Secrets and Showgirls

by Catherine McCullagh

  La Fresange was predictably gratified to be invited to reap the spoils of Madame Gloria’s largesse, although she walked through the door of the apartment looking as if she had just swallowed a lemon. Gloria, having imbibed rather more of her potent rhubarb wine than she had intended, greeted her visitor with the customary offer of a glass of the far less intoxicating mulberry wine and waited for the inevitable lecture on the evils of demon drink. Madame Fresange was famously teetotal and loved nothing more than the opportunity to rail at her clearly alcoholic neighbour.

  ‘Really, Madame Gloria, it is barely ten o’clock and you are already giddy with drink!’ But Gloria had taken a leaf out of Crecy’s book and deflected the blow with an appraisal of La Fresange’s vibrant new attire.

  ‘Oh Madame, what a beautiful suit! Such plush material.’ Madame Fresange was clad in a lime skirt suit of spectacularly unpleasant hue. Gloria clapped her hands in mock delight and touched the edge of the jacket, confirming her suspicion that this had formerly adorned the Fresange bed as a particularly unattractive chenille bedspread. La Fresange grudgingly accepted the deflection, evidently pleased with Gloria’s reaction. She turned awkwardly to display the extensive rear view of the outfit as her audience gasped in admiration. Gloria had to admit the suit had been cleverly tailored, the edging of the bedspread providing a tufted hemline which, in any other colour, would have been striking.

  ‘And your turban!’ continued Gloria, determined to mine the occasion for all the goodwill it could muster. ‘What a ... delightful shade. It really suits your complexion.’ Madame Fresange had followed Crecy’s advice to the letter and had teamed her suit with a turban in a shade that, while approximating the suggested caramel, had fallen agonisingly short and was closer to a faded orange. It lent its wearer a curiously roasted glow, La Fresange’s face now assuming the hue of baked pumpkin that has been left in the oven rather longer than advisable. Madame Gloria surveyed the effect in its alarming totality. The unwitting Antoine was truly in for a treat.

  It was on a Sunday night a week later that the little council of war convened again in secret at Madame Gloria’s to pool the results of the search for the informer. Madame Gloria opened a fresh bottle of mulberry wine to ‘put them all in the mood for secrecy’ as she explained to quizzical looks. Lily wondered whether the plump landlady had already imbibed a bottle, as she clearly had not identified that alcohol and secrecy were far from habitual companions. Monsieur Maurice regarded his little inner circle. Lily and Poppy sat together, representing his most dependable showgirls, while Crecy sat studying his nails at the other end of the table, his rollered head swathed in a lime green scarf with tiny diamantes that winked in the dim lighting of Madame Gloria’s kitchen with every movement of his powdered face. He turned a heavily lidded gaze to the glass of potent mulberry wine that had just been delivered by the perky landlady.

  ‘Ooh, Glory, thank you dahling,’ he cooed, ‘lovely stuff, but I would kill for a little sip of champagne.’ He assumed a pained look that saw his finely shaped eyebrows draw together in mutual complaint.

  ‘I know, dear,’ responded Madame Gloria, who shared his deep sense of loss over her favourite nectar, ‘but it’s so hard to find these days.’ Monsieur Maurice made a mental note to raid the stocks of Le Prix and secure a bottle for Madame Gloria. It was the least he could do.

  ‘My friends,’ began Monsieur Maurice, ‘let us deal with this unpleasant business with all haste so that we can return to the happy days of the past ... er ... as much as possible, that is.’ Murmurs of understanding. They were all conscious that, with an informer in their midst, trust had become a rare commodity, particularly as Le Prix boasted an uncommon number of inhabitants who were persona non grata in the eyes of the current regime.

  ‘I have asked you to come so that we can compare notes on what intelligence we have discovered.’ He surveyed his disparate group. ‘I will start,’ he offered. ‘I have quizzed my friend, Dr Paul Reynard, interviewed Cabot and Madame Lucille for their observations — without alerting them to the nature of my enquiries of course,’ he added hastily, lest his friends think him indiscreet, ‘and talked to Chinon, Orlando, Hiram and André.’ He looked significantly around the little assembly. ‘Madame Gloria, I understand you were tackling Napoleon and Madame Fresange,’ here he paused and pressed her hand gently. ‘Thank you for taking on the difficult task of talking to Madame Fresange, this was not for the faint-hearted.’ Madame Gloria nodded her head in wide-eyed agreement.

  Next he turned to Lily.

  ‘Lily, you were interviewing Monsieur Bobby Metzinger,’ she nodded with a smile and he glanced towards Poppy.

  ‘Poppy, you were planning to chat to your ... er ... friend, Gunther ...’ Poppy grinned wryly while Crecy guffawed quietly. Maurice turned to him next.

  ‘And Crecy, you were going to chat to the gentlemen who divulged the information in the first place to see if they would part with a name.’ Crecy swallowed his mirth, nodding earnestly beneath a pair of substantial false eyelashes. Maurice looked once again at his assembled inner sanctum.

  ‘So, my friends, what have we discovered?’ Madame Gloria spoke first.

  ‘Alas Monsieur, my only information, even from the extremely well informed Napoleon is that the informer is ... a woman!’ The others chorused their findings in turn.

  ‘It’s a woman.’

  ‘Definitely a woman.’

  ‘Some trollop,’ muttered Crecy darkly, pursing his blood-red lips. Maurice sighed heavily.

  ‘And I too could only discover that the informer is a woman.’

  ‘Well,’ suggested Lily, ‘I suppose that narrows the list a little.’ Maurice shook his head.

  ‘I just can’t believe that a member of our company would inform on us.’ Poppy looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘Perhaps whoever it is doesn’t know she is informing on us. Perhaps she is just being indiscreet and trusting someone she shouldn’t.’ The others regarded her curiously.

  ‘But dahling,’ murmured Crecy, ‘everyone knows you have to watch what you say these days, especially those of us with friends in uniform as it were.’ He tilted his lime-green, netted head and narrowed a pair of lustrous green eyes, now replete with suspicion.

  ‘Poppy’s right,’ asserted Lily, suddenly inspired, ‘those of us with friends in uniform are very careful what we say. But what about those whose friends are not obviously working for the Germans?’ Madame Gloria gave a little squawk.

  ‘But Madame Fresange has been very friendly with Antoine the workman over the past few weeks.’

  ‘The minx!’ Crecy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I bet she’s been spying on us and whispering secrets on the pillow.’ Collective eyes widened in horror as Poppy choked on her wine.

  ‘Madame Fresange?!’

  ‘Intimate with a man?!’

  ‘Impossible!’ retorted Lily with a chortle, ‘Antoine would have to be mad ... or blind ...’

  ‘Or held captive,’ supplied Crecy with a knowing look, ‘you never know with women like Madame Fresange, they can be quite desperate. And I think she has been looking desperate for some time now,’ he finished authoritatively. Monsieur Maurice was not prepared to admit scenes of La Medusa Fresange cavorting wildly with Antoine the workman to his cautious imagination just yet, but he had to admit that Madame Gloria’s observation rang true.

  ‘I think we may need to watch Madame Fresange as she does keep a careful eye on everything we do. Could we also talk to Antoine perhaps?’

  ‘I will talk to Antoine,’ offered Madame Gloria soothingly, ‘after all, he may need some sympathy if he has had a difficult experience.’

  ‘Ooh, Glory, how clever of you,’ exclaimed Crecy, ‘I can see you persuading him to part with all his secrets.’

  ‘Start with a large glass of mulberry wine,’ offered Lily helpfully, ‘that will loosen his tongue in minutes!’

  Chapter 31

  The bell tolls for Madame Claudette

  As the fourth winte
r of the occupation closed in, Monsieur Maurice began to despair of winning the ongoing battle for Madame Claudette’s health. The temperature plummetted with the onset of the winter chill and her cough returned, now deep and barking, shaking her spare frame and robbing her of precious vitality. She slept badly, if at all, and her eyes became sunken, ringed by huge shadows, and her skin assumed an unhealthy pallor, more the colour of parchment than the soft, creamy hue of healthier days. Dr Paul suspected the return of her previous bout of pneumonia and prescribed more medicine which he procured from the American Hospital. Madame Gloria tended to Madame Claudette daily, cooling the fevered brow, washing her and doing all she could to ensure her comfort. As the bitterly cold days and freezing nights passed with agonising slowness, all efforts were expended in the simple task of keeping her alive. By late March 1944, even with the spring thaw arriving at a glacial pace, Monsieur Maurice was beginning to hope that they were over the worst. Madame Claudette was hanging on — thin, feverish, beset by enormous coughing fits that wracked her entire body and left her exhausted. Her face was sallow and shrunken and the deep shadows had now settled under her eyes giving her a sepulchral look. Maurice had little faith left, but placed it all on the coming of the warmer weather which, in the past, had seen the hacking cough abate and restored her sufficiently to renew her flagging spirits.

  The gravity of Madame Claudette’s illness cast a pall over the little troupe and Lily even went so far as to pray, initially apologising profusely for her neglect of the Almighty — just in case, she told herself. She wondered whether she should venture into the hallowed halls of the magnificently ornate Sacré-Coeur, the gloriously overdecorated church that sat on a hill at the back of Montmartre, just a few blocks from Le Prix. She dismissed this urge with the uncomfortable feeling that she had not mended her relationship with the good Lord sufficiently for a house call.

  By early April, however, even with the onset of milder weather, Madame Claudette’s condition showed little sign of improving and Maurice was finding it difficult to retain his natural optimism. Madame Gloria tried her hardest to bolster his plummeting morale and the showgirls and performers visited regularly with bunches of early spring blooms and little titbits to cheer the patient and her devoted carers. The company tried its best to rally and carry on despite her absence, but the spark that was Madame Claudette was sorely missed. Monsieur Maurice and Madame Gloria conferred in urgent whispers, comforted by the regular visits of the dependable Dr Paul, and desperate for some sign that the patient was turning the corner. But soon even Dr Paul’s hopes were fading and he began to prepare Maurice for the unthinkable.

  Madame Gloria now spent a good portion of her day nursing Madame Claudette, returning to her kitchen late in the afternoon to prepare dinner for her tenants. She had retained her sunny confidence that her patient would survive and eventually recover, even in the face of Dr Paul’s increasingly grave concerns. But now, confronted all too vividly with the evidence of Madame Claudette’s harsh, laboured breathing and increasing weakness, she was finding it difficult to maintain hope. She was also close to exhausted and, late one afternoon, she was finally overwhelmed, sitting next to a half-finished glass of mulberry wine and sobbing loudly into her delicate lace handkerchief. So intense was her distress that she failed to notice the door open as a slight figure slipped inside the kitchen and stood behind her. A soft touch on her shoulder told her that she was no longer alone and she tried valiantly to stem the tears lest she look like a foolish old woman who had lost her composure. She turned as the figure sat next to her at the kitchen table and started in surprise. The lank locks and thin, childish face of the waif-like Lena Varigny gazed at her, the big, brown eyes pools of concern for the motherly landlady. Gloria fought to recover herself, all too aware that this was the member of her extended family who needed mothering the most. But Lena would not be mothered, and extended a thin arm around Madame Gloria’s shoulder, asking what could have distressed her so much. Fresh floods of tears ensued as Gloria poured out her fears and anxieties over Madame Claudette who, but for this dreadful war, would quite possibly be in the pink of health. And why would the war prevent Madame Claudette from enjoying good health, enquired Lena. Papers, sobbed Madame Gloria, it was all to do with papers. Without the correct papers, Madame Claudette could not be admitted to the American Hospital where Dr Paul was certain she could be nursed back to health in a matter of weeks. Ah, responded Lena, replete with understanding, so that was the problem.

  The two sat in whispered companionship for some time before Madame Gloria declared that sitting at the table sobbing would not see dinner prepared, now would it? She smiled and held Lena’s hand, thanking her for her kindness in her hour of need. She promised a hearty dinner of rabbit, eyeing a large package that protruded from the pantry, and reached for her apron to begin work. Lena melted away to her room. She would eat once the troupe had finished its meal, as was her custom. Gloria watched her as she slipped noiselessly out the door. Such a shy creature, her daily routine still wrapped in impenetrable mystery to all but her patron, Bobby Metzinger. Gloria could only hope that, once the war was over, little Lena would find a life that promised happiness and some form of normality.

  Monsieur Maurice was also troubled by the fact that he and his inner circle were no closer to identifying the informer in their midst. Madame Gloria’s ‘little chats’ with Antoine had produced only confusion as he had confessed to having been asked to do an inordinate number of plumbing jobs for Madame Fresange while her behaviour towards him had become increasingly erratic. He wondered whether perhaps she was feverish and confided in Madame Gloria his fear that Madame Fresange had been driven to madness by the occupation. He had left Madame Gloria with the distinct impression that he was more sinned against than sinning, and she told Monsieur Maurice that perhaps she had been wrong to suggest him in the first place. Monsieur Maurice had shaken his head gently and assured her that every lead was worth following and that this would simply exclude Antoine from suspicion. They would just have to maintain their vigilance.

  The crowds at Le Prix had swelled to an all-time high as patrons emerged from their winter hibernation and flocked through the gilded doors to take advantage of the cabaret’s vibrant show and its ready supply of alcohol. Monsieur Maurice was pleased to see that the Governor still patronised his favourite cabaret and his little coterie of officers was only too willing to spend lavishly on champagne and cognac. He watched as the performance concluded in a shower of long legs, ruffled skirts and dazzling smiles from his showgirls and the ribald antics of his ringmaster. Moments later, there they were, the girls winding their way around the tables in their clinging hostess gowns, bottles in hand, while the alluring blonde vision that was Crecy sauntered past blowing kisses to his admirers. Orlando, having been persuaded out of hiding with the assurance that the Governor’s favourite cabaret was unlikely to be raided while he was present, had summoned the courage to continue his performances, much to Monsieur Maurice’s relief. Now he flexed his substantial muscles on one side of the bar as a bevy of elegantly clad young women giggled and cooed. Chinon had fortuitously disappeared to revive his red-tinged patriotism with several bottles of cheap brandy and Coco had also slipped away, although Maurice was less certain what occupied her once the show was over. However he was not inclined to investigate, grateful only that her sensual dominatrice routine appeared to have lost none of its appeal.

  Lily sidled up to Crecy who was perching coquettishly on a stool at the bar, long legs crossed, sipping champagne and smoking a cigarette in an elaborate black diamante holder as he eyed the buzzing tables with their mix of suited and uniformed occupants with undisguised interest.

  ‘Can you see the men who were discussing the informer that night?’ she whispered to the sultry siren who dazzled in red sequins teamed with a long feather boa.

  ‘No,’ murmured Crecy with a tinge of disappointment, ‘I haven’t seen them since that night. But I can see that the Governor has a new mis
tress,’ he added pointedly, glancing towards the Governor’s table with a smouldering eye.

  ‘Rumour has it,’ he paused to send elegant smoke rings wafting heavenwards, ‘the last one became too demanding. Wanted more furs, diamonds, rooms at the Ritz, you get my drift.’ Lily raised a pair of fine eyebrows in interest. ‘And,’ added Crecy with a spectacular smack of blood-red lips, ‘she wasn’t providing adequate recompense ... if you get my drift again.’ Enormous sparkle-tipped false eyelashes produced a prodigious wink as Crecy smirked knowingly.

  ‘Ooh, there’s Otto, I must dash dahling, before some floozy sinks her talons into him.’ He slid off the stool and leant back against the bar, champagne glass in one elegant, bejewelled hand and diamante cigarette holder in the other, skewering a tall German officer complete with monocle with a glare.

  ‘Otto dahling, where have you been? You’re enough to drive a girl to chastity!’

  Chapter 32

  A quest for divine assistance

  As the spring squalls gradually disappeared and the first of the warmer days arrived, Lena appeared once again at Madame Gloria’s side. She smiled softly at the little landlady and passed her a small parcel.

  ‘Madame, this may help Madame Claudette out of her present trouble.’ She waited as Gloria unwrapped the parcel and emitted a cry. Nestled in her hand was a set of papers in the name of Madame Claudette Hernand, impeccably French citizen with no trace of Russian, Polish or any other questionable ancestry. Gloria turned to Lena and hugged her, the tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, my dear girl,’ she sobbed, ‘I will not ask you how you did it, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’ Lena smiled shyly and turned to slip away, but Gloria held her with one last gentle question. ‘You must have paid a great deal for these, please let me repay you.’ Lena shook her head.