by Susan Lewis
He left the sentence unfinished, and they sat for a long time, thinking their own thoughts. Then François reached over and took her hand. ‘I have a surprise for you,’ he said quietly. ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘A surprise?’ Claudine said, intrigued. ‘Yes, of course I’d love to see it!’
‘I think it’s downstairs. I’ll just go and get it for you.’
A few moments later, she heard footsteps crossing the sitting-room to her bedroom door. Then the door opened.
‘Papa!’ she cried ‘Papa! What are you doing here? Oh Papa, if only you knew how pleased I am to see you!’
‘Not half as pleased as I am to see you,’ he answered, holding her tight. He looked searchingly into her face. ‘Was it very bad chérie?’
The surprise and joy of seeing him had unsettled her, so that for a moment she was on the verge of tears. ‘Terrible!’ she said, with a lop-sided grin. Then she kissed him again, to hide her distress, and said, ‘But you, Papa, how did you get here?’
‘Céline got me here,’ he said, grinning.
‘Tante Céline?’
‘She managed to get a message to me in London. Used one of your Resistance operators to do it. It took me a couple of days to organize things, but I parachuted in the night before last. Etvoilá, here I am!’ He saw no point in bothering her with details of the difficulties he had had to overcome, and the loud disapproval of his colleagues in Whitehall. ‘So what’s been happening here?’
‘Oh Papa,’ Claudine sighed, ‘I hardly know where to begin. But this afternoon, after I’ve seen Solange and Tante Céline, and we’re all a bit calmer, François wants me to sit down with him and see if we can work out what’s the best thing for us to do. I’m sure he will want you there too, and then we can tell you everything, and perhaps you can help. You are here to help, Papa, aren’t you?’ she said, giving him another hug. ‘That’s why Tante Céline sent for you, isn’t it? Or no,’ she looked at him with a sudden glint of mischief in her eyes, ‘perhaps it was just that she couldn’t stand being without you any longer!’
She watched delightedly as her father’s normally calm and dignified face came as near as it could to looking embarrassed. He cleared his throat loudly, but when she caught his eye she saw that he was smiling.
‘Oh Papa,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Something personal. May I?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Are you … you and François, are you happy?’
Despite the bruises on her face the smile she gave him was so radiant that he could almost feel the warmth of it – and felt the secret knot of doubt that had tormented him since the day he first brought his daughter to Lorvoire, begin to unravel. It was clear, from what conversation he had had with his son-in-law over the last twenty-four hours, that François loved Claudine with extraordinary depth and intensity, but Beavis had wanted to make sure for himself that his daughter returned that love. Now, there could be no doubt of it, and though he was not a religious man he found himself sending up a silent prayer of thanks to God that he had done the right thing in bringing them together.
Later that afternoon, Claudine, François and Beavis sat down in the library.
Of course, Beavis knew through his Intelligence contacts a great deal of what was happening now in France, but he did not know precisely how François stood with von Liebermann and the Abwehr, and the Halunke situation was entirely new to him. He sat and listened while François filled him in, his face growing steadily more grave.
‘So that’s how things are at the moment,’ François finished. ‘I’m no more use to the Abwehr as a spy, and von Liebermann knows it. In fact, I suspect he’s got an execution order on me from Himmler in his pocket now. But he wants us alive, and available for Halunke. That’s why he ordered Claudine’s release, and that’s why he’s making me useful round here, with the Jews. What he really wants is to see his iniquitous little game with Halunke played out to the end. He wants to be in at the kill.’
There was a heavy silence in the room. ‘And Halunke himself?’ Beavis said, not using Lucien’s name in order to spare François’ feelings. ‘Is there any news of him?’
François shook his head. ‘He’s out there somewhere, watching and waiting. Biding his time.’ He turned to Claudine. ‘I hope you meant it when you said you don’t intend to disobey me again, chérie, because I want you never to leave the Château alone, and preferably not without me. Is that understood?’
‘Understood,’ she said, giving him a mock salute. But her face was serious.
‘So the question is,’ Beavis said, ‘what do we do now?’
There was another long silence. Then François said, ‘There is one step I’ve taken already. I’ve asked Bertrand Raffault to see if he can arrange to get Claudine and Louis, and possibly Solange and Céline too, across to England – perhaps in a boat out of Nantes.’ He looked at Claudine waiting for her response. She returned the look steadily, then to his relief, she got up from her chair and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘It’s all right, François,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to argue. Only …’ she looked at him ‘… will you be coming too?’
François put his hand over hers. ‘We’ll talk about that later, chérie,’ he said, looking back at her.
‘But in the meantime, what else can we do to protect you?’ Beavis said.
After a long moment, François shook his head. ‘I think we can only go on as we are. Lie low, not attract attention, not run unnecessary risks – no more Resistance activity, Claudine, not of any kind.’
‘How soon will it be before Bertrand contacts you?’ Beavis asked.
‘I don’t know,’ François answered, ‘but I hope to God it’s not long.’
Somehow the days of waiting passed. At the château, the family went about their daily tasks mostly in silence, none of them wanting to burden the others with their inner fears and anxieties. During the day François was at the Château d’Artigny, or at Camp Ruchard where the Jews were held before being transported to Beaune-la-Rolande. He came home in the evening depressed beyond words by the gruesome tasks he was required to perform, but his day didn’t end there, and though Claudine begged and pleaded with him not to, he went out into the forest in the hope of finding Lucien. But there was not a sign of him, and the gendarmes, who were hunting him for Estelle’s murder, had drawn a blank too.
Claudine herself spent much of the time trying to fight the debilitating depression that came over her every time she thought of Armand. She did everything she could to fill her days, keeping herself so busy that there wasn’t time to think, for the guilt was always there, ready to pounce every time she stopped. She had let him die, a man whose only crime was to love and protect her. Despite François’ assurances she knew she would never forgive herself, never! It didn’t matter that she had been a weapon in Halunke’s – Lucien’s – grotesque bid for revenge. There was no excuse, no forgiveness. Armand was dead. Sometimes she woke in the night, sweat pouring from her skin and the deathly echo of gunfire still sounding in her mind. François was always there to hold her until she slept again, but she hated inflicting her suffering on him when his own was beyond anything she could begin to imagine.
But worse, perhaps, even than this, was the fear they both shared: that Lucien would strike again before she, and the rest of the family, could be got from the country.
One evening, François and Claudine were sitting reading in the family room. It was still early, but Solange and Céline, and even Beavis, had gone to bed soon after dinner; hard as they all tried, an evening’s light-hearted conversation was beyond them. Claudine was idly turning over the pages of a magazine – a fashion magazine from the old days, before the war – how strange and silly it seemed now! – when she thought she heard a knock on the door.
‘Did you hear anything, François?’ she said, half-rising from her chair. ‘I thought …’
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br /> Immediately, he was up and out of his chair and striding across the room. These days, any strange noise, any unexpected happening was cause for instant alarm, and sensing the fear in his reaction, she rose too.
François flung open the door, and a woman almost fell into the room – a middle-aged woman, her grey hair in disorder and her face drawn with anxiety. ‘Oh, monsieur!’ she said, ‘I am so glad I have found you. I have travelled across country from Montbazon, it has not been easy, and then I could not get into the château. Your servants are all gone, no doubt, because of the war, and your doors are very well secured – but the Alligator is not so easily defeated, and at last I found a window that would let me in …’ She smiled, but it was a weak, half-hearted smile, and when the woman looked up at François, Claudine could see that her eyes were full of grief and pain. ‘I could not telephone, you see, monsieur,’ the woman went on. ‘Such news has to be given in person.’
‘Who is this?’ Claudine said quietly to François. She saw that his face was dark with anxiety.
‘This is Madame Béatrice Baptiste,’ François said. ‘Élise’s “nursemaid”, formerly known to the Secret Service as the Alligator. Béatrice, this is my wife, Claudine.’
Claudine took Béatrice’s hand and led her over to the sofa. ‘Haven’t we any brandy left, François?’ she said. ‘Madame Baptiste has come a long way, and …’
‘Oh, monsieur, madame,’ said Béatrice, looking from one to the other and unable to contain her distress any longer. ‘I am so sorry. I am so sorry to be the bearer of such tidings, but I have to tell you. Élise is dead, monsieur! Élise Pascale is dead.’
There was a long and terrible silence, until at last François said heavily, ‘Tell us how it happened.’
Gathering herself together, Béatrice began to tell them. Watching her, Claudine could see how deeply Élise’s death had affected her; there was no doubt that Béatrice had loved and cared for her, and as she listened to the tragic story Claudine’s heart was full of pity for them both.
‘It was at a café in Montbazon, Monsieur,’ Béatrice said, addressing herself chiefly to François. ‘A café that the Germans frequented – that Blomberg, and others. I did not like to take her there, monsieur, but the soldiers had not come to the house since she got worse, and she missed them so much. So I took her to the café …’
‘She had got worse?’ François said sharply.
‘Yes, monsieur, there had been more convulsions, and the soldiers witnessed one of them. She was definitely deteriorating. I sometimes wondered, you know, if she was deliberately withdrawing into a shell of madness, unable to face her life the way it was, her inadequacies, her disfigured body – her insatiable hunger for you, monsieur. Perhaps it was the only way she could mask the horror of all she had lost. There were still moments of lucidity, you know, when she would speak rationally and her eyes would reflect all the pain she felt inside, but they were becoming fewer and fewer.’
Béatrice paused. ‘You know what she said to me only the night before, monsieur? She said, “I want to die, Béatrice. Please let me die. Let me go to a place where I can be rid of this torment. There’s nothing anyone can do to help me now, not even François. I know he tries, but it hurts him to see me, as much as it hurts me.” It was truly pitiful, monsieur. “Only God has the answer for me now,” she said. “Let me go to Him. Please Béatrice, help me to go to him.”’
She stopped to wipe away her tears, and they were all quiet then, feeling Élise’s tragedy strike at their hearts – the tragedy of her life, and of her death.
At last Béatrice continued. ‘Blomberg was there at the café and two of his officers. They were not really interested in Élise, monsieur. She batted her eyelids at them, tried to whisper in their ears, but they shoved her away so that she almost fell from her chair. She just laughed, you know, as if it was some kind of joke. She seemed so lost sometimes, monsieur, so uncertain, so lonely …’
Again, Béatrice was overcome, and Claudine’s heart swelled with pity for her.
‘Then,’ Béatrice said, ‘Blomberg started talking about you, madame.’ She looked at Claudine. ‘Forgive me, madame, but he said such dreadful things. About how he had whipped you, and …’ she looked at François unsure whether to continue.
‘It’s all right,’ Claudine said quietly. ‘Go on.’
‘Élise loved what Blomberg was saying. She bounced in her chair, and applauded and wanted to hear more, and of course the Germans roared with laughter at that, and Élise laughed too.
‘Anyway,’ Béatrice went on, ‘after about an hour, I went to the lavatory, and when I came out, Jean, the proprietor, was waiting for me in the corridor. I had noticed at the beginning that he didn’t give us our usual welcome, monsieur. He is a man of few words, and slow-witted, but usually he was eager to serve us and cold with the Germans, and today it was the other way round. And when I came out of the lavatory he was there in the corridor, and he said, “You must get Élise out of here now!” “Why, what is it, Jean?” I asked. He was ashen-faced and trembling. “Madame,” he said, “it is the Resistance. They are coming here! You must get Élise away, immediately, but you must not alert the Boches …”
‘Well, monsieur, as you can imagine I started back to our table at once. But even before I could reach it, the firing had started, monsieur. Even before I could reach it …’
Claudine and François waited, imagining only too easily the horrific scene inside the café, the deafening noise as machine-gun bullets drove into walls and tables, the screams, the blood, the splintered glass …
Béatrice’s mouth was trembling, so that she could hardly get the words out. ‘When it was over,’ she said carefully, ‘I got up off the floor and looked for Élise. She was not hard to find, monsieur. She was lying on the floor, beside Blomberg’s table. She was covered in blood, there was no doubt that she was dead. And the bodies of Blomberg and his friends were sagging over her in their chairs, monsieur, like … like …’ She shivered, ‘Like puppets. Grisly, abandoned puppets.’
She looked up at them, and now the tears were coursing shamelessly down her cheeks. ‘It was terrible. I made the sign of the cross over her, monsieur. And you know, I cannot help thinking that maybe it is better this way. Maybe now God will take away the pain and the torment and give her peace. And I shall pray every day,’ she said, in a voice so quiet now that it was almost inaudible, ‘that He loves her enough to forgive her. Do you think he will, monsieur? Do you think he will?’
François did his best to comfort her and much later that night, after they had made up a bed for Béatrice in the west wing, he and Claudine sat together on the sofa in their sitting-room.
‘I was thinking,’ Claudine said, as François stroked her hair. ‘I know that in your own way you cared a great deal for Élise, so perhaps she should be buried at Lorvoire, in a family plot. I think she would have liked that.’
‘Claudine,’ he said gruffly, ‘I love you so much that I …’ But his voice was too full of emotion to continue.
The next day, a message came through from Bertrand. He could arrange passage to England, from Nantes, for three. Within the next couple of days they were to expect a messenger who would tell them where to rendezvous for the trip across country.
They decided that the passengers would be Claudine, Louis and Solange. Céline was under no threat from the Germans, and Beavis said that, of all of them, he was the one best equipped with the knowledge and experience to enable him to get out of France on his own. François would not go; Claudine had known that from the beginning. But he had promised her that he would go into hiding as soon as she left, and she had to be content with that.
They had another piece of news that day, too. Though François had not seen them at Camp Ruchard, they heard that Gertrude Reinberg and her two children had been arrested. They had been hiding out in the deserted château of Montvisse, and Florence Jallais had betrayed them to the Gestapo.
That night, knowing that it might be
their last night together, Claudine’s heart felt close to breaking, and when François made love to her there was a tenderness and passion in it that they had never known before. Afterwards, they lay silently together, holding one another close; there were no words to say what they felt – their bodies had spoken for them.
Just before noon three days later without knocking, Corinne burst into Claudine’s sitting-room. ‘Madame, the messenger has come!’
‘The messenger? From Bertrand? Where is he?’
‘He could not stay, madame. He came over the bridge, and he has already gone back again into the forest. But he says the rendezvous with Bertrand’s guide is in the big barn opposite the château of Rigny-Ussé. The barn is deserted now, and you and Louis are to go there as soon as you can. Madame Solange is to follow before nightfall – you are to go separately, you understand, so that you do not arouse suspicion.’
Claudine nodded, her thoughts in a whirl. She would go on Solange’s bike, that would be the easiest thing, with Louis in the passenger-box.
‘Corinne,’ she said, ‘do you think Solange can ride my bicycle?’
‘What? Oh yes,’ Corinne said, rapidly realizing how her mind was working. ‘Yes, I’m sure she can.’
‘Good. Then we must hurry. There’s no time to lose.’
Half an hour later, having said an emotional farewell to Tante Céline, Beavis and Corinne, Claudine helped a delighted Louis into the passenger-box of Solange’s bicycle, and began to pedal off down the drive. All she could think of was when, dear God, when, would she see François again?
She was already out of sight by the time Lucien let himself into the château.
– 33 –
CLAUDINE WAS LOOKING at her son. His child’s body was dwarfed by the powerful arm holding him from shoulder to groin, and his face was frighteningly pale, making his eyes seem wider and blacker than ever. The long lashes were beaded with tears and his chin wobbled with the effort of holding them back. His hair needed cutting, she thought, noticing the way his curls fell haphazardly over his forehead, and really she should wipe his nose. Then a fat tear dropped onto his cheek, and it was as though a terrible fist of fear had smashed through the irrelevance of her thoughts, forcing her once again to confront the horrifying reality of what was happening to them. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the gun pointing at his delicate little face a moment longer.
