"But what about the car? I can't leave the car!" Charlie said to himself in despair. "Let's try to start it again." Nothing happened. He was covered with dust as thick as chalk.
A car was slowly making its way towards him. It was jammed with young people, some even clinging to the running board and the roof, like flies. They seemed drunk. "What a bunch of louts," Langelet thought, shuddering. Nevertheless, he spoke to them in his most pleasant voice. "You gentlemen wouldn't happen to have a drop of petrol? I'm stuck."
They stopped with a horrible screeching of overworked brakes, looked at Charlie and sniggered. "What's it worth?" one of them finally said.
Charlie knew very well he should have replied, "However much you want!" but he was mean and, moreover, he was afraid these tramps would be tempted to rob him if they thought he was too rich. Truth be told, he was terrified of being duped. "I'd pay a reasonable price," he replied haughtily.
"There ain't none," said the driver of the jerky, creaking car, and drove off along the sandy road through the forest while Langelet, beside himself, waved his arms about and shouted at him.
"Wait a minute, wait! Stop! At least tell me how much you want!"
They didn't even reply. He was alone. But not for long, for night was falling and refugees were gradually coming into the forest. They hadn't been able to find rooms in a hotel; even the private houses were completely full, so they had decided to spend the night in the woods. Soon it was just like a July campsite in Elisabethville, Langelet thought, feeling sick to his stomach. Children were squealing, the mossy ground was littered with discarded newspaper, dirty clothes and empty tins of food. Some of the women were crying, others were shouting or laughing. Horrible filthy children came up to Charles, who chased them away by rolling his eyes at them angrily but without raising his voice, for he didn't want any trouble from their parents. "They're the dregs of the dregs, from Belleville," he mumbled, horrified. "How did I end up here?" Had chance brought him together with the inhabitants of one of the worst neighbourhoods in Paris, or had Charlie's vivid, anxious imagination got the better of him? All the men looked like bandits, the women like con artists.
Soon it was completely dark, and beneath the thick trees, the translucent shadows of a June night were transformed into black shade interspersed with silver glades, drenched in moonlight. Every sound echoed, distinct and sinister: the planes flying across the sky, the night birds, the distant explosions-either gunfire or tyres bursting, you couldn't be sure. Once or twice a prowler stared at Charles maliciously. He heard things that made him shudder. People weren't thinking straight… They kept talking about rich people who'd run away to save their skins and their money, jamming up the roads, while poor people had only their own two legs and had to walk 'til they dropped down exhausted. "Well, they're not those poor people; they've got cars," Charlie thought, outraged, "and stolen no doubt!"
He was extremely relieved when a little car pulled up next to him with a young man and woman who were clearly a better class of people than the other refugees. The young man's arm was slightly deformed; he held it in front of him ostentatiously, as if it carried a sign, in big letters, which read UNFIT FOR MILITARY SERVICE. The woman was young, pretty, and very fair. They shared some sandwiches and soon fell asleep in the front of the car, leaning against each other, cheek to cheek. Charlie tried to sleep as well, but fatigue, overexcitement, fear kept him awake. An hour later the young man in the car opened his eyes, gently disentangled himself from the young woman and lit a cigarette. He saw that Langelet was also awake.
"This is so bad!" he said quietly, leaning towards him.
"Yes, it's very bad."
"Well, the night will go by fast. I hope to make it to Beaugency tomorrow by taking the side roads because the main road down there is impossible."
"Really? And it seems there's been some heavy bombing too. Well, you're lucky," Charlie said. "I haven't got a drop of petrol left." He paused. "If I could impose on you to watch my car for a while" (he really does seem like an honest person, he thought), "I could go to the next village where I heard I could get some."
The young man shook his head. "Unfortunately, Monsieur, there's none left. I bought the last cans… and at an outrageous price." He pointed to the petrol cans tied to the back of the car. "I have just enough to get to the Loire and cross the bridges before they're blown up."
"What? They're going to blow up all the bridges?"
"That's what everyone's saying. They're going to fight along the Loire."
"So you think there's no petrol at all?"
"Oh, I'm sure of it! I would have been glad to let you have some but I only have just enough for myself. I have to get my fiancée to safety at her parents' house. They live in Bergerac. Once we've crossed the Loire, it will be easy to find petrol, I hope."
"Oh, so she's your fiancée?" Charlie said while thinking of other things.
"Yes. We were supposed to get married on 14 June. Everything was arranged, the invitations were sent, the rings bought, the dress was supposed to be delivered tomorrow morning." He drifted off into deep thought.
"It's just a delay," Charles Langelet said politely.
"Who knows where we'll be tomorrow, Monsieur? Obviously, I shouldn't complain. At my age I should have been in the army but with my arm… yes, an accident at school… but I think that in this war civilians are facing more dangers than the soldiers. They say that certain towns…" he lowered his voice "… are in ashes and piled high with bodies and there are mass graves. And I've heard some horrifying stories. You know that they've let everyone out of the prisons and insane asylums? Yes, they have, Monsieur. Our leaders have lost their minds. Prisoners are running loose without wardens. I heard that the director of one of these prisons was murdered by the inmates he was ordered to evacuate; it happened right near here. I've seen it with my own eyes: private houses turned upside down, pillaged. And they attack people who are travelling, they steal from people in cars…"
"Oh! They steal from…"
"We'll never know everything that happened during the exodus. Now they're saying, 'You should have stayed at home!' That's nice of them. So we could get massacred in our own homes by the artillery and planes. I'd rented a small house in Montfort-l'Amaury to have a lovely month after our wedding, before going back to my in-laws. It was destroyed on 3 June, Monsieur," he said indignantly.
He talked a lot and feverishly; he looked exhausted. He touched his fiancée's cheek tenderly as she slept. "I just want to save Solange!"
"You're both very young, aren't you?"
"I'm twenty-two and Solange is twenty."
"She's not very comfortable like that," Charles Langelet said suddenly, sweetly, in a voice even he himself didn't recognise, as sweet as sugar, while his heart beat harder and faster. "Why don't you both go and stretch out on the grass, over there?"
"What about the car?"
"Oh, I'll watch the car! Don't worry," Charlie said, trying not to laugh.
The young man still hesitated. "I want to leave as early as possible. And I sleep so soundly…"
"But I'll wake you up. What time do you want to leave? Look, it's nearly midnight," he said, consulting his watch. "I'll call you at four o'clock."
"Oh, Monsieur! You are too kind!"
"Not at all. When I was twenty-two, I was also in love…"
The young man made a confused gesture. "We were supposed to get married on 14 June," he repeated, sighing.
"Yes, of course, of course… we're living through terrible times… but I assure you, it's ridiculous to stay cramped in your car. Your fiancée is all bent up. Do you have a blanket?"