“It’s Monsieur Jules Blanc phoning from the Presidential Office, wishing to speak to Monsieur Corte,” said the valet.

She carefully closed all the doors so that no noise could filter through to where Gabriel and his secretary were working. Meanwhile, the valet went to prepare a cold supper for his master, as he always did. Gabriel ate little during the day but was often hungry at night. There was some leftover cold partridge, a few peaches, some delicious little cheeses (which Florence herself had ordered from a shop on the Left Bank) and a bottle of Pommery. After many years of reflection and research, Corte had come to the conclusion that, given his poor digestion, only champagne would do. Florence listened to Jules Blanc’s voice on the telephone, an exhausted, almost imperceptible voice, and at the same time heard all the familiar sounds of the house—the soft clinking of china and glass, Gabriel’s deep, languid voice—and she felt as though she were living a confusing dream. She put down the phone and called the valet. He had been in their service for a long time and trained for what he called “the workings of the house,” an inadvertent pastiche of seventeenth-century parlance that Gabriel found quite charming.

“What can we do, Marcel? Jules Blanc himself is telling us to leave . . .”

“Leave? To go where, Madame?”

“Anywhere. To Brittany. The Midi. It seems the Germans have crossed the Seine. What can we do?” she repeated.

“I have no idea, Madame,” said Marcel frostily.

They’d waited long enough to ask his opinion. They should have left last night, he thought. Isn’t it just pathetic to see rich, famous people who have no more common sense than animals! And even animals can sense danger . . . As for him, well, he wasn’t afraid of the Germans. He’d seen them in ’14. He’d be left alone; he was too old to be called up. But he was outraged: the house, the furniture, the silver—they hadn’t thought about anything in time. He let out a barely audible sigh. He would have had everything wrapped up long ago, hidden away in packing cases, in a safe place. He felt a sort of affectionate scorn towards his employers, the same scorn he felt towards the white greyhounds: they were beautiful but stupid.

“Madame should warn Monsieur,” he concluded.