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wrinkled with pleasure as he unfolded the sheet of paper.
    The major’s arrival had reminded his daughter Irène that outside Paris, outside her little group of self-satisfied, tuft-hunting snobs, there still existed an isolated bit of countryside, and right at the end of it, a village, Saint-Gilles-de-Valreyne, where her father lived, and that this father of hers might still be of use to her.
    He re-read the letter, which was typewritten on paper with the heading of the weekly periodical
Influences.
    â€œPapa Urbain,
    â€œYou’re like a great big tom-cat snoozing inertly in the sun but watching everything that goes on around him. Between Forcalquier and Grasse there isn’t a single case of adultery, not a single squabble over a will or local election secret, that you don’t know about. And you keep yourself informed of French political life. Did you not meet most of the men of the old and new régimes when you were working with Paul Esclavier? I want you to do me a favour. Up to now you’ve been good enough to send me fifty thousand francs from time to time, to keep me out of the red or to pay off my arrears of rent. I’ve now got my foot in the stirrup: Villèle, somewhat reluctantly, has entrusted me with the enquiry into Major Esclavier. I had to tell him I was his cousin, that we were brought up together and God knows what else. . . . After all, I am Paul Esclavier’s god-daughter, and I might easily have met Philippe at his uncle’s. I never did, of course, and I don’t even know what this new young god looks like. I am therefore coming to Saint-Gilles for a week or two’s holiday. No point in warning our paratrooper of this. For him I shall be what I still was six months ago: the editorial secretary of
Arts et Jardins.
    â€œHere is the explanation given by the Ministry of the Armed Forces to account for this astounding resignation:
    â€œâ€˜Esclavier, seriously wounded in the Sahara and no longer able to take part in active operations, has applied for two years’ unpaid leave.’
    â€œThe papers have made a great splash of this official version, but no one, at least among the initiates, believes it for a moment.
    â€œThe major, once more according to Villèle, has used these means to show his disagreement with the policy adopted by the Government in Algeria (which would be our policy if our boss was in power, but which we are bound to oppose since it wasn’t dictated by us) or, better still, to voice his solidarity with certain conceptions and methods which are current in Algeria. The name of Esclavier would add even more to the sensationalism of such a ‘disclosure.’
    â€œSo I must hear what he has to say and perhaps get his agreement to publish a confession.
    â€œIf necessary, I can do without his agreement.
    â€œYou see, this is my big chance.
    â€œOne small point will amuse you: a fortnight ago Michel Esclavier, the major’s brother-in-law, joined our board of directors.
    â€œâ€˜Watch your step, my girl,’ said Villèle (who is no longer like the old Villèle), ‘this Esclavier’s real name is Weihl, but he considers himself obliged to defend a name which he has as good as usurped.’
    â€œI’m enjoying Paris, Papa Urbain, because nothing here is true, neither politics nor love, and because the great unwritten law is not so much to make money, as those simpletons of Communists believe, as to be seen in public, to be talked about, pulled to pieces and adored.
    â€œIt’s Plato’s underworld, with the shades flitting through it. Perhaps, behind the shades, there exists something real, a real France behind an insubstantial France, love that lasts, men who dream of making history instead of practising politics, but no one sees it or appears to see it. I’m twenty-six, I love shop-windows and sliding down the banisters, I enjoy doing harm and being kind occasionally. So long