised his life most comfortably. When the second great war of the century broke out, he felt almost like a child who has worked hard at school, done nothing wrong and is thoroughly enjoying himself when someone tells him he must once again be dragged away from his pleasures. “Once, all right, but twice, that’s just too much!” he was tempted to cry out. “Pick on someone else, dammit!” How could this be happening? He had already done his duty. He had given five years of his youth and now they wanted to steal his precious middle years—those beautiful years when a man finally understands what he is about to lose and is eager to make the most of it. “No, it’s going too far,” he remarked despondently to Corbin when he said goodbye to him the day everyone was mobilised. “I’m doomed. I’ll never get out alive again.”
He was an officer in the Reserves; he had to go. He could have fixed it . . . but his desire for continued self-respect held him back—a very strong inner desire that allowed him a severe, ironic attitude towards the rest of the world. He left. His chauffeur, who was in the same situation as him, said, “If you have to go, you go. But if they think it’ll be like ’14, they’ve got it all wrong.” (The word “they” in his mind meant some mythical council whose purpose and passion was to send other people to their deaths.) “If they think we’ll do that again” (flicking his nail on his tooth), “that on top of what is strictly necessary, well, I’m telling you, they’ve got another thing coming.”
The Count de Furières would certainly not have expressed his own thoughts in this way, but they were nevertheless very similar to his chauffeur’s and simply reflected the state of mind of many former soldiers. A large number of men went off to war this way, feeling muted bitterness or hopeless rebellion against fate, which twice in their lifetimes had played this horrible trick on them.
During the June debacle almost the entire regiment of de Furières fell into enemy hands. He himself had the chance to escape and he took it. In ’14 he would have preferred to be killed rather than survive the disaster. In ’40 he preferred to live. He returned to his wife, who was already mourning his death, to his charming daughters, the eldest of whom had just got married (to a young inspector of Public Finances), and to the de Furières château. The chauffeur wasn’t as lucky: he was taken to Stalag VII A and became prisoner number 55,481.
Upon his return, the Count got in touch with Corbin, who had remained in the Free Zone, and they both set about trying to bring the bank’s scattered sections back together. The Accounting Department was in Cahors, the executives in Bayonne, the secretaries had headed for Toulouse but had got lost somewhere between Nice and Perpignan. No one seemed to know where the bank’s papers had ended up.
“It’s chaos, a mess, unspeakable mayhem,” Corbin said to de Furières the morning of their first meeting.
He had crossed the demarcation line during the night and welcomed de Furières into an apartment empty of servants. They had all fled during the exodus, and he suspected them of having taken some brand-new suitcases and his morning coat, which aroused within him even more patriotic fury.
“You know me, don’t you? I’m not usually emotional, but I nearly cried, my dear man, nearly cried like a baby when I saw the first German at the border. Very correct he was, none of this casual French demeanour, you know, as if to say ‘we’re pals.’ No, really very correct, a brief salute, confident stance, but without being stiff, very correct . . . Well, what do you think? Aren’t our officers just the worst!”
“Excuse me,” said Furières curtly, “but I don’t see how you can reproach our officers. What do you expect them to do with no weapons and a load of hopeless troops who only want you to p*** off and leave them in peace. First give us some real men.”
“Oh, but they say ‘there was no one in charge,’ ” said Corbin, delighted to offend Furières, “and just between us, old boy, I saw some pathetic sights . . .”
“Without the civilians, without everyone panicking, that wave of refugees blocking up the roads, we would have had a chance.”
“Well, you’re right there! The panic was terrible. People are extraordinary. For years we’ve heard nothing but ‘it’s all-out war, all-out war’—you would have thought they’d have expected it. But no! Immediately there’s panic, chaos, exodus, and why? I’m asking you, why? It’s insane! I only left because the banks were ordered to go. Otherwise, you know . . .”
“Was it terrible in Tours?”
“Absolutely terrible . . . but again for the same reason: the flood of refugees. I couldn’t find a room outside Tours so I had to sleep in the city and, naturally, we were bombed, forced out by the fires,” said Corbin, thinking indignantly of the little château in the countryside where they had turned him away because some Belgian refugees were staying there. They hadn’t been hit, not them, while he, Corbin, had nearly been buried under the rubble in Tours. “And the chaos,” he repeated, “everyone thinking only of himself! Such egotism . . . It makes you wonder about mankind . . . As for your staff, they were the worst of all. Not one of them was able to meet me in Tours. They all lost contact with each other. I’d told all our departments to stay together. Do you think they cared? Some are in the Midi, some are up north. You can’t count on anyone. These are the circumstances in which you can judge a man, his drive, his energy, his guts. A bunch of drips, I’m telling you, a bunch of drips! Only interested in saving their own skin, without a thought for the bank or me. Well, some of them are going to get the sack, I can assure you of that. Besides, I don’t imagine we’re going to have much business.”
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 i
n 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 w
as. 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?”
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