Décadence et grandeur

In a cramped third‑floor office of the Lenormand bank, the unassuming clerk Horace Planchet has turned an idle drawer into an arena for four prized Bourgogne snails. He’s christened them Minotaure, Isaac, Bilatéral and Adolphe, and each afternoon he becomes starter, judge and referee, tracing four tidy lanes on a discarded sheet of ministerial paper. The sport offers him a fleeting escape from the monotony of copying overdue reports, a tiny rebellion against the dignity of a paid wage. For Horace, the slow, deliberate crawl of the creatures provides a genuine thrill that far outweighs the numbers he is supposed to balance.

The routine is not entirely private. Léonard Océan, the bank’s austere director, slips through the narrow doorway behind Horace’s makeshift track, watching the snails’ contest with a mixture of curiosity and patronizing authority. His intrusive presence—marked by a polite but firm request to follow him to the cash desk—suggests that the simple pleasure Horace has cultivated may soon clash with corporate expectations. A poster for the Bront‑les‑Eaux casino hints at another diversion waiting on the horizon, promising to test Horace’s newfound enthusiasm.