Feeling as though she were in the grip of an electric current, Copper watched as the first line of demonstrators reached the police. A vehement argument was going on. But then the first police baton was swung. A man fell, clutching his head. A roar went up from the crowd. It was the signal for a full-scale assault on the CRS. Demonstrators surged forward, swinging weapons of their own – the wooden poles of placards had evidently been chosen to serve two purposes – and clashed with the police lines. A horse reared, its flailing hooves scattering the unfortunates beneath. Men and women were floundering, stumbling, screaming.
Suddenly, the square was full of violence and danger. People surged to and fro, clubbing at each other, retreating, then turning to face the fray again. Copper realised that she was well and truly stuck up her tree, like a lookout up the mast of a ship in a storm. There was nothing to do but try to record the scene. Her heart was racing and her hands shook so much that she knew half of her shots would be blurry. She fumbled for her notebook and pencil, trying not to drop her camera as she shakily scribbled notes. The fighting, which had been taking place at the far end of the square, now spread as the CRS forged a path through the middle of the crowd, effectively cutting it in two.
But the gendarmes were not having it all their own way. Horses were rearing and screaming as a hail of half-bricks and cobblestones showered on them. Copper saw that figures lined the rooftops, prepared with missiles for exactly this moment. Several police were knocked down, and riderless animals were panicking, causing as much chaos among the police as among the demonstrators.
Then, shockingly, there was a shot. Someone had fired a pistol at the police. It was answered by a fusillade of shotgun fire from the CRS. Pellets rattled through the leaves around Copper, making her retreat along her branch in terror.
A second wave of police now poured into the square from a different direction, swinging clubs in disciplined savagery. There was the rattle of a sub-machine gun from the rooftops. This was getting serious. She clung to the trunk of the tree, praying not to be struck by either gunfire or rocks.
After a pitched battle of some fifteen minutes, the crowd began to yield. With faces covered in blood, some hobbling, people supporting each other as best they could, the demonstrators fled from the square, hotly pursued by the CRS, who were wielding their batons to deadly effect. It was a rout. As the crowd streamed away in all directions, figures were left lying on the ground among the discarded red flags, at the mercy of the horses’ hooves. Several were too badly injured to get up. Others were immobile. These were all dragged, along with the dozens who had been arrested already, to the police vans that were now careering into the area. The gendarmes were left in possession of the square.
Hanging on to her branch for dear life, Copper hoped to avoid detection. But other people had climbed into other trees and the police were rousting them out, one by one. It soon came to her turn.
‘Come down, you,’ a gendarme commanded, swinging his truncheon threateningly.
‘I’m a journalist,’ Copper said, waving her card shakily.
‘I don’t care if you’re Marcel Proust,’ the man retorted. ‘Come down.’
‘I won’t!’
The gendarme called over a colleague and by the humiliatingly simple expedient of shaking the little tree, they soon dislodged Copper from her perch. Furious, she was forced to clamber down before she fell. She was immediately grabbed by the two policemen, her helmet yanked off and her camera taken away.
‘Don’t you dare damage my camera,’ she said, grabbing the man’s arm. ‘I’m an American citizen.’
‘So much the worse for you,’ the first gendarme said contemptuously. He opened the camera and pulled out the spool, destroying the morning’s work.
‘You bastard,’ Copper flung at him, outraged.
He tossed the camera to his colleague. ‘Throw her in the van with the others.’
Twenty-eight hideously uncomfortable hours later, the door of her cell opened, framing a burly gendarme. ‘Where’s the American woman?’
‘Here,’ she said.
He jerked his head. ‘Come.’
Bidding farewell to her cellmates, with whom she’d been swapping tales of struggle all night, Copper allowed herself to be hustled down the stinking corridor.
‘Long live the Revolution!’ one of her cellmates called after her.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Copper demanded, trying to sound brave.
‘You’ve been discharged,’ the gendarme replied. ‘You’ve got friends.’
Her rescuer was waiting at the front desk wearing an impeccable camel-hair overcoat and a trilby.
‘Henry!’
‘Are you all right?’ Henry asked anxiously, examining her.
‘They took my camera.’
He held up the Rolleiflex. ‘I’ve got it back, don’t worry.’
‘And they destroyed all my photographs! I had pictures of police brutality in there. The world had a right to see them.’
Henry sighed. ‘Any injuries? Physical ones, I mean.’
‘Just a few bruises.’
‘Then let’s get out of here.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ Copper protested as he started ushering her out. ‘I’m not leaving everybody else behind.’
‘You can’t do anything for them,’ Henry replied. ‘They’re going to be charged tomorrow morning and they’ll probably all get six months in jail. Unless you want the same?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Neither have they.’
‘I can’t help the others. But you – participating in civil unrest, refusing to obey police orders, resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer – it’s taken me two hours to talk you out of here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They say you were armed.’
‘I was wearing a helmet. That’s not being armed.’
‘You really can be astonishingly naïve,’ he snorted.
‘I didn’t want my brains knocked out by those bastards.’
‘Let’s go before they change their minds.’
‘I’m going to make an official complaint about them destroying my photographs.’
He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. They’re already talking about impounding your camera.’
Reluctantly, Copper allowed herself to be hustled out of the police station by Henry. In his car, she was ill-tempered, partly through lack of sleep.
‘I didn’t need you to come and rescue me,’ she said ungraciously.
‘Has it occurred to you that if you were convicted, you’d be deported?’ he enquired.
‘The police behaved disgustingly,’ she said, evading the question. ‘I saw women being beaten with clubs.’
‘A policeman was shot yesterday in that demonstration. And there are half a dozen more in hospital.’
‘They had it coming,’ she said grimly. ‘They attacked the crowd without provocation. They’re nothing more than paid thugs.’
‘They’re doing their job – trying to protect France.’
‘From people who speak their mind about injustice?’ she asked scornfully. ‘Is that this communist revolution you keep talking about, Henry? You told me the world needs freshness and youth; a new start. That’s exactly what the communists are promising.’
He was infuriatingly unmoved. ‘What they promise and what they deliver are two different things, Copper. You’re not too young to remember that when the fascists came along, they were also promising freshness, youth and a new start. They and the communists deliver the same horrors.’
‘As a capitalist, you would say that.’
‘You may find this hard to believe, but there was a time when I called myself a communist.’
‘I do find that hard to believe.’
‘Well, it’s true. When one first heard of the communists in Russia, one was excited, inspired even, by the ideal of universal brotherhood. But then they started to murder one’s relatives, not to mention their own followers, and one realised that the ideal had merely cloaked a darker an
d more hideous form of tyranny, and that the extended hand of universal brotherhood was a bloodstained claw intent on grasping complete power.’
‘France isn’t Russia.’
‘It may soon become Russia. The communists are buying lock-ups and storing trucks and cars. They’ve set up printing presses so they can issue leaflets – as well as print false passports and ration books. They’ve dug up the radio transmitters, machine guns and grenades that they hid after the Germans left. They’re well-armed – and they’re organising nationwide strikes that will paralyse France and throw the country into chaos.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Spying?’
He laughed. ‘Gathering intelligence is the preferred term. I saw what the communists did to my country,’ he said, his tone light but his words serious. ‘I would not like to see the same fate befall la belle France – or the rest of Europe.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, rubbing her eyes tiredly. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘Is there anything else bothering you?’ he asked delicately.
Copper sighed, running her fingers through her knotted red hair. ‘When you proposed to me, you said you didn’t want to change me, or tell me how to run my life.’
‘And I meant every word.’
‘Well – and I’m grateful to you for getting me out of the cooler and all – if you meant it, you shouldn’t have come galloping into the gendarmerie on your white horse.’
‘You were enjoying it in there?’
‘I was gathering material for a great story. Until you came along.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes!’
‘Very well,’ he said after a pause. ‘Next time you are arrested, I will content myself with bringing you a stale crust.’
‘That’s more like it, buster,’ she said. She laughed a little and then cried a little. Wisely, he said nothing. After a while, she dried her eyes with the hanky he passed her and took a shuddering breath.
‘I apologise for galloping in,’ Henry said at last. ‘Having lost one wife, I’m not at all anxious to lose another before she’s even mine.’ They were driving through the 7th arrondissement, the wealthiest and most privileged part of Paris. Now he pulled up in front of an elaborate wrought-iron gate. ‘Here we are.’
‘What is this place?’ she asked.
‘It’s my home.’
The house was half-hidden behind a stone wall. They opened the abundantly curlicued gate, entering the overgrown garden. The house itself was stately and serene, its façade clad in ivy.
‘It’s like Madeline’s house,’ Copper exclaimed. ‘An old house in Paris all covered with vines.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But instead of twelve little girls in two straight lines, it has until lately been tenanted by several dozen Gestapo officers. It was one of the first houses requisitioned by the Germans, of course, knowing as they did who I was.’ He unlocked the door and they went in. The grand old place was silent, the rooms still in the disorder left by the hastily departing Germans. Fine furniture, some of it broken, was scattered around. The walls were bare. ‘They took my collection of Impressionists with them,’ he said dryly. ‘But left me this.’
On the wall of an imposing dining room was a large oil painting of Adolf Hitler in his brown uniform, glowering at them from under his forelock. ‘Now there’s an ugly sight,’ Copper said.
‘I never cared for it, myself.’
‘Why don’t you take it down?’
‘I leave it there to remind me what we’re fighting,’ he replied. ‘And because, if they took van Gogh and left Hitler, they know they’re beaten.’
Despite the ill treatment the house had sustained, it remained beautiful. He led her from room to room, explaining that it had been built in the time of Napoleon III in the full Romantic style. The ceilings and mouldings were exquisite. From the upstairs windows, there were views of the golden dome of the Hôtel des Invalides.
‘When will you open it again?’ Copper asked.
‘When the war is over. Until then, I prefer a room at the Ritz. Do you like it?’
‘I love it. It’s gorgeous. If it were mine, I wouldn’t be able to wait.’
‘My darling, it is yours,’ he said gently. ‘Yours to do with as you please. When we’re married and the war is over, we’ll bring this place to life again.’
She looked around her, seeing the place as it would be once restored: one of the most beautiful houses in Paris. She tried to imagine herself, Oona Reilly from Brooklyn, as the mistress here; having the arrangement of the décor, hosting dinners, becoming a leading member of the belle monde. Parisian society would be at her feet. ‘Somehow, I just can’t see it.’
‘I can.’ He caressed the flowing auburn of her hair. ‘Don’t be angry with me. But I will have to be away for some time.’
She looked into his face. ‘What do you mean, “away”? Where are you going?’
‘I told you that the communists are planning a revolt. Well, it has already begun.’
‘You mean the strikes?’
‘The strikes are just the beginning. They hope to bring France to her knees over the next few weeks. I have things to do.’
‘Will you be in danger?’
‘Of course not.’ He took her arm. ‘Look. This would be our bedroom.’
It was an airy, charming room with a large, arched window that framed a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Unlike the rest of the rooms in the house, this one was clean and in perfect order. There were fresh flowers on the table and the huge, four-poster bed had been made up, the spotless linen inviting.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked. ‘Did you have this room got ready especially?’
‘I wanted it to look pretty for you.’
‘So that I would fall into bed with you?’ she demanded, half angry and half amused.
‘One may always hope.’
Copper didn’t know whether to be shocked or flattered. ‘Henry! And here I was, thinking you were a perfect gentleman.’
‘I believe you Americans have a saying: nice guys finish last.’
‘I didn’t know it was a race.’
‘Nor did I. But now I see that there is a race – and the first past the post will be the winner.’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘You think you’re competing with Suzy.’
‘I know I’m competing with her.’
‘I don’t like being thought of in that way,’ she said slowly. ‘I’m not some kind of prize to be won.’
‘Copper,’ he replied, his voice quiet. ‘I love you. It’s not a question of winning you. It’s that losing you would destroy my happiness.’
‘You’re putting too much pressure on me,’ she said, turning away from him restlessly. ‘You promised you would give me time. You said you were patient.’
‘But my rival is not patient. My rival is pressing hard. If I’m patient, I will lose you to her.’
‘She’s not your rival.’
‘It seems that way to me.’
‘That isn’t fair.’ Copper lifted her face to his. She had intended to give him a rebuke, but somehow it didn’t work out that way. Her lips brushed his mouth, hesitated there, as though ready to flee – and then decided to remain. His answering kiss was warm, possessive. It deepened, and in a fraction of a second, she remembered everything that she had missed – the strength of a man’s kiss, the joy of being held in a man’s arms.
Her physical reaction was instantaneous. She felt her head swimming and for a moment she leaned against him, as though drawn in by the force of his gravity. For that moment, it was as though nothing were more logical than yielding to Henry, letting him take over her life. Shuddering, she buried her face against his chest. He held her tight, kissing the side of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the perfume of her hair. Copper felt her breasts and thighs tense with desire. Her fingers dug into the muscular shape of his body under his clothes. She hadn’t felt li
ke this since Amory. She hadn’t known that she could feel it any longer.
‘I feel dizzy.’
‘A night in the cells will do that.’ She could hear the smile in his voice.
‘You know perfectly well what’s making my head spin.’
‘Perhaps I do. Lie with me on our bed. Just for a moment.’ Reluctantly, she allowed Henry to draw her down on to the bed beside him. ‘Aren’t you happy with me?’ he asked, cradling her in his arms.
‘Everything’s beautiful,’ she replied quietly. ‘This room is beautiful, the house is beautiful, you’re beautiful. But my freedom is precious to me.’
‘I know that. And I don’t want to take it away.’
‘But you do. Isn’t marriage a loss of freedom?’
He smiled with a touch of sadness. ‘My view of marriage is perhaps a little different, my darling. I believe that marriage means voluntarily giving up certain freedoms – not having them forcibly taken away. If you marry me, you’ll be free to choose what you wish to renounce.’
‘Even if I want to keep on seeing Suzy?’
‘Even that.’
‘I don’t believe you. You hate each other. Each of you wants me for yourself.’ She caressed his cheek. ‘Admit it, Henry – you’d go crazy if I stayed friends with Suzy.’
‘Friends? No.’ He trapped her hand and kissed the palm. ‘Are you more than friends?’
Copper sealed his lips with her hand. ‘Don’t ask. If you start asking questions like that, you’re already taking away my freedom.’
He took her hand gently away from his mouth. ‘Suzy is a madness in your life,’ he said. ‘The madness will pass and then you’ll come to me. Until then, I’ll try to be patient.’
His warm hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her face to his gently. Copper felt everything she had just said start to sink into treacherous quicksand as her mouth approached his. She felt his breath on her lips and closed her eyes as he kissed her.
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