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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 metalworking 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 Arlette 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