by Susan Lewis
By three o’clock on Sunday afternoon, everything was ready. Dozens of wooden boxes had been set out to make a stage in front of the caves, lights had been rigged in the trees and on the château walls. In the courtyard more than fifty long tables – borrowed from neighbouring town halls, châteaux and churches – had been set up. A path had been cut into the forest so that young Richard, who was playing Prince Charming, could ride out to his Sleeping Beauty – played by little Janette Reinberg. Wild boar, roebuck and hares were roasting on spits, while in the kitchens Arlette, Liliane and an army of helpers were organizing tureens of broth and platters of vegetables and freshly baked bread. Armand and the estate workers were pouring the wine into pitchers while young Luc, the accordionist who usually played under the statue of Rabelais in Chinon, ran speedily through his repertoire before the guests arrived. And in the ballroom the children were being entertained by Philippe, who had been excused from his duties in order to keep them under control until their performance began.
Claudine felt exhausted already. Since mass that morning she had been driving out to Chinon and the surrounding villages, checking that everyone had transport to Lorvoire and making sure that her performers weren’t suffering from last-minute nerves. None were, which was more than she could say for herself … Returning to the château just before three o’clock, she got up on the stage and in a cracked and harassed voice declared that there was no more she could do, and heaven help them all for the lunatics they were to have got involved in all this in the first place.
Watching her, Armand thought he had never seen her look so pale. He went over to her, turned her round and pointed her in the direction of the château. ‘What you need now,’ he told her, ‘is a long, relaxing bath. After which I expect to see you in nothing less than the most glamorous dress you possess, and all your jewels.’
She smiled up at him. Then, on impulse, she hugged him, wanting him to know that she couldn’t have done any of this without him, and that, for once, she was happy to obey his instructions.
When she finally reappeared, she came out of the darkness of the château and stopped at the top of the steps, waiting for him to look up at her. She was aware of people milling about, shouting and laughing and pushing past him as he stood there, simply staring at her. She smiled, a teasing light in her eyes, but Armand’s face had paled …
Even in the trousers and shirt she had worn earlier, and with dirt on her face, she had managed to look infinitely appealing. But now, standing there with her glorious raven hair piled high on her head, he knew he had never seen her so lovely. Little defiant corkscrews of hair curled round her long, shapely neck, her luscious mouth was rouged and moist, and her full breasts rose with each breath. She was wearing a black crepe evening dress that plunged to her waist at the back and front, barely concealing the fullness of her breasts and hugging the slender length of her figure. Diamonds glittered at her ears, her neck and her wrists – though nothing, Armand thought, could outshine the dazzling beauty of her sapphire-blue eyes. But it was the way she radiated such naked sensuality that dried the words in his throat and sent the sudden surge of desire swelling through his loins.
‘Do you like it?’ she said, looking down at her dress.
At first he couldn’t answer, but in the end he managed a taut smile, and turned to continue organizing the arrivals.
Claudine wondered what had happened to make him angry. Wandering down the steps, she saw Monique, and realized that she had been watching them. Then Solange appeared, sporting a flapper dress from the nineteen twenties, and Claudine ran to take her arm and carry her off to greet their guests.
It turned out to be an evening none of them would ever forget. It began with a brief speech from Louis, welcoming them all, expressing his regret that his sons could not be present, but assuring them that he would do his personal best to make it up to all the pretty girls. Solange shrieked with laughter at that, which was much funnier than Louis’ gentle attempt at humour, and conceding that his wife had upstaged him yet again, he laughingly nodded to Joseph Millerand, the village butcher, to start carving the venison, while Arlette, Liliane and the kitchen maids from Lorvoire and Montvisse swarmed out of the kitchens to serve Liliane’s famous broth.
Next, the Chinon school choir filed onto the stage and accompanied by a teacher on the piano and their own tambourines, began to sing songs from the Great War. In no time at all the audience was joining in, waving their hands in the air, swaying from side to side and slapping their neighbours on the back as they bellowed the words at the tops of their voices. The party spirit had infected them all and things were off to a magnificent start. However, there was a chorus of disapproval when after fifteen minutes the children made their bows and left – but good humour was rapidly restored when Basile Juette, a juggler from Thierry, somersaulted onto the stage, caught his nine pins from his wife and started tossing them in the air, while Luc played the accordion.
Basile was followed by Fabien Désbourdes and his performing dog, who caused untold hilarity by sitting with its head cocked to one side and looking bemused while Fabien shouted instructions. No matter what poor Fabien did, the dog seemed perplexed, which turned out to be far better entertainment than if it had performed the tricks expected of it. Later, the barber-shop quartet from Huîmes suffered badly at the hands of the local lads, who insisted on standing on their seats and howling. At first the quartet was distinctly put out, but then they recovered their spirits and sang louder than ever, and the local lads were shamed into silence.
When the light began to fade, the stage was illuminated by lamps in the trees, and soon it was time for Sleeping Beauty. It looked like being a triumph – until young Richard, hotly pursued by Philippe, trotted out of the forest on the pony, wailing that he was frightened. Not a very auspicious introduction for Prince Charming, but somehow the day was saved, he planted a kiss on Janette’s lips, and every child present whooped and jeered with delight.
Claudine, who had handed over the stage management to professionals from a theatre in Tours for the evening, was able to relax and enjoy herself. She sat at one of the long tables with Solange, Armand, and Dissy and Poppy, who had managed to come over from London. Every time she caught Dissy’s eye, they were on the verge of laughing: all around them, dignified and distinguished guests were having as wild and wonderful a time as the people from the villages. Several of them were only too ready to leave their seats and join in the dancing that was taking place in front of the château between acts. Armand was persuaded to his feet by one of Tante Céline’s friends, and after that there was no stopping him as he whirled Solange, then Monique, then Dissy, round and round the forecourt to the music of Luc’s accordion. In fact it occurred to Claudine that Armand was asking everyone to dance except her …
Then there was more entertainment. Two teenagers from Candés St Martin gave a lively performance of a song from an Italian opera, and after them came Raymond Loiseau from Lémeré who fancied himself as a comedian. His act was greeted with great enthusiasm, and it was while everyone was banging the tables and calling for more that Claudine noticed Armand had disappeared.
‘What’s the matter?’ Dissy shouted above the din.
‘Have you seen Armand?’ Claudine yelled back.
‘He’s gone to change – for our song,’ Solange cried.
‘Oh, of course,’ Claudine laughed, and was surprised at how relieved she felt that he hadn’t left altogether.
She saw him again a few minutes later, while Luc was playing the accordion and General Weygand was leading the dancing with a young girl from Chinon. Armand was standing in the middle of a crowd beside the stage, talking to one of the stage hands and trying – though not very hard, it seemed to Claudine – to disentangle himself from the arms of Mathilde Dubloc, who had had too much to drink. It was the first time Claudine had seen him in anything but his work clothes, and she didn’t know whether it was the white tie and tails or Mathilde’s amorous attentions that caused the
strange sensation she had when she looked at him. She found she couldn’t tear her eyes from him.
After a while he turned and started back to the table, and seeing her watching him, his face broke into a grin. Her heart very nearly turned over then, at how handsome he looked. He came up to her and took her hand – but as their eyes met, something seemed to pass between them and their smiles froze. Again Armand was aware of the burning desire he felt for her, but as the blood began to pound through his body he jerked his hand away and turned to speak to someone behind him.
Shocked, Claudine looked down at her hand. She felt suddenly hot, and it was as though the clatter and laughter around her was fading into the distance. She started when his arm pressed against hers as he leaned forward to pass a pitcher of wine to Dissy; it was as if a current of electricity had shot through her body. She turned to look at him, aghast and confused. He was straining to listen to what Dissy was saying, but she knew he was aware of her. A sudden image of François leapt before her eyes – and then she did something so brazen that when she thought of it later, she wanted to die of shame. But then it was as if she had somehow lost control of herself, and she found her hand slipping gently across Armand’s thigh.
He turned to look at her, and when she saw the naked desire in his eyes her mouth began to tremble and her fingers increased their pressure. A soft moan escaped him, and he found himself leaning towards her. Then suddenly there was a blare of sound and a stage-hand caught Armand by the shoulder and told him he was on next.
Claudine was so shaken it was some time before she could look at the stage. When she did, it was to see Armand laughing and bowing, the applause growing more and more deafening as he twirled Solange round the piano before they took up their positions to sing.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be playing for them?’
Monique’s sour face was staring across the table at her. Quickly pulling herself together, Claudine walked up the steps onto the stage.
Armand held out a hand to her, and the smile he gave her was so warm and so intimate that for a moment she was seized with panic. But then he turned away, drawing her with him to present her to the audience who, now that they had seen her, were treating her to such a tumultuous welcome that it brought the smile back to her face and returned the strength to her limbs. Letting go of his hand, she curtsied, and went to take her place at the piano.
The duet was a disaster: Armand got no further than the second line of the first verse before a deathly hush fell over the gathering. Solange sang the next few lines tunefully enough, but when Armand started to crow again Claudine could hear sniggers, and to her dismay she felt her own lips beginning to twitch. She glanced up at him, but he seemed oblivious and continued to sing, then gave a charming smile as he turned to Solange for her to take up the next line.
When it came to his turn again, someone at the back let out a howl. It was echoed by a voice a little nearer, then another and another. By this time Claudine was shaking with suppressed laughter, but there was nothing she could do as one by one the audience joined in the cacophony with caterwauls, yelps, barks and groans. She stole another look at Armand, amazed that he could continue under such protest, but as she caught his eye, he winked, then put his heart and soul behind the flattest top note she had ever heard. And Solange, whose head was vibrating with the energy she was pouring into her own performance, was quite clearly in raptures.
The din was terrible. Tears of laughter poured down Claudine’s face. They had known this would happen, Armand and Solange, and were now doing everything they could to encourage it.
When the song was finally over they received a standing ovation, but Armand modestly declined to sing again. Regretfully, he said, he must now stand down – to make way for the surprise they had for Claudine. And it was then that Thomas Crouy, Yves Fauberg, Gustave from the café, and four other men from Lorvoire bundled out of the kitchens dressed as can-can girls, lifted their skirts and began to kick their legs in the air in time to Luc’s accordion.
Claudine had never seen anything so hilarious in her life as those seven old men in their curly wigs, beauty spots, fishnet stockings and farmyard boots. To think that, while flatly refusing to do anything, they had all the time been planning to steal the show! And steal it they did as they cavorted round the stage wagging their feet, gleefully exposing their lace-clad buttocks and throwing saucy kisses to the young men. They responded handsomely to six encores, but the seventh was too much and Gustave collapsed in a heap, taking Thomas and Yves with him.
The only thing left after Les Filles du Moulin Macabre, as they called themselves, was the fireworks. It was a magnificent display, set off by the firemen of Chinon at the bottom of the meadow. Claudine watched Armand fetch his mother from the kitchens to come and watch, and then, resisting the urge to join them, she wandered round to the front steps of the château where Dissy and Poppy were sitting huddled in a blanket.
‘Tired, darling?’ Dissy asked, as she made room for her.
‘Mm, a little.’
Poppy chuckled. ‘You’ve surpassed yourself, Clo, old girl. I can’t think of anyone alive who could have mixed the classes as successfully as you have today. You’ll be the talk of the countryside for a long time to come – though I gather you’re the talk of the countryside already.’
Claudine smiled, and looked up as a rocket screamed loudly overhead, then exploded into a thousand stars. There was a loud chorus of approval, and as she lowered her eyes Claudine saw Armand strolling down over the meadow with his mother and the men from the village.
‘It was a shame François couldn’t be here,’ Dissy said. ‘He’d have been proud of the way you brought all this together.’
‘Do you think so?’ Claudine whispered. And as she rested her head on Dissy’s shoulder, there was nothing she could do to stop the tears of all the pain she harboured inside from flowing silently down her cheeks.
– 12 –
IT WAS APPROACHING two in the morning as the black Citröen glided smoothly over Chinon bridge, then turned and headed for the forest road leading to Lorvoire. In just over a week it would be Christmas. The rain was coming down in torrents, and the rising mewl of the wind was the only sound that could be heard above the monotonous scraping of the windscreen-wipers. François had left Heidelberg over twenty-four hours before, stopping only for gas and a bite to eat at an inn near Châlons, and now he was tired, unshaven and in a foul temper.
He had known of Hitler’s intention to annex Austria for over six months now, but the French government, true to form, were refusing to see what such a move could mean, not only for France but for the rest of Europe. Even the generals were dragging their heels – though that didn’t surprise him either, it merely infuriated him. Very few men in positions of power these days would allow themselves actually to believe that there would be another war – which meant that even Louis Rivet and Paul Paillole of the French Secret Service were unable to instill a sense of urgency into the Defence Ministry. Still, that was their problem. What concerned François now was his forthcoming trip to London.
His chance meeting with Lord Halifax, who had been in Berlin recently attempting to persuade Hitler not to help himself to the Sudetenland, had proved rather more profitable than his dealings with the French. Again, that didn’t surprise him. The British often were prepared to listen, and Halifax had now, via the British Embassy in Berlin, extended him an invitation to meet that old sparring partner of his father’s, Winston Churchill.
It wouldn’t be the first time François had met Churchill; they’d come across one another many times over the past five years, and François knew that while the old man grudgingly admired him for the way he acquired information, he was also offended by François’ continuing refusal to work solely for the British. The very idea, of course, was laughable – but François was in no mood for humour just at this moment. The British Ambassador in Berlin had superciliously informed him that he would not be welcome in London without documentary e
vidence to back up his claims – which was why he was returning to Lorvoire in the dead of night, to steal into his own home and take the relevant papers from his father’s safe.
Silently cursing, he swung the car into a clearing in the forest, just beyond the gates to the château. He had to have the documents. They included the minutes of a recent secret meeting between the Führer and his staff, which François had obtained in Berlin and sent to Lorvoire by courier; documents his father had obtained, and refused to give him, on the German Enigma coding machine – these would impress the British no end; and a detailed plan of the Maginot Line. This last would impress the Germans when next he returned to Berlin.
The rain was still beating down. Hunched into his voluminous black coat, he made his way stealthily through the forest to the bridge at the back of the château. It was more than two months since he’d last seen his family, he realized, but he’d been away much longer than that in the past – the only difference now was that his father would take a dim view of the way he was neglecting his wife.
The bunch of keys was already in his hand as he walked over the bridge and, selecting the one he wanted, let himself quietly in through the door. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then he removed his shoes and started across the landing. The door to Claudine’s bedroom was ajar. He hesitated, listened for a moment, then hearing the steady sound of her breathing, he walked on.
For such a big man he moved with surprising agility, stealing through the house as silently and smoothly as the distorted shadow he cast before him. He knew every nook and cranny of the château, every stair that creaked and every door that groaned. In no time at all he was slipping quietly into the drawing-room, closing the door behind him, then crossing to the library.
