corner—the right-hand end of the long sofa under the gilt mirror—in which he had always sat as a kind of right. It was occupied.
An American soldier sat there: a young man with high cheekbones and a rough puppy innocence: and the waiter bowed and smiled and exchanged words with him as though he were the oldest customer in the place. Charlot sat and watched: it was like an act of adultery. The head waiter, who had always stopped for a word, went past him as though he did not exist, and he too paused by the American’s table. The explanation soon came—the big bundle of notes the Yankee produced to pay with—and suddenly it occurred to Charlot that he too formerly had possessed a big bundle of notes, had been a payer; it wasn’t that he was a ghost now: he was merely a man without much money. He drank his brandy and called for another: the slowness of the service angered him. He called the head waiter. The man tried to avoid him but at last he had to come.
‘Well, Jules,’ Charlot said.
The shallow eyes flickered disapproval: the man only liked his intimates—the payers, Charlot thought—to call him by his name.
‘You don’t remember me, Jules,’ Charlot said.
The man became uneasy: perhaps some tone of voice echoed in his ear. The times were confusing: some customers had disappeared altogether, others who had been in hiding had returned changed by imprisonment, and others who had not been in hiding it was now in the interests of his business to discourage. ‘Well, monsieur, you have not been here for some time …’
The American began to hit loudly on the table with a coin. ‘Excuse me,’ the waiter said.
‘No, no, Jules, you can’t leave an old customer like that. Leave out the beard.’ He laid his hand across his chin. ‘Can’t you see a fellow called Chavel, Jules?’
The American beat again with his coin, but this time Jules paid him no attention, simply signalled another waiter across to take the man’s order. ‘Why, Monsieur Chavel,’ he said, ‘you are so much changed. I’m astonished … I heard …’ But it was obvious that he couldn’t remember what he had heard. It was difficult to remember which of his customers were heroes and which traitors and which simply customers.
‘The Germans locked me up,’ Chavel said.
‘Ah, that must have been it,’ Jules said with relief. ‘Paris is nearly itself again now, Monsieur Chavel.’
‘Not quite, Jules.’ He nodded at his old place.
‘Ah, I’ll see that seat is kept for you tomorrow, Monsieur Chavel. How is your house—where was it?’
‘Brinac. There are tenants there now.’
‘It hasn’t suffered?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t visited it yet. To tell you the truth, Jules, I only arrived in Paris today. I’ve barely enough money for a bed.’
‘I can accommodate you a little, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘No, no. I shall manage somehow.’
‘At least you must be our guest this evening. Another cognac, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘Thank you, Jules.’ The test, he thought, has worked : the pocket book is inexhaustible. I still have my three hundred francs.
‘Do you believe in the Devil, Jules?’
‘Naturally, Monsieur Chavel.’
He was moved to recklessness. ‘You hadn’t heard, Jules, that I am selling Brinac?’
‘Are you getting a good price, Monsieur Chavel?’
Suddenly Charlot felt a great distaste for Jules: it seemed to him incredible that a man could be so crass. Had he no possession in the world for which a good price was an insufficient inducement? He was a man who would sell his life … He said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘After these years haven’t we all reason to be sorry for a hundred things?’
‘We have no reason to be sorry here, Monsieur Chavel. I assure you our attitude has always been strictly correct. I have always made a point of serving Frenchmen first—yes, even if the German was a general.’
He envied Jules: to have been able to remain
An American soldier sat there: a young man with high cheekbones and a rough puppy innocence: and the waiter bowed and smiled and exchanged words with him as though he were the oldest customer in the place. Charlot sat and watched: it was like an act of adultery. The head waiter, who had always stopped for a word, went past him as though he did not exist, and he too paused by the American’s table. The explanation soon came—the big bundle of notes the Yankee produced to pay with—and suddenly it occurred to Charlot that he too formerly had possessed a big bundle of notes, had been a payer; it wasn’t that he was a ghost now: he was merely a man without much money. He drank his brandy and called for another: the slowness of the service angered him. He called the head waiter. The man tried to avoid him but at last he had to come.
‘Well, Jules,’ Charlot said.
The shallow eyes flickered disapproval: the man only liked his intimates—the payers, Charlot thought—to call him by his name.
‘You don’t remember me, Jules,’ Charlot said.
The man became uneasy: perhaps some tone of voice echoed in his ear. The times were confusing: some customers had disappeared altogether, others who had been in hiding had returned changed by imprisonment, and others who had not been in hiding it was now in the interests of his business to discourage. ‘Well, monsieur, you have not been here for some time …’
The American began to hit loudly on the table with a coin. ‘Excuse me,’ the waiter said.
‘No, no, Jules, you can’t leave an old customer like that. Leave out the beard.’ He laid his hand across his chin. ‘Can’t you see a fellow called Chavel, Jules?’
The American beat again with his coin, but this time Jules paid him no attention, simply signalled another waiter across to take the man’s order. ‘Why, Monsieur Chavel,’ he said, ‘you are so much changed. I’m astonished … I heard …’ But it was obvious that he couldn’t remember what he had heard. It was difficult to remember which of his customers were heroes and which traitors and which simply customers.
‘The Germans locked me up,’ Chavel said.
‘Ah, that must have been it,’ Jules said with relief. ‘Paris is nearly itself again now, Monsieur Chavel.’
‘Not quite, Jules.’ He nodded at his old place.
‘Ah, I’ll see that seat is kept for you tomorrow, Monsieur Chavel. How is your house—where was it?’
‘Brinac. There are tenants there now.’
‘It hasn’t suffered?’
‘I don’t think so. I haven’t visited it yet. To tell you the truth, Jules, I only arrived in Paris today. I’ve barely enough money for a bed.’
‘I can accommodate you a little, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘No, no. I shall manage somehow.’
‘At least you must be our guest this evening. Another cognac, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘Thank you, Jules.’ The test, he thought, has worked : the pocket book is inexhaustible. I still have my three hundred francs.
‘Do you believe in the Devil, Jules?’
‘Naturally, Monsieur Chavel.’
He was moved to recklessness. ‘You hadn’t heard, Jules, that I am selling Brinac?’
‘Are you getting a good price, Monsieur Chavel?’
Suddenly Charlot felt a great distaste for Jules: it seemed to him incredible that a man could be so crass. Had he no possession in the world for which a good price was an insufficient inducement? He was a man who would sell his life … He said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for, Monsieur Chavel?’
‘After these years haven’t we all reason to be sorry for a hundred things?’
‘We have no reason to be sorry here, Monsieur Chavel. I assure you our attitude has always been strictly correct. I have always made a point of serving Frenchmen first—yes, even if the German was a general.’
He envied Jules: to have been able to remain
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