"The post hasn't been brought up?"

"No, it's with the concierge. Chop chop. Go and get it. Do you think I'm paying you to do nothing?"

"I'm leaving," said Furières. "You frighten me."

Corbin caught a glimpse of the Count's slightly scornful smile; his anger increased. "Poseur, crook," he thought. Out loud he replied, "What do you want me to do? They're driving me crazy."

The post contained a letter from the Michauds. They had gone to the bank's head office in Paris but no one could tell them anything definite. They had written to Nice and the letter had just been forwarded to Corbin. The Michauds were asking for instructions and some money.

Corbin's vague bad temper finally found something to latch on to. "Ha! That's a good one!" he exclaimed. "They've got some nerve! You run around bending over backwards for people, nearly get killed on the roads of France. Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Michaud have a nice holiday in Paris and then have the cheek to demand money. You're going to write to them," he said to the terrified typist. "Take this down:"

Paris , 25 July 1940

Monsieur Maurice Michaud

23 rue Rousselet

Paris VIIe

Monsieur

On 11 June we gave both you and Madame Michaud the order to take up your duties in the city to which the bank had been evacuated, that is to say Tours. You will not be unaware that during these crucial moments, every employee of the bank, and you in particular since you hold a position of trust, is like a soldier. You know what it means to abandon your post in times such as these. The result of your failings was the complete disintegration of the departments entrusted to you-the Secretarial and Accounting Services. This is not the only thing for which we hold you responsible. As we already informed you on 31 December last year when, despite my goodwill towards you, it was not considered possible to award you the increased bonus of three thousand francs that you requested, it has been pointed out that your department's efficiency is minimal in comparison with that of your predecessor's. Under the circumstances, while regretting you have waited such a long time to get in touch with the management, we consider your failure to contact us as a resignation, both by you and Madame Michaud. This resignation, which derives entirely from you and was without any notice, means we are not required to pay you any compensation whatsoever. Nevertheless, taking account of your long employment at the bank as well as the current situation, we are making an exception and, purely as a gesture of goodwill, we are allocating you compensation equivalent to two months' salary. Please find enclosed, therefore, a cheque drawn on the Bank of France in Paris, made payable to you in the sum of…francs. Would you please notify us of its safe arrival.

Yours sincerely,

Corbin

Corbin's letter plunged the Michauds into despair. They had only five thousand francs in savings, as Jean-Marie's studies had been expensive. This and their two months' salary came to barely fifteen thousand francs and they owed money to the taxman. It was almost impossible to find work now; jobs were rare and badly paid. They had lived a solitary life; they had no relatives, no one to ask for help. They were exhausted by the journey and depressed by their anguish over their son. When Jean-Marie was little and she had faced difficulties, Madame Michaud had often thought, "If only he were old enough to manage by himself, nothing would really matter." She had known she was strong and in good health, she felt courageous, she feared nothing for herself, nor for her husband, who thought the same way.

Jean-Marie was a man now. Wherever he might be, if he were still alive, he didn't need her. Yet this thought offered little consolation. First of all, she couldn't imagine that her child could do without her. And at the same time she realised that now she needed him. All her courage abandoned her; she recognised Maurice's frailty: she felt alone, old, ill. How would they find work? What would they live on when their fifteen thousand francs ran out? She had a few small pieces of jewellery; she cherished them. She had always said, "They're not worth anything," but now she couldn't bring herself to believe that the charming little pearl brooch, the modest ruby ring, gifts from Maurice when they were young, which she loved so much, might not perhaps be sold for a good price. She offered them to the jeweller in her neighbourhood, then to a larger establishment on the Rue de la Paix, but both turned her away: the brooch and the ring were pretty but they were only interested in the stones and they were so small it wasn't worth buying them. Madame Michaud was secretly happy at the thought she could keep them, but facts were facts: it had been their only option.

By the end of July their savings were almost gone. They had considered going to see Corbin to explain that they had done their very best to get to Tours and that if he insisted on letting them go, he at least owed them the normal compensation. But they both had enough experience of him to know they didn't stand a chance. They didn't have the money to take him to court and Corbin was not easy to intimidate. They also found it wholly repugnant to think of approaching this man whom they loathed and mistrusted.

"I just can't do it, Jeanne. Please don't ask me to, I just can't," Maurice said in his soft, low voice. "I think if I found myself standing in front of him I'd spit in his face and that wouldn't help matters."

"No," said Jeanne, smiling in spite of herself, "but we're in a terrible situation, my poor darling. It's as if we're heading towards a deep hole, watching it get closer and closer with each step without being able to escape. It's unbearable."

"But we have to bear it," he replied calmly.

He'd used the same tone of voice with her when he'd been wounded in '16 and she'd been called to his bedside at the hospital: "I think my chances of pulling through are about four in ten." He had then stopped a moment to think and added conscientiously, "Three and a half, to be exact."

She placed a tender hand on his forehead and thought despairingly, "Oh, if only Jean-Marie were here, he would look after us, he would save us, I know he would. He's young, he's strong…" Deep inside, she felt a strange intermingling of her need to protect as a mother and her need to be protected as a woman. "Where is he, my darling boy? Is he still alive? Is he in pain? My God, he can't be dead, it just isn't possible!" And her blood ran cold as she realised how very possible it actually was. The tears she had courageously held back for so long welled up in her eyes.

"But why are we always the ones who have to suffer?" she cried out in indignation. "Us and people like us? Ordinary people, the lower middle classes. If war is declared or the franc devalues, if there's unemployment or a revolution, or any sort of crisis, the others manage to get through all right. We're always the ones who are trampled! Why? What did we do? We're paying for everybody else's mistakes. Of course they're not afraid of us. The workers fight back, the rich are powerful. We're just sheep to the slaughter. I want to know why! What's happening? I don't understand. You're a man, you should understand," she said angrily to Maurice, no longer knowing whom to blame for the disaster they were facing. "Who's wrong? Who's right? Why Corbin? Why Jean-Marie? Why us?"

"What do you want to understand? There's nothing to understand," he said, forcing himself to stay calm. "Certain laws govern the world and they're neither for nor against us. When a storm strikes, you don't blame anyone: you know the thunder is the result of two opposite electrical forces, the clouds don't know who you are. You can't reproach them. And it would be ridiculous if you did-they wouldn't understand."