All in all, Furières had organised his life most comfortably. When the second great war of the century broke out, he felt almost like a child who has worked hard at school, done nothing wrong and is thoroughly enjoying himself when someone tells him he must once again be dragged away from his pleasures. "Once, all right, but twice, that's just too much!" he was tempted to cry out. "Pick on someone else, dammit!" How could this be happening? He had already done his duty. He had given five years of his youth and now they wanted to steal his precious middle years-those beautiful years when a man finally understands what he is about to lose and is eager to make the most of it. "No, it's going too far," he remarked despondently to Corbin when he said goodbye to him the day everyone was mobilised. "I'm doomed. I'll never get out alive again."

He was an officer in the Reserves; he had to go. He could have fixed it… but his desire for continued self-respect held him back-a very strong inner desire that allowed him a severe, ironic attitude towards the rest of the world. He left. His chauffeur, who was in the same situation as him, said, "If you have to go, you go. But if they think it'll be like '14, they've got it all wrong." (The word "they" in his mind meant some mythical council whose purpose and passion was to send other people to their deaths.) "If they think we'll do that again" (flicking his nail on his tooth), "that on top of what is strictly necessary, well, I'm telling you, they've got another thing coming."

The Count de Furières would certainly not have expressed his own thoughts in this way, but they were nevertheless very similar to his chauffeur's and simply reflected the state of mind of many former soldiers. A large number of men went off to war this way, feeling muted bitterness or hopeless rebellion against fate, which twice in their lifetimes had played this horrible trick on them.

During the June debacle almost the entire regiment of de Furières fell into enemy hands. He himself had the chance to escape and he took it. In '14 he would have preferred to be killed rather than survive the disaster. In '40 he preferred to live. He returned to his wife, who was already mourning his death, to his charming daughters, the eldest of whom had just got married (to a young inspector of Public Finances), and to the de Furières château. The chauffeur wasn't as lucky: he was taken to Stalag VII A and became prisoner number 55,481.

Upon his return, the Count got in touch with Corbin, who had remained in the Free Zone, and they both set about trying to bring the bank's scattered sections back together. The Accounting Department was in Cahors, the executives in Bayonne, the secretaries had headed for Toulouse but had got lost somewhere between Nice and Perpignan. No one seemed to know where the bank's papers had ended up.

"It's chaos, a mess, unspeakable mayhem," Corbin said to de Furières the morning of their first meeting.

He had crossed the demarcation line during the night and welcomed de Furières into an apartment empty of servants. They had all fled during the exodus, and he suspected them of having taken some brand-new suitcases and his morning coat, which aroused within him even more patriotic fury.

"You know me, don't you? I'm not usually emotional, but I nearly cried, my dear man, nearly cried like a baby when I saw the first German at the border. Very correct he was, none of this casual French demeanour, you know, as if to say 'we're pals.' No, really very correct, a brief salute, confident stance, but without being stiff, very correct… Well, what do you think? Aren't our officers just the worst!"

"Excuse me," said Furières curtly, "but I don't see how you can reproach our officers. What do you expect them to do with no weapons and a load of hopeless troops who only want you to p*** off and leave them in peace. First give us some real men."

"Oh, but they say 'there was no one in charge,'" said Corbin, delighted to offend Furières, "and just between us, old boy, I saw some pathetic sights…"

"Without the civilians, without everyone panicking, that wave of refugees blocking up the roads, we would have had a chance."

"Well, you're right there! The panic was terrible. People are extraordinary. For years we've heard nothing but 'it's all-out war, all-out war'-you would have thought they'd have expected it. But no! Immediately there's panic, chaos, exodus, and why? I'm asking you, why? It's insane! I only left because the banks were ordered to go. Otherwise, you know…"

"Was it terrible in Tours?"

"Absolutely terrible… but again for the same reason: the flood of refugees. I couldn't find a room outside Tours so I had to sleep in the city and, naturally, we were bombed, forced out by the fires," said Corbin, thinking indignantly of the little château in the countryside where they had turned him away because some Belgian refugees were staying there. They hadn't been hit, not them, while he, Corbin, had nearly been buried under the rubble in Tours. "And the chaos," he repeated, "everyone thinking only of himself! Such egotism… It makes you wonder about mankind… As for your staff, they were the worst of all. Not one of them was able to meet me in Tours. They all lost contact with each other. I'd told all our departments to stay together. Do you think they cared? Some are in the Midi, some are up north. You can't count on anyone. These are the circumstances in which you can judge a man, his drive, his energy, his guts. A bunch of drips, I'm telling you, a bunch of drips! Only interested in saving their own skin, without a thought for the bank or me. Well, some of them are going to get the sack, I can assure you of that. Besides, I don't imagine we're going to have much business."

The conversation turned to more technical matters, which gave them a pleasant feeling of their own importance, barely diminished, despite recent events.

"A German group," Corbin said, "is going to buy out Eastern Steelworks. We're not in too bad a position there. Though it's true that the business with the Rouen Docks…"

They became depressed. Furières said goodbye. Corbin wanted to walk him out, but when he tried to turn on the lights in the drawing room where the shutters were closed, there was no electricity. He started swearing.

"This man is so vulgar," the Count thought. "Give them a call," he advised. "They won't take long to fix it. The telephone's working."

"You just can't imagine how chaotic everything is here," Corbin said, choking with rage. "The servants have all taken off-all of them, I'm telling you-and I wouldn't be at all surprised if they made off with some of the silver! My wife isn't here. I'm lost in all this mess, I'm…"

"Is Madame Corbin in the Free Zone?"

"Yes," Corbin grumbled.

He and his wife had had a painful row: in the chaos of the hurried departure, or perhaps out of malice, the chambermaid had put a small framed picture belonging to Monsieur Corbin in Madame Corbin's bag; it contained a photograph of Arlette, stark naked. The nudity itself might not have offended his wife-she was a person with a great deal of common sense-but the dancer was wearing a magnificent necklace. "But it's not real, I promise you!" Monsieur Corbin had said with venom. His wife refused to believe him. As for Arlette, there was no sign of her. He had heard she was in Bordeaux and was often seen in the company of German officers. Thinking of this only made Monsieur Corbin's mood worse. He pushed his buzzer with all his might.

"All I have left is a typist I met in Nice. Stupid as they come but rather pretty. Oh, there you are," he said suddenly to the young brunette who came into the room. "The electricity's been cut off. See what you can do about it. Telephone them and give them a good talking to. Well, get on with it-and then bring me the post."