GABBY
Yvette left for work while Gabby was running her bath. “Enjoy yourself,” she said, grinning. “Order anything you like.”
But there was nothing like having your heart broken to make you realize how little luxury truly mattered. Gabby bathed and dressed and repacked her suitcase. Then she went to the pretty little desk by the window and wrote Yvette a note.
Dear sister,
My heart is heavy. You know this. I would give anything for things to have turned out better for both of us on our journey to England. But for one thing, I will be forever grateful. I have my sister back. I love you, Yvette. Never forget.
Gabby
Refusing the doorman’s offer of a taxi, Gabby set off for the rue Royale, but instead of going straight home, she turned toward the river.
Jack did not want her and never would. Her suitcase weighed heavily upon her, and the very air around her seemed oppressive, cloying, as if she were suffocating, even in the bitter cold. Why did people find this city so romantic? To her, it was a very large prison, and the loge at number 10 was her cell.
She trudged through the Tuileries and along the quay, all the way to the Pont des Arts. The Seine looked dark and ominous under the frozen sky. The beautiful palaces and museums that lined the river seemed grim and unwelcoming. She walked halfway across the bridge and stared up at the Eiffel Tower, and her life felt as stripped back and stark as the famous monument. “There is nothing left for me now.” She wished she had never allowed Yvette to answer that telephone call from London. It had been far, far better thinking he’d died than to know Jack was still alive and so woefully imperfect.
She dug into the pocket of her coat and brought out the velvet case with its medal inside. Then she took aim for the point at which the very tip of the Eiffel Tower met the sky and hurled the medal, case and all, as far as she could. She didn’t even hear the splash when it hit the rippling waters of the river.
When Gabby arrived back at the loge, she found her mother sitting on the floor among stacks of mail. She was humming—actually humming—a jaunty tune as she sorted, holding first one envelope, then another, up to the light. The kettle boiled and chirruped. Had she been using steam to open some of those letters? Forget Yvette; their mother was the family’s most accomplished spy.
At one time, Gabby would have hastened to snatch back her self-appointed task, but she took her suitcase to the bedroom, then went to rescue the boiling kettle and make herself a tisane.
“Back, are you?” Danique kept going with the day’s post.
“Yes, we cut the trip short.” Gabby didn’t even feel inclined to protest her mother’s investigations into the private lives of the tenants. She felt divorced from everything, separate from this narrow existence. She sat down in Danique’s favorite chair and watched her work.
Her mother eyed her as if she might say something, then seemed to think better of it. After a few minutes, she held up a letter. “For you, Gabby. From Miss Dior.”
Gabby’s heart gave one hard thump. “From Catherine?” She took the letter and retreated to her room, ripping open the flimsy envelope as she went.
Trembling, she scanned the lines. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth, reading the letter over and over, unable to believe what it contained.
Dear Gabby,
I hope this finds you well. In Callian, we are preparing for the spring, when the May rose carpets our fields and we spend our days picking blossoms in the sunshine. It is a joy to me to grow the flowers that gave such pleasure to my mother in her garden in Granville, and to supply great houses such as Dior with the essences for their perfumes.
The business is expanding rapidly and I find I need an office manager—someone I can trust—to keep the accounts and do various other administrative tasks. There is a small cottage that goes along with the position and I would like to offer both the position and the cottage to you.
I realize it is not an easy thing to leave Paris, and I wondered if you would like to spend the summer down here with me. We would love you and Yvette to join us. You can tell her I’ve made all right with my brother for her to take a leave of absence if she chooses to accompany you. Then you can see how the business runs and decide whether you would like to accept . . .
This was it. Her chance to leave Paris, to have a fresh start. Gabby went to her mother and handed over the letter for her to read.
Danique scanned the note. “Dior, Dior! Those people, always meddling in our lives.” But she smiled a little as she said it. She drew in a breath, then gave a decisive nod as she handed back the letter. “I think you should go. Take the job, too.”
“What?” Gabby couldn’t believe it. “But what about my duties? You would let me go?”
Maman touched Gabby’s cheek. “You’re a grown woman. You can make your own decisions. If not for the war, I would have lost you to marriage years ago.”
Gabby stared around her, stunned. “But what about this place?”
Her mother chuckled. “I ran number ten long before you took over. I can do it again.” She sighed. “When your papa passed away . . . Well, I worked because it was easier than dealing with the pain—yours, Yvette’s, mine—and I’m sorry for that.” She spread her hands. “Then war came, and more duties fell onto my shoulders, and I worked myself into a state of collapse. And you were so capable, Gabby, and after losing Didier, you needed something, just as I did when Papa died. It became a habit to let you take over.” Danique shrugged. “But that’s a long time ago now. These past days it’s been just me here on my own and I have to say, I’ve enjoyed it. Makes me feel young again.” She cleared her throat, as if embarrassed to have revealed so much.
Gabby was about to protest, then shut her mouth. Her mother really wanted this. She was happy to let Gabby go. She exhaled a delighted breath and said, “Thank you, Maman. Thank you.” She hugged Danique tightly and kissed her, then hurried away to write Catherine back.
As she opened her leather satchel, her gaze fell upon the story she’d written and illustrated after the Dior show. She slid it out and leafed through the pages, smiling a little at some of the sketches. Then she took out her notepaper and began a reply.
YVETTE
At Dior the next afternoon, Yvette had clients to see and fittings to attend, but her mind was not on fashion.
She needed to write to Audrey about Gabby and Jack. Then there was Vidar. She felt an overwhelming need to see him, if only to apologize for having wronged him so badly, and to thank him for his efforts on Catherine’s behalf. But after that horrible morning in London, she would probably never set eyes on him again. And now, Louise Dulac’s trial had begun, and Yvette’s testimony would be required tomorrow or the next day. According to Monsieur LeBrun, one never knew quite how long it would take.
Wintry afternoon sun was streaming through the enormous garret windows of the atelier as Marie stood on a chair to throw the Chérie gown over Yvette’s head, allowing it to swirl around her in an inky cascade of taffeta petticoats and narrowly pleated silk. Yvette felt like a princess in a fairy tale as the seamstress buttoned her up, then gradually less enchanted, as it was freezing in the atelier despite the sunshine and the fitting seemed to take forever.
“You are too thin, Yvette,” complained Marie, who was pinning a seam on the bodice for alteration.
The seamstress was probably right; Yvette had eaten less and less since she’d arrived in Paris. Were the habits of wartime coming back to her, along with the memories? She’d order a banquet tonight and savor every last bite. Yvette smiled to herself. Wouldn’t Marie be mad if she had to let out the seams again?
A commotion at the staircase caught her attention. Everyone was craning their head to look. Was it Monsieur Dior? Yvette stood straighter, hoping he would like how she looked in this gown.
But the man who burst in upon the busy scene was not le patron but the lawyer’s clerk.
“Monsieur LeBrun!” Yvette caught Marie’s hands and put them away from her and moved forward
to intercept him. “You must not be here.”
The clerk was panting so hard from running up all those stairs that he could scarcely get a word out. His face was red all over. There was even red showing between the precise lines of hair on his scalp.
“Is it the trial?” she asked him.
Gasping for air, he bent over, his palms resting on his knees. “You must come immediately,” he panted. “Now, Mademoiselle Foucher. There is not a moment to lose. The court is waiting for you.”
He grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the workroom. She was halfway down the stairs before she recalled she still wore the Dior gown.
“Wait! No, monsieur, no!” Yvette tried to pull away but he was stronger than he looked, and he half-pushed, half-pulled her the rest of the way down and out into his awaiting car, stuffing the gown and all its petticoats in after her and slamming the door.
As they sped away, Yvette turned to him, wide-eyed. “What did you just do, monsieur?” She looked down at herself in her Dior gown and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She would likely be fired for setting foot beyond the door of the atelier with one of monsieur’s beautiful creations on her back. Pins dug into her side as she shifted around, smoothing her skirt beneath her, trying to make sure the dress wasn’t completely crushed. “Monsieur, I will be in huge trouble. Would you turn the car around, please, and take me back to Dior so I can change?”
“We don’t have time,” said the clerk. “No more games, mademoiselle. You will come with me to the Palais de Justice, mademoiselle, and you will tell the court the truth about what Louise Dulac did for France during the war.”
She blinked at his vehemence. She’d made up her mind to support Louise Dulac’s version of events when Gabby had told her the truth about Vidar. But of course LeBrun didn’t know that. “But I was going to—”
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice low, as if he didn’t want his driver to overhear. “Dulac has threatened to expose our mutual friend if you do not testify.”
She recalled Louise threatening Vidar when they’d visited her in Fresnes. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“You know her,” said LeBrun, fixing Yvette with his earnest brown eyes. “Do you think she would stop at anything to save her own skin?”
The clerk was right. Yvette did know Louise Dulac. “Well, I’m here now,” she said as they pulled up at the courts. “Please, will you help me get out?”
As they crossed the square in front of the court building, the chill bit into her bare arms and she began to shiver. For the first time, LeBrun looked her up and down. “What are you wearing?”
She stared at him. Had he not just dragged her out of a fitting at a fashion house? But now that she was here, she couldn’t worry about the trouble she’d be in at Dior. She had to prepare for the interrogation ahead.
Monsieur LeBrun began to struggle out of his overcoat. “Here. You’d better take this.”
“No, thank you.” Yvette drew herself up and lifted her head high. She would prefer to freeze than to look ridiculous. “Lead on, monsieur.”
As they hurried across the courtyard and up the steps to the Palais de Justice, the clerk muttered instructions. “Confine yourself to ‘yes’ or ‘no’ as much as possible. Be brief, to the point, and only talk about things you actually saw or heard. Do not speculate or give an opinion on anything. Do you understand?”
Yvette nodded. And she would not, under any circumstances, mention Vidar.
Then the heavy door to the courtroom opened and she walked in.
* * *
AT THE ENTRANCE to the court, the enormity of the occasion hit Yvette with full force. The room was a sea of men in suits. Seated up high at the far end of the massive chamber were the judges—three of them, she thought, though it was difficult to tell. There seemed to be several judicial-looking men up there dressed in black gowns and white lappets.
The atmosphere was one of ferocious anticipation; the crowd was out for blood. They all wanted to be in at the kill, to see the glamorous actress brought down, to feed off her remains like jackals when the lions of the law were done. But it was not only men who were there. Yes, now that she paid closer attention, she saw women dotted among the crowd. She was reminded of the tricoteuses, knitting at the foot of the guillotine.
The aisle down the center of the court seemed to stretch forever. Yvette would have to walk down it with everyone’s eyes upon her, like a bride in a cathedral, like a queen processing to her coronation.
Her manner of dress might have made her look ridiculous, but she forced herself to lift her chin and proceed without hurrying, imagined herself back at Dior, promenading through his elegant salons in this exquisite gown.
There were comments, vile insults about her virtue, speculation on what she’d done to get about in a dress like that, but she pretended not to hear. They were talking about someone else. And anyway, when they heard what she had to say, they would no longer look at her as if she were something they’d found on the soles of their shoes.
Louise Dulac sat in the dock, thin but immaculate in a well-tailored suit and a hat. Her blond hair had not lost its shine and was well cut, her makeup skillfully applied. Yvette wondered if she had been advised to dress down for this occasion. After all, part of the reason Dulac was so hated was that she had lived the high life while the rest of France starved. If she had received that advice, she had ignored it. Yvette was glad. If people were here to see a victim, they would be sadly disappointed. All the same, it was not sound strategy on Dulac’s part.
Wearing a Dior gown to court was hardly likely to win Yvette any favor in the public eye, either. It was too late to do anything about it now. She stepped up behind the curved wooden railing that made up the witness stand at the side of the courtroom and faced the judges. She was glad that her back was to the audience, but she felt alone and exposed, standing there, waiting to be grilled about her association with an accused traitor by these godlike figures from on high.
However, she reminded herself that she wore haute couture of the very finest, that in Dior, a woman can accomplish anything. In a clear, carrying voice, she stated her name, took the oath, and waited for the questions to begin.
Yes, she knew Louise Dulac during the war. How did she know her? She delivered clothing to her from the House of Lelong.
Was she more to Louise Dulac than just a delivery girl? No. At least, she did not know what that question meant. Would his honor please explain? A slight flutter of the eyelashes with that one. Silly, silly girl.
Yes, she accompanied Louise Dulac to the Château de Saint Firmin. Why did she do that? Mademoiselle had taken a liking to her, she thought. She was French and Dulac was surrounded by Germans. But Yvette had to leave the château one night. Mademoiselle Dulac had broken some pearls and Yvette had to take them back to Paris to be restrung.
Then the question she had been waiting for. Slowly and clearly, she answered. “Mademoiselle Dulac was spying for the resistance.”
The room fell still. After a long pause came the question, “How did you know this?”
“The night she broke her pearls, she asked me to do something.” Yvette hesitated, then lowered her gaze, her embarrassment not entirely a pretense. “I was to distract a German SS officer, Obersturmbannführer Werner, while she searched his room.”
Sniggers rippled through the courtroom.
“And what form did this distraction take?”
She bit her lip and hesitated, then mumbled a response.
“Speak up!” the judge growled. “And look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Bracing her shoulders, Yvette spoke out. “I stalled and stalled, but the Obersturmbannführer tried to kiss me. It was horrible. And then I did something awful. Oh, too awful to tell.”
“Nevertheless, mademoiselle, you must tell.”
She could feel the audience, the judges, everyone hold their breath, waiting for the lurid details. “I threw up on him,” she said.
The room held silent, then erupted into laughter. This, they had not expected.
“You did what?” One of the judges glared at her beneath beetled brows.
Yvette spread her hands. “He was like a pig and he was a Nazi and he made me sick.” She spoke in a loud, clear voice. “Oh, but very sick, all over him. And he went away then, but by that time Mademoiselle Dulac had found what she needed and she came back. She wrote out a message in code and I was to deliver it to a jeweler in Paris, along with the broken string of pearls. But then when I got there, someone told me the jeweler had been taken by the gestapistes, so I gave the message to a man I knew who was also working for the resistance. And I do not know what happened after that.”
“You cycled all the way back to Paris from Chantilly?”
“Mademoiselle Dulac had obtained a pass for me from Ambassador Abetz to get me through the checkpoints.” Yvette drew herself up proudly. “Oh, but I was very sore afterward.”
A few more sniggers greeted that statement.
“You don’t know what the message contained, or who it was for,” said another judge. He rubbed at his spectacles with the sleeve of his black gown, then set them carefully back on, as if to peer at her more closely.
“I only know what Mademoiselle Dulac told me. She said it was a report on a local munitions store. Her message was in code.”
And that was all that needed to be said. Yvette glanced at Dulac, sitting straight backed and proud in the dock, and wondered if she detected a faint air of relief about her. No, Yvette decided. Louise did not betray any weakness whatsoever. A risky move, that. Yvette’s ingénue act was far more palatable to those old chauvinists, and to the crowd, as well.
“And did you have further dealings with mademoiselle after that?” inquired the bespectacled judge.
“I saw her one more time.” The fury and despair of the day she tried to save Catherine rose up, into her chest and throat. She took a moment to force it down, deep inside to the pit of her stomach. “A friend of mine was taken by the gestapistes, the rue de la Pompe gang. I begged for Mademoiselle Dulac’s help in trying to free her.” She swallowed hard and threw her shoulders back. “There was nothing she could do.”
Sisters of the Resistance Page 31