Chateau Despair

by Red Rose Publishig

  I ask your forgiveness for that, Clothilde. I should have done more to establish the truth, but I pitied the comtesse and so I failed you.

  Now I must tell you something that grieves me terribly. Madame Fanchot’s husband buried your mother in the woods, because he would not pay for a funeral. It worried Madame Fanchot for years and she made a garden there, which I believe you know of. And she gave you a ring. It was the only thing of value your mother had when she died and Monsieur Fanchot stole it, but he never dared to sell it because he was afraid of what he had done. In the end he died and she gave the ring to you.

  She begged me to tell you one day and to put right the evil she had condoned, and this I have now done. Your mother’s remains are now buried in the churchyard, though I could not give her a name for I do not know it. Nor do I know if the ring had any significance, though Madame Fanchot believed that it must for your mother was ill and near to death and must surely have sold it had it not meant something to her.

  Perhaps you will visit me again one day. I should like to show you your mother’s grave, and to do what I can to make reparation for the wrong that has been done you. Had I not been ill I should have written to you before this, but I have only just arrived in Paris and learned that you were living with Madame Robards.

  Once again, I beg you to forgive me. May God bless and keep you, my child. Father Caillebotte.

  Clothilde’s hand was shaking as she folded her letter and put it away in her skirt pocket. She felt stunned, disbelieving, and yet a part of her had always suspected, had always sensed something about that garden. She recalled the sense of peace she had felt there, and the way it had comforted her to go there.

  “Maman…Oh, Maman. How you must have suffered…”

  She could imagine what had happened, how a woman close to her time, frightened and alone had given birth in the hut in the woods. Madame Fanchot must have found her. She had taken her home to care for her, but her husband had been angry and when the mother died he had ordered his wife to get rid of the child while he buried its dead mother.

  Madame Fanchot had taken the child to the church thinking that the priest would find her, and then she had gone to the woods and seen where her husband had buried the woman. Over the years she had returned to plant flowers and perhaps to say prayers for the woman’s soul – and then she had met Clothilde. She had known her at once. She had passed the care of the garden to her, and she had given her her mother’s ring – and when she died she had begged the priest to tell Clothilde the truth.

  The tears trickled down Clothilde’s cheeks and she wept as she had not wept in years.

  “Poor Maman…” she whispered. “It was such a cruel fate.”

  But who was the man who had deserted her mother, leaving her to die alone as she gave birth to his child? Clothilde had no way of knowing. A part of the mystery had been solved. She knew what had become of her mother, but she still did not know who her parents were, and she accepted that she probably never would.

  It did not matter. Clothilde’s tears had dried. She had wept for pity, for the pain her mother had suffered, not for herself. She dried her eyes and stood up.

  She would not dwell on the past. She must think of the future, of what she could do for France.

  Clothilde was invited to another party a week later. The same routine was followed, Captain Von Secker escorted her there and back. She danced with all the officers who asked her, and having begun to lose her fear of them was able to laugh freely and make intelligent conversation.

  Her more relaxed attitude was noticed, and Von Sturmbakker made a point of asking her to sit and talk to him for about twenty minutes, though he did not ask her to dance. She realized that he never danced with any of the women, many of whom were extremely lovely and charming. Instead, he liked to sit and drink, watching the proceedings with his cold eyes, an odd smile on his lips.

  Clothilde was finding that she enjoyed Kurt’s company, and when he asked her if she would dine alone with him one evening she agreed.

  “I should enjoy that, Kurt,” she said. “But are you sure it will not displease the major?”

  “He makes no stipulations,” Kurt replied. “All he requires is your company, Clothilde.”

  Clothilde nodded. The major reminded her of a malevolent spider sitting in his web waiting to pounce, and she still had a creeping sensation down her spine whenever he looked directly at her. She would almost have preferred it if he had demanded she sleep with him, at least she would have understood him then – as it was she was constantly wondering what he wanted from her.

  She had spent some time with the fat general, who told her his name was Fredrich, and liked to pat her knee constantly. She allowed him the familiarity, because she had discovered that he also liked to talk – about his importance, and his cleverness. And he liked to drink too much. Once again, he mentioned details of a convoy leaving Paris – but this time it was carrying munitions and other supplies.

  Clothilde smiled to herself as she accepted his offer of a dance. He was worth the slight nuisance he caused for the information he let slip – information that would find her in the confessional the following evening.

  It was spring again, the spring of 1941 and the iron grip of the invader was tightening, as the Vichy Government became ever more the puppet of its masters. Elsewhere, General Charles de Gaulle was keeping the flame of a Free France burning, but in Paris the Resistance went on secretly with many reprisals and executions.

  Clothilde sat with her head bent in prayer, waiting until the church was at last empty before slipping into the confessional box. Her news was worrying, because she was not sure if it was a trap meant for her.

  “I have sinned, Father.”

  “Confess your sin, my child.”

  “It concerns the Resistance and a traitor. The traitor is a woman but I do not know her name.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “She is much trusted by many in the Resistance, but she is about to betray her comrades.”

  “Do you know how or why?”

  “No – but there is a way I might learn more.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Perhaps. If I am suspected – it may be that the story is a lie and meant to trap me.”

  “Do you believe you are suspected?”

  “I do not know. A general has been sent home to Germany in disgrace for indiscreet behaviour. He drank too much at parties – and the Resistance has had prior knowledge of convoys, for which he was responsible. They say he may be shot.”

  “God have mercy on his soul.”

  “Amen.”

  “You must be careful.”

  “I think that perhaps I should not come here for a while. Besides, I may be going away. My…friend wishes me to go with him when he leaves Paris. He is being sent to a new posting.”

  “Your friend?”

  “He is a German officer, Father. He is my friend but he wishes to become my lover. It is from him that I learned this news.”

  “And yet you fear it may be a trap?”

  “Perhaps – with or without his knowledge.”

  “Perhaps it would be wiser to stay in Paris, my child.”

  “I was never wise, Father.”

  “You were always wilful and brave. Be careful, Clothilde.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then, “I am a little afraid. Will you hear my confession, Father?”

  “Of course, my child.”

  “I have been wilful and proud, and I have known carnal love without marriage.”

  “When the heart is good such sins are small in the eyes of a forgiving God. May God bless you and keep you safe, my child.”

  “I have done things which caused the death of men who were my enemies.”

  “In war these things must happen. God will forgive you for your motive was good.”

  “Am I to have no penance, Father?”

  “Ten Hail Mary’s will suffice in this case.”

  “Thank you
, Father.”

  “God be with you.”

  Clothilde’s eyes pricked with tears as she left the box and walked from the church. She did not notice the old woman sitting alone in the shadows.

  Andre was thoughtful as he left the church that evening, walking slowly back through the streets to his lodging house. He was not sure why Clothilde’s confession had disturbed him so deeply, having believed that he had conquered all his feelings for her years before.

  He had known what he must give up for his beliefs, and he had suppressed the urges of the flesh within himself, but there had been a time one evening years before when he had been tempted to turn away from his calling for the sake of a young woman.

  Since then the memory of her had returned to haunt his dreams, and there had been times of regret, but until that moment in the confessional when she had told him about her lovers, he had not realized that he could still feel the pain of denial so fiercely.

  He was jealous – jealous of the man who had known her in the way he never could, and he knew that his feelings for her were not merely lust. Had he not devoted himself to God, he would have loved Clothilde. Even now he was aware of wanting her…

  “Monsieur…”

  The voice broke into his thoughts, bringing him from dreams he knew to be sinful to a harsh awakening. As he looked into the face of the German officer and the soldiers accompanying him, he knew that Clothilde’s suspicions had been well founded.

  “Yes …what may I do for you?” he asked, his head lifting meeting the eyes of the other man fearlessly.

  “We have a few questions to ask you, Father. It is respectfully requested that you accompany us now.”

  Andre bowed his head. There was no possibility of escape for he had not been aware of them until it was too late. He knew instinctively what was waiting for him, and he prayed for strength. He must not betray those who trusted him…

  “Are you sure this is sensible, Clothilde?” Madame Robards asked as they took a glass of wine together that evening. “Attending a few parties is one thing – but living amongst Germans is another. It could be dangerous for you.”

  “Kurt says it is only for a few weeks. Major Von Sturmbakker has been assigned to this new post for a particular reason, though I have not been told what that is, of course – and Kurt has to go with him. He wants me to accompany him. I hesitated at first, but I think I must go – I think there is no choice.”

  “But he will expect…” Madame Robards looked at her. “Will he not expect you to become his mistress?”

  “Yes.” Clothilde looked her in the eyes. “If the story is true many lives may be lost, madame. Do you think it wicked in me to be prepared to sleep with a man to save lives?”

  “I shall not judge you, Clothilde, but others may. You will be hated, reviled – and when the war is over…”

  “I accept what must be.”

  “It will be difficult to manage here without you, Clothilde. They all ask for you to show the clothes. I sometimes think they come only because of you.”

  “I promise I shall return as soon as possible.”

  Did Kurt really know what was going on – or was he as much a dupe of someone else’s machinations as her? She suspected that Von Sturmbakker was behind this, whatever it was, but she could not be sure and the uncertainty frightened her.

  Kurt appeared to be genuinely fond of her, but she could not be certain that he too was not playing a game. He had spoken of caring for her deeply, of wanting to spend the future with her, but he was after all a German officer and she was a French woman who had used their association to pass on information. She knew that German lives had been lost in attacks on them by the Resistance because of what she had done, but other lives – French and British – had perhaps been saved.

  “You must do what you feel right,” Madame Robards said and leaned across the table to press Clothilde’s hand. “I shall ask no more questions. It is better not to know.”

  “Much better,” Clothilde agreed. “I have told Kurt that I shall go with him, but for no more than three weeks, then I shall return to Paris – unless prevented.”

  Madame Robard’s hand trembled a little as she held Clothilde’s. “You will take care, my dear? You know how fond I have become of you.”

  Clothilde smiled. “Do not be concerned for me. Do they not say that the Devil looks after his own? I am too wicked to die young, madame. Besides, I shall be very careful.”

  Madame Robards crossed herself hastily. “You always jest, but you should not tempt fate!”

  “What will be will be,” Clothilde murmured with a fatalistic lift of her shoulders. “But if something should happen…if you should hear ill of me…”

  “I should know it was a lie.”

  “Thank you.” Clothilde stood up. “Now I should get ready. Kurt is taking me to supper this evening. It will be our last night in Paris together. Tomorrow he is working, and the next day we leave…”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have not been told that. I know only that it is a chateau somewhere in the country that has been taken over as a headquarters for a special unit – a unit with a particular mission.”

  That mission was as far as Clothilde could gather to root out the Resistance wherever it flourished. For this she believed was Major Von Sturmbakker's job. She had wondered for a long time what role he had in mind for her, for she was almost certain that she had been selected for something in particular right from the start.

  Clothilde was not sure what was going on. She only knew that for the first time in years an inner sense was telling her that she was in danger.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Penhallows 1945

  Simon’s funeral was to be held in London. Christine asked his mother whether she minded her attending.

  “Of course you are welcome – if it’s what you want, Christine?” Caro saw the dark shadows under her eyes and suddenly hugged her. “You’re not blaming yourself because you two had a silly little quarrel? But I can see that you are! You mustn’t, my dear. Simon’s death was an unfortunate accident. He should have had the car seen to. Rupert would have paid, but…” Caro smothered a sob. “He was always so proud, wanted to do things himself.”

  “It’s such a terrible waste. After all he’d been through…”

  “Yes, we all feel that,” Caro said and squeezed her hand. “Simon hadn’t been himself recently. He told Rupert that he couldn’t help wondering why he was alive when so many of his friends had been killed.”

  “I can understand that he might have felt guilty, mixed up inside. He had nightmares, didn’t he?”

  Caro’s eyes were bright with the tears she was resolutely refusing to shed. “Yes, I knew he had his nightmares, but he was handling them better than we might have expected, Christine. My son may have been many things, but he wasn’t a coward. I am perfectly certain that it was simply an accident. “

  “Yes, I am sure it was.”

  Christine wandered out of the house, wishing that her brother was still at home so that she could talk to him, but Harry had received an urgent call to return to base two days after her dance, his leave prematurely cancelled. He hugged her as they parted, giving her some brotherly advice about keeping her chin up and promising to write.

  “Simon was a damned idiot to drive his car with brakes in that condition. He must have known they weren’t safe.”

  “He told me he was going to get it seen to as soon as he could afford it.”

  “It makes me angry to think that you might have been with him,” Harry said. “I feel wretched over what happened – but I would never have forgiven him if it had been you, Christine.”

  “Oh, Harry, I do love you,” she told him with misty eyes. “Promise me you will take care of yourself, Harry.”

  “You know what they say – a bad penny always turns up.”

  Finding her way to her favourite spot in the rose gardens, Christine sat down on the bench and thought about the past few days.
It had all seemed to happen so quickly that she hardly knew what she felt. The quarrel with Simon, the change in her feelings, and then the tragedy of Simon’s death had left her shocked and confused. All she knew was that she felt as if she wanted to cry the whole time.

  “I thought I might find you here.”

  She turned her head as Freddie came up to her. He had cancelled several appointments to stay at Penhallows for a few days, and had been very kind and understanding.

  “Hello, Freddie. Yes, I often come here.”

  “May I sit down?”

  “Yes, of course. I was just feeling a bit low and wishing that Harry hadn’t had to rush off.”

  “Yes, it’s natural that you should. This has been a terrible shock for you. I believe you were quite fond of Simon?”

  “We’d known each other all our lives. I loved him…” She raised her head. “For a long time I thought I wanted to marry him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. He had changed – perhaps I’ve changed, grown up.”

  Freddie nodded. “Now you feel wretched because you didn’t love him after all I suppose?”

  “Yes, something like that,” she admitted. “Am I an awful fool, Freddie?”

  “I think you are a very special young woman,” Freddie assured her. “Why do you think I decided to stay on for a few days if not to be here if you needed me?”

  “I’m sure you shouldn’t have stayed.” It was warm and peaceful, the scents of lavender and roses filling the air as bees busily collected nectar from a profusion of flowers. “You must have more important things to do.”

  “Nothing is more important to me at this moment, Christine. You must be aware that I am becoming increasingly fond of you, my dear?”

  “Yes…” She blushed. “I mean I’m very fond of you, Freddie. You have been so kind to me.”

  “We are friends. For the moment that is all we could or should be. In a few months - who knows?” He offered a look of affection and understanding. “I shall never press for something that might make you unhappy, Christine. I value your friendship too much to lose it.”