“Not her portraits, I hope?” Kamille smiled.
“No. He draws nature. Dark, gloomy skies and white snow. A lot of shimmering, stark white snow. Breathtaking, if you ask me. And you ignored my previous question.”
Kamille fumbled with a glove in her hands, pondering her response.
“I don’t know. That whole marriage affair… To be completely honest, I don’t like Giselle right now. I mean, now she acts the same way she acted right before she ran away from home. Well, not ran away per se, but… She wouldn’t talk to us, the whole family, for over six months. She broke Papa’s heart when she ran off like that.”
“She ran off with some boy?” Jochen asked.
“No, boys were never strictly on her list of priorities, believe it or not. Giselle has always been – how do I put it? – a loner. She was perfectly happy in her own world. She would often sit with us at the table and ignore the conversation altogether, deep in her thoughts. And when Maman would ask her why she didn’t want to participate in the conversation she would just shrug and say that she had no use in indulging in idle gossip. She sounded rude, but… Giselle’s whole mindset differed from ours. She often complained that we didn’t understand her. And she was right – we didn’t. She always had these strange dreams, that she was destined to do some grand thing. It always frightened me when she would say something strange like that. What normal person declares openly that they were born to change the world? You know, I thought she was insane sometimes. But I was a little girl, and she was… This big, overwhelming figure for me. I was afraid of her sometimes. And then she ran off to put her dreams into reality. And what do you know? She became Giselle Legrand.” Kamille smiled, but then got serious again, and added quietly after a pause, “She has the same detached look on her, like before, when she was contemplating her escape. And she’s changed, too. There’s something strange about her, something… I don’t know. Maybe I’m just overthinking everything. Maybe she is a little unwell, and I didn’t care to ask.”
“When is the wedding?”
“May first. It’s supposed to bear some special meaning for the members of the SS, or so I understood.”
“It’s just one of the German pagan traditions. In pagan times May was the preferred month for weddings, so after celebrating their union, the newlywed couple could go back to cultivating their land. Himmler’s obsessed with paganism and rituals, so hence the date, I guess,” Jochen explained.
Kamille chewed on her lip for some time and said in a barely audible voice, “I just hope she’s not doing something she’ll later regret.”
Karl was so immersed in his reading that he didn’t notice Giselle, who had stood next to his chair for over a minute already. She watched him mark something down in his notebook, like he had done for the past two weeks, diving into Antoine’s novel with almost unnatural obsessiveness. But it was those notes of his, together with some sentences that he had underlined in several issues of La Libération already – in articles written by Antoine – that had bared her nerves to the point where she decided to act before it was too late.
“Karl,” she called him softly. “I need to talk to you.”
“What is it?” he asked without taking his eyes off the book, pen in hand.
Giselle fumbled with the ties of her belt, thinking how to start better.
“Karl, we need to change the date of the wedding.”
That got his attention. Karl straightened in his chair, fixing the gaze of his onyx eyes on the woman in front of him.
“Why? What’s wrong with the date that we chose?”
“Well… It’s a little too far. We’ll have to wait another two months.”
He knitted his brows in confusion. “And?”
“It’s just that…”
She hesitated a little longer before he urged her by asking, “What is it, Giselle? Say it already.”
“I’m pregnant. It’ll be embarrassing if I have this child only six months after the wedding. People talk as it is, and after that… Please, let’s reschedule the date.”
Karl rose from his chair, stepping closer to her. “You’re pregnant?”
“Yes, that’s what I just told you.”
“How far along?”
“About a month I think. A little less than that. I went to my doctor this morning… He confirmed it.”
Karl’s lips slowly moved into a grin as he enclosed Giselle into a tight embrace. She stood with her face pressed into his shoulder, peering into the distance without blinking. There was no turning back now. It was all going to end soon.
“Giselle, my beautiful Giselle,” he purred gently into her ear, covering her hair in soft kisses. “There isn’t better news you could possibly tell me.”
“I know how much you wanted a child.”
She tried to smile through her unexpected tears, feeling a strange state of melancholy that choked her up despite her willingness to stay strong. She had gotten used to him, and no matter the arguments that she brought to herself during the sleepless nights, it wouldn’t be so easy to do what she had set her mind on. But with the same certainty, Giselle knew that he wouldn’t falter if it came to a decision like this, and so she couldn’t either. So be it then, and to hell with all hesitation.
“I’ll summon an excellent doctor from Berlin for you.” Karl was back to his usual organizing self. “He’ll live here in Paris until the baby is born. I want only the best care for you during the pregnancy. Unless you want to go to Germany? That would be an even better idea.”
“Karl, I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t want any other doctors except my own. He’s been my doctor for over ten years, and I trust him like no one else. Believe me, he’s one of the best ones in Paris. He knows what he’s doing.”
“All right then. But I still want to meet him to make sure he’s not entirely incompetent.”
“He’s not, I promise.” Giselle put her hands on top of his shoulders, smoothing out invisible wrinkles on his uniform jacket. He looked so handsome in it. She shook her head again, dispersing the wavering thoughts. “Just reschedule the date, will you?”
“What date do you want me to reschedule it to?”
“End of March at the latest.”
“But Giselle! That’s too soon! We will never be able to reorganize everything! And the invitations—”
“I haven’t sent them out yet,” she interrupted him with a somewhat feverish grin on her face. “I started to suspect something a week ago and decided to wait for a while. It turned out I was right.”
She pressed her lips to his and then laughed softly, her green eyes shining with an unhealthy gleam. “Change the date, Karl. Do it for me, please. I’m carrying your child after all.”
“But… With the preparations and everything I won’t have time…” He threw a helpless look at the open book and his notes.
“Your investigation can wait a few weeks,” Giselle promised, turning his face back to her. “Those journalists are still printing their stories. They aren’t going anywhere.”
“March 30th it is. No sooner.”
“That’ll do just fine.”
There was no turning back indeed.
Philippe stood with his arms crossed over his chest, eyeing Giselle apprehensively. He was more than surprised with her coming down to his temporary hideout in Demarche’s cellar, but after the request that she had just voiced his indignation turned to suspicion.
“You need what?” he repeated, scrutinizing her face for clues. She seemed tired and dejected; only her eyes hadn’t lost their glimmer and shone with determination like never before.
“You heard me.”
“I did. And what exactly do you need rat poison for?”
“I have rats.”
“You have rats? In your apartment?” Philippe arched his brow skeptically.
“Mhm.” A slow, lazy grin curled her lips upwards. “Huge ones.”
Philippe snorted. “Why didn’t you go to the pharmacy then? They sell it.”
“There are rats in pharmacies too, you see. Now, can you get it for me on Le Marché Noir or no?”
He didn’t like that unhealthy gleam in her eyes at all. “What are you plotting, Giselle?”
“Me? Nothing,” she replied calmly. “I have a pest problem, which needs to be solved, and the sooner, the better. Will you get it or not?”
“Not until you tell me what you really need it for.”
“I have just told you. I want to get rid of the rats. I would go to the Marché myself, but people operating there have a certain problem with me. I’m the Boche’s whore, you see. They will just scatter at the first sight of me.”
Philippe cleared his throat, walking around his unexpected visitor. “When do you need it?”
“By tomorrow. I’m leaving for a weekend with Karl. We’re going to spend a couple of days in the Fontainebleau. I need some fresh air, he says. I’ve been a little under the weather recently.”
Philippe regarded her a little longer, but her face didn’t give anything away.
“Tell me what you need it for.” He decided to try again, softening his voice on purpose. “Maybe I can help.”
“Why are you so concerned about me all of a sudden?” She burst into joyless laughter. “I need to kill my rats, what’s not to understand? I’ll leave the poison on the floor on Friday, so when I’m back on Monday, they’ll be all dead.”
“Giselle—”
“Will you get it or not?”
He took a deep breath, lowering his head in defeat. “Fine. Come tomorrow at the same time. I’ll have it for you.”
“Thank you.” She reached inside her clutch and put the money on the table, together with a letter. Philippe’s scowl deepened. “For your trouble. And this… This is for Marcel. Will you send it to him with Etienne, next time he comes? I don’t want to drag Kamille into all this…”
Philippe nodded and watched her walk back to the door.
“Giselle!” he called out to her, just as she was at the threshold of the room.
“Yes?”
“Where exactly are you staying in the Fontainebleau?”
“Why?”
“Just curious.”
She hesitated for a few moments, but then replied in a mild voice, “In a small hunter’s house, near the lake. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I do.”
She smiled at him once again before leaving. “See you tomorrow, Philippe.”
“See you tomorrow.”
30
The morning outside was painfully gorgeous. Giselle stepped onto the newly added terrace of a small one-story hunter’s lodge. The lodge itself had been fully remodeled by some White Russian, who apparently missed his dacha so very much after the Bolsheviks had seized all his property in the former Russian Empire that he didn’t want to spare any money to create something similar out of this rather simple cabin. Now, the terrace was covered with the intricate lace of shadows due to the sunbeams finding their way through the wooden carving of the railing. The snow was all but gone, the last few days being particularly warm.
Giselle took a seat on a bench and outstretched her legs, peering into the serene, pastoral forest in front of her. She found herself to be in the same restless state of excitement and heart-wrenching melancholia which had become her constant companion in the past few days. A small, worn out pocket copy of “Crime and Punishment” lay on her lap as her fingers gently stroked the cover. It was not the highly valued first edition that she had bought as soon as she signed her first contract with Michel Demarche. It was the one that she used to re-read time after time in her old apartment so she could later have heated discussions with her father, which only left them both frustrated at the other’s inability to see their truth. Today she would finally solve that mystery for herself, which one of them was right after all. And yet, she was too afraid to open it, fearing to lose her courage.
Karl stepped out of the door, which groaned like the wood always did, swollen with the dampness of the changing season. Giselle’s heart started thrashing like a wild animal inside her ribcage, while on the surface she remained completely unmoved.
“I thought you wanted to finish your manuscript while we were here,” he spoke, noticing the book in her hands. “Not read other people’s works.”
“It’s not other people,” she replied with strange notes in her voice. “It’s Dostoevsky. And I did finish my manuscript. I took it to Michel yesterday morning before we left.”
“Now, that’s not fair.” Karl smiled, sitting next to her. “I thought you’d let me read it first. Now I won’t know how it ends.”
“You’ll know. Very soon.”
He looked at her closely. “You’re not yourself today. Are you feeling all right?”
“I haven’t been better, thank you. It’s probably hormones.” She took a ragged breath and turned to face the man in front of her as if memorizing every feature of his somber, handsome face. “We have a bottle of some remarkable wine if I remember correctly. How about you bring it here and we celebrate?”
“Isn’t it a little too early for wine?” Karl chuckled softly.
Giselle slowly shook her head, smiling at him. Murderer.
“No. I think it’s the perfect morning to share a glass of perfect wine. And celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Life, bien sûr, Charlie. Life.”
He grinned somewhat conceitedly, rested his hand on top of her stomach for a moment and went back inside. Giselle fumbled with something in her pocket, but he wasn’t there to notice it. She tilted her head backward, willing the tears to dissolve and disappear, just like the last of her doubts.
“Here’s to life then,” Karl announced cheerfully, popping the bottle open with a corkscrew while standing in the door. Taking his place next to Giselle, he handed her one of the glasses and filled both, raising his in a toast.
Giselle lowered hers with a guilty grin. “You know, I don’t think it was a good idea. For me at least. I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol in my situation. That’s irresponsible.”
“One glass of wine won’t harm anything.”
“Probably. But I want this child to be perfect. No taking chances; not for our baby, you understand? Monsieur Darwin wouldn’t approve.” She grinned crookedly.
He smiled too. “I suppose. I’ll go fetch you water then.”
“Thank you, chéri.”
He disappeared behind the door, and Giselle stood up and splashed her wine onto the snow that remained outside – a bloody splatter on the pristine white sheet. She slowly turned back and took a small vial out of her pocket, eyeing the glass of wine that he had left there. Yes. Let’s drink to life, Charlie. She opened the vial and poured its contents into the wine.
Karl soon returned, holding a bottle of mineral water in his hand. He filled Giselle’s glass again, and they both raised their glasses in a toast, after which Karl downed his wine while Giselle sipped her water, watching him closely above the rim.
“You know,” he started, placing the empty glass on the bench between them. “I am quite convinced that one of the journalists writing for La Libération is your former colleague, that Jew Levy. The writing style is so very similar, and his…”
He choked suddenly, coughing a couple of times and apologized, clearing his throat.
“Excuse me. So much for the excellent French wine that burns your throat.” He tugged on his collar slightly. “So I was saying, this Levy. Maybe he even instigated the other ones to conspire with him. Maybe all three of them work together. I’ll soon get to the bottom of this, I promise. Do you know what they talk about before you go there? Maybe Demarche is in it, too.”
He coughed again, more violently this time, a thin film of moisture forming on his brow.
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Karl.”
Struggling with breath, he moved away from Giselle, who remained oddly calm. He pulled on his collar with more force, grabbed the bottle of water and drank it greedily, only t
o bend in half as a new spasm twisted his stomach. Giselle jumped to her feet and stepped away after he had tried to catch her skirt.
“You…” His voice came out hoarse and strained. “You put something in that wine…”
“I’m sorry, Karl. I really am.”
He tried to get up, but fell to his knees, clenching his stomach with his hand.
“I’ll shoot you… I’ll shoot you all…” He tried getting up again, but the searing pain only allowed him to move on all fours. Yet, he still slowly, but resolutely, turned back to the house, where he had left his belt with its holster, next to their bed.
Giselle swiftly moved towards the door, blocking him from entering. He clenched her skirt with one hand, and she willingly lowered to his level, but only to push him onto his back.
“Don’t fight me, Karl.” Giselle straddled him and placed both palms on top of his face, covering his mouth and nose, which had already started to bleed. “You’ll die anyway. Strychnine is highly toxic, especially in such high dosages. I only want to make it easier for you so you won’t suffer for too long. The pain will only grow stronger.”
Writhing underneath her, he reached for her throat while trying to push away her hands with his other hand. Giselle twisted her head so that his nails only scratched the exposed skin on her neck.
“I didn’t want to do this, Karl.” She pressed her hands down with more force. “But you left me no choice. You can’t just barge into someone else’s house and start setting your own rules without expecting any resistance from the owner. You can’t just march into someone else’s country and not expect for us to resist you as well. What’s not to understand? Why did you have to do this, Karl? Why couldn’t you stay where you belonged, damn you?”
He managed to throw her hands off his face and coughed up blood before Giselle replaced her palms back onto his mouth and nose with deadly determination.
“My French protagonist could never end up with a German, Karl. I don’t care how good it would sell. The French girl killed her bastard collaborator husband and joined the Resistance, and that’s the end of the story!” She didn’t notice that she had started shouting, her tears falling onto his grayish face which glistened with sweat. His attempts to release himself were becoming feebler and feebler. “Why did you have to do this to yourself, Karl? What did you sell yourself for? Not even money… Ideas only. Ideas, written in books by people like me. And you were ready to die for those ideas? Why couldn’t you stay a doctor, Karl? You were saving people’s lives at some point. You returned hope to people. You could have been the man whose name was celebrated for many generations to come; why did you do this to yourself? Why, you fool, why?!”
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 29
