The Man Who Risked It All by Laurent Gounelle Page B

screen, reflected in the glass doors of the bookcase behind his desk, made you wonder if candidates were so desperate for employment that they were sending naked photos of themselves in the hope of increasing their chances of getting a job as an accountant.
    “He’s jealous,” Thomas said in a confidential tone.
    Every week, companies contacted the firm with their recruitment needs and inquired about our terms and conditions. Vanessa took the calls, made out a file card for each query, and passed it on to a consultant. It goes without saying that we welcomed these leads. It was much easier to sign a contract with a company that had contacted us than to cold-canvass strangers by telephone. Vanessa was supposed to distribute the file cards evenly among us, but I had recently discovered that in fact she favored Thomas. Visibly fascinated by the image of a winner that he projected, she must take pleasure in the idea that she was vital to his success. I was sure I was the least favored member of the team, even though, on the rare occasions she passed a contract on to me, she did it in a way that suggested she was giving me alone a chance to profit from the only call that Dunker Consulting had received that month.

5
    T WO WEEKS AFTER our first meeting, Dubreuil reappeared in circumstances similar to the previous time. When I came out of the office, I saw his Mercedes parked in the middle of the sidewalk.
    Vladi got out, walked around the car, and opened the back door for me. I ground out my cigarette, frustrated because I had just lit up after spending the whole afternoon without smoking. I was less anxious than the previous time, but slight apprehension still tightened my stomach, as I wondered what fate lay in store for me today.
    The Mercedes pulled away from the curb, making a U-turn on the Avenue de l’Opéra and heading toward the Louvre. Two minutes later, we were speeding along the Rue de Rivoli.
    “So, were you physically thrown out of the Paris bakeries?”
    “I’m going to eat sandwich bread from the supermarket for a month, the time it’ll take for people to forget me.”
    Dubreuil gave a sadistic little laugh.
    “Where are you taking me today?”
    “See, you’re making progress! Last time, you didn’t even dare ask. You allowed yourself to be driven like a prisoner.”
    “I am a prisoner of my promise.”
    “That’s true,” he confirmed with a satisfied air.
    We arrived at the Place de la Concorde. The muffled silence inside the luxurious sedan contrasted with the agitation of the drivers changing lanes in every direction and accelerating in spurts to try and overtake one or two cars. Big black clouds scudded across the sky above the Assemblée Nationale, as we turned onto the Champs-Élysées and the avenue opened up in front of us. The sky above the Arc de Triomphe was clear.
    “So, where are we going?” I repeated.
    “We’re going to test your progress since the last time, to make sure that we can go on to something else.”
    I didn’t like the wording. It reminded me of certain tests that my firm made the candidates take.
    “I never told you, but I have a distinct preference for theoretical tests, the ones with pieces of paper and boxes to check,” I said.
    “Life isn’t a theory. I believe in the virtue of experience lived in the raw. That’s the only thing that really changes someone. All the rest is waffle, intellectual masturbation.”
    “So, what have you cooked up for me today?” I asked, putting on an air of self-confidence, whereas in fact my heart was in my boots.
    “Well, let’s say we’re going to bring this chapter to an end by taking our business elsewhere.”
    “Elsewhere?”
    “Yes, instead of the local bakery, you’re going to a prestigious jeweler.”
    “You’re joking?” I said, suspecting that unfortunately, he was doing nothing of the sort.
    “Indeed, there’s not much difference between them.”
    “Of course, there is! There’s no comparison!”
    “In