Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Don’t tell him anything,” he said. It was an order.

  Thomas nodded. He did not say a word.

  The previous winter had been a strange time for Marie. Normally, she and Roland would have spent the darkest months in Paris, but this year they had preferred to remain in the quiet of the château.

  It was very peaceful. Indeed, with the increasing difficulty of getting gasoline, it was like returning to an earlier time. They walked or rode, or used an old pony trap that had been kept in the stables. Roland would go out into the woods with his gun and return cheerfully with a brace of pheasant, or pigeons, or a rabbit or two. He also enjoyed the gentle exercise of splitting logs, and as winter set in, they would sit in front of the fire, well supplied with firewood from the estate, and taste the pâté that Marie and the cook had made together, with a fine Burgundy that Roland had retrieved from the cellars—“For we may as well drink them while we are here,” as he charmingly put it—and they would read to each other.

  In the depth of winter, the old château looked like a medieval scene in the snow.

  She missed her daughter. Claire had two children now, both girls, and Marie wished she could see them. While her husband continued his teaching, and she looked after her children, Claire had taken up studying again. In particular, she was studying the history of art, taking courses when she could. Her teachers were impressed with her essays. She might even try to write a monograph one day, she confessed. When the children were older.

  Was she happy with her husband? Marie wasn’t quite sure. One of her letters, while it had still been possible to receive them, had been slightly ambiguous.

  Being Mrs. Hadley isn’t so bad, I have to say. I wouldn’t want to be married to a man I shared everything with, I don’t think. I guess we complement each other. The girls are a delight. We share them at least.

  But Marie had another little girl to look after now, in any case. Little Lucie, as they called Laïla. She seemed to regard the château as her home now. She especially liked the old hall where the unicorn tapestry hung. The tapestry itself seemed to fascinate her.

  Marie and her husband were sitting by the big fire and gazing at the tapestry one evening shortly before Christmas, when Roland quietly asked Marie if she remembered the day when Colonel Walter had come. She said that of course she did.

  “And I told him that my father had bought that tapestry to stop it being bought by a Jew.” Roland nodded thoughtfully. “It was quite untrue.” He was silent.

  “It satisfied our visitor.”

  “Yes. But you see, the point is that I had no difficulty saying it. None. It came quite naturally.” He paused. “And now, with this little girl here.” He shrugged. “I don’t feel the same way.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t put her parents on that train.”

  “No. But I could have. Perhaps I would have.”

  “What matters is what you did do. You saved Laïla.”

  “I? I did nothing. I did it because Charlie asked.”

  “Are you glad she’s here?”

  He nodded, but did not speak.

  As winter drew to an end, however, Marie could not help feeling a new emotion: impatience. She hadn’t enough to do.

  She had the château to run, of course, but she had long ago discovered all its mysteries, and the place now ran itself beautifully. The little girl was learning everything the cook and the housekeeper could teach her, and Marie did lessons with her for a couple of hours most afternoons. She looked after her husband, she took exercise. And she liked to read.

  Ever since her marriage to Roland, Marc would come down to join them at the château once or twice a year, always bringing something interesting to read. Soon after the arrival of Laïla, he had arrived with various books that had passed the censor, but also an illegal item—a slim volume titled Le Silence de la mer.

  “It’s by a French patriot who has taken the name Vercors,” he explained. “It’s about an old man and his niece who make the German in their house understand the true nature of the occupation by maintaining total silence all the time. Hence the title, Silence of the Sea. It’s clandestine literature, of course. But it’s being read all over France.”

  Of all the books she had, Marie found this novella the most moving, and she read it many times.

  But there was the problem. Vercors, Charlie, all kinds of brave people were doing something for Free France. As the spring of 1944 began, with Charlie’s whereabouts frequently unknown, she could sense that the preparations were becoming large, and urgent. And what was she doing?

  Her frustration came to a head in early April. She and Charlie were at the château, walking in the park.

  “Why can’t you give me something to do?” she demanded crossly. “Because I’m a woman? If I could run a department store I’m quite sure I’m capable of helping. Are you going to tell me there are no women in the Resistance?”

  “Surprisingly few, as it happens,” he replied. “Even the communists of France are quite conservative when it comes to women.” He looked at her and smiled. “Of course, they haven’t met you.”

  “Well then.”

  “You’re already helping by sheltering a Jewish girl. Remember that. And incurring serious risk by doing so.”

  “I doubt anyone’s looking for her now,” Marie countered with a shrug.

  “You have too much energy,” he said with a shake of the head. “Truly, the most important thing you can do at the moment is help me maintain my cover. It may not satisfy you, but it’s important. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else,” he added to pacify her.

  But she saw what he was doing, which only made her crosser.

  Luc had thought hard about the conundrum of who Corinne could be. His first thought had been that it might be Coco Chanel. She was friendly with the top circles of the German regime. She could be acting for the Resistance as well. That would be clever. Living in the Ritz, she could pass on messages to so many people, from a barman to a friend passing through. But there was no way that he could find out.

  Several of the senior officers had mistresses. There was the great actress Arletty, for instance. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed likely to Luc that Corinne was not a woman at all, but a man. And the first name he thought of was Marc Blanchard.

  Marc didn’t seem to go out so much, but when he did, he mixed with the highest German circles. With his huge network of contacts, he could be collecting information from dozens of sources.

  In the end, Luc made a short list of half a dozen names he thought possible, and gave them to Schmid, who looked them over and nodded briefly, but didn’t seem much impressed.

  “I need information, not guesses,” he said curtly.

  After that, Luc gave up on the idea of getting anything from Schmid and concentrated on a matter that was daily becoming more urgent.

  How to save himself.

  For there was no doubt about which way the wind was blowing now. On every front, the Germans seemed to be in retreat. People were saying that it was only a matter of time before the Allies invaded France. That would mean a huge battle. The Germans might even win it. But with the vast resources of America behind the Allies in Europe now, it could only be a question of time before France was liberated. And what then?

  He had few doubts about that. One had only to listen to the muttered conversations at any bar. The open collaborators, in the Milice for instance, would be lucky not to be shot. Even lesser collaborators would be in danger.

  Did anyone know about his visits to Schmid? What if someone had seen him? They could have. What if his name was on a list? He shuddered to think of it.

  He needed to strengthen his links with the Resistance. Then, even if some person denounced him, he’d be able to claim that any contacts he had with the Germans were only to gather information. He needed to go out on some more missions with them, fast.

  “You know, you should tell your friends to make more use of me,” he to
ld his brother, Thomas. “With all the people I know, maybe I can find things out for them. And when are we going out on another operation? They know I’m not afraid. I already got shot at. They should ask me more.”

  But Thomas only shook his head.

  “They’ve got younger people than us,” he said.

  Luc was sure his brother was still operating with the FTP boys. Clearly Thomas was keeping him at a distance from their operations. It hurt Luc that his brother didn’t trust him. But worse than that, it frightened him. If Thomas didn’t trust him, the others didn’t either. That suggested some ugly consequences.

  Thomas will protect me, he told himself. Hadn’t his big brother always protected him? But if his name was on a list of German collaborators, even Thomas mightn’t be able to save him.

  The month of May arrived. The rumors of an Allied invasion were growing stronger every day. Luc turned many things over in his mind. Should he bluff it out? Should he hide? Was there some way to escape for a while, and if so, who might know of it?

  It was in the third week of the month that he went to see Louise.

  She received him in her office at L’Invitation au Voyage. She was surprised to see him, but she asked him how he was, and what she could do for him.

  “I was thinking about you.” He smiled. “Perhaps I was worrying about you a little.” He shrugged. “Whatever may have happened, we are still old friends.”

  She made no comment.

  “Louise,” he went on with a little show of urgency, “I make no comment about how you live. Who am I to do so? But I worry because if the Germans are kicked out, I think you could be in danger. Everyone says that half the German senior staff come here. They will call you a collaborator. Then things could get ugly.”

  “They find women here. Nothing else.”

  “I know that. But down in the street, I can tell you, people may not make such a distinction.” He smiled. “You are living in a rather protected world, my dear.”

  And a rich one, he thought. God knows how much money she must have put by over the years. If anyone had an escape planned and paid for, it must surely be this woman. The question was, if he showed enough concern for her welfare, would she be prepared to save him too?

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “I think you may be right. Have you an escape to offer me, Luc?”

  “I hoped you might have gotten one already. I’m sure yours would be better, and safer than anything I can offer.”

  “I have no escape route, Luc.”

  A silence fell.

  Was she playing with him? He had a faint but uncomfortable sense that she was. He stood up, and gazed around the room.

  “I shall have to find one then,” he said absently.

  “For me, Luc, or for yourself?”

  He started, but quickly controlled himself. She was sharp. She knew him too well.

  “I was thinking of you,” he answered quietly.

  Why was she so calm, though? Did she not understand her danger? Or was there some other reason? Had she already gotten the protection that he had tried to get for himself? Did she have friends in the Resistance?

  He gazed at the portrait that graced the main wall. It wasn’t Louise, of course, but it looked quite like her. Clever to have the two sketches for the painting as well. A nice touch. She was rich all right. He was struck by a pang of jealousy.

  He stared at the sketches, noticed the name in the corner of one of them, looked more closely.

  Corinne.

  “Do you know something, Luc?” her voice came from behind him. “You have never in your life done anything that was not for yourself. Therefore, if you are here now speaking about an escape route, it is because you need one, and you are wondering if I can provide it.”

  “Actually, you are wrong,” he said evenly. “There is no reason for me to escape.”

  “Then that is fortunate. Because I am going to let you in on a little secret. I wish you no harm, Luc, none at all. But if I had an escape route, I wouldn’t tell you. Because I don’t trust you.”

  He felt a spasm of rage pass through him. How dare she not believe him? Not only that, she was treating him with scorn—the same scorn she’d used when she had thrown him out before. And though he had kept his resentment most carefully in check when he had arrived at her door, the memory of that event, of his humiliation and impotence, now hit him again, suddenly, with the force of a wave.

  She had gone too far. He’d made her what she was, yet she dared to treat him with contempt. Very well. She was going to find out how dangerous that was. This time he would punish her. He would teach her a final lesson, the last she would ever learn.

  “If this is how you treat your friends,” he said, in a voice so quiet it was little more than a whisper, “I shall leave you, Louise.”

  One hour later, Schmid was surprised to receive a visit from Luc. And still more so when, as soon as he was seated, the Frenchman calmly announced: “I have news that may interest you. I think I’ve found Corinne.”

  It did not take the Frenchman long to tell his story. After he had finished, Schmid nodded slowly.

  “It is possible you are right. I know this woman and her place.”

  “She has some good pictures.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said you would pay well.”

  “Oh yes, I will pay.”

  “Can you go there and look for yourself? It would preserve my cover.”

  “Come back in three days,” said Schmid.

  Louise was irritated, two evenings later, that the Gestapo man Schmid had announced that he would pay one of his rare visits. The girls didn’t like him. But for all her connections with senior Germans, Louise knew it would be highly unwise to annoy a Gestapo officer.

  She had one satisfactory memory of him, however. And that had been his second visit.

  She had not forgotten his attempt to see the Babylon room when little Laïla was hiding there. And she had racked her brains for a satisfactory theme for the redecoration of the room that had been forced upon her.

  Just as she’d expected, when he had come again, he had insisted on seeing the room, and she had watched his face as he had done so.

  For she had turned it into her Nazi room.

  She had been subtle. There was nothing for him to complain of. Nothing crude, no hints of viciousness. The carpet was black, the big bed spotless white, with a swastika in the middle of the cover and on the corners of the pillowcases. Everything was simple, geometric, the furniture in a simplified Bauhaus style. On the walls, a painting of Austrian woods and mountains, a portrait of the führer, two prints derived from Leni Riefenstahl’s film of the Nuremberg rally and one of a happy group of blond and athletic Aryan women at a holiday camp, showing a tantalizing amount of flesh.

  Schmid had stared at it, half-admiring, half-disappointed not to have caught her out.

  “Very good, madame,” he’d said.

  But this evening, when he’d come, he’d been surprisingly charming. Quite meek, and friendly with the girls. She might have guessed something was up. Sure enough, before going up with the blond girl he’d selected, he asked very politely if he might have a word with her in her office.

  He came straight to the point.

  “Madame, your establishment has no equal in Paris. That is why so many senior officers come here. And although a promotion has come my way, I am sure you know that a junior officer like myself can scarcely afford to come here.” He made a sad gesture. “The trouble is, once he has been here, no man could wish to come anywhere else.”

  She gracefully inclined her head at the compliment. What else could she do?

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I am embarrassed to have to ask, but I confess, madame, that if you could offer me a discount, it would make my life easier.”

  She tensed and eyed him coldly. He was going to try to rob her.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “I c
ould manage two thirds of the normal rate.” He paused. “I think you know that this is true.”

  She’d been expecting something much steeper. He’d still find it expensive. She didn’t like it, but thought it wisest to yield.

  “I should be glad to accommodate you,” she said. “But this is for yourself alone.”

  “Of course. I thank you, madame.” He stood up, then looked around the room. “You have wonderful taste. The pictures here are very fine. Can this be one of yourself?”

  “No, but people often say it’s like me.”

  He nodded appreciatively, glanced at a small landscape on another wall intently, and then retired.

  The visit could have been worse, she supposed.

  Marie always liked to spend the month of May in Paris. She loved to see the tree blossoms on the boulevards and avenues.

  She was almost at the end of her stay at the rue Bonaparte when, one morning, she was told that a lady and her son had called to see her. The name on the lady’s card was not familiar, but Marie had them shown in all the same.

  The lady who entered was about forty, very elegantly dressed, and accompanied by a boy of five. Marie had an idea that she had met the woman before somewhere, but she had met so many people when she was running Joséphine that she couldn’t possibly remember them all.

  But when she saw the little boy, she started.

  Louise had hesitated for so long. Strangely enough, though she had little respect for him, it was Luc who had decided her to come.

  If the Germans were driven from Paris, she had no fear of being tried as a collaborator. The Resistance leaders knew Corinne, and what she was doing for them. I’m more likely to get a medal, she thought.

  But the final conflict might be quite a different matter. There might be a siege, and bombardment. There could be extensive fighting in the streets. Not a good place for little Esmé to be. And then, assuming that the Germans were driven out, a period of confusion. That, she now realized, was the greatest danger of all. Luc was right. Ordinary people, if they were in a lynching mood, would see the favorite brothel of the German High Command and its madame as a natural target. They might drag her out into the street, stone her … There was no knowing.