by Susan Lewis
‘You can try, but as there is no such lady you’ll be wasting your time.’
Von Liebermann laughed. ‘Very wise, my friend. A man in your position cannot afford the luxury of love, as you have discovered. Now, I have some good news for you. You are to return to France in the New Year. Or rather, in the spring. You have not been kept in the dark on the matter of Weser – the plans for the Norwegian operation – though I imagine you would appreciate more details. Alas, I cannot furnish them, though with a mind as brilliant as yours you will have already taken into account the fact that Swedish supplies of iron-ore travel to Germany through Norway. Therefore, it is necessary for us to turn our attention to Norway before executing Fall Gelb.’
François knew that Fall Gelb – Plan Yellow – was the invasion of the Low Countries. As far as he knew, this had been planned for January, but if the Norwegian operation had to come first it would obviously be postponed. However, this information would be useless by the time he got to France; unless the Nazis were stupid, Weser would already be well under way.
‘I’m afraid your bargaining power in France will be limited,’ von Liebermann continued. ‘However, it is not Herr Himmler’s wish that you obtain intelligence from the French, he merely requires that you use your remarkable talent for persuasion to convince them that they cannot possibly win this war.’
‘It will not have escaped your notice that I have failed to achieve this in the past. What makes you think I can do so now?’
‘In the past there was no war between Germany and France. You have seen what happened in Poland, a most lamentable defeat for that nation. But if the Poles had not fought the inevitable, they would not now be in the situation they are in. I’m sure that Monsieur Daladier and Monsieur Lebrun have no desire to see their country suffer such a fate. Have you asked yourself why France and Britain, having declared war on the Fatherland, did not attack from the west at a time when it would have been most prudent to do so?’
François had, many times, but he said nothing.
‘The only conclusion we can draw from this near-passive observation of Poland’s fate,’ von Liebermann went on, ‘is that France – and maybe Britain – do not, despite their declarations of war, want to fight.’
‘You are less certain about Britain?’
‘A cunning nation. They have their Expeditionary Force in what they feel to be strategic position in northern France. We shall see whether they will fight. Naturally, we shall try to persuade them not to, we have no desire for further bloodshed. But you know the British as well as I; not nearly as pragmatic as the French. So perhaps your first job as an officer of the Abwehr will not be such a difficult one.’
‘An officer?’ François repeated.
‘That is the other good news I have for you. Herr Himmler has seen fit to bestow the rank of major upon you.’
‘I am honoured,’ François murmured. ‘Please thank Herr Himmler on my behalf when next you see him.’
‘You can thank him yourself,’ von Liebermann grinned. ‘We are to spend the Christmas period at Karinhall as the guests of Herr Goering and his estimable lady wife. Herr Himmler is also invited. As is the Führer.’
‘It will be an honour indeed to spend time in such distinguished company,’ François remarked, getting to his feet.
Von Liebermann’s beady eyes watched him as he walked across the room and helped himself to a cognac. Like Helber, he was not unaffected by de Lorvoire’s potent sexuality, there were times when he had only to raise an eyebrow for von Liebermann to experience a stirring in his groin. But unlike Helber, he had his carnal desires well under control – as de Lorvoire quite simply terrified him.
‘I presume,’ François said, turning round and perching on the edge of the table, ‘that any preference I might have for where I spend the festive season is unlikely to be considered?’
‘Aaah,’ von Liebermann sighed mournfully. ‘You would like to be with your family? I understand only too well, my friend. However, I am afraid that is not possible. Herr Himmler feels it would be unwise for you to return to France before the spring.’ He paused. ‘By which time it is our hope that the question of your fealty to the Reich will have been finally settled.’
François thought about this. ‘Do I understand,’ he said carefully, ‘that there is something you wish me to do between now and the spring to prove, yet again, where my loyalties lie?’
Von Liebermann tutted and sighed. ‘You have such an astute brain, my friend. It pleases me so much not to have to spell things out. Incidentally, before we move any further from the subject of your family, I am able to give you news of them if you wish.’
François’ hand hesitated as he lifted the cognac to his lips.
‘No,’ von Liebermann laughed, reading his mind, ‘we have not obtained this information from Halunke, my friend. But it may interest you to know that your wife has taken the news of your defection rather well. She is even now making preparations for her marriage to the vigneron … I’m afraid his name escapes me.’
‘St Jacques,’ François supplied. His eyes narrowed. So the Abwehr had read his letter, and they had also passed it on to his father – there were times when he’d wondered whether Louis had ever received it. But if he had received it, why hadn’t he disinherited him?
‘Yes, St Jacques,’ von Liebermann nodded. His eyes shot to François’, then with a smirk he said, ‘A rather odd choice of lover for a woman in your wife’s position, wouldn’t you say?’
François was not deceived. This was von Liebermann’s way of trying to find out whether he harboured any secret feelings for his wife. ‘Had you met St Jacques,’ he said, smiling straight into von Liebermann’s eyes, ‘you might not think so. He has a certain appeal for the ladies. And who knows, perhaps my wife will find in her second marriage the happiness she failed to find in her first.’
‘But not the status.’
François smiled. ‘If there’s one thing my wife cannot be accused of, it is snobbery.’
Von Liebermann sighed. ‘It is a sorrowful thing when our wives do not live up to our expectations, is it not?’ he said.
‘But mine did,’ François answered. ‘She has delivered an heir, which was all that was required of her.’
‘Quite so. And now, like the rest of her sex, she is not only dispensable but replaceable.’
‘As I said earlier, there is no one else,’ François said. ‘So shall we get on with the task you have in mind for the proof of my fealty?’
‘Of course,’ von Liebermann smiled. ‘Come, sit down again, and I shall tell you what it is. I think, considering your reputation for ruthlessness, that it is a task you are going to enjoy.’
Holding the pistol with both hands, Claudine raised it, lowered it very slowly and took aim. All around her there was an unnatural silence, as if nature itself was holding its breath. She squeezed hard on the trigger. The explosion reverberated round the valley as though echoing through the very bowels of hell.
‘Bravo!’ Lucien cried, as one of the wine bottles balanced on a ledge between the two caves smashed to a thousand pieces. ‘You’re a natural, ma chérie.’
Claudine’s face was aglow with pride, until she saw how Armand was laughing at her. ‘Your turn,’ she said, handing him the pistol.
‘But I’m such a miserable shot,’ Armand protested.
She gave him a sceptical look, and obediently Armand raised the gun the way Lucien had shown them, lowered it, took aim, and missed.
‘Such humiliation!’ he groaned. But Claudine had seen the way his eyes met Lucien’s, and before Armand could do as much as turn to her for sympathy, she had grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, kicked his legs from under him and toppled him to the ground.
‘Bravo!’ Lucien exclaimed. ‘I didn’t know you were that good at self-defence, Claudine.’
She stood over her victim with her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t think you can fool me, Armand St Jacques. I’ve seen you both practising out here so I
know what a good shot you are. And I’m ready to take on anyone,’ she said, grinning meaningfully at Lucien.
Despite the biting March wind, the three of them had spent a happy and sometimes hilarious morning at shooting practice in the courtyard. A few yards away, wearing a multitude of coloured scarves, a woollen hat tugged down to her eyebrows and thick leather gloves which certainly belonged to Louis, Solange sat reading a book that had been sent to her by her friend Simone de Beauvoir. It was not one of Simone’s own books, but the Marquis de Sade’s One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom to which Simone had written an introduction. As she slowly turned the pages, Solange’s normally mobile face was frozen in an expression of total incredulity.
‘Good book, Solange?’ Claudine called.
Startled, Solange peered out from under her hat as though she had forgotten where she was. ‘Astonishing, chérie,’ she said. ‘Altogether astonishing.’
‘What’s it about?’ Armand said. All three of them knew perfectly well what it was about.
‘Oh, I couldn’t say,’ Solange answered, quite flustered. ‘I mean, I’m not really sure …’
‘Does Papa know you’re reading that, Maman?’ Lucien called.
Solange glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No, I don’t think so either,’ Lucien grinned. ‘So don’t, whatever you do, ask him to explain it.’
Suddenly young Louis appeared round the corner of the château. ‘Grand-mère! Grand-mère!’ he cried, and hurled himself into Solange’s lap.
‘Chéri!’ she shrieked, giving him a big wet kiss on the cheek.
‘Wait for this, he’s sure to ask her to read to him when he sees the book,’ Claudine whispered. And when this was exactly what happened, and Solange turned puce with discomfort, the three of them roared with laughter.
‘Come along, young man,’ Lucien said, swinging his nephew up onto his shoulders. ‘I have a book for you that comes all the way from Denmark. And if we ask Grand-père nicely, perhaps he’ll let us look for Denmark on his globe so you can see how far away it is.’
Claudine watched as Lucien and Louis disappeared through the kitchen door. Any minute now Solange would get up and follow them inside, so that she could continue to keep Lucien under her maternal eye. Instead of irritating Lucien, his mother’s protectiveness seemed to amuse him; he’d turned it into a game of hide-and-seek which Solange, with her usual sense of fun, had entered into gladly. Of them all, it was his father who had been most surprised to see Lucien when he arrived three days ago – but things were so quiet at the front, Lucien explained, that there were now serious doubts as to whether there really would be a war after all. And over the past forty-eight hours many of the young men from Lorvoire and the surrounding villages had started to reappear too. The generals, deciding that there was little point in them kicking their heels at the lines, had sent them home on leave.
Lucien’s first dinner at home had been a sober affair, for he had spent the afternoon in the library with his father, being told about François. Lucien’s handsome face had been pale and drawn when the two of them finally emerged, but it soon became clear that his concern was not for his own career, but solely and wholeheartedly for his brother. A concern he was simply not worthy of, Claudine had told him when he joined her later in her sitting-room for a nightcap.
‘But how can you say that?’ Lucien had protested. ‘You haven’t heard from him for almost seven months. God only knows what might have happened to him in that time.’
‘Does it matter?’ she had retorted. ‘He made his choice, he knew what he was letting himself in for.’
‘You don’t mean that. And besides, you don’t know if it was his choice,’ Lucien pointed out. ‘I know your marriage hasn’t been all you might have hoped for, but …’
‘There are no buts, Lucien. He’s done nothing to make me care for him and everything to make me hate him. And if I ever see him again I shall take great pleasure in telling him how well he’s succeeded. I loathe and detest him to the very depths of my soul. The only decency in him was his love for his son, but now even that’s gone.’
‘I don’t believe that, and neither do you.’
‘How can I not believe it!’ she had cried. ‘Your father showed you the letter, you read what he said. How can any man of principle and integrity consider handing his own son to another man?’
‘And his wife?’ Lucien said gently.
‘Yes! And me!’ she had yelled. ‘But don’t think I care about that! I’ve never in my life wanted to be free of him more than I do now. He’s a traitor! A murderer! A sadist! He’s vile and evil, and I don’t know how you can defend him when we both know that he has very probably ruined your career.’
‘Oh, I’ll survive,’ Lucien had said. ‘But will you, Claudine? With so much bitterness wrapped up inside you …’
It had been a painful conversation, and now, as Solange rose to her feet and went into the château – still clutching her book to her chest – Claudine resolved to put all uncomfortable thoughts out of her mind. She turned to Armand.
‘Come to the cottage,’ she whispered, ‘and let me make you some lunch.’
By the time they had finished eating the sky outside was so black and thunderous that Claudine had to light the oil lamps. The rain was beating rhythmically against the windows and the wind shrilled through the cottage’s battered roof, almost drowning the sleepy sound of an American band playing on the wireless. They sat side by side at the old table, sipping their coffee.
‘Kiss me,’ Claudine said.
Armand knew it was an invitation to more than a kiss. They often made love in the afternoons, slowly savouring one another’s bodies in the long, languorous hours between lunch and Claudine’s return to the château. But now he only brushed his lips lightly across hers, then turned to take another sip of coffee.
‘Is something the matter?’ she said. And then, feeling her heart start to pound, ‘Don’t you want to make love?’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he said. ‘It’s just that we have to talk, Claudine. We have to talk about us.’
This, he had decided, was the time to have it out with her. Today, this afternoon, he was going to force her to face the truth. Since the day Louis had come to the cottage with François’ letter, François’ name had not been mentioned between them, and they had gone on with their pretence of love as if nothing had happened. But they were living a lie, and now he was going to put an end to it.
When he looked up, Claudine was staring at him with an almost petulant expression on her face. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to marry me? Is that what this is all about?’
He sighed. ‘It’s not a case of whether I want to marry you, Claudine,’ he said. ‘You know I do. But you have to face the fact that that will never happen so long as François …’
‘I don’t want to talk about François!’
He pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘That’s not going to be easy when we both know that he’s the reason for things being the way they are between us.’
‘What do you mean, “the way they are”?’ she said in a tight voice.
‘You know what I mean, but if you’d prefer me to spell it out …’
‘Perhaps you’d better.’
‘Well, to begin with, this pretence is tearing us both apart. I love you, Claudine, you know that, but if you care anything at all for me you’ll understand that the time has come – no, is long overdue – for you to let me go.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘Then ask yourself why you can’t. And please don’t say it’s because you love me.’
‘But it is.’
‘No, Claudine! You’ve never loved me, at least not in the way you love …’ He held up his hand as she started to protest. ‘All this time, what we’ve had here in this cottage, it’s all been a game. It’s a game that has meant a great deal to you, I know, but it’s a game you would never hav
e played if you hadn’t been lonely, if François hadn’t turned his back on you the way he did.’ He sighed, and looked away from the pain in her eyes. ‘I’m going to end our affair,’ he said, quietly but firmly. ‘It’s the only way I can see of saving my own sanity. You have to let me go, Claudine. You have to.’
‘No, Armand! Stop saying these things.’
‘Claudine, please think about what this is doing to me. I can’t go on making love to you knowing that all the time you’re thinking of him. You must try to accept that it’s because you love and want him so desperately that you can’t dispel him from your mind even when …’
‘That’s not true,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ve told you how things were between us. He didn’t bother to hide his distaste even at having to touch me.’
‘But was it so distasteful for you?’
She drew breath to speak, then lowered her eyes to her hands. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Look me in the eye and tell me that. Tell me that it was you who brought that side of your marriage to an end.’
‘Does it matter which of us brought it to an end?’ she cried. ‘The fact is, François loves someone else. He’s been sleeping with Élise Pascale since before we were married! He loves her so much that now he’s abandoned his own son and gone away to Germany with her! How can you believe I could either want or love a man who has treated me like that?’
Armand smiled. ‘Very easily,’ he said. ‘And perhaps now is the time to tell you that he didn’t take Élise Pascale to Germany with him as you suspect. In fact, his affair with her is over.’
His words seemed to hit her a stultifying blow. Suddenly, she felt as though every ounce of energy she possessed was being wrung from her limbs. ‘How do you know that?’ she breathed.
‘Louis told me, just after he received the letter from François.’
‘Why didn’t he tell me?’
‘Because with François being in Germany, with the future so uncertain, he though it would only make things worse for you.’