by Susan Lewis
As Claudine sat perched on the edge of the wall, the children started to play at soldiers, running around the well, shouting and screaming as they fired imaginary guns, then pretended to fall down dead. Robert Reinberg looked on blankly, every now and again pointing his fingers like a gun and waiting for someone to react. The other children ignored him, and Claudine’s heart went out to him as he threw himself awkwardly to the ground beside his sister, who put a protective arm round him to shield him from the enemy.
‘Are you going to be a hero too?’ she said, lifting him onto her lap and ruffling his wispy fair hair.
‘He can’t be a hero!’ one of the other boys shouted. ‘He’s too stupid.’
Claudine’s face tightened, but before she could speak Janette Reinberg had thrown herself at the boy, beating him with her fists. ‘He’s not stupid!’ she cried. ‘He’s not! He’s not!’
‘He is! Everyone knows he is! Even the grown-ups say so.’
Claudine reached out for the boy and pulled him in front of her. ‘Which grown-ups?’ she demanded.
The little boy’s face turned crimson and he hung his head.
‘Which grown-ups?’ Claudine repeated with deliberation.
‘Madame Jallais,’ another boy answered. ‘She said that Robert was silly in the head. She said it was because Robert was a Jew. She said that Jesus was getting his own back.’
‘Did she indeed,’ Claudine said, through gritted teeth. She looked across at the Jallais cottage. The shutters were closed – she had passed Florence earlier, on her way to Chinon with her husband. It was high time, she decided, that that bitter, twisted old harridan was taken to task. She would return to the village immediately after lunch and deal with her then. She would even, if it proved necessary, ask Armand to dismiss Monsieur Jallais from the vineyards.
Gustave appeared, strolling over from the café. ‘And how are you, Gustave?’ she said, smiling up at his jolly round face.
‘Getting poorer by the minute, madame,’ he complained. ‘All the men have gone except us old ones. There’s no one to buy my drinks.’
Taking the hint, Claudine sent the children off to get some lemonade and followed Gustave to a table outside the café. Across the square she could see Solange talking animatedly over her shoulder to the children on the horse.
‘Queer kind of war, this, don’t you think, madame?’ Gustave said, putting a large glass of wine in front of her. ‘Three weeks and almost nothing has happened.’
Claudine gave him a droll look as she picked up the unordered wine and took a sip. ‘I had a letter from my aunt this morning,’ she told him. ‘She’s still in Paris. She says all the cinemas and theatres have reopened, that people are even walking about the streets without gas-masks.’
‘Mmm,’ Gustave grunted. ‘Maybe Hitler has lost his nerve. What does the Comte think?’
‘I’m not sure what he thinks,’ Claudine answered. ‘He hasn’t been well these past few weeks.’
‘So I hear,’ Gustave said mournfully. ‘How is he now?’
‘A little better, I’m glad to say.’ Then in a whisper she added, ‘Well enough to ask for cigars.’
Gustave’s face brightened at the prospect of making a sale, and as Solange approached with the horse and its two mounts, he cried, ‘A glass of wine for you, Madame la Comtesse?’
‘Certainly not, Gustave!’ she cried. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘Madame la Comtesse is going to play war,’ Thomas’ grandson informed everyone as Claudine lifted him down from the horse. ‘She said that her car is the ambulance and the café is our hospital.’
‘There you are, Gustave,’ Claudine said, ‘you have plenty of customers now. So,’ she turned back to Solange and the children, ‘do I take it you’ve finished with my horse? I’d better be getting home to see my own little boy, then, or he’ll think I’ve forgotten him.’
No one waved as she trotted off down the street, they were all too busy fighting for a place in the ambulance. She could hardly wait to tell Louis what his wife was up to; already she could hear him chuckling as she described how Solange was lining up the injured and bullying them with her stethoscope … Louis would be as glad of the diversion as she was. If only for a little while, it would keep Solange from thinking about François.
Since he had telephoned her that night, when she had all but accused him of being a traitor, Claudine had heard nothing from him. Nor had Louis, though he had somehow managed to discover that François was no longer in Paris and suspected he was somewhere in Germany.
That her husband was a traitor was something Claudine could not allow herself to think about – it dragged emotions from too deep within her. Armand was certain it wasn’t true, that somewhere there was an innocent explanation for François’ behaviour. But he hadn’t even bothered to refute her accusation. He hadn’t cared enough even to let his father know where he was or what he was doing. She knew it was breaking Louis’ heart. And, if Louis really did disown his eldest son, as he had threatened to do if François’ treachery was proved, Solange’s heart would be broken too.
Trying to dismiss her misgivings Claudine rode round the corner to the gates of the château. Suddenly her horse reared as it came face to face with a lorry. She managed to keep her seat, and leaned forward, soothing her mount, while the lorry, the first of a convoy of four, turned into the drive.
Claudine followed them up to the château, and once she had dismounted at the stables, walked back to the front of the house just as Louis was coming down the steps.
‘What on earth are all those lorries doing here?’ she asked.
Taking her by the elbow Louis led her round to the small courtyard in front of the wine caves where the lorries were now parked. ‘I received a message from François’ courier, Erich von Pappen, this morning,’ he told her. ‘François wants the contents of these lorries stored.’
‘But what’s in them?’
‘I don’t know.’
One of the drivers approached and asked for the Comte de Lorvoire. ‘That’s me,’ Louis informed him. Then turning to Jean-Paul, who had followed at a distance, he said, ‘Show the men where to take the …?’ But the driver simply started unloading. Jean-Paul unlocked the arched door at the side of the château which led down to the cellars, and Louis and Claudine stood at the top of the steps hoping to have their curiosity satisfied. But all that came out of the lorries were wooden crates, dozens of them, tall and flat, small and square, crate after crate.
‘Can’t you ask what’s in them?’ Claudine whispered, as they stepped back to let one of them pass.
Louis shrugged, but when two men struggled by with the next one, he did.
‘Je ne sais pas, monsieur,’ the man answered, giving Louis an incredulous look as if to say, ‘They’re yours, aren’t they?’ Louis shrugged again, then beckoning Claudine after him, he started down the steps into the wine cellar.
The endless racks were illuminated by bare bulbs, thick with dust, hanging from the ceiling. Through the gloom Claudine saw Jean-Paul and one of the lorry drivers gingerly shifting a rack from the back wall.
‘The inner cellar is behind,’ Louis explained. ‘It’s where François wanted the – er, boxes, to be stored.’
They remained in the cellar until the last crate had been carried through, their breath forming clouds in the chill air. ‘Thank you, Jean-Paul,’ Louis said, as the butler edged the wine-rack back into place. ‘Perhaps you would like to offer the men some refreshment?’
The drivers’ grimy faces visibly brightened, and brushing the cobwebs from their clothes, they followed Jean-Paul back up the stairs.
‘What are we going to do now?’ Claudine asked as the door closed behind them.
‘We’re going in there to find out what’s in those boxes, of course.’
The musty smell of the inner cellar was stifling, and the wall lamp cast a weak, dull light over the imbroglio of wooden crates. Louis handed Claudine a handkerchief to cover her mouth with, and pointed to
the box nearest them. ‘Did you see this, written on the side? There are letters like this on every one.’
‘Yes, I noticed,’ came her muffled voice. ‘I wonder what it means?’
‘No idea. Probably some kind of code. We don’t stand much chance of deciphering it, though, so we’ll just have to break the boxes open.’
‘But how?’ Claudine asked, tilting one of the smaller boxes. ‘They’re sealed very securely.’
For a moment Louis seemed defeated, then peering at her through the darkness he said, ‘Run upstairs to the caves and see if Armand is there. If he is, get him to bring some tools down here and he can give us a hand.’
Claudine was back within five minutes, carrying Armand’s tool bag. ‘Armand has gone into Chinon,’ she told Louis. ‘I found this under the workbench.’
‘Try this one here,’ Louis said, tipping up one of the boxes. ‘One of the nails isn’t quite in, it should be easy to pull.’
It turned out to be more difficult than they expected, but eventually they managed to prise the lid off, and reaching into the box Louis pulled out a large cloth bag.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he spluttered as he peered inside.
‘What is it?’ Claudine whispered. Despite the dim light she could see that his face had turned quite pale. ‘Here.’ He passed the bag over. ‘Take a look.’
Claudine could hardly believe her eyes. She pulled out glittering diamond tiaras, ruby necklaces, sapphire rings, emerald brooches and gold earrings. She looked at Louis. ‘Where can he have got them?’ she whispered.
Louis shook his head.
‘But not all these boxes can be filled with jewellery,’ she said, looking at the bigger ones. ‘What do you suppose is in them?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
It was the middle of the afternoon by the time they slid the wine-rack back into place and went upstairs.
‘What are we going to do?’ Claudine asked, as Louis closed the drawing-room door behind them and went to pour himself a brandy.
‘What can we do? Those paintings are even more valuable than the jewellery, you know.’
‘But where have they all come from?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if they’re his. We’ll just have to wait until he comes to Lorvoire and ask him to explain.’
‘Did this von Pappen man say where he is now?’
‘No. But he’ll know. Erich von Pappen always knows where François is.’
‘Can’t we get on to him again?’
‘Easier said than done, chérie.’
There was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and as Louis took a sip of his brandy Claudine went to pour one for herself. ‘Are you going to tell anyone about this?’ she said.
‘No. And nor should you. I can’t for the life of me think what it might be, but there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.’
His voice held no conviction, and knowing what he was thinking, Claudine felt herself overtaken by an engulfing dread. What else was there to think, after all? Rumours of Nazi looting had long been rife in the salons of Paris.
Not for the first time, Claudine felt the incongruity of standing at the dilapidated stove of a rundown farmhouse, heating a midday meal for a man who was not her husband. It wasn’t simply that the novelty had worn off – it was that the impropriety of it had recently started to bother her. Why that should be, she didn’t know. She preferred not to ask herself the question, because she had an uncanny feeling she wouldn’t like the answer. So, attempting to put her unease aside, she continued to stir the cassoulet as Armand strolled listlessly across the room and went to sit at the foot of the broken staircase.
‘I can’t fire Henri Jallais, Claudine,’ he said, wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve lost half the workers as it is. Besides, he wasn’t the one who said it, it was his wife. And you’ve certainly made yourself an enemy there. What exactly did you say to the woman?’
‘It hardly matters what I said,’ she retorted. ‘It’s what Florence Jallais said that matters.’
‘But no one takes any notice of her.’
‘They do!’ she flared. ‘The children are repeating it, and Gertrude Reinberg has enough to contend with without Florence Jallais’ spiteful little mind making things worse.’
‘But there was no reason for you to get involved,’ he said wearily.
‘There was every reason!’ she shouted. ‘I happen to care about that little boy. I thought you did too.’
He sighed. ‘All right. All right. I’ll speak to the man if that’s what you want.’
Swallowing hard on her anger, Claudine turned back to the stove. She knew that if Armand didn’t do something soon to pull himself out of his apathy, she would end up saying something they would both regret. His depression since the declaration of war was getting on her nerves. Every time she saw him it was as though another layer of his self-esteem had been peeled away – and she wasn’t sure that she particularly liked the man being revealed underneath. It was so at odds with the man she had known before, the man she loved; she simply didn’t know how to react to him any more.
She carried a bowl of cassoulet over to the table, and seeing his bowed head her impatience flared again; but as he looked up at her, his bronzed face creased with hopelessness, her irritation gave way to pity. She knew he was suffering badly – but if only he would tell her why! She was certain there was more to his despondency than the fact that he was unable to fight, but how could she help him when he refused to talk about it?
‘You haven’t told me why you didn’t come yesterday,’ he said, as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ she answered, ‘but you obviously weren’t listening. I was helping Louis with some things and time just ran away with us.’
‘What things?’
‘We were putting some boxes into store for François.’ She didn’t know what she was going to say if he asked what was in the boxes, but he seemed to lose interest then, and picked up his spoon to begin eating.
‘Did you make this?’ he said, after the first mouthful.
‘No. Your mother did.’
‘I thought so,’ he said, and put down his spoon.
‘What’s the matter with it? Why aren’t you eating?’
‘Have you given up cooking for me yourself?’
‘No, but there isn’t always time.’
‘Yet you can make time to help Louis or interfere in the affairs of the village.’
‘Don’t be childish, Armand!’ she snapped, and turned back to the stove to ladle herself a helping of stew.
‘Is there any more news regarding François’ whereabouts?’ he asked as she sat down.
‘No.’
‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if he might do us the favour of getting himself killed in this war.’
Her spoon clanged against the dish as she slammed it on the table. ‘I’ve had about all I can take of this!’ she cried.
‘Well, that’s the answer for us, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘That François should die?’
‘Stop it!’ she shouted. ‘Just stop this now or I’m leaving.’
He was silent then, and as he poured himself some wine she picked up her bowl and carried it to the stove.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve lost my appetite,’ she answered, pouring the cassoulet back into the pot.
‘I’m sorry.’
She turned to face him, ready to forgive – but had to grit her teeth as she saw his head was again buried in his hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t mean it. I shouldn’t have said it. God knows, this business is difficult enough for you without me making it worse.’ He looked up, and his handsome face was drawn with guilt. ‘You care about what happens to him, though, don’t you?’
She was suddenly gripped by an overpowering need to escape. But it wasn’t Armand she wanted to run from, she realized, it was
herself.
‘So do I,’ Armand sighed, as if she had spoken. ‘There have been times when I’ve come very close to hating him – for what he did to Hortense, for what he’s done and is still doing to you – but I can’t forget the man he used to be, the way he was before.’
A bell of recognition clanged in her head, and she remembered that Lucien had once said something very similar about François. ‘Before what?’ she prompted, going to sit back at the table.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is that something happened to change him. About five years ago. But I suppose there was always something different about him, even before that, something that seemed to set him apart from everyone else. People were frightened of him even then. Except Lucien, of course. And me. They used to say he was the devil.’ He laughed, without humour.
‘We certainly made some capital out of that,’ he went on. ‘We were very close, the three of us then. There was nothing we didn’t know about each other; even when Lucien joined the army and I married Jacqueline, the bond between us remained. Then, as I say, about five years ago François suddenly changed. He stopped confiding in us, he became secretive, withdrawn even, and that mean look of his became a permanent expression. He started to spend more and more time in Paris; he didn’t even come to Lorvoire when Lucien was at home, which I know hurt Lucien a great deal. At first we thought it was his mistress keeping him away, but there was never a woman born who could make François do something he didn’t want …’
Armand looked at her, then looked away again. ‘We’ve drifted a long way apart, the three of us, but there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other, even now. At least, that’s the way I feel, and I’m sure Lucien does too. That seems an odd thing to say, doesn’t it, when I’m committing adultery with François’ wife, but I mean it. And besides, there’s been precious little of that of late, hasn’t there?’
She looked back at him, her lovely blue eyes hard and uncompromising. She wasn’t going to take the blame for that. He was the one who had lost his appetite for love-making, and even now, irritated with him as she was, if he were to take her in his arms with something of his old charm, she knew she would respond.