by Susan Lewis
‘Warsaw has surrendered,’ he sighed. ‘The Soviets and the Germans are carving the country up between them. It’s only a matter of time now before they turn to the West. And what am I doing to stop them?’ His face was suddenly contorted with self-disgust. ‘Of the three of us, Lucien is the only one who’ll be able to hold his head up when this war is over.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe François was a traitor,’ she said.
‘I didn’t. But Louis told me what was in those boxes.’ There was no recrimination in his voice, but it was there in his eyes when he looked at her.
‘Louis swore me to secrecy,’ she said.
‘And that’s the reason you didn’t tell me?’
‘Of course. Why else would I hide it from you?’
‘Think about it, Claudine, and I’m sure you’ll come up with the answer.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Armand, but I’m glad Louis told you. I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.’
‘Then be honest with me now, Claudine.’
She frowned. ‘I am being honest with you,’ she declared, but she was baffled by the way she was suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
‘Louis knows, Claudine. I know, and I wouldn’t be surprised if François knows too.’
‘Knows what? What do you know? What are you talking about, Armand?’
He smiled, but there was a sadness in him that unnerved her. ‘Armand, you’re talking in riddles,’ she snapped. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
‘It’s not for me to tell you, Claudine. It’s for you to tell me.’
Suddenly she didn’t want this conversation to go any further, and snatching his bowl from the table, she said, ‘I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you have either.’
‘All right!’ he roared, and she jumped as he slammed his fist on the table. ‘We’ll change the subject. We’ll run away from the truth. We’ll pretend none of this is happening. If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.’
There was the sound of someone clearing his throat. Claudine spun round, and to her amazement saw Louis standing at the door.
‘I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d find you both here at this time, and as I didn’t want anyone to overhear our conversation …’ He looked from Claudine to Armand and back again. ‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’ Claudine cast a quick glance at Armand. ‘Nothing’s happened, has it?’ she said, a slight catch in her voice. ‘Everything …? Everyone …?’
Louis held up his hand. ‘Everyone is fine,’ he said.
Armand offered Louis his chair and passed him a glass of wine. ‘I think I have some of Gustave’s cigars somewhere.’
‘No, thank you,’ Louis said, cupping a hand round his glass but making no attempt to drink.
For a few moments no one said anything. Then Louis said to Claudine, ‘I think you’d better sit down too, chérie.’
Claudine felt a jolt of alarm, but she said nothing and pulled up a chair.
‘I made you a promise,’ Louis began, gazing solemnly down at his wine, ‘that as soon as I learned anything concerning François, I would tell you. I have just this morning received a letter from him.’
Armand started to rise. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I left,’ he said.
‘No,’ Louis answered. ‘François mentions you in the letter, so I think you should read it too.’ He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a folded envelope and passed it to Claudine.
Her hands were unsteady as she opened it, and fear was turning her blood to ice. She cast another look at Louis, then started to read,
Mon cher Papa,
I can offer no apology for what I am about to do, for I believe it to be right. The only regret I have is for the pain I know it will cause you. I am leaving France tonight, and have no idea if, or when, I shall return. I imagine it will come as no surprise to you to learn that I have allied myself to the Nazi cause. As you know, I have on many occasions attempted to persuade key figures in the French High Command to adopt Hitler’s policies, since I believe them to be the only way forward for our country. That I have not been successful in this is a source of deep regret to me, and will continue to be until France falls to the Germans, as she eventually must.
You will, I am sure, take the action you must now feel to be appropriate. I ask only that in disinheriting me you arrange for Claudine to obtain her freedom. Together we have given you an heir; she has done what was required of her and should now be free to go to the man she loves. Armand, I know, loves her and Louis, and will undoubtedly prove a better husband and father than I could ever be.
It grieves me that I am not the son you wanted, Papa, but I must be true to myself. François.
As the letter fell from her fingers, Claudine turned to look at Louis, and saw her own horror and despair mirrored in his eyes. They had had their suspicions, both of them, but she realized now that neither of them had allowed themselves to believe they might really be true. And if they had been able to they would have carried on like that, nurturing the doubt like a withering flower. But now they had read the confession in François’ own hand and were forced to face the facts. And François himself had told them what they must do. His father was to disown him, and she was to gain her freedom. While he, her husband, the father of her son, the man …
As she leapt up from her chair Louis caught her, hugged her to him, and whispered to her to remain calm. But the panic in her would not be stilled. This couldn’t be happening! It couldn’t be true! François’ name screamed across the front of her mind: he was gone, he had left them, he was never coming back! His ideals and beliefs meant more to him than his own son …
But that wasn’t true. She didn’t believe it. François loved his son, she knew he did. And then she felt a sudden intensifying of her pain as she wondered if he had taken his mistress with him. That beautiful, golden woman she had seen at the opera. The woman he loved. The woman for whom he was forsaking his family …
She closed her eyes, trying to get a grip on herself. He had made no mention of Élise so she must stop torturing herself this way. She must remember that he was giving her her freedom. He was telling her to go to Armand, to allow Armand to take his place. It was what she had always wanted …
But it wasn’t what she wanted!
She looked at Louis again, and seeing the terrible grief in her eyes he buried her face in his shoulder.
‘Why did he do it, Louis?’ she breathed. ‘Why?’
‘He gave us his reasons, chérie.’
‘But I don’t believe them. I won’t believe them!’
She felt Armand’s arms going round her, taking her from Louis. ‘It’s all right, Claudine,’ he whispered. ‘You don’t have to hide it any longer.’
‘Hide what?’ she cried.
‘Ssh!’ he soothed, stroking her face. But as he looked down at her, his eyes speaking the words more clearly than his voice, she started to shrink away. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘It’s not true! It’s not! Do you hear me?’ But her heart told her that it was.
‘You’ve always loved him,’ Armand whispered, ‘and now is the time for you to face the truth. I know it’ll be hard, but I’ll be here for you. So will Louis, so will Solange. We all know, Claudine, we’ve always known. And in your heart, so have you.’
‘No, Armand, no. I love you.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve tried to make you love me, Claudine, and for a while I think that maybe you did, but I knew when you returned from Paris that it was only a matter of time …’
He looked away, and Claudine felt the first stirring of an unbearable pity. Now she knew the reason for his apathy and despair. And now, with the shadow of dread removed and his worst fears realized, at last he had regained his strength. All he needed now was to hear her admit it – that she loved François.
But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. If she did
she would fall apart.
Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘You’re wrong, both of you. He’s a traitor. He’s a murderer. And as far as I’m concerned, he’s dead.’
Armand’s eyes met Louis’, but before either of them could speak she pulled back a chair and sat down. ‘We have now to decide what we are going to do about this,’ she said firmly. ‘Please sit down.’
When they were seated, she continued. ‘We must decide what we’re going to tell Solange. And Monique. And Lucien.’ She saw Louis flinch as she mentioned Lucien, and suddenly realized what all this might do to his career. ‘We can’t afford to wait,’ she went on. ‘Louis, I think you should leave for Paris in the morning. François’ contacts in the Government must be told at once, in case he tries to return to France. And if we don’t pass this information on, it makes us traitors ourselves.’
She knew her words must be like acid on Louis’ wounds, but she was carried along on the tide of her resolve, determined to make them all face up to the horror of it. ‘I imagine,’ she continued, ‘that whoever has been watching us will be removed by the Abwehr, now that François’ loyalty to them is no longer in question.’
To her surprise, her speech was greeted with silence. Then Louis said slowly, ‘What you’re saying makes sense, Claudine, but I wonder if perhaps we’re not being a little too hasty. You see, I don’t want to raise false hopes, but …’
Claudine stiffened, and Armand put a hand over hers as if to steady her. Her powers of resilience were remarkable, he knew, but he also knew that she couldn’t take much more. ‘I think we should know everything,’ he said.
Louis looked down at the letter lying on the table in front of them. ‘It may be nothing,’ he said, ‘it may be only the hope of a desperate father. But I think there’s another message in that letter besides the obvious one. Look at the date. You see, François wrote this letter almost four weeks ago.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Armand said.
‘It doesn’t take four weeks for a letter to arrive from Paris, not even in these times. Claudine received one from Céline only yesterday that Céline had written five days before. It’s my guess that François expected someone to read this letter before me. That he was telling someone else, not me, that he has defected to the German side. It would explain the delay. And never in his life has François written to me using the address Mon cher Papa.’
‘No!’ Claudine shouted, slamming her hands on the table. ‘He can’t do this to us! He can’t! He’s confessed his treachery and we must act upon it.’
‘Claudine,’ Armand said softly, ‘I think Louis might have a point. And we owe it to François to see …’
‘We owe him nothing!’ she cried. ‘He has deserted us! He has deserted his country and I won’t help him!’
‘You must, chérie,’ Armand replied. ‘We all must. He could be in a great deal of danger …’ He stopped as the blood drained from her face, but forced himself to go on. ‘I know that the torture of not knowing is going to worsen the pain for you, but if we have any doubt at all about this letter, I don’t think we should do as François asks.’
‘I agree with Armand,’ Louis said.
Claudine’s beautiful face was ravaged with grief and as she turned her eyes to Louis a silent scream erupted from the core of her despair.
*
Later that night Claudine sat on the edge of François’ bed, hugging a pillow and gazing sightlessly down at the floor. ‘I hate you,’ she said into the darkness. ‘I hate you for what you’re doing to me. I don’t know who I am any more, I don’t know what I want. But I don’t love you, François. Do you hear me? They’re wrong! I don’t care what happens to you! I don’t want you to come back. I never want to see you again …
‘Oh, François, I can’t love you, it hurts too much … I can’t hope that you’ll come back, because if you don’t … Oh, my love, where are you? Where are you?’ She pressed her face into the pillow as the tears started to stream down her cheeks.
‘If you didn’t want me,’ she sobbed, ‘why didn’t you let me go at the beginning? Why did you have to do it like this? But if you can’t love me, then please find it in your heart to love Louis. Come back for him, François, he needs you. I’m crying now, François, but I won’t cry again. After tonight there will be no more tears, there will be no more love. There will be nothing, after tonight.’
– 21 –
AFTER SCANNING THE bookshelves for some time, François pulled out a volume of Goethe’s poetry. He yawned. His hair needed cutting, he thought, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the brass lamp-stand beside him, and perhaps he should go upstairs and change out of the grey wool sweater and brown corduroy trousers before dinner. But it didn’t really matter whether he did nor not, and he strolled listlessly back to the fireplace and sat down heavily in the chair where he had spent the best part of the afternoon.
He had been here, at von Liebermann’s country residence, since France declared war on Germany – just under four months ago now. During this time his anger over what had happened to Élise had given way first to frustration at his enforced inactivity, then to utter boredom. He couldn’t deny that von Liebermann was the most generous of hosts; intellectual soirées were arranged for him, there were visits to the theatre and the opera, and any number of women were brought in for his entertainment; every French and British newspaper was delivered on a regular basis as well as the German ones, and he had free access to the wireless, and even a chauffeur at his disposal twenty-four hours a day. But despite all that, there was no getting away from the fact that he was a prisoner.
After Poland’s defeat he had been taken to Warsaw, where he had seen for himself the effectiveness of the Blitzkrieg. The city was in ruins, and God only knew how many had died. But they were the lucky ones; over a million men, women and children had been captured and taken to prisoner-of-war camps in Eastern Europe. François had assumed that after this von Liebermann would send him to France so that he could report on what he had seen and try once again to persuade the French to capitulate. But he was still, as the Christmas festivities approached, imprisoned in this cell of luxury – knowing as well as von Liebermann that to escape would be the easiest thing in the world, but that he wouldn’t even attempt it while the Abwehr controlled Halunke.
He rested his feet on the fender in front of the log fire and pondered the situation. Even now, von Lieberman still did not trust him. Of course, the Abwehr would have intercepted his letter to Louis; so far so good, they must be thinking, but why has the Comte de Lorvoire not now disinherited his elder son? Which was exactly what he himself was thinking: why in God’s name had Louis not gone ahead and disowned him, as instructed? The disinheritance was crucial, as the French Secret Service, under whose auspices he had been toiling for the last five years, had agreed. It would finally convince the Abwehr that he was to be trusted, but at the same time it would negate his usefulness to them as a spy by letting the French and British know he was considered a traitor. It was a complex and dangerous game they were playing, and one in which he might well lose his life.
He stirred irritably in his chair. Why was his father taking so long? Unless the Germans were convinced they could trust him, what happened to Élise could happen to Claudine. Halunke might well have intended to kill Élise, but undoubtedly von Liebermann was much gratified that he hadn’t, for she was now a living reminder of the threat his family was under if he didn’t co-operate. And the hell of it was, Captain Paillole and his agents couldn’t go anywhere near Lorvoire now, either to protect the family or see what was delaying Louis, because their presence would immediately alert German suspicions.
François sighed quietly to himself, then looked up as the door opened and von Liebermann walked in.
‘Ah, there you are, my friend,’ said the German, his narrow eyes shining with pleasure. His corpulent frame moved to the row of decanters on the heavy mahogany table. ‘Would you care for a drink before dinner?’
Franço
is declined with a shake of the head. ‘And what are you reading there?’ von Liebermann asked, glancing back over his shoulder.
François grimaced as he realized the significance of the title he had chosen, which would not be lost on the General. ‘Roman Elegies,’ he answered, putting the book to one side.
Von Liebermann’s fat shoulders shook as he turned back and saluted François with his glass. ‘Poems written for a mistress who eventually became a wife,’ he chuckled. ‘How very fitting.’
François didn’t comment. When he first arrived he had made his feelings about what had happened to Élise quite clear. As a result he had seen nothing of Helber since, for he had told von Liebermann precisely what he intended to do to the manhood of his toady.
Von Liebermann had merely smiled. ‘All I can say is, do not pursue your revenge too soon, my friend, or it will be the worse for others.’
‘I take it you are threatening me with Halunke?’ It was a stab in the dark, but von Liebermann’s thin eyebrows had lifted.
‘So you have discovered his code name,’ he had said. ‘Most diligent of you.’
François had let the matter drop then, and neither man had mentioned either Halunke or Élise again, until now.
‘I must say, it surprises me that you have expressed no interest in the welfare of Mademoiselle Pascale since arriving,’ von Liebermann said, easing his bulk into the chair opposite François’.
‘As she is of no further use to you, I imagine she is quite safe,’ François answered.
Von Liebermann nodded. ‘You are correct in your assumption. So why are you bothering to have her watched?’
‘For her own peace of mind.’
‘Very commendable. Particularly since her injuries mean that she is of no further use to you either.’
François’ jaw tightened, but he bit hard on his anger, knowing there was little point in giving vent to it now.
‘But the affair was over anyway, was it not?’ von Liebermann smiled. ‘So all we have to do now is discover which fortunate lady has succeeded to your affections?’