“So much I learned, I overheard, so to speak. But I gave the matter no thought as we had so much already on our hands. Nevertheless I often heard doubts about Smirgel’s reliability expressed, specially because he had accepted a working brief with the English, but only in order to mislead or betray them – or at any rate this is what he said. It could have been true – why not? But in a war rumour runs wild, and nobody believes anybody else. At any rate the old field reports must exist somewhere unless the French went ahead and had them destroyed to avoid causing themselves much unnecessary soul-searching because of the past. One can understand it. They were more zealous than us all when it came to hunting down the dissenters. In my own view there would have been no real resistance at all after the first few months had we not gone ahead with our slave-labour policy. That is what set up a wave of reaction and got people evading the draft and taking to the hills. Once that started the British started parachuting in and forming an armed resistance among these runaway slaves; and of course the terrain around LaSalle and in the fastnesses of Langue d’Oc favoured such a development.”
He shook his head with an expression of regret and went on: “And what complicated matters was the three overlapping intelligence agencies, often with conflicting tales to tell about the same incidents. My own role was purely military though I had access to all. I depended on the field command and had an intelligence group of my own, dealing only with that. Then came the military governor who had his own security service which he shared with the French Milice – which he loathed and distrusted, though he managed to foist most of the dirty jobs on to them. Nor did they mind. They seemed to take pleasure in roughing up their own nationals. That is why they are in such a state now, for so many animosities were created, and the Frenchman harbours grudges, he does not forgive and forget!”
He had been drawing in the gravel with his cane – a sketch of the interlapping agencies; now he tapped once or twice as he added, “You see? While nominally working together we were very much divided internally. Nobody could stand the Milice and the dislike was reciprocated for the Milice had a bad conscience. That is why they have pounced on the documents in the case. As far as I am concerned I am convinced that not a scrap of paper will emerge from it all. The dossiers are too incriminating for them. You mark my words, it will all be destroyed and a new race of war heroes will emerge from the ashes. French propaganda is very astute and they must prove they did something in order to give themselves bargaining power when it comes to the negotiations of the peace table. I think so at any rate! But then they would say I was prejudiced against them.”
He sighed and shook his head in a sad, reproachful way. So the conversation ran on in somewhat haphazard fashion: it was so intoxicating to speak his own tongue again that it was almost unmanning for the soldier in him – he felt almost tearful with gratitude. Moreover to speak to this shadow-lambent version of his own beloved Constanza … waves of sympathy passed over his old heart like wind flowing over embers he had long thought cold. He even dared to reach out and touch her hand which did not withdraw from the contact but stayed for a calm moment unstirring in his. It fired his thoughts, this warm contact, though he had little enough to recount about Livia. No, it was obvious that she would have to try to trace Smirgel. She told him how some time late in the war – indeed, just before the general retreat – Smirgel had visited her to ask her opinion about a document which he had procured which purported to be an order of the day signed by Churchill himself. It was an optimistic evaluation of the war situation saying that the Germans had begun to stockpile in back areas and must now be considered as having gone over on to the defensive. Smirgel wanted to know whether she thought it a fake or not. Later when she thought over the episode she thought that it had been a clumsy attempt to worm his way into her confidence. But why?
The General provided an excited comment of corroboration to this by saying: “Good Lord! Yes! I well recall that English document with its message. It was very striking because it happened to be true. We had already started anticipating a defensive battle or two in the south of France – to consolidate the Mediterranean axis, for Italy had begun to defect and disintegrate. But even more than that I can tell you that when the Allied radio piously announced that no historical or archaeological treasures would be bombed it gave us at once a clue as to what should be done with all this precious stockpile of weaponry which was pouring into France by rail, road and water! We would mask it if possible by placing it in sites to be spared aerial attack. What better, for example, than to hollow out the quarries and caverns which abut the Pont du Gard? It was a God-given site. The kilometres of subterranean corridors and caves were ideal for the purpose. So we directed our sappers to perform and so they did. And the quantity grew and grew.”
He had grown visibly rather tired and his exposition had begun to flag somewhat. But he did not wish this delicious exchange to end and he quested about in his mind to find an excuse to bring her back again. “It is time for my medicine soon,” he said with regret at last. “But perhaps I will remember other matters of interest later on; would you wish us to meet again for a talk next week?” To his surprised relief she said yes. She found his obvious regret at parting from her touching. “Yes, we should meet again,” she said, “just in case we have overlooked some detail or other which might help me. And next week you can pick your day because I am on leave for a few days.” He was delighted and shook hands warmly as they parted.
So it was that this initial contact flowered into a series of short agreeable visits to the old man which enabled her to relive and re-experience those sad and barren war years spent in echoing Avignon. Nor were the visits valueless from the point of view of information, for many a small detail about life at that obscure epoch awoke under the stimulus of her company. Apart from this, too, she was able to secure for him certain small concessions and attentions on the part of the clinic, such as a cigarette and wine allowance – he was after all a prisoner of war and should enjoy certain entitlements due to his rank. And while the season advanced towards the more clement end of the spring she tried to assemble and collate these tiny fragments of history for her own satisfaction. At first Jourdain proved somewhat cold and hostile towards her acceptance of Sylvie’s leave-taking but later when he sensed the full extent of her regrets he changed back into his former generous self, though when he heard that Blanford had decided to return to Tu Duc he could not repress a jealous pang. He knew nevertheless that Constance had decided that she would herself undertake the extensive physiotherapy which was part of the treatment for the rehabilitation of Blanford’s wounded back which had vastly improved under her care. But one of the more surprising new elements which emerged from the General’s recollections concerned the vast cache of arms which had been stored in the caverns and corridors of the Roman quarries of Vers and elsewhere. The regiment of sappers charged with the task of storing all this weaponry was Austrian and had ended by openly mutinying and refusing to blow up the train full of ammunition which the Nazi command had planted on the bridge over the river which commanded the town. (Had they obeyed the command they would have irremediably disfigured, indeed completely destroyed, Avignon.) The Austrian refusal saved the town, but the sappers themselves, all twenty of them, had been arrested and unceremoniously shot. The grateful townsfolk had covered their graves with roses when the army at last abandoned the town and started to retreat northward … So much was mere history. But the work of the sappers had given rise to strange rumours about discoveries made while they were burrowing their way under the Pont du Gard, clearing out the debris of ancient excavations to make room for their stockpile.
They claimed – at least the two officers commanding the operation – that their men had stumbled upon an oaken door set in the rock in the very heart of the labyrinth – a steel-studded door which when forced opened upon a small nest of caves of a beehive pattern. These were of fine workmanship, the walls carefully rendered to secure the place against damp. These nooks
were positively crammed with treasure, all the crates carefully assembled and tidily disposed. Their astonished eyes took in not only gold bars and coin but also a small mountain of precious stones and other specie, while a Latin wall inscription gave them to understand that the hoard was of Templar provenance! Templar! At first there was some confusion and a good deal of scepticism, for the lieutenant in charge of the Austrians was a renowned liar and drunkard. Moreover he intimated that in order to safeguard their find they had carefully mined and booby-trapped the corridors which surrounded the entry to the principal cave with its door set in the rock, and that it would be perilous to attempt to visit the site without a detailed map of the booby-traps, not least because of the fear of setting off the explosive stored all round – the original stockpile which occupied the surround of caverns and corridors! If there was at first some disposition to disbelieve the contentions of the Austrian lieutenant, his story was given substance and force by the fact that he and his fellow-soldier were both able to produce some precious stones which they alleged they had abstracted from one of the great oaken chests, before shutting the place up and wiring up the surrounding caves with defensive explosives.
What irony! So thought Constance when she learned of these developments. “The Templar treasure, though at long last discovered, remains as always obstinately out of reach due to the freakish developments of a new war.” She smiled ruefully for she could see in her mind’s eye the expressions which would flit like bats across Lord Galen’s face – hunger, elation, fear, vexation, if ever she got to tell him the astonishing story, as she supposed she one day must – foiled again! And yet … surely there must have been a map at some time, if only to enable the Austrian discoverers of the place to gain access to it once more? Somewhere, somebody must have kept a record of the booby-trappings. But all the sappers were dead, executed by the Nazis for the crime of refusing to destroy the city! And who would risk treasure-hunting in this vast stockpile of ammunition? How maddening all these contingencies were! The old soldier was all sympathy for her exasperation; yet when she told him of her excursion to the Saintes Maries and of the gipsy pronouncements upon the treasure – namely, that it was real enough but guarded by dragons – he chuckled and struck his knee with his palm, saying: “One strange thing – the Austrian sappers had been formed from a disbanded regiment of Imperial dragoons and were entitled to wear a dragon on their shoulder-flash in memory of their origins. There you have your so-called ‘dragons’ if you wish to interpret the prophesy like that!” It was highly plausible to a superstitious mind and she could just see the Prince lapping it up with delight. But of course the principal dilemma remained – namely, what if anything could be done about the treasure hoard? Presumably nothing in default of further information. “I see that you are vexed and disappointed,” said old Von Esslin with compassion, for familiarity had done nothing to quell the ardour of his admiration for Constance, “and I quite understand. I will have a further think about the matter and see whether any solution could present itself. But of course it would be madness just to wander about in the cache without knowing what one was doing. This group of active mutineers were not joking. They meant business and they knew their jobs.”
For a while it seemed that the whole subject had reached a stalemate and that no further advance was to be expected. Then there was a diversion which was provided by the sudden appearance of the doctor, Jourdain, at Tu Duc one middle-morning, riding a bicycle, and bringing news of the reappearance on the scene of Smirgel, the wartime double agent who had so much occupied their thoughts. “He has re-emerged from hiding to provide evidence before a war crimes tribunal about criminal activities during the last days of the occupation. He is in quite a state, as you can imagine, and is trying to save his skin and his name by betraying a number of his erstwhile colleagues! At least so it looks to me. He is an incorrigible fellow, and a liar of the first order. I have a sort of unwilling admiration for him as a specimen. From the medical point of view he astonishes me by remaining just this side of a fine full efflorescent paranoia. I wonder how he does it.” Aubrey Blanford, who was listening and playing a hand of solitaire with himself, said, “Perhaps he should be writing novels?” and Jourdain smiled. He went on: “At any rate with a matching effrontery he dropped in on me for a drink and tried to sound me out as a possible witness in his favour – a role I carefully sidestepped, as I don’t know what he was up to during the occupation, how should I? But I told him that you, Constance, were trying to locate him, hoping to question him in your private capacity about Livia and her mysterious activities. This seemed to make him startled and a bit distrustful. He seemed somewhat unwilling to be met again – I feared he would disappear – but after I had talked to him for a while he calmed down and listened attentively. I stressed that you would be a valuable ally for him in case of trouble with investigating tribunals and it might be worth his while to humour your request. So suddenly he gave in and said that he would meet you on condition that only you knew of the place of rendezvous. He proposes this afternoon at four – hence my appearance all of a sudden here. I bring a letter with the details.”
He extracted the sealed envelope from his pocket and placed it in the hand of Constance saying, “Ouf! I am rather out of breath with all this activity, but I have done my duty. What about treating me to a glass of wine before I take myself off? It would be an act of kindness …” They hastened to comply with his request and the three of them sat on for a while on the terrace, in the shade of the apple trees, while Constance with a mixture of curiosity and elation opened her envelope and started to read her message, written in the spidery hand of the evasive Smirgel it was written in German – so he had not forgotten! “Dear Madam, I understand from our mutual friend, the good doctor Jourdain, that you wish to see me. I would be glad to comply with this wish and ask you to accept a rendezvous which, owing to my present activities and preoccupations, seems suitable, as I am not entirely my own master and am very busy. Therefore I will wait for you between four and five tomorrow at the Montfavet Church which of course you know so well. I will sit in the fifth side chapel. I trust this is acceptable to you. Yours Sincerely.” The signature was a squiggle. She replaced the letter in the envelope and thanked Jourdain for his good offices. They had decided in the course of these exchanges to keep him for lunch, and from the kitchen came the agreeable clatter of pans and pots.
So it was that with a westering sunlight she took her little car along the familiar roads towards the city; Jourdain sat beside her for she had persuaded him to double his bicycle into the back of her little car, folding it up as far as possible, so to speak. She dropped him first and then drove back into the shady little square with its quiet tenantry of olive trees and cypresses. She parked it against the wall in the shade and switched off the motor to sit for a moment recalling her last weird meeting with Livia in this pleasant precinct so many years ago. She recalled the precise tone in which she had said the words “I have lost an eye!”; and how she had all the time kept her face turned away from her sister, as if ashamed of the deformity. How had she lost an eye? Ruminating upon these forgotten events she slowly crossed the sunlit-dappled grove and entered the quiet church, now deserted and shadowy, to find herself at last in the side chapel under the oil-painted witnesses, so gauche and awkward. On the wall at her back was a plaque with an inscription commemorating the death of some now forgotten priest.
ICI REPOSE
PLACIDE BRUNO VALAYER
Evêque de Verdun
Mort en Avignon
en 1850
The painting was of a poor style, a poor period. And how wan, abstracted and faraway were the faces of the three presiding over this silent edifice. Yet not entirely silent, for somewhere outside among green leaves and bowers of shade a nightingale stammered out a phrase and then was suddenly silent, as if it had grown abashed. Well, she had arrived a few minutes early, so it was too soon to become anxious about the arrival of Smirgel. She closed her eyes for a momen
t, the better to dream of the past in this rich corner of silence with its opaque afternoon light – a place for guided loneliness across the breathing silences and the one-pointed plains of deliberate unreason towards the mystical nudge which might set the dreamer off on a new trajectory towards the light! Towards a new objective – to try and make death fully conscious of itself! In the midst of these lucubrations she found herself falling asleep in the pew she sat in, and it was with something of a start that she woke at last to find that Smirgel had succeeded in entering the little church noiselessly and sat in the pew beside her, looking smilingly at her sleeping face. She was a little bit put out of countenance as she tried to muster her questions. “Of course it must be you,” she said, to which he replied, “Have I changed so very much, then?” In truth he had. He had become extremely thin and now dressed shabbily enough, while his hair had been cropped rather short – it was fairly grey. But the old deviousness and invincibility of spirit still shone in his eyes; they had narrowed with cunning and he was saying, “I have no idea what I can tell you that you don’t know, but I will do my best to meet with your demands. But will you in return help me if I need help one of these days? I suppose that Jourdain told you that I am being called before a war tribunal to answer for so-called criminal activities just before the collapse, our collapse. The truth of the matter is that I was working for the British on the promise that they would take the fact into account after the war. But now on the plea that I was a double agent working for my own side they claim that they owe me nothing for such work! Can you beat it?” He sat back in his pew and shook his head self-commiseratingly. Constance felt it was wise not to allow any strings to be attached to the transaction and said, “I can’t make any promises, I am afraid – otherwise we can go no further. I cannot pose conditions myself either. I was just curious to find out something more about my sister Livia and her strange and tragic ending. At that time you seemed to know a good deal about her, but I refrained from asking you anything. It might not have been felt suitable while war conditions were such as they were. But now that things are changing back to peacetime conditions I thought I might try once more. Do you see?”
The Avignon Quintet Page 125
