be found hanging about the German Embassy. There’s no need to be unduly malicious to guess what a Jewish refugee might be up to in such a place.’
‘You have no proofs,’ said Sarah.
‘No, we haven’t any proofs. If we had, he wouldn’t be here. But even though there are only presumptions, Sarah is madly imprudent to have taken him in.’
‘But why? Why?’ asked Sarah, passionately.
‘Sarah,’ said Brunet affectionately, ‘you would blow up the whole of Paris to prevent anything unpleasant happening to your protégés.’
Sarah smiled weakly. ‘Not the whole of Paris,’ she said, ‘but it’s quite certain I’m not going to sacrifice Weymüller to your Party intrigues. A Party is so... so abstract.’
‘Just what I was saying,’ said Brunet.
Sarah shook her head vigorously. She had flushed, and her large, green eyes had dimmed.
‘The little Minister,’ she said with indignation. ‘You saw him, Mathieu, could he hurt a fly?’
Brunet’s serenity was enormous. It was the serenity of the ocean: suave and yet exasperating. He never appeared to be one sole person: he embodied the slow, silent murmurous life of a crowd. He went on to explain: ‘Gomez sometimes sends us emissaries. They come here, and we meet them at Sarah’s place: you can guess that the messages are confidential. Is this the place to house a fellow who has the reputation of being a spy?’
Mathieu did not answer. Brunet had used the interrogative form, but with purely rhetorical intent: he was not asking advice: indeed it was a long time since Brunet had ceased taking Mathieu’s advice on anything whatever.
‘Mathieu, you shall decide: if I send Weymüller away, he will throw himself into the Seine. Can one really drive a man to suicide for a mere suspicion?’ she added desperately. She was sitting upright, her ugly face aflame with kindliness. She inspired in Mathieu the rather squalid sympathy one feels for people who have been run over and hurt in an accident, or are suffering from boils and ulcers.
‘Do you mean it?’ he asked. ‘He’ll throw himself in the Seine?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Brunet. ‘He’ll go back to the German Embassy, and try to sell himself outright.’
‘It comes to the same thing,’ said Mathieu. ‘In any case he’s done for.’
Brunet shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said indifferently.
‘Listen to him, Mathieu,’ said Sarah, eyeing him with distress. ‘Well? Who is right? Do say something.’
Mathieu had nothing to say. Brunet did not ask his advice, he had no use for the advice of a bourgeois, a dirty intellectual, a watch-dog. ‘He will listen to me with icy courtesy, he’ll be quite immovable, he’ll judge me by what I say, that’s all.’ Mathieu did not want Brunet to judge him. There had been a time when, as a matter of principle, neither of the pair judged the other. ‘Friendship doesn’t exist to criticize,’ Brunet used then to say: ‘It’s function is to inspire confidence.’ He still said so, perhaps, but at the moment he was thinking of his comrades of the Party.
‘Mathieu,’ said Sarah.
Brunet leaned towards her, and touched her knee.
‘Listen, Sarah,’ he said quietly. ‘I quite like Mathieu and I think highly of his intelligence. If it were a question of explaining a passage in Spinoza or Kant, I should apply to him. But this is a silly business, and I assure you I don’t want any outside opinion, even from a teacher of philosophy. I’ve made up my mind.’
Obviously, thought Mathieu, obviously. He felt sick at heart, but not in the least angry with Brunet. ‘Who am I to give advice? And what have I done with my life?’ Brunet had got up.
‘I must hurry away,’ he said. ‘You will, of course, do as you like, Sarah. You don’t belong to the Party, and you have already done a great deal for us. But if you keep him, I would merely ask you to come to my place when Gomez sends any news.’
‘Certainly,’ said
‘You have no proofs,’ said Sarah.
‘No, we haven’t any proofs. If we had, he wouldn’t be here. But even though there are only presumptions, Sarah is madly imprudent to have taken him in.’
‘But why? Why?’ asked Sarah, passionately.
‘Sarah,’ said Brunet affectionately, ‘you would blow up the whole of Paris to prevent anything unpleasant happening to your protégés.’
Sarah smiled weakly. ‘Not the whole of Paris,’ she said, ‘but it’s quite certain I’m not going to sacrifice Weymüller to your Party intrigues. A Party is so... so abstract.’
‘Just what I was saying,’ said Brunet.
Sarah shook her head vigorously. She had flushed, and her large, green eyes had dimmed.
‘The little Minister,’ she said with indignation. ‘You saw him, Mathieu, could he hurt a fly?’
Brunet’s serenity was enormous. It was the serenity of the ocean: suave and yet exasperating. He never appeared to be one sole person: he embodied the slow, silent murmurous life of a crowd. He went on to explain: ‘Gomez sometimes sends us emissaries. They come here, and we meet them at Sarah’s place: you can guess that the messages are confidential. Is this the place to house a fellow who has the reputation of being a spy?’
Mathieu did not answer. Brunet had used the interrogative form, but with purely rhetorical intent: he was not asking advice: indeed it was a long time since Brunet had ceased taking Mathieu’s advice on anything whatever.
‘Mathieu, you shall decide: if I send Weymüller away, he will throw himself into the Seine. Can one really drive a man to suicide for a mere suspicion?’ she added desperately. She was sitting upright, her ugly face aflame with kindliness. She inspired in Mathieu the rather squalid sympathy one feels for people who have been run over and hurt in an accident, or are suffering from boils and ulcers.
‘Do you mean it?’ he asked. ‘He’ll throw himself in the Seine?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Brunet. ‘He’ll go back to the German Embassy, and try to sell himself outright.’
‘It comes to the same thing,’ said Mathieu. ‘In any case he’s done for.’
Brunet shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said indifferently.
‘Listen to him, Mathieu,’ said Sarah, eyeing him with distress. ‘Well? Who is right? Do say something.’
Mathieu had nothing to say. Brunet did not ask his advice, he had no use for the advice of a bourgeois, a dirty intellectual, a watch-dog. ‘He will listen to me with icy courtesy, he’ll be quite immovable, he’ll judge me by what I say, that’s all.’ Mathieu did not want Brunet to judge him. There had been a time when, as a matter of principle, neither of the pair judged the other. ‘Friendship doesn’t exist to criticize,’ Brunet used then to say: ‘It’s function is to inspire confidence.’ He still said so, perhaps, but at the moment he was thinking of his comrades of the Party.
‘Mathieu,’ said Sarah.
Brunet leaned towards her, and touched her knee.
‘Listen, Sarah,’ he said quietly. ‘I quite like Mathieu and I think highly of his intelligence. If it were a question of explaining a passage in Spinoza or Kant, I should apply to him. But this is a silly business, and I assure you I don’t want any outside opinion, even from a teacher of philosophy. I’ve made up my mind.’
Obviously, thought Mathieu, obviously. He felt sick at heart, but not in the least angry with Brunet. ‘Who am I to give advice? And what have I done with my life?’ Brunet had got up.
‘I must hurry away,’ he said. ‘You will, of course, do as you like, Sarah. You don’t belong to the Party, and you have already done a great deal for us. But if you keep him, I would merely ask you to come to my place when Gomez sends any news.’
‘Certainly,’ said
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