"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 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 passing 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 manuscripts 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 fashion, 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 manuscript sitting on a chair, rescued from the fire, from the bombs. He felt intensely despondent. The passions 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 massaged 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 shirt, 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 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 noble 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 shiny 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.