The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

  A man’s voice brought her back down to earth.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked, gesturing to the vacant chair next to her.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Nathalie replied, ‘I was about to leave anyway.’

  ‘It’s good to see people enjoying themselves again, isn’t it?’ the man continued.

  She nodded in agreement. He appeared to want to chat and although he seemed friendly enough, she wasn’t really in the mood for polite conversation. The man ordered a glass of champagne. He turned to Nathalie and asked if she would care to join him. The afternoon was too beautiful for her to waste and she accepted.

  ‘In that case,’ he said, addressing the waiter, ‘make it a bottle. Veuve Clicquot.’

  Nathalie looked surprised. Who on earth ordered a bottle of champagne in the middle of the afternoon – especially when times were tough? The waiter returned, poured them each a glass, and set the bottle in an ice bucket.

  ‘To your health,’ the man said, raising his glass.

  After months of cheap red wine, the champagne was like honey and she savoured each sip with sheer delight.

  ‘Do you live locally?’ he asked.

  She was about to point to the apartment above La Vie en Fleurs, which was in the same street, and then thought better of it.

  ‘Not too far. And you?’

  ‘I also live nearby.’

  She studied him carefully. If he had been a lot younger, she might have thought he was trying to pick her up. He was middle-aged, possibly late fifties, an elegant man with fine dark hair greying at the temples, and a smooth olive complexion: the sort of man who took his holidays in the South of France or Biarritz. Judging by his clothes and his pleasant, self-confident air, she surmised him to be a man who belonged to the professional classes, maybe even an aristocrat. There were certainly plenty of those in the area. She had delivered flowers to them.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘My name is Chambrun – Lucien Chambrun.’

  ‘Nathalie Fontaine.’

  ‘Your accent, it’s not Parisian.’

  ‘No, I’m from the South.’

  ‘And what brings you to Paris?’

  ‘I came to visit my uncle. He’s not been too well. I also thought it would give me chance to look for work.’

  Chambrun refilled Nathalie’s glass and then lit up a cigar. Judging by the bouquet it was a quality Cuban cigar, as befitted a man who would drink champagne in a café during the afternoon.

  The aroma reminded her of her father. He always smoked one on special occasions.

  ‘And were you successful?’

  She blushed. ‘I’m afraid not. The situation here is worse than I imagined.’ She tried to sound naive. ‘Maybe now that the warmer weather has arrived I will get a job as a waitress.’

  ‘A waitress! My dear, I would have thought you could do much better than that.’

  Beggars can’t be choosers, she thought to herself, especially when you’ve just spent your last few francs on a coffee.

  He studied Nathalie as she had studied him.

  ‘I think I may be able to help you,’ he said with a smile. ‘A friend of mine is looking for someone to work a few hours a week.’

  Nathalie looked surprised. She knew nothing about him and yet here he was, offering to help her. Who was he? More importantly, what was the job?

  ‘Who is this friend?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you might have heard of him – Monsieur Jacques De Rossier.’

  Nathalie was unable to hide her surprise. ‘You mean De Rossier the Couturier?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Are you trying to humour me, Monsieur?’ she laughed.

  ‘Indeed not. I happen to know he’s looking for another model, and from the delightful picture I see in front of me, I think you would fit the bill admirably.’

  Nathalie’s hand fluttered across her knee as she smoothed down the folds of her blue and white cotton dress – the only good summer dress she possessed. People had often told her she was attractive, but model material, well that was something else.

  ‘You have all the right qualities,’ Chambrun continued. ‘You not only have an excellent figure, but you are tall and charmingly beautiful, and you have a freshness that Jacques adores.’

  Jacques! Nathalie smiled to herself. The way he referred to one of France’s finest couturiers as if he was a good friend, amused her. Then she remembered that most of the couturiers had either closed their businesses, or left France when the Germans marched into Paris – except for Lucien Lelong and Chanel, who apparently was too busy with her German lover to bother designing clothes these days.

  ‘How do you know this?’ Nathalie asked.

  ‘Jacques and I are old friends. He is most particular about the women he chooses to model for his clients. They must possess a certain elegance that compliments their taste.’ He reached for the champagne bottle and topped up her glass. ‘You would think finding a model would be easy, but most of those who apply are from the Pigalle – if you know what I mean?’

  Nathalie knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘I’m not sure...’

  ‘Why don’t you give him a call? It won’t hurt. Tell him Lucien sent you.’

  Chambrun took a piece of paper from his wallet and wrote De Rossier’s name and telephone on it.

  He got up to leave. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting along. Perhaps the next time we meet, your fortunes will have changed.’

  They shook hands and he departed, leaving Nathalie thinking it was all a dream. Perhaps she would give De Rossier a call after all.

  The Reynauds listened to Nathalie’s story with a mixture of amusement and concern. The first thing that crossed their mind was that he might be a mouchard – a police informer.

  ‘Where did you say you met him?’ Mme Reynaud asked again.

  ‘Café Voltaire. I was about to leave when he sat next to me and struck up a conversation.’

  Mme Reynaud seemed suspicious. ‘Nobody strikes up a conversation without a good reason,’ she replied, rather frostily. ‘People don’t trust each other these days, especially if they are well-fed, well-dressed, and seemingly well-to-do, as you imply.’

  Nathalie was relieved she hadn’t told them they’d drunk champagne.

  ‘I know the owner,’ she continued. ‘I will make some inquiries as to who he is. It’s strange that he never told you where he lived.’

  ‘I never told him where I lived either,’ Nathalie replied. ‘Perhaps he didn’t say anything for the same reason you’ve just said: no-one trusts anyone anymore.’

  Madame Reynaud knitted her eyebrows together. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘You can call De Rossier from here.’

  Nathalie gave her a kiss on the cheek and dialled the number.

  ‘Bonjour,’ a woman’s voice answered. ‘How may I assist you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with Monsieur De Rossier, please.’

  ‘And whom may I say is calling?’

  ‘He doesn’t know me. My name is Nathalie Fontaine. I’m an acquaintance of Monsieur Lucien Chambrun.’

  The woman asked her to hold the line. The Reynauds listened anxiously.

  After a few minutes a man’s voice answered.

  ‘This is Jacques. What can I do for you?’

  At the sound of his voice, Nathalie was so excited she almost dropped the phone. She told him she was a friend of Lucien’s and that he had told her De Rossier was looking for models. She would like to apply. There was a brief silence and he told her to call at his atelier the next day.

  ’10:00 am sharp.’ De Rossier said. ‘And don’t be late. I abhor tardiness.’

  The phone went dead.

  Nathalie put her hands to her face in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said with a huge grin. ‘He wants to see me tomorrow morning.’

  Chapter 9

  Nathalie arrived at La Maison de Jacques De Rossier in the rue du Faubourg Saint-
Honoré at exactly five minutes to ten. A black Mercedes Benz was parked outside with a uniformed chauffeur standing nearby. When she got closer, she noticed the small, but unmistakable red Nazi flag with the black swastika, on the front of the bonnet. Madame Reynaud’s warning about De Rossier being a collaborator rang loudly in her ear. It wasn’t too late to turn back, but the feeling of utter desperation at having no money combined with a sense of curiosity, made her continue. When she reached the atelier, she took one look at the double-fronted doors, flanked by two marble torsos of female nudes, garlanded in a cornucopia of fruits, and felt a tingle of excitement run down her spine. Above the door was a coat of arms, the swirls of which were ornamented in gold. She had often admired such grand entrances on her walks through Paris, but never imagined she would ever have the occasion to step inside one of them.

  A woman in a fox fur and carrying a Pekinese dog was just leaving. She walked towards the black car and sat in the back seat, elegantly sliding her long slim legs after her. Nathalie had a sinking feeling that she didn’t belong here.

  The entrance opened into an expansive hallway decorated in antiques and fine Persian carpets. Paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, and above her, hanging from a stuccoed ceiling, were three chandeliers that glittered like diamonds on an enormous spider web. A woman seated at a huge mahogany desk, was talking on the telephone and writing something down in a leather-bound appointment book. When she finished, she turned her attention to Nathalie.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  Nathalie recognized the voice. It was the same woman she had spoken with the day before.

  ‘I have an appointment with Monsieur De Rossier.’

  The woman double-checked the appointment book and asked her to follow her to a room on the first floor. She knocked and entered.

  ‘Mademoiselle Nathalie Fontaine is here to see you, Monsieur.’

  ‘Show her in.’

  Jacques De Rossier was a small man in his forties with delicate features. Nathalie had seen photographs of him in fashion magazines. He always seemed shy, as if he purposely avoided the cameras, yet standing in front of him as she did now, she realized that wasn’t so. He had a powerful presence which intimidated her. He got up from behind his desk and walked towards her.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ he said, in a forthright manner without even a word of introduction or welcome. ‘Turn around.’

  Nathalie twirled around on the carpet until he told her to stop.

  ‘You’ve never modelled before, I take it?’ he said, eyeing every inch of her.

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  De Rossier walked over to a rack filled with dresses and pulled one out – a silver crepe-de-chine evening dress with a deep drape at the back.

  ‘Put this on. Let me see what you look like.’

  Nathalie looked around for somewhere to change.

  ‘I can see you are the shy type,’ he said with a smile. ‘Go behind the rack, if you must, and take these.’ He gave her a pair of embroidered satin shoes to match.

  Her hands were clammy with nerves as she took off her own simple, cotton dress and slipped effortlessly into the elegant one. The dress was so low at the back that she could not wear a bra which caused her great embarrassment, although the feel of the fabric against her partially naked body was heaven. It didn’t need a bra. There was no mirror and she had no idea what she looked like, but she did know she felt transformed; more confident. When she walked back out, De Rossier was sitting on the edge of his desk waiting for her. A smile crossed his lips.

  ‘Walk up and down,’ he ordered. ‘And keep your head high.’

  She did this several times whilst he watched her carefully, occasionally making a comment about where to look and how to hold her shoulders.

  ‘Now, do it again, and this time don’t make eye contact. Models are not allowed to make eye contact with the clients during a showing. They must remain aloof at all times.’

  When he was satisfied with her walk, he circled her and brushed his hand through her hair holding it away from her face in order to see her neck and full profile.

  ‘You may not be aware, young lady, but you have quite an aristocratic face, and with a few lessons, you could also have an aristocratic bearing. That would please my customers very much.’

  He picked up a bolt of midnight blue silk from a chair, pulled away a few metres and draped it over her shoulder.

  ‘Magnificent. You will be the one to wear this exquisite piece.’

  He picked up the telephone and asked his premier vendeuse to come in. Almost immediately, a well dressed young woman with blond hair came into the room. He handed her the bolt of fabric.

  ‘This is Mademoiselle Nathalie Fontaine. She is to be our new model. I want you to take her measurements. She will wear this for the Countess Irené next week.’ He shook Nathalie’s hand and returned to his desk. ‘Mme Lefort will look after you. I will see you next Wednesday.’ He returned to his desk. ‘And another thing, Margaux, find something for Mademoiselle Fontaine to wear in the meantime. The frock she is wearing is most unflattering.’

  Mme Lefort picked up Nathalie’s clothes and ushered her out of the room.

  Once outside, Nathalie let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Yes, he can be rather intimidating,’ Mme Lefort smiled, ‘but you don’t have to worry, he is a pussy cat when he likes someone, and he obviously likes you.’

  ‘Do you think so? I’ve never done any modelling before. I don’t know if I will be any good. I’ve never even thought of myself as having the right looks either.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry. You’ll soon get the hang of it. Besides, it’s not as if we have collections to put out every year now.’

  Mme Lefort took Nathalie into the sewing room where there were half a dozen seamstress busily working on large sewing tables and pinning fabrics on papier-mâché mannequins.

  ‘Why are there no more big collections now?’ Nathalie asked innocently. ‘I would have thought the magazines would have loved that sort of thing. It’s a diversion from the occupation.’

  ‘The magazines, yes: not the public. Most of them think we should have shut up shop.’

  ‘Then what will I be doing?’

  ‘Monsieur De Rossier has many personal clients who keep us busy. These clients require personal showings. Maybe two or three models are used, rarely more.’

  After Nathalie’s measurements had been recorded, Mme Lefort looked through several racks in the room, and pulled out a few clothes: two dresses, two skirts and blouses and last of all, two sets of pale blue, lace-edged silk underwear.

  ‘The Monsieur believes that for a woman to feel like a real woman – sensuous and feminine – she must wear the correct lingerie,’ she said, wrapping them in black tissue paper. ‘He always tells us that his creations are designed only for goddesses, and in his opinion, a woman will feel like a goddess if she wears these.’

  Nathalie was speechless. The clothes cost a small fortune. They returned to the reception where Mme Lefort told the receptionist to book her in for two appointments the following week.

  ‘I want you to come back on Wednesday, that’s the day before the showing. I will run you through everything. The showing will be the next day.’

  ‘There’s just one small thing,’ Nathalie said when they were out of earshot of the receptionist. ‘I have no idea of the salary. Monsieur De Rossier never mentioned it.’

  ‘He doesn’t like to talk about money,’ Mme Lefort replied, haughtily. ‘It’s the way he is. He leaves the money matters to others. However, I can assure you that you will be well-paid. I will personally take care of it.’ Nathalie thanked her. ‘And of course,’ Mme Lefort added. ‘There’s the little matter of your new outfits. I’m sure you will agree that they alone are worth a small sum.’

  They shook hands and Nathalie stepped back out into the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré as if in a dream. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her.

  The Reynauds were
eager to hear what had taken place. When she placed the bag on the table and pulled out the designer clothes, Mme Reynaud clapped her hands together in shock.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ She picked up the lingerie and fingered it gently. ‘I have never seen anything so beautiful.’

  ‘And did they tell you what sort of salary you would be getting?’ Monsieur Reynaud asked.

  ‘Not exactly. Except that I will be well-paid.’

  Monsieur Reynaud frowned. ‘Let us hope you will be well and truly recompensed. Working for a collaborator will have its drawbacks.’

  ‘What drawbacks might those be?’ Nathalie asked, coming back to earth with a thud.

  ‘When this war ends, people will remember who worked for the Germans, mark my word.’

  Chapter 10

  The following day, Paul called at the Reynauds for dinner. He had a new assignment for Nathalie.

  ‘There’s a man I want you to accompany as far as Tours. I think you will suit the job perfectly,’ he said, lighting up a Gitane. ‘He’s someone very important and it’s vital we get him out of Paris as soon as possible.’

  The first thing Nathalie thought of was her new job. If she failed to turn up on Wednesday, that would be the end of it. And then there was the matter of the clothes. She would look like a thief.

  Paul read her mind. ‘Madeleine told me about your new job and I think we can work our way around it. If you leave on Saturday, you should be back by Tuesday at the latest. It should only take a couple of hours to get there, but I would like you to stay the night, possibly even two.’

  ‘May I ask who this man is?’

  ‘You will know him as René Hubert and he will be your husband.’

  Nathalie’s eyes widened. The Reynauds listened without uttering a word.

  He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table towards her. She picked it up and emptied out the contents. In it were two false identity cards, a marriage certificate dated a month earlier, two tickets, and an Ausweis each – a travel pass. She looked at René’s photograph. He was a handsome man, and according to the date on his ID, he was thirty-one years old. She looked at her own. She was to be Madame Camille Hubert, age twenty-four, from a village outside of Tours.