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live the shades!
    â€œGood-bye, you greedy, clever old tom-cat. Much love from your daughter,
    Irène.”
    Donadieu put the letter away and made a trumpeting sound with his mouth. He was not displeased with his daughter. With a great deal of effort he struggled to his feet, dreaming of a life in which he would no longer have to move: the news and tittle-tattle would be dished up to him at home, in his old leather armchair, together with hare
pâté
, trout cooked with almondsand the lot washed down with this Muy wine of which he had just received three demijohns.
    But had not reality, like a wave, already landed him with a major who had helped to overthrow the Republic, and a Rastignac in skirts on the eve of her career?
    As he drew level with the town hall, Donadieu thought for a moment of going up to his office, but the effort appeared out of proportion to the interest he might derive from the few bits of gossip that his secretary would give him.
    He sank into a metal armchair outside Léonce’s little café, by the fountain on the square.
    During the heat of the day Urbain Donadieu loved the cool sound of water, which was never the same, imperceptibly changing in tone according to the way in which the wind was blowing: the warm salty sea-breeze or the dry luminous mistral. It was now mistral weather. He clapped his hands.
    â€œA pastis, Léonce, a big one and well iced, with just enough water to turn it cloudy. Send your boy to the town hall to say that I’m here and, if I’m needed, to come and fetch me.”
    The upper part of Léonce’s body was that of a sparsely built man with anxious, abnormally deep-set eyes. But below his chest bulged a vast pear-shaped belly.
    His trousers hung very low on this bulge, so that the crotch was almost level with his knees.
    â€œCome and sit down, Léonce. I’ll stand you a swig of white. . . .”
    â€œDelighted, Monsieur le Maire.”
    â€œWhat do they think of this fellow Esclavier in the village?”
    â€œThat depends. The men or the women? The Whites or the Reds? The young or the old?”
    â€œWhat do you think of him yourself?”
    â€œIt might bring in a little business, since he’s featured in the papers; it’s rather like film-stars. The girls think he looks like the Duke of Edinburgh; the mothers say it might be a good match, but that a man like him would never choose a country girl, or at least only to amuse himself.
    â€œThe schoolmaster, who has served in Algeria, would like to organize a party for him. The priest, since he goes almost every evening to Marcel Audran’s who’s a Communist——”
    Léonce broke off, as though he had just made a great discovery:
    â€œBut actually, this priest, why is he such a Red? It’s not his place.”
    Urbain pursed his lips:
    â€œIt’s the latest fashion this year in the sacristies.”
    â€œSo the priest goes around saying that the paratrooper has come here to organize a plot, that he’ll disturb the peace of the village, people’s consciences and the young girls’ hearts, that he must be a freemason like his uncle, that he’ll set a bad example by not going to church. It seems he did things in Algeria that you could hang a man for, this fellow Esclavier.”
    â€œIncluding having put the gang which now governs us in power!”
    â€œBut, Monsieur le Maire, what have you got against General de Gaulle? He’s going to make peace in Algeria.”
    â€œAfter strangling the Republic to death.”
    â€œOnce there’s peace, that’s all that matters.”
    â€œPeace on any terms—even we could have brought that about, with our nasty little schemes and rackets. But de Gaulle is infatuated with greatness, which always implies sacrifices. That suits the young. France is old, sceptical, pleasure-loving and garrulous. She only dreams of being like Switzerland, and they keep