Part 10 (1/2)

And what about him? What was he doing here? His heart full of disgust and hatred, he was just pretending to pray for Philippe. But Philippe was . . . My G.o.d! Philippe, my beloved brother! He whispered these words and, as if they had some divine power to console, his painful heart relented. Warm tears flooded down his cheeks. Thoughts of kindness, forgiveness, ran through him. They did not come from within him but from beyond, as if some friend had leaned down to whisper in his ear, ”A family that produced Philippe can't be all bad. You're being too harsh. You've only seen things from the outside, you can't look into their souls. Evil is visible, it burns, it smugly displays itself for all to see. There is only One who can count the sacrifices, who can measure all the blood and tears.”

He looked at the marble plaque engraved with the names of those who had died in the war . . . the last war. Among them were some Craquants and Pericands-uncles, cousins he'd never known, children barely older than he, killed at the Somme, Flanders, Verdun, killed twice since they had died in vain. Little by little, out of this chaos of contradictory feelings, was born a strange, bitter feeling of peace. He had gained valuable experience, knowledge; no longer in an abstract, bookish way, but in his heart, which had beat so wildly, in his hands which had been torn to shreds trying to defend the bridge at Moulins, in his lips which had kissed a woman while the Germans celebrated their victory. Danger, courage, fear, love: now he knew the real meaning of these words . . . Yes, even love . . . He felt better now, stronger, and very confident. He would never see the world through anyone else's eyes again. But more than that, anything he might love and believe from now on would come from himself, and no one else. Slowly, he put his hands together, lowered his head and, finally, prayed.

The Ma.s.s was over. Outside the cathedral he was surrounded by people wanting to kiss him and congratulate his mother.

”And he still has those lovely cheeks,” the women all said, ”after all he's been through . . . He's hardly lost any weight, he hasn't changed at all. Dear little Hubert . . .”

27.

Gabriel Corte and Florence arrived at the Grand Hotel at seven o'clock in the morning. Collapsing with exhaustion, they looked around fearfully, as if they expected, once through the revolving doors, to plunge back into the nightmare of an incoherent world, with refugees sleeping on the cream carpets of the writing room, a hotel manager who didn't recognise them and refused to give them a room, no hot water for a bath and bombs falling in the lobby. But, thank G.o.d, this Queen of French spas had remained intact and the feverish, noisy activity at the lake was simply the way it always was. All the staff were in place. Despite the manager's insistence that they were short of everything, the coffee was delicious, the c.o.c.ktails were mixed with crushed ice and the taps poured out as much water as you liked, cold and boiling hot. At first everyone had been worried: the unfriendly att.i.tude of England made them fear that the blockade would remain in place, thus depriving them of fresh supplies of whisky, but they had a large quant.i.ty in stock. They could wait.

As soon as they set foot on the marble floor of the lobby, Gabriel and Florence felt they had been reborn. Everything was calm. You could barely hear the distant whirring of the great lifts. Through the open bay windows, misty, s.h.i.+mmering rainbows created by the hotel's water sprinklers hovered over the lawns. They were recognised and surrounded. The manager of the Grand Hotel, where they had stayed every year for twenty years, raised his arms to heaven and told them it was all over; they had glimpsed the bottom of the abyss, but now they had to try to restore some sense of duty and n.o.bility in the people. Then he confided in them that they were expecting members of the government to arrive at any moment (their suites had been reserved the previous day), and that the amba.s.sador of Bolivia was having to sleep on a billiard table. However, for him, Gabriel Corte, he would always manage to find something (more or less the same words he had used as a newly promoted deputy manager of the Normandy Hotel in Deauville at the height of the racing season).

Corte wearily pa.s.sed his hand over his painful forehead. ”My good man, you could put a mattress in the lavatory if you had to!”

All around him, everything was taking place in an appropriately discreet manner. There were no more women giving birth in a ditch, no more lost children, no more bridges blown up with such ill-calculated amounts of dynamite that they demolished the houses nearby. Here, windows were politely closed to keep out draughts, doors were opened for him, he felt plush carpets beneath his feet.

”Do you have all your luggage? You didn't lose anything? What luck! People have been arriving without pyjamas, without even a toothbrush. There was one unfortunate gentleman who arrived with no clothes on. He was wounded in an explosion and made the entire journey from Tours completely naked, with only a blanket round him.”

”Well, I nearly lost my ma.n.u.scripts,” said Corte.

”Good gracious, how awful! But you found them intact? All the same, what you must have been through! What you must have been through! Excuse me, Monsieur, excuse me, Madame, right this way. Here is the suite I have given you; it's on the fourth floor, I do apologise; you will excuse me, won't you?”

”Oh,” muttered Corte, ”nothing matters at the moment.”

”I do understand,” said the manager, lowering his head and looking saddened. ”Such a tragedy . . . I was born in Switzerland but I am French at heart. I do understand.”

And he stood motionless for a few moments, his head down like a mourner at a funeral who wants to rush to the exit, but feels obliged to pay his respects to the family. He had put on this expression so often in the past few days that his kindly, chubby face had been transformed. He had always walked and spoken softly, as befitted his profession. Now he exaggerated his natural tendencies even further, crossing the room utterly silently, as if he were in a funeral parlour, and when he said to Corte, ”Shall I have breakfast sent up?” it was in a discreet and mournful tone of voice, as if he were looking at the body of a cherished relative and asking, ”May I kiss him one last time?”

”Breakfast?” Corte sighed, returning with difficulty to reality and the trivial problems of everyday life. ”I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours,” he added with a faint smile.

That had been true the day before, but not this morning: at six o'clock he had eaten a hearty meal. Nevertheless, he wasn't lying: he had eaten absent-mindedly because of his extreme exhaustion and the concern he felt at the tragedy taking place in France. He felt felt as though he hadn't eaten. as though he hadn't eaten.

”Oh, but you must force yourself, Monsieur! I don't like seeing you like this, Monsieur Corte. You mustn't give in. You owe it to mankind.”

Corte nodded in resignation; he didn't dispute his obligation to mankind, but at the moment he couldn't be expected to have more courage than the most humble citizen. ”My good man,” he said, turning away to hide his tears, ”it is not just France who is dying, it is Art as well.”

”Not as long as you are here, Monsieur Corte,” the manager replied warmly, as he had a great number of times since the Fall of France. Corte was, in the list of celebrities, the fourteenth to arrive from Paris since the sad events began and the fifth writer to seek refuge at the luxury hotel.

Corte smiled weakly and asked him to make sure the coffee was very hot.

”Boiling hot,” the manager a.s.sured him, then gave the necessary orders over the telephone and left.

Florence had gone into her room, locked the door and anxiously looked at herself in the mirror. Her face, normally so soft, so well made-up, so rested, was covered in a s.h.i.+ny coat of sweat; it no longer absorbed the powder and foundation, but turned them into thick lumps, like curdled mayonnaise. Her nose was pinched, her eyes sunken, her mouth pale and limp. She turned away from the mirror in horror.

”I could be fifty,” she said to her maid.

This was quite literally true, but she said it with such disbelief and terror that Julie took it as she should: that is to say figuratively, as a metaphor for expressing extreme old age.

”After everything that's happened it's understandable . . . Madame should take a little nap.”

”It's impossible . . . As soon as I close my eyes I hear the bombs, I see the bridge again, the dead bodies . . .”

”Madame will forget.”

”Never! Could you you forget? forget?

”It's different for me.”

”Why?”

”Madame has so many other things to think about!” said Julie. ”Shall I lay out Madame's green dress?”

”My green dress? With the way I look?”

Florence, who had slumped down into her chair with her eyes closed, suddenly rallied, summoning all her meagre strength like the head of an army who, despite needing rest and acknowledging the inefficiency of his subordinates, pulls himself together and, still weak with exhaustion, leads his troops on to the battlefield. ”Listen, this is what you are going to do. First, while you are running the bath, prepare me a face mask, number 3, the American one. Then telephone the hairdresser and ask if Luigi is still there. Tell him to come and give me a manicure in three quarters of an hour. Then get my little grey suit ready, with the pink linen blouse.”

”The one with the collar like this?” Julie asked, drawing a low-cut shape in the air.

Florence hesitated. ”Yes . . . no . . . yes . . . that one, and the new little hat with the cornflowers. Oh, Julie, I really never thought I would get to wear that little hat. Well . . . you're right, I mustn't think about it any more, I'd go mad . . . I wonder if they have any more of that ochre powder, the last one . . .”

”We'll have to find out . . . Madame would be wise to buy several boxes. It came from England.”

”You don't have to tell me! You know, Julie, we don't really understand what is going on. These events will have an unimaginable impact, believe me, unimaginable . . . People's lives will be changed for generations. We'll be hungry this winter. Just get out my grey leather handbag with the gold clasp, that's all . . . I wonder what Paris is like,” said Florence walking into the bathroom. But the noise of the running water Julie had just turned on drowned out her words.

Meanwhile, less frivolous thoughts were pa.s.sing through Corte's mind. He too was lying in the bath. At first he had been filled with such joy, such profound natural peace, that he was reminded of the delights of childhood: his happiness when eating an iced meringue full of cream; dipping his feet in a cool stream; pressing a new toy to his heart. He felt no desire, no regret, no anguish. His head was clear and calm; his body floated in a warm, liquid element that caressed him, gently tickled his skin, washed away the dust, the sweat, insinuated itself between his toes and slid beneath his back like a mother lifting her sleeping child. The bathroom smelled of tar soap, hair lotion, eau de Cologne, lavender water. He smiled, stretched out his arms, cracked the knuckles on his long, pale fingers, savoured the divine, simple pleasure of being safe from the bombs and taking a cool bath on a very hot day. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when bitterness cut through him like a sharp knife through a piece of fruit. Perhaps it was when he happened to glance at the suitcase full of ma.n.u.scripts on the chair, or when the soap fell into the water and he had to fish it out, the strain to his muscles disrupting his state of euphoria. Whenever it was, at a certain point he frowned and his face, which had been clearer, smoother than usual, almost rejuvenated, became sombre and anxious once again.

What would become of him? What would become of Gabriel Corte? What was happening to the world? What would be the general mood in future? Either people would think only about being able to survive and there would be no place for Art, or they would become obsessed by a new ideal, as after every crisis before. A new ideal? A new fas.h.i.+on, more like, he thought with cynicism and weariness. But he, Corte, was too old to adapt to new tastes. He had already changed his style in 1920. A third time would be impossible. It exhausted him just to think about what was to come, what kind of world was about to be born. Who could predict the shape it would take as it emerged from the harsh matrix of this war, as from a bronze mould. It would be magnificent or misshapen (or both), this universe now showing its first signs of life. It was terrible to look at himself, to see himself . . . and to understand nothing. For he understood nothing. He thought of his book, his ma.n.u.script sitting on a chair, rescued from the fire, from the bombs. He felt intensely despondent. The pa.s.sions he described, his feelings, his scruples, this history of a generation, his generation-they were all old, useless, obsolete. ”Obsolete!” he repeated in despair. And a second time the soap, slippery as a fish, disappeared into the water. He swore, sat up, angrily rang the bell; his servant came in.

”Rub me down,” Gabriel Corte sighed, his voice shaking.

Once his legs had been ma.s.saged with the glove and the eau de Cologne applied, Corte felt better. Standing naked in the bathroom he began to shave while the servant laid out his clothes: a linen s.h.i.+rt, a lightweight tweed suit, a blue tie.

”Are there any people we know?” asked Corte.

”I don't know, Monsieur. I haven't seen many people, though I've been told a lot of cars arrived last night and then left straightaway for Spain. Monsieur Jules Blanc was here. He went to Portugal.”

”Jules Blanc?”

Corte paused, his soapy razor poised in mid-air. Jules Blanc, gone to Portugal, on the run! This piece of news was a bad blow. Like everyone who makes sure they get the most comfort and pleasure from life, Gabriel Corte had a politician in his pocket. In exchange for excellent dinners, wonderful parties, Florence's little attentions, in exchange for a few well-placed and timely newspaper articles, he had had from Jules Blanc (member with portfolio in nearly every Cabinet, twice Prime Minister, four times Minister of War) thousands of the small favours that make life easier. It was thanks to Jules Blanc that he had been commissioned to present his Great Lovers Great Lovers series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte's novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth. series on the radio last winter. It was Jules Blanc who had given him responsibility for the patriotic addresses and moral exhortations broadcast on the radio, and it was Jules Blanc who had insisted that the head of an important daily newspaper pay 130,000 francs instead of the 80,000 previously agreed for Corte's novel. Finally, he had promised that Corte would be made a Commander of the Legion of Honour. Jules Blanc was a small but necessary cog in the machinery of his career, for genius cannot simply float in the clouds, it must also operate down on earth.

On learning of his friend's fall (Blanc must have been involved in some pretty dishonest business to have taken this desperate measure, since it was he who always liked to say that, in politics, defeat prepares you for victory), Corte felt alone and abandoned at the edge of an abyss. Once again, he was struck with dreadful force by the existence of a new world, unknown to him, a world where everyone would become miraculously chaste, selfless and full of n.o.ble ideals. Already, that tendency to imitate which is an integral part of the survival instinct for plants, animals and people, made him declare: ”Ah, so he's left? The day of these hedonists, these political wheeler-dealers is over . . .” After a moment's silence he added, ”Poor France . . .”

Slowly he put on his blue socks. Naked, except for his black silk suspenders and socks, his skin a s.h.i.+ny white with yellowish tinges, he did some arm and chest exercises, then looked at himself approvingly in the mirror. ”Now that is definitely better,” he said, as if he expected the words to make his servant very happy. Then he finished dressing.