The Darkest Hour

by Roberta Kagan

De Rossier’s Salon was the epitome of bourgeois elegance; an eclectic mix of 19th century decorative styles, most of which were either Baroque Revival of France’s Second Empire, or Neo-classiscm. A row of eight floor to ceiling windows, all of which opened out on to a small balcony overlooking the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, were decorated in patterned, pale-blue silk damask drapes, secured with rope-and-tassel tie-backs, that matched an array of armchairs, sofas, and chaise lounges. To give added depth, the walls were covered with magnificent, gilt-framed mirrors which, together with the chandeliers, illuminated the room in a radiant glow. In less than an hour, this sumptuous salon would host a small, but elite party of Paris’s most important socialites, all eager to catch a glimpse of the Master’s creations. Nathalie was taken aback at such splendour. Growing up in a small village, she was not used to such elegance. Whilst millions suffered, the lives of those she would be modelling for would hardly have changed.

  The catering staff set up a table of food and champagne, and Mme Lefort walked the girls through the timetable of events.

  ‘You will walk through that door and along this carpet,’ she said, waving her arm through the air. ‘The guests will be seated here.’ She indicated to a grouping of sofas and armchairs, between which were placed small side-tables on pedestals.

  ‘Turn around just about here,’ she said, standing in the centre of a garland of roses on the fine Aubusson carpet. ‘Then walk back out of the smaller side door over there.’

  The girls gave a practice walk before returning to the dressing room which was filled with racks of clothes, each of which had the model’s name on it. A young woman called Clarisse was assigned to do Nathalie’s make-up and hair. She sat her in front of a large mirror and sorted through her large box of cosmetics for the right shade. Nathalie was beginning to enjoy this pampering. It was a far cry from her life with the Reynauds and the Résistance.

  Clarisse was a friendly, talkative girl, and seeing that the other two models were occupied in conversation, Nathalie thought it was a good chance to do a little prying.

  ‘Have you been working for the Monsieur long?’ she asked.

  ‘Since the war. It was Mme Lefort who found me. I was working for Mademoiselle Chanel until then.’

  ‘Is it true what they say about her? Does she really have a German lover?’

  Clarisse smiled. ‘It’s common knowledge. She divides her time between rue Cambon and the Ritz.’

  ‘Most of the couturiers shut up shop when the Germans arrived, I believe.’ You were lucky to find this job – as was I?’

  Clarisse asked Nathalie to close her eyes whilst she applied a shade of silvery-brown eye shadow with a brush. ‘I can tell by your accent you’re not from Paris. Where are you from?’

  ‘A small village near the Pyrénées. Not far from...’

  ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘I came to stay with my uncle and look for work.’

  ‘Did you find anything – before this job I mean?’

  I worked in their flower shop for a while, but they were struggling to pay me. That’s when I found this work.’

  Clarisse stood back to check Nathalie’s eyes. When she was satisfied, she started on her eyebrows, brushing them into a fine curve with a dark brown crayon.

  There was so much Nathalie wanted to ask, but she knew she had to tread carefully. It’s now or never, she said to herself.

  ‘Do you know Lucien Chambrun?’ she asked. ‘It was he who got me the job.’

  Clarisse finished the eyebrows and then started on her hair. For a minute, Nathalie thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  ‘Lucien Chambrun! No I don’t know anyone called Chambrun. What does he look like?’

  Nathalie tried to describe him, but Clarisse still had no idea who she meant. Pierre had been so sure Chambrun was François Corneille. If so, why had he lied to her?

  The door opened and Mme Lefort entered. The soft sounds of a pianist playing a Beethoven Sonata in the salon drifted into the room.

  ‘You have ten minutes, girls,’ said the vendeuse. She turned to Clarisse and told her to help Nathalie dress.

  ‘Do you happen to know the people we will be modelling for?’ Nathalie asked, as she held up her arms for Clarisse to slip a silk dress over her head. ‘It’s just that as it’s my first time, I am rather nervous.’

  Clarisse checked to see that the other two girls were out of earshot. ‘We are told not to discuss the clients,’ she whispered, ‘but if it will put you at ease, then I’ll tell you.’

  She reeled off a list of names. Baron Gunter von Schwartzburg, from the German High Command in Paris; Heinrich Wertheimer, who was here from Warsaw; Dieter Fischer, a friend of SS General Walther Schellenberg, Count Antonio Albani, from the Italian Foreign Office, and Ambrus Gabor, an Austro-Hungarian official from Vienna.

  ‘The Countess Irené is also here,’ she added. ‘She’s one of the Monsieur’s favourites and usually comes with her young lover, Daniel. The midnight blue dress is for her. But don’t worry, they will barely notice you. They are here for the dresses.’

  Nathalie tried hard to memorise all the names.

  When the time came for the showing, Mme Lefort stood by the door as the girls paraded into the salon, one at a time. Nathalie was the last. She would have to do this four more times with another four changes of clothes. After the second time, she felt confident enough to steal a quick glance at some of the clients. She had no idea who was who, but was able to make a mental note of their looks. Among them was the same woman she had seen the day she came for her interview. She had brought the Pekinese dog with her again.

  Afterwards, each girl was given a list of the dresses selected for them to model again. This time they were to stay in the salon for each client to take a closer look. Nathalie was told she only had one to model – the midnight blue, silk dress. Clarisse helped her slip into it, tidied up her hair, and checked her make-up.

  Nathalie returned to the salon and was relieved to find the atmosphere less formal. Several guests were helping themselves to food, and the piano music had been replaced with more upbeat, big band gramophone records. She was directed to the woman with the Pekinese, who passed the dog on to a man whilst she looked at the dress.

  ‘It’s magnificent, Jacques,’ she said, in a soft dulcet voice. ‘Absolutely exquisite.’ She felt the fabric whilst De Rossier pointed out particular elements of the cutting technique that enhanced the fabric and line.

  ‘What do you think, Daniel?’ she asked, ‘Don’t you agree that it will go so well with my sapphires, or the pearls.’

  By now, Nathalie realised the woman was none other than the Countess Irené. Daniel told her what she wanted to hear; that the dress was made for her and she must buy it. De Rossier was beside himself with delight.

  Nathalie was about to leave the salon when something unexpected happened.

  ‘Daniel,’ the Countess said. ‘This young lady looks exactly like the woman in the portrait, the one that you gave me a few weeks ago.’ She drew an imaginary line around Nathalie’s neck. ‘Just imagine that this lady is wearing a string of pearls and is wearing her hair down. She even has the same eyes.’ The man didn’t answer. Much to Nathalie’s embarrassment, the Countess continued. ‘My dear, have you ever had your portrait painted?’

  Nathalie was so worked up, she lost her voice. The Countess apologised for embarrassing her and turned back to the man. ‘The woman in the portrait is wearing a simple dress though – almost dowdy. Such a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  Nathalie was told she could leave, but before doing so, stole a quick glance towards the man called Daniel. Tall, tanned, and impeccably dressed, he was simply, one of the most handsome men she’d ever laid eyes on. To add to his startling looks, he stood in such a way, that the filtered light streaming through the window made him look as though he’d stepped out of a Renaissance masterpiece. Nathalie’s eyes fell on his shoes – elegant nut-brown leather with black edging at the seams; bes
poke shoes of distinction that could only have been made for someone with money and good taste. It was easy to see how the Countess had fallen for such a man.

  Clarisse had left when Nathalie returned to the dressing room and it was far too risky to ask the other girls any questions about the Countess. Overcome by a wave of nausea, she sat in front of the mirror fighting back the tears whilst she cleaned off her makeup. This could only mean one thing – if it was her portrait they were talking about, then Pierre must have sold the painting to him. Her mind was a whirlpool of confusion. Pierre knew who Chambrun was, and he painted a portrait that sounded exactly like the one the Countess was referring to. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Mme Lefort came into the dressing room to congratulate her. ‘Well done, Nathalie. Monsieur is most pleased with you.’ She handed her another pay packet. This time it was even more than the last one – several hundred francs.

  ‘When would you like to see me again?’ Nathalie asked.

  ‘In a week’s time; if we need you before then, we have your telephone number.’

  A crushing anxiety now enveloped her. What should have been a good day was now marred with the sickening thought that Pierre had sold her portrait to the Countess’s lover. She stopped at a bar on the way home and ordered a cognac, whilst mulling over what to do next. Her instinct was to confront Pierre. He said the man had paid a substantial amount of money. Daniel certainly could have afforded it. How was he to know it would end up being a gift for the Countess? Pure coincidence, she said to herself.

  Deep down, Nathalie knew the right thing to do was to tell Paul. After all, he was in charge of the network and he specifically said he wanted to know who De Rossier’s guests were. But would he laugh at her when she told him about the painting? He might even be angry with her for spending so much time with another member of the network. She remembered that Pierre had also asked her to tell him who would be there. Maybe that would give her an excuse to see his reaction. In the end, the decision was made for her.

  Chapter 13

  Paul was waiting for Nathalie at La Vie en Fleurs.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink,’ he said. ‘You can tell me all about your day.’

  He took her to a small bar in rue Frédéric Chopin with a clear view of Café Voltaire. Unlike the fashionable café, which was filled with customers, this bar was empty.

  ‘I can tell by the look on your face, today didn’t go too well. Did you slip in those fancy shoes,’ he asked, with a smile.

  At first, Nathalie felt too overwhelmed to speak, but after the cognac, she could no longer hide her feelings.

  ‘I slipped,’ she replied. ‘But not in that way.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  Her eyes glistened with tears as she told him what took place, starting with the names of those who attended, and the incident with the painting. The look on his face gave nothing away.

  ‘The Countess is quite famous in Parisian high society,’ Paul replied, lighting up a Gitane. ‘More for her pro-German feelings than anything else, so it’s hardly a surprise that she should be there. This new lover of hers is Daniel Corneille. He works for the B.M.A.’

  Nathalie face paled. ‘He wouldn’t happen to be the son of François Corneille, would he?’

  Paul looked hard in to her eyes. ‘Was he there also?’

  She let out a deep sigh and rubbed her temples.

  ‘I have a feeling it was François Corneille that I met over there,’ she inclined her head towards Café Voltaire. ‘I was at Le Lapin Agile with Pierre one evening, and he happened to be there with a young woman. Pierre told me his real name. I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. Now I’m beginning to think Lucien Chambrun never existed.’

  Paul surprised her by saying that he’d already guessed it was him at the café. He called the bar owner over.

  ‘Marcel, can you tell us who you saw Nathalie with, a few weeks ago?’

  Marcel swung his red and white check tea towel over his shoulder and poured them another drink on the house. ‘François Corneille,’ he replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I’d know that mouchard anywhere.’

  Nathalie was too ashamed to look Paul in the face. She had committed the gravest sin any Résistance member could do. She’d probably compromised the network by taking the new job.

  ‘I should leave immediately,’ she said. ‘Go back to the Pyrénées.’

  ‘You weren’t to know,’ Paul replied. ‘Marcel works for us. It was he who told us Corneille had been seen in the area and we guessed he was on the lookout for people he could recruit as a collaborator. No doubt he intended to make sure you became accustomed to the finer things in life before he swooped and tried to compromise you – an eagle with its prey.’

  Nathalie thought of René. ‘I could have jeopardized the assignment.’

  ‘You didn’t. That’s all that mattered.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve been following me?’

  ‘We have to consider it’s a possibility, although up to now you have shown yourself to be the model citizen. They have nothing on you.’ His face grew anxious. ‘No my dear, it’s not you I’m worried about. It’s Pierre.’

  Nathalie’s eyes widened. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that the portrait Daniel gave to the Countess is the same one Pierre painted of you, but we can find out.’

  ‘And if it is?’

  ‘We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Leave it with me.’ He leaned across the table and patted her hand like a child. ‘For the moment, carry on as normal and promise me one thing – that you won’t contact Pierre.’

  ‘I give you my word.’

  ‘Good girl. Now,’ he said, getting up to leave, ‘we’d better be getting back to the Reynauds. They will have dinner prepared.’

  A few days later, Nathalie received a call to meet Paul at a bistro near the Pont de l’Alma.

  ‘The news is not good,’ he declared despondently. ‘The portrait is definitely of you.’Nathalie felt a feeling of nausea in the pit of her stomach. ‘How did you find out?’ she asked, miserably.

  ‘It’s common knowledge that the Countess lives in a fashionable apartment near the Élysée Palace. We managed to get two of our men inside the apartment disguised as plumbers. They turned off the water mains to the building, and then asked to inspect the pipes. Your painting is hanging in her hallway. I gave them one of your photographs, so there was no mistake. Pierre’s signature is also on it. You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘That you think Pierre is somehow involved.’

  ‘For a while now, I’ve suspected there could be a traitor in our midst. After the first raid, when Anna was killed, I suspected everyone – even the Reynauds. Only Gilbert escaped that raid and I was sure it wasn’t him.’

  ‘How did you come to that conclusion?’ Nathalie asked.

  ‘Gilbert is a rough character but he would never betray his friends. He’s been with us from the start and has always shown great loyalty. Besides, he was also in love with Anna. The idea that he would put her in danger doesn’t make sense.’

  Gilbert in love with Anna! Nathalie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  ‘I never knew that,’ she said. ‘Pierre didn’t mention it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. They were rivals for her love. In the end, Pierre won.’

  ‘What about the other raid? When Sylvie was caught and tortured. Do you have any idea what went wrong there.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Somehow, the Germans got wind of the operation. Thank God, they didn’t find us at the Pont de l’Alma.’

  ‘How does Pierre fit into all this?’ Nathalie asked. ‘Are you saying he’s a traitor just because he sold a painting to someone from the Bureau of Anti-National activities?’

  Paul shrugged his shoulder. ‘I’m not sure how he came to be mixed up with them, but it can’t be ignored.’

  Nathalie didn’t need to ask what would happen if they found out
he’d betrayed them. The consequences didn’t bear thinking about. Again, Paul warned her to stay away from him.

  Towards the end of the week, she met Paul at the deserted warehouse for more target practice. Nathalie was shocked at his appearance. He appeared to have aged ten years and was a shadow of his former self. She was in no doubt that it was the worry about a traitor that had caused this. He told her that the Allies were intending to make a landing sometime within the next year. Because of this, there had been more parachute drops of weapons and ammunition for the Maquis and the Résistance. All this meant their activities had to be stepped up.

  ‘In a few weeks, there’ll be another important mission,’ he said. ‘I can’t say any more at this point. I’m sure you understand why.’

  ‘And Pierre?’ she asked. ‘Will he be involved?’

  At the mention of his name, Paul became agitated and changed the conversation back to her shooting practice. ‘Now try this one,’ he said, and handed her a machine gun.

  Chapter 14

  Nathalie was helping Mme Reynaud arrange flowers outside La Vie en Fleurs when a call came through from Paul. It was Antoine who took the coded message. He put the phone down and hurried outside. The two women could see by the look on his face it was important.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mme Reynaud, anxiously.

  ‘Things are on the move. Paul wants Nathalie to meet him at Marcel’s bar in ten minutes.’

  Three weeks had passed since Nathalie last saw him. Since then she had not been given any assignments in case she was being followed. Thankfully, boredom was relieved with her work at the atelier. Altogether, there had been four more private showings. All had gone well and much to her relief, neither the Countess, nor Daniel, had attended. Neither had she seen the elusive “Chambrun”.

  She hurried to the bar. Paul was waiting for her. Nathalie asked if anyone else would be joining them.

  ‘Only one more.’ He looked at the large clock on the wall. ‘Let’s hope he arrives soon.’