"My sons, from tomorrow until the end of our journey, I shall be looking after you instead of the director," he said. "You know that you are leaving Paris. Only God knows the fate in store for our soldiers, our dear country; He alone, in His infinite wisdom, knows the destiny of each of us in the days ahead. It is, alas, immensely likely that we shall all suffer dearly, for public misfortunes consist of a multitude of private misfortunes and this is the only time when, poor blind ungrateful creatures that we are, we feel the solidarity which unites us, forms us into a single being. What I would like to have from each of you is a gesture of faith in God. Our lips form the words 'May His will be done,' but deep in our hearts we cry out 'May my will be done, oh Lord.' Yet why do we seek God? Because we hope for happiness: it is man's nature to desire happiness and if we accept His will, God can give us this happiness, right now, without making us wait for death and Resurrection. My sons, may each of you entrust yourself to God. May each of you seek Him as your father, place your life in His loving hands, so divine peace can fill your hearts."

He paused for a moment, looked at them. "Let us say a little prayer together."

Thirty shrill voices indifferently recited "Our Father"; thirty thin faces surrounded the priest. As he made the sign of the Cross over them they lowered their heads sharply, mechanically. Only one lad turned his eyes towards the window. He had a large bitter mouth and the ray of sun that slipped through the closed shutters lit up his delicate freckled cheek, his thin pinched nose.

Not one of them moved or spoke. When the supervisor blew his whistle, they lined up and left the hall.

5

The streets were empty. People were closing their shops. The metallic shudder of falling iron shutters was the only sound to break the silence, a sound familiar to anyone who has woken in a city threatened by riot or war. As they walked to work, the Michauds saw loaded trucks waiting in front of the government buildings. They shook their heads. As always, they linked arms to cross the Avenue de l'Opéra to the office, even though the road, that morning, was deserted. They were both employees of the same bank and worked in the same branch, although the husband had been an accountant there for fifteen years while she had started only a few months earlier on a "temporary contract for the duration of the war." She taught singing, but the previous September had lost all her students when their families took them to the country for fear of the bombings. Her husband's salary had never been enough to pay their bills and their only son had been called up. Thanks to this secretarial job, they just about managed. As she always said, "We mustn't ask for the impossible, my dear." They had been familiar with hardship ever since they left their families to get married against their parents' will. That was a long time ago. Traces of beauty still remained on her thin face. Her hair was grey. He was a short man, with a weary, neglected appearance, but sometimes, when he turned towards her, looked at her, smiled at her, a loving teasing flame lit up his eyes-the same, he thought, yes, truly, almost the same as before. He helped her across the road and picked up the glove she'd dropped. She thanked him by gently pressing her fingers over his as he handed it to her. Other employees were hurrying towards the open door of the bank. One of them came up to the Michauds and asked, "Well, are we finally leaving?" The Michauds had no idea. It was 10 June, a Monday. When they had left the office on Friday, everything had seemed under control. The executives were being sent to the countryside but nothing had been said about the employees. Their fate was being decided in the manager's offices on the first floor, on the other side of two large green padded doors; the Michauds walked past them quickly and in silence. At the end of the corridor they separated. He went upstairs to Accounting, she remained on the managerial floor: she was secretary to one of the directors, Monsieur Corbin, the head of the branch. The second director, the Count de Furières (married to one of the Salomon-Worms), was responsible for the foreign affairs of the bank, whose clientele was most select, and limited, preferably, to wealthy landowners and the most important names in the metal-working industry. Monsieur Corbin hoped that his colleague, the Count de Furières, would make it easier for him to get into the Jockey Club. For several years now he had lived in hope. However, the Count deemed that favours such as invitations to dinner parties and to join the de Furières hunting party were ample compensation for the generous credit facilities allowed to him. In the evening, Madame Michaud would amuse her husband with impersonations of the meetings between the two directors, their sour smiles, Corbin's grimaces, the look on the Count's face. It relieved a bit of the monotony of their working day. But for some time now even this distraction had failed them: Monsieur de Furières had been sent to the Alpine front and Corbin was running the branch alone.

Madame Michaud collected the post and went into the small room next to the manager's office. A faint perfume lingered in the air, a sign that Corbin was busy. He was patron to a dancer: Mademoiselle Ariette Corail. All his mistresses were dancers. He seemed not to be interested in women of any other profession. Not one secretary, no matter how pretty or young, had ever managed to lure him away from this particular penchant. Whether beautiful or ugly, young or old, he treated all his female employees in the same aggressive, rude and mean-spirited manner. His odd little voice emerged from a head that sat on top of a fat, heavy, well-fed body; when he got angry his voice became as high-pitched and feverish as a woman's.

The shrill sound Madame Michaud knew so well was filtering through the closed doors today. One of the employees came in and said quietly, "We're leaving."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

In the corridor, whispering shadows passed by. People were gathering near the windows and outside their offices. Corbin finally opened his door and saw the dancer out. She was wearing a candy-pink cotton suit and a large straw hat covered her dyed hair. She was slender, with a good figure, but beneath the make-up, her face was hard and tired. Red patches had appeared on her cheeks and forehead. She was obviously furious.

"Do you want me to leave on foot?" Madame Michaud heard her say.

"Will you never listen to me? Go back to the garage at once. Offer them money, promise them whatever they want and the car will be fixed."

"But I'm telling you it's impossible! Impossible! Don't you understand?"

"Look, my dear, what do you want me to say? The Germans are at the gates of Paris and you're talking about taking the road to Versailles. Why on earth would you want to do that? Take the train."

"Do you have any idea what's going on at the train stations?"

"It won't be any better on the roads."

"You have… you have no conscience at all. You're leaving, you have two cars…"

"I need to move the files and some of the staff. What the hell do you want me to do with the staff?"

"Oh, please! Must you be so rude? You have your wife's car!"

"You want to go in my wife's car? What a wonderful idea!"

The dancer turned her back on him and whistled for her dog, who bounded in. She put his collar on, her hands trembling with indignation. "My entire youth sacrificed to a…"

"For goodness sake! Stop making a scene. I'll phone you tonight, I'll see what can be done…"

"No, no. I see very well that all I can do now is go and die in a ditch at the side of the road…"

"Oh, do shut up, you're making me furious…"

They finally realised that the secretary was listening to them. They lowered their voices and Corbin, taking his mistress by the arm, walked her to the door.