And the miracle happened. They heard footsteps; a key turned in the lock, an anxious face appeared.

"Look here, you know who I am, don't you? I'm Corte, Gabriel Corte. I'm famished, my friend… Yes, yes, I know there's nothing, but for me… if you look carefully… Don't you have anything left? Ah! Yes! You remember me now!"

"I'm sorry, Sir, I can't let you in," whispered the owner. "I'd be mobbed! Go down to the corner and wait for me. I'll meet you there. I'd really like to help you, Monsieur Corte, but we're so low on provisions, so desperate. But maybe if I look carefully…"

"Yes, that's it, look carefully…"

"But you wouldn't tell anyone, would you? You can't imagine what's been going on here today. It's been madness, my wife is sick about it. They devour everything and leave without paying!"

"I'm counting on you, my friend," said Gabriel, slipping some money into his hand.

Five minutes later he and Florence went back to the car, carrying a mysterious basket wrapped in a linen napkin.

"I have no idea what's inside," muttered Gabriel in the same detached, dreamy tone he used when speaking to women, to women he desired but still hadn't conquered. "No, no idea at all… but I think I can smell foie gras."

Just at that moment a shadowy figure passed between Gabriel and Florence and grabbed the basket they were holding, separating them with a blow. Florence, panic-stricken, grasped her neck with both hands, shouting, "My necklace, my necklace!" But her necklace was still there, as well as the jewellery box they were carrying. The thieves had only taken their food. She made her way back safe and sound to Gabriel, who was dabbing at his painful jaw and nose, and muttering over and over again, "It's a jungle, we're trapped in a jungle…"

15

"You shouldn't have done it," the woman holding the newborn baby in her arms sighed.

A bit of colour gradually returned to her cheeks. The old battered Citroën had managed quite well to manoeuvre its way out of the crowd and its occupants were resting on the mossy ground in a little wood. The moon, round and flawless, was gleaming, but even without the moon the vast fire burning in the distance would have lit up the landscape: groups of people were lying here and there, scattered beneath the pine trees; cars stood motionless; next to the young woman and the man in the cap lay the open basket of food, half empty, and the gold foil from an uncorked bottle of champagne.

"You shouldn't have, Jules. I don't like it, it's upsetting to have to do a thing like that."

The man was small and scrawny, with a big forehead and enormous eyes, a weak mouth and a little weasely chin. "What do you want?" he protested. "You want us to starve to death?"

"Leave him alone, Aline, he's right, for goodness sake!" said the woman with the bandaged head. "What do you want us to do? Those two, they don't deserve to live, they don't, I'm telling you!"

They stopped talking. She had been a servant until she'd married a worker from the Renault car factory. They'd managed to keep him in Paris during the first few months of the war, but he'd gone in February and now he was fighting God knows where. He'd already fought in the other war and he was the oldest of four children, but none of that had made any difference. Privileges, exemptions, connections, all that was for the middle classes. Deep in her heart were layer upon layer of hatred, overlapping yet distinct: the countrywoman's hatred, who instinctively detests city people, the servant's hatred, weary and bitter at having lived in other people's houses, the worker's hatred. For the past few months she had replaced her husband at the factory. She couldn't get used to doing a man's work; it had strengthened her arms but hardened her soul.

"You really got them, Jules," she said to her brother. "I'm telling you, I didn't think you had it in you!"

"When I saw Aline about to faint, and those bastards with all their wine, foie gras and everything, I don't know what came over me."

Aline, who seemed shyer and softer, ventured, "We could have just asked them for some, don't you think, Hortense?"

"What, are you crazy?" her husband exclaimed. "For goodness sake! No, you don't know their type. They'd rather see us die like dogs, worse! You're crazy…"

"I know those two, I do," said Hortense. "They're the worst, they are. I saw him once at that old bag the Countess Barrai du Jeu's; he writes books and plays. A madman, according to the driver, and thick as two short planks."

Hortense put away the rest of the food as she spoke. Her large red hands were extraordinarily nimble and agile. Then she picked up the baby and undressed him. "Poor little thing, what a journey! Oh, he'll have learned about life early, he will. Maybe that's better. Sometimes I don't regret having had a hard life: knowing how to use your hands, there are some who can't even say that. You remember, Jules, when Ma died, I was just about thirteen. I went to the wash-house no matter what the weather, breaking the ice in winter and carrying bundles of laundry on my back… I used to cry into my raw hands. But then, that taught me to stand on my own two feet and not to be afraid."

"You really can cope, for sure," said Aline with admiration.

Once the baby was changed, washed and dried, Aline unbuttoned her blouse and held her little one to her breast; the others watched her, smiling.

"At least he'll have something to eat, poor little chap, won't he!"

The champagne was going to their heads; they felt vaguely, sweetly intoxicated. They watched the flames in the distance in a deep stupor. Now and again they would forget why they were in this strange place, why they had left their little flat near the Gare de Lyon, rushed along the roads, crossed the forest at Fontainebleau, robbed Corte. Everything was becoming dark and cloudy, as in a dream. They'd hung the cage from a low branch and now they fed the birds. Hortense had remembered to bring a packet of seeds for them when they left. She took a few pieces of sugar from her pocket and put them into a cup of boiling hot coffee: the thermos had survived the car accident. She drank it noisily, bringing her thick lips to the cup, one hand placed on her enormous bosom to protect it from coffee stains. Suddenly, a rumour spread from group to group: "The Germans marched into Paris this morning."

Hortense dropped her half-full cup; her round face had gone even redder. She bowed her head and began crying. "Now that hurts… that hurts here," she said, touching her heart.

A few hot tears ran down her face, the tears of a hard woman who seldom pities either herself or anyone else. A feeling of anger, sadness and shame swept through her, so violently that she felt a physical pain, piercing and sharp, near her heart. Finally she said, "You know I love my husband… Poor Louis, it's just the two of us and he works, doesn't drink, doesn't fool around, you know, we love each other, he's all I've got, but even if they told me, 'You'll never see him again, he's just died, but we won…' well, I'd rather have that, oh, I'm telling you, I'm not kidding, I'd rather have that!"

"I know," said Aline, trying in vain to find better words, "I know, it's upsetting."

Jules said nothing, thinking of his partially paralysed arm, which had allowed him to escape military service and the war. "I've been very lucky," he said to himself, but at the same time there was something upsetting him, he didn't know what, maybe remorse. "Well, that's the way it is, that's the way it is, nothing we can do about it," he said gloomily.

They started talking about Corte again. They thought with pleasure of the excellent dinner they had eaten instead of him. All the same, they now judged him less harshly. Hortense, who at the Countess Barrai du Jeu's house had seen writers, academics and even, one day, the Countess de Noailles, made them laugh till they cried with her stories about them.