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Madame? THE QUEEN OF THE BELGIANS,” the murmur swelled and gave me a twinge in my heart. Then Meinthe stamped his heel on the floor, thrust his chin forward, and blurted out very rapidly, rushing the words: “I haven’t told you everything, Madame … 
I
am THE QUEEN OF THE BELGIANS …”
    There were cries and gestures of indignation. Most of the boarders got to their feet and formed a hostile group in front of us. Madame Buffaz took a step forward, and I was afraid she’d slap Meinthe, or she’d slap me. I found this last possibility quite natural; I was, I felt, the only person responsible.
    I would have liked to apologize to those people, or to wave a magic wand and make them forget what had just happened. All my efforts to pass unnoticed and hide in a safe place had been reduced to futility in a few seconds. I didn’t even cast a last glance around the lounge, where the after-dinner gatherings had been so soothing for a troubled heart like mine. And I blamed Meinthe, for a brief moment. Why cause such consternation among these small-timepensioners, these canasta players? They were reassuring to me. In their company I risked nothing.
    Madame Buffaz would have happily spat venom in our faces. Her lips got thinner and thinner. I forgive her. I’d betrayed her, in a sense. I’d shaken up the precious clockwork that was the Lindens. If she’s reading this (which I doubt, and anyway, the Lindens no longer exists), I’d like her to know that I wasn’t a bad boy at heart.
    We had to bring down my “baggage,” which I’d packed that afternoon. It consisted of a wardrobe trunk and three big suitcases. They contained a few clothes, all my books, my old telephone directories, and issues of
Match, Cinémonde, Music-hall, Détective
, and
Noir et blanc
from the past several years. It was all very heavy. When Meinthe tried to move the wardrobe trunk, it nearly crushed him. By dint of incredible efforts, we managed to tip it over and lay it on its side. After that, we spent twenty minutes dragging it down the hall to the landing. We were bent in half, Meinthe in the front, me behind, both gasping for air. Meinthe lay down at full length on the floor, arms flung out, eyes closed. I went back to my room and as best I could, staggering all the way, I carried the three suitcases to the top of the stairs.
    The light went out. I groped for the switch, but flicking it was useless; the hall remained as dark as before. On the floor below, some vague brightness filtered through the partly open door of the lounge. I could see a head poking through the opening: Madame Buffaz’s head, I was almost sure. I realized immediately she must have removed one of the fuses so that we’d have to get the bags downstairs in the dark. And that realization made me start giggling nervously.
    We pushed the wardrobe trunk until half of it hung out over the lower stairs and it was balanced precariously on the landing. Clutching the banister, Meinthe gave the trunk a furious kick, whereupon it slid down the stairs, bouncing off every one and making a frightful racket. You would have thought the staircase was about to collapse. Madame Buffaz’s head was once again silhouetted in the crack of the lounge door, surrounded by two or three others. I heard her shriek, “Will you look at these bastards …” Someone was repeatedly hissing the word “Police.” I picked up a suitcase in each hand and started down the stairs. I couldn’t see a thing. Besides, I preferred to close my eyes and count under my breath to get my courage up. One, two, three. One, two, three … If I tripped, the suitcases would drag me all the way down and the impact would knock me out. There could be no stopping or resting. My collarbone was about to crack. And that horrible giggling took hold of me again.
    The light came back on and blinded me. I found myself on the ground floor, in a daze but still on my feet, between the two suitcases and the trunk. Meinthe followed me