Authors: Irene Nemirovsky
“Fast and good don’t always go together, Monsieur!”
“This time they will. The good old days are over,” Charlie said sternly, then added, “I’ll be back at six o’clock. I trust that everything will be ready.”
And after an imperious glance at the concierge, who was furious but said nothing, and a final loving look at his porcelains, he left. As he went down the stairs he calculated what he was saving: he wouldn’t have to pay for Madame Logre’s lunch any more; she could work for him two hours a day for a while; once the heavy work was done, it wouldn’t take much to keep the apartment in order, and he could take his time to find some servants, a couple probably. Until now he had always had a couple, a valet and a cook.
He went and had lunch by the river, in a little restaurant he knew. He didn’t find the food too bad, all things considered (he never ate much anyway), and the wine he drank was excellent. The owner whispered in his ear that there was still a bit of real coffee left. Charlie lit a cigar and felt that life was good. That is to say, no, not good as such, one mustn’t forget the defeat of France and all the suffering, all the humiliation that resulted from it, but for him, Charlie, it was good because he took life as it came, without moaning about the past or fearing the future.
He flicked the ash from his cigar. His money was in America and since his funds were frozen, fortunately, he would have to pay less tax or perhaps even none at all. The franc would remain low for a long time. His fortune, as soon as he could get hold of it, would automatically be worth ten times what it was now. As for his day-to-day expenses, he’d made sure to put something aside a long time ago. It was forbidden to buy or sell gold, and it was already fetching outrageous prices on the black market. He thought with amazement of the wave of panic that had swept through him when he had wanted to leave France to go and live in Portugal or South America. Some of his friends had gone, but he was neither Jewish nor a Mason, thank God, he thought with a scornful smile. He had never been involved in politics and didn’t see why he wouldn’t be left alone, a poor man like him, very quiet, very harmless, who never hurt anybody and who loved nothing in this world but his porcelain collection. He thought, on a more serious note, that this was the secret of his happiness amid so much upheaval. He loved nothing, at least nothing that time could distort, that death could carry away; he’d been right not to have married, not to have had children . . . My God, everyone else had been taken in. He’d been the only clever one.
But coming back to that mad idea of emigrating: it had been born of a strange and almost insane belief that, in the space of a few days, the world was going to change into something horrific, a living hell. But look . . . Everything was the same! He thought of the Bible and the description of the world before the Flood. How did it go? Oh yes: people built houses, got married, ate and drank . . . Well, the Bible was incomplete. It should have said, “The Flood waters subsided and people began once more to build their houses, to marry, to eat and drink . . .” In fact, people weren’t really very important. It was works of art, museums, collections that should be saved. What was terrible about the Spanish War was that artistic masterpieces had been left to be destroyed; but here the most important works had been saved, except for some of the châteaux near the Loire, of course. Now
that
was unforgivable. But the wine he’d drunk was so good, he felt inclined to be optimistic. After all, there were some very beautiful ruins. In Chinon, for example, what could be more admirable than the great hall with no roof and those walls—walls that had seen Joan of Arc pass, and where now birds nested and a wild cherry tree grew in a little corner.
After lunch, he wanted to stroll through the streets, but he found them depressing. There were hardly any cars, it was extraordinarily silent, and great red flags with swastikas were flying everywhere. In front of a cheese shop, some women were waiting to be served. This was the first war he’d seen. Everyone was gloomy. Charlie hastened towards the Métro, the only transport working. He would visit a bar where he was often a regular at lunchtime or in the evening. What havens of peace bars like this were! They were extremely expensive, and their clientele consisted of wealthy men, past middle age, who hadn’t been affected by either the mobilisation or the war. Charlie was alone for a while, but at about six thirty all the old regulars arrived, safe and sound and in tip-top form, accompanied by charming and beautifully made-up ladies, who called out from beneath their adorable little hats, “But it’s him, it’s Charlie, isn’t it? . . . Well, now, not too worn out, are you? Come back to Paris?”
“Paris is dreadful, don’t you think?”
And almost immediately, as if they were meeting again after the most peaceful, the most ordinary of summers, they began the kind of conversation Charlie called “Fragile—Don’t Touch” conversation: lively and light-hearted small-talk, ranging over any number of subjects but dwelling on none in particular. Among other things, he learned that certain young men had been killed or taken prisoner.
“Oh, it can’t be! Just imagine . . . I hadn’t the slightest idea, it’s awful! Those poor boys!” he said.
The husband of one of the ladies was a prisoner in Germany.
“He writes to me regularly. He isn’t too bad, but it’s the boredom, you see . . . I hope to be able to get him out soon.”
The more he talked and the more he heard, Charlie found his spirits rising and he recovered the good mood that had been momentarily dampened by the sight of the Paris streets. But what succeeded in cheering him up completely was the hat worn by a woman who had just come in. All the women were well dressed but with a certain pretence of simplicity, as if to say, “We couldn’t really dress up, just imagine! First of all, we have no money and, second, it wouldn’t be quite right . . . I’ll get some more wear out of my old dresses . . .” But this woman showed off her hat in a daring, courageous and brazenly happy way. It was a new little hat, hardly bigger than a cocktail napkin, made of two sable skins, with a russet veil over her golden hair. As soon as he saw it, Charlie felt totally reassured.
It was getting late. Since Charlie wanted to stop at home before going out to dinner, it was time he went . . . but he didn’t want to leave his friends.
“Why don’t we all have dinner together?” someone suggested.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Charlie said warmly. And he proposed the little restaurant where he’d had such a good lunch, for he was like a cat by nature, quickly becoming attached to places where he’d been well treated. “I’ll have to take the Métro again! It’s such a ghastly place, it’s making my life miserable,” he said.
“I was able to get some petrol and a pass, but I can’t offer to drive you back because I promised to wait for Nadine,” said the woman in the new hat.
“How did you do that? It’s amazing you could manage that!”
“Ah well, there it is,” she said, smiling.
“Listen, then, let’s meet in about an hour, an hour and a quarter.”
“Do you want me to come and collect you?”
“No, thanks, you’re very kind; it’s only two minutes from my place.”
“Be careful, it’s pitch black out. They’re very strict about that.”
She was right, it’s really dark, Charlie thought as he emerged from the warm, bright club into the unlit street. It was also raining. Autumn evenings like this were one of the things he used to like so much about Paris, but now you could see fires burning in the distance, and everything was as black and sinister as the inside of a well. Fortunately, the entrance to the Métro was nearby.
At home, Charlie found Madame Logre sweeping the floor in a preoccupied, gloomy sort of way. At least the drawing room was finished. Charlie had the urge to put his favourite Sèvres statuette on the shiny Chippendale table—a
Venus at the Looking Glass
. He took it out of the packing case, removed the tissue paper it was wrapped in, looked at it lovingly and was taking it over to the table when the doorbell rang.
“Go and see who it is, Madame Logre.”
Madame Logre went out and then came back, saying, “Monsieur, I told the concierge at number six that Monsieur needed someone and she’s sent this woman who’s looking for work.”
Seeing Charlie hesitate, she added, “She’s a very nice person who used to be a chambermaid for the Countess Barral du Jeu. She got married and didn’t want to work any more, but her husband is a prisoner of war and she needs to earn a living. Monsieur could just see her and then decide!”
“All right, bring her in,” said Langelet, putting the statuette on a table.
The woman made a good impression on him. She seemed modest and calm, obviously wishing to please but without being subservient. He could see at once she had been well trained and had worked in fine homes. She was a big woman. Mentally, Charlie reproached her for this—he liked his maids to be thin and a bit austere—but she looked about thirty-five or forty, the perfect age for a servant, when they’ve stopped working too quickly but are still fit and strong enough to provide good service. She had a broad face, vast shoulders and her clothing was simple but appropriate (the dress, coat and hat definitely hand-me-downs from a former employer).
“What’s your name?” Charlie asked, favourably impressed.
“Hortense Gaillard, Monsieur.”
“All right. And you’re looking for work?”
“Well, you see, Monsieur, I left the Countess Barral du Jeu two years ago to get married. I didn’t think I’d have to go back into service, but my husband was conscripted and then taken prisoner, and Monsieur will understand that I have to earn a living. My brother is unemployed and I’m looking after him, his sick wife and a small child.”
“I understand. I was thinking of hiring a couple . . .”
“I know, Monsieur, but maybe I could do instead? I was the head chambermaid for the Countess, but before that I worked for the Countess’s mother as a cook. I could do the cooking and the cleaning.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” Charlie murmured, thinking that such a combination would be very advantageous financially.
Naturally, there was also the matter of serving meals. He did sometimes have dinner guests, but then he wasn’t expecting too many this winter.
“Do you know how to iron men’s clothing? I’m very particular about that, you understand.”
“I was the one who ironed the Count’s shirts.”
“And what about your cooking? I often eat out. I require simple but carefully prepared food.”
“Would Monsieur like to see my references?”
She reached into an imitation pigskin handbag and handed them to him. He read them one after the other; they spoke of her in the warmest terms: hard-working, extremely well trained, scrupulously honest, very good at cooking and even making pastries.
“Even pastries? Very good. I think, Hortense, that we can come to an arrangement. Were you with the Countess Barral du Jeu for long?”
“Five years, Monsieur.”
“And is the good lady in Paris? I prefer personal recommendations, you understand.”
“I understand completely, Monsieur. Yes, the Countess is in Paris. Would Monsieur like her phone number? It’s Auteuil 3814.”
“Thank you. Write it down, would you, Madame Logre? And what about wages? How much were you hoping to earn?”
Hortense asked for six hundred francs. He offered four hundred and fifty. Hortense thought for a moment. Her shrewd little dark eyes had seen into the soul of this arrogant, well-fed man. And work was scarce.
“I couldn’t do it for less than five hundred and fifty,” she said firmly. “Monsieur must understand. I had some savings, but they were all used up during that horrible journey.”
“You left Paris?”
“During the exodus, yes, Monsieur. Bombed and everything, quite apart from nearly starving to death on the road. Monsieur doesn’t know how bad it was.”
“But I do know, I do,” Charlie said, sighing. “I too was on the road. Such sad events! We’ll say five hundred and fifty, then. But listen now, I’m agreeing because I think you will earn it. I insist on absolute honesty.”
“Oh, Monsieur!” said Hortense in a discreetly scandalised tone of voice, as if the thought alone would have wounded her to the core, and Charlie was quick to smile at her reassuringly, to make her see he was only saying it as a formality, that he didn’t doubt her absolute integrity for a moment and that moreover the very idea of such dishonesty was so unbearable to him that he wouldn’t give it another thought.
“I hope you are good at what you do and careful. I have a collection that is very important to me. I don’t allow anyone to dust the most precious pieces, but this display cabinet over here, for example, I would trust you with.”
As he seemed to be inviting her to have a look, Hortense glanced at the half-unpacked cases. “Monsieur has some very beautiful things. Before going into service for the Countess’s mother I worked for an American, Mr. Mortimer Shaw. He collected ivory pieces.”
“Mortimer Shaw? What a coincidence, I know him well! He’s an eminent antiques dealer.”
“He’s retired, Monsieur.”
“And were you with him long?”
“Four years. They were the only two jobs I had.”
Charlie stood up and saw Hortense to the door, saying encouragingly, “Come back tomorrow for a definite decision, will you? If the verbal references are as good as your written ones, which I don’t doubt for a moment, then you’re hired. Could you start right away?”
“On Monday, if Monsieur would like.”
After Hortense had gone, Charlie hurried to change his collar and cuffs and wash his hands. He had had a lot to drink at the bar. He felt extraordinarily light-headed and pleased with himself. He didn’t wait for the lift, an ancient, slow piece of equipment, but sped down the stairs like a young man. He was going to meet his lovely friends, a charming woman. He was delighted to be able to introduce them to the little restaurant he’d discovered.
“I wonder if they’ve got any of that Corton wine left,” he thought. The great courtyard door with its wooden panels engraved with Sirens and Tritons (a marvel, classified a work of art by the Council for Historic Monuments of Paris) opened and closed behind him with a faint creak. Once outside, Charlie was immediately plunged into impenetrable darkness but, feeling as happy and free as a twenty-year-old, he crossed the road without a care and headed for the quayside. He’d forgotten his torch, “But I know every step of the way in my neighbourhood,” he said to himself. “All I have to do is follow the Seine and cross the Pont Marie. There won’t be many cars.” And at the very moment he was mentally saying these words, a car passed two feet in front of him, going extremely fast, its headlights (painted blue in accordance with regulations) giving off only the faintest light. Startled, he jumped backwards, slipped, felt himself lose his balance, flailed his arms about and, finding nothing to grab on to, fell into the road.