‘Out of chaos will come order. Under National Socialism we shall re-establish the ideal of the Family and reorganise our industrial resources so that the greatest good comes to the greatest number. For a time France must know the weight of a captive’s chains in order that she may know how to utilise her freedom when she regains it once more. The people may suffer bitterness, humiliation, misery, but these things will pass, and when the time is ripe a new France will arise, reborn from the ashes of the old—a France clean in mind, strong in spirit and conscious of her glorious destiny.
‘It is for this that I have lied and tricked and soiled my hands with blood, but you know that I speak the truth and you dare not call me a traitor now.’
For a moment Gregory did not reply. Her torrent of words had come crashing on to his brain, revealing her to be an utterly different personality from what he had thought her. Right or wrong, according to her own lights this small dark woman was a great patriot.
He knew that what she had said of the Entente Cordiale being an unnatural alliance was true. He knew that what she had said of the degeneracy of French society was true. He knew that any German occupation of France could not last indefinitely; and, however appalling it might sound, the Baroness’s plan was, perhaps, the one and only way of restoring health and a new vitality to the moribund French nation. Yet he also knew that she had made one vital miscalculation.
‘Do you realise,’ he asked, ‘that your vision of a new France will remain only a vision unless Hitler can secure Peace? For without Peace it will be impossible for him to reorganise Europe.’
She shrugged. ‘With Hitler as master of Europe from northern Norway to the Pyrenees, Britain will not be able to carry on the war alone.’
Gregory shook his head. ‘You’re wrong there. Every man, woman and child in Britain knows that we dare not make a patched-up peace. Now that the war is on we are determined to fight it to a finish, because if we gave Hitler even a few months’ breathing-space we should be completely at his mercy later on. You’re much too clever a woman, Baroness, not to realise the truth of that.’
She shrugged again. ‘Yes. You may fight on for a little, but what chance have you got? With the whole coast of France in his hands Hitler will be able to wear you down with intensive bombings until you are so weak that you will not be able to resist an invasion.’
‘No, Baroness; there you’re wrong again. He can bomb our cities but we shall stand up to the bombing somehow, even if we have to live in holes in the ground; and as long as the British Navy is paramount upon the seas he will never be able to land an invading force of sufficient strength to quell us. No threats, no terror, will be great enough to break the heart of Britain. And the worse things get the more determined we shall become to see matters through.’
As she stared at him he went on, speaking out of an unshakable conviction that radiated from him. I do not seek to belittle the gallantry of your people when I remind you that great areas of France have been conquered many times by the English and the Spaniards as well as by the Germans, and this would not be the first time if France is now compelled to accept the humiliation of a complete surrender; but in all their long history my people have never been conquered and have never surrendered. We broke the might of Spain; we fought your own King, Louis XIV, to a standstill. A Dutch fleet once entered the Thames, but we threw the Dutch out of the New World and broke their Sea Power for ever. Even when Britain stood alone against Napoleon she did not despair; she fought on until a British frigate took the former master of Europe into lonely exile.’
For the first time he saw a shadow of doubt enter the Baroness’s dark eyes even as she protested. ‘But this time it will be different. The English are effete; they’ve been pampered too long. They ran at Dunkirk. They’ll give in—they’ll give in.’
He smiled then, and he did not mean his smile to be patronsing, but there was something in it which drives all foreigners into a frenzy.
‘Oh, no, they won’t,’ he said quietly. ‘As a race we haven’t altered, You mustn’t allow yourself to be misled by what happened in Norway and Belgium. We’re born niuddkrs, and in every war it takes us a little time to find our feet. You see, we’re not like Continental countries; we’re not organised for war, so our peace-time leaders are never any good when it comes to a scrap. But sooner or later we sift out the people at the top and things begin to happen. Last time we had Asquith, but he was replaced by Lloyd George, who, whatever may be said against him, was a great war leader. This time we had Chamberlain, but now Churchill has taken his place, and later on among the younger men we’ll find some real live Generals.’
‘Churchill!’ she cried bitterly, ‘Yes; he would still wish to fight if London were in ruins. But the people are not of the same metal; they’ll revolt, throw Churchill overboard and sue for peace.’
‘Don’t you believe it!’ His smile became a pitying grin. ‘Churchill is England. He typifies the spirit of the Empire more than any other living man. He is what all of us would like to be, and ninety-nine per cent, of us are ready to fight with him to the last ditch. Yet even if a bomb or a bullet robbed us of him it would make no difference to the final outcome of the war, because other leaders would arise and we should fight on just the same. It was your own Napoleon who said that the British don’t know when they’re beaten; and that’s the truth. It will be a long, hard road, but in the end the triumph of Britain is as certain as the rising of tomorrow’s sun.’
‘I don’t believe it.’ She nervously clasped and unclasped her hands, now openly doubting, but striving to resist any acceptance of the belief that he was forcing home on her.
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he contradicted her. ‘We’ve won the last battle in every war. That may be a cliché, but ifs a fact; and it’s going to be just the same this time. That is where you have made a terrible miscalculation, and, if you think for a moment, you will see how by Britain’s refusal to accept a patched-up peace all your dreams must fall to pieces. Hitler may make himself lord of Europe; Goering may send his bombers to destroy our homes; Goebbels may lie and rage and threaten; but all the time the Blockade will go on, and sooner or later the Nazis will not know which way to turn for war materials and food. Then all those who have aided Hitler, and millions of innocent people as well, must pay the price of his damnable ambitions. And as long as France is Hitler’s vassal she, too, must pay.’
‘Stop!’ cried the Baroness. ‘Stop! I will not listen.’ But he went on to point the moral with inexorable, relentless logic.
‘Even if the Nazis destroyed our air-ports and our factories we should still fight on from Canada; and the United States are behind us now. All the vast resources of that great Democracy will be placed at our disposal to help us smash the Nazis. Our Navy and Air Force will render your ports useless for years to come; the shipping in them must lie idle because you will be cut off from your colonies and your world markets. Every industry in France will be ruined through lack of fuel and raw materials, and the machinery in your factories will rust. Your great Army will have to be disbanded, but there will be no work for the men to do. By next winter you will have ten million unemployed. Your herds and your livestock will die because there will not be enough cattle-food to feed them. To keep their own people from revolt the Germans will be forced to seize the bulk of your agricultural produce. The spectre of famine will enter every home from Calais to Marseilles, and disease will take its terrible toll from Strasbourg to Biarritz. There will be riots and street-fighting in the towns and cities; the starving crowds will wreck the food trains which are taking your crops into Germany and they will murder the Nazi officials who are set over them. Then there will be ghastly reprisals—huge fines—and your most spirited young men—those who should be your leaders of tomorrow—will be shot in batches against the wall of your German-occupied barracks. Whole towns may be given over to destruction in a ruthless attempt to keep you under, and the country will fall into the same state of lawlessness that made life so terrible
in the Middle Ages. Bands of desperate, hungry men will roam the country, breaking into houses, killing people who oppose them and torturing others in the hope that they will give away the hiding-places of secret stores of food. The very children upon whom you are counting to grow up as the citizens of the new France that you have planned will die in their cradles, or only reach maturity warped in mind from the horrors that they have witnessed and crippled in body from malnutrition. That, Madame la Baronne, is what you will have done to France.’
She cowered away from him, her scarlet mouth a little open, her black eyes wide, then she whispered: ‘This is a ghastly picture that you paint, Monsieur.’
‘Yet it is true,’ Gregory insisted. ‘All that I have said is absolutely inevitable if Britain fights on—and Britain will fight on.’
Suddenly her red mouth twitched and she cried: ‘I hate you—I hate you! Never before have I been shaken in my belief, but you have made me doubt, and if I am wrong I deserve to die.’
Gregory put up his pistol and shook his head. ‘No. I’m not going to shoot you now. Whatever you may have done in the past, you have convinced me today that you did it believing that it was for the good of your country. I only wish, though, that we had talked together months ago, because I believe that I could have shown you that you were wrong and persuaded you to use your great powers for good instead of ill; but it’s too late now.’
‘Too late,’ she repeated. Then a new expression suddenly lit her dark eyes. ‘I wonder. The military situation in France is now beyond repair, but if France could be kept in the war the Fleet could be saved—and the colonies.’
In a flash Gregory saw that he had achieved the seemingly impossible. The swift, cold brain of this extraordinary woman had not only analysed and accepted his arguments but had gone on to estimate future possibilities in the light of a new conviction. Without any telling she had grasped the fact that, although France was lost, if Britain fought on the only hope of saving her country from the horrors he had pictured lay in aiding Britain to smash Hitler as rapidly as possible so that France might be freed again before she fell into a state of anarchy.
Starting forward, he seized her by the arm. ‘If there is the faintest hope still remaining we mustn’t lose an instant.’
‘Let me think,’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s getting on for four o’clock.’
‘Four. Then Reynaud is overdue; he should have been here half an hour ago.’
‘Here?’ Gregory exclaimed. ‘But the Government is still in Bordeaux. Surely he would never leave it at a time like this?’
‘You don’t understand,’ she cried impatiently. ‘It was part of the plan that he should resign and hand over to Pétain. He’s been fighting against it for days but we’ve all been at him, and before I left Bordeaux yesterday his resignation had been assured.’
‘Then, if he’s no longer in power it’s too late for him to do anything.’
‘Not necessarily. Paul’s instinct has always been to fight to the last ditch. I have only to say the word to him in order to reanimate him with the fighting spirit once again. When he arrives I could go with him to the local post-office, where we could get a priority call through to Bordeaux. If he could get in touch with de Gaulle and Mandel and the other leaders of the war party he could summon them to join him in Avignon. They could render the new Bordeaux Cabinet still-born by denouncing Petain as a usurper, or at least proclaim an Independent Government from there, which would have Britain and at least half France behind it.’
Before Gregory had time to reply they both caught the sound of a motor horn, and ran to the window. One glance at the small, solitary figure getting out of the dust-covered car that had driven up in front of the house was enough for Gregory to recognise Paul Reynaud.
‘Stand back,’ said the Baroness quickly. ‘Leave this to me. Your presence will only complicate matters.’
As Gregory stepped behind the curtains he heard Reynaud’s voice calling up to the Baroness. ‘It is finished. I resigned at eleven-thirty this morning and Pétain is forming a new Cabinet with Weygand as Vice-President. I took a plane to Toulon and hired a car from there. Thank God it is over!’
‘Wait, Paul!’ the Baroness called back. ‘Don’t come into the house—I am coming out to you. I have much to tell you but we can talk as we go. You must drive me down to the post-office at once.’
Turning from the window she said to Gregory: ‘Stay where you are. Poor fellow, he looks so tired that he will be as putty in my hands. We may not be back for an hour or more, but wait here.’
She was already at the door before she had finished speaking and next moment she was running from the house. For a few minutes Gregory remained deep in thought, trying to assess the new possibilities which had arisen from that extraordinary interchange of views that had taken place between himself and the Baroness. Then he lit a cigarette and stepped out from behind the curtains. To his surprise he saw that Reynaud’s car was still outside the house yet he could have sworn that he had heard it drive off. Next second he noticed that the rear off-wheel of Reynaud’s car was deflated. He must have had a puncture and driven the last few miles on a flat tyre. Thrusting his head out of the window Gregory saw another car streaking down the hill. They had taken Grauber’s.
‘Step! Stop!’ he veiled at the top of his voice. ‘For God’s sake stop!’ But at that very moment the steering-gear with which he had tampered gave way. The car suddenly swerved across the road. With a horrid clang of iron on brick and the sound of shattered glass it charged straight into the wall of a villa at the bottom of the hill.
Swinging round, Gregory dashed out of the house and ran at the top of his speed down the slope. When he reached the villa its occupants had already come out and were lifting two bleeding bodies from the wreckage. Reynaud was badly cut about the head and face, and unconscious but still alive. The little Black Baroness was dead.
After he had given what help he could he sadly retraced his steps. There would be no new fighting Government of France proclaimed from Avignon now.
• • • • •
When he reached Les Roches the villa was still silent and apparently deserted. The servants were in the far wing of the house and none of them put in an appearance while Gregory was carrying the steel deed-boxes and other things round to the van. At twenty to five he set off on his long journey back to Bordeaux.
The whole of that lovely south coast of France which had been a joy to so many million holiday-makers was now a terrible spectacle. There had always been little camps, with girls in beach-pyjamas and men in coloured shirts. Now the camps stretched through every wood adjacent to the beaches; but there were no beach-pyjamas and no gaily-coloured shirts. Five million homeless and foodless people had streamed into the area. They had reached the sea and they could go no further. The sun would warm them, but how they were to live and how many would survive the dark future no man could say.
But Gregory had no leisure now to speculate upon the awful fate that La Baronne Noire had brought upon her country and he had eyes only for the road ahead. Between ten to five and seven o’clock, when the post-offices shut, he made six halts at different points along his route and from each he sent a telegram, with the same message, to Sir Pellinore:
‘GIVE ME UNTIL MIDDAY TOMORROW IF YOU POSSIBLY CAN.’
In the south and west communications had not been interrupted, apart from the congestion of the lines, and he could only hope that one of his wires might get through to Sir Pellinore before he left Bordeaux that night.
After that he made only two other stops, at Montpelier and Cahors, to fill up with petrol and to snatch a cup of coffee from a wayside buffet. All through the evening, all through the night, all through the early hours of the Monday morning, he drove on and on, crouched over his wheel, eating up the miles that lay between him and the Atlantic coast. If it had not been for the powerful Mercédès-Benz engine hidden beneath the bonnet of the van he could
never have done it, but he pulled up in front of the Hotel Julius Caesar at twenty-five minutes to twelve.
Sir Pellinore was standing there on the steps, smoking a big cigar, in the bright sunshine. Beside him were two suitcases. The moment he saw Gregory he picked up the bags, ran down the steps and scrambled up beside him.
Gregory grinned wearily. ‘So my telegrams got through?’
‘Yes. I had two from you last night, and two more came in this morning. But we’ve got to get out of this place before it becomes too hot to hold us; we’re in enemy territory now. Off you go! Straight to the docks. I’ll direct you.’
As they drove through the streets Sir Pellinore gave Gregory the last grim bulletin. It was the seventeenth of June and the thirteenth day of the battle for France. The Army had collapsed and was now falling back in every sector, from its easternmost positions, near Dijon, to the sea. The last great German strategic operation, initiated five days before, had proved overwhelmingly successful. Hitler’s iron columns had battered their way east, from Saint Dizier, through Chaumont, across the Plateau de Langres, to Gray and Besançon, on the Swiss frontier, thereby cutting the entire Maginot Line off from Central France. That morning Marshal Pétain had broadcast that on the previous night he had asked for an armistice. The mighty five-week drama had at last reached its terrible conclusion and the curtain was about to be rung down.
At the dock gates some petty French officials refused to allow the van to pass, but Sir Pellinore had already made arrangements to be met in case he had trouble in getting on board. A British naval lieutenant came out of the gates almost before the argument had got under way, and behind him was a squad of armed bluejackets. Unceremoniously they brushed the French aside, jumped on to the running-boards of the van and took it through to the dockside, where a small cargo ship, crowded with English refugees, was tied up.
The Black Baroness Page 47
