Death Comes to the Ballets Russes (24 page)

Olivier Brouzet was certain that his visitor was passing secret information to the enemy. He did not know how or through whom the intelligence was transmitted. He intended to find out with his own very special form of torture.

‘Come,
mon Colonel
,’ he began, ‘we both know that the French Army is always conducting manoeuvres, is that not so? Well, I have for you today details of a slightly unusual form of manoeuvre that could be repeated any time on those officers whose wives and daughters are living in the country. Plans have been laid, you understand.’

Brouzet knew that Colonel Argaud had a beautiful wife and two equally beautiful daughters. A slight look of alarm passed across his face.

Olivier Brouzet reached into a drawer on his desk and produced a large envelope. It contained a series of photographs, face down, all with a number written on the back in large letters. He brought out the first one. This showed an elegant
maison de maître
in peaceful rolling countryside. The proportions, with the double staircase and the large windows, were clearly those of the late eighteenth century.

‘Look at this, my friend. It is a beautiful house with gardens and the odd statue on guard at the front of the house. But today there are visitors.’

He produced photograph number two, which showed a group of about twenty French soldiers marching along the road outside. They were not yet quite level with the entrance.

‘Now we see,
mon Colonel
, who these visitors might be. It looks as if the men are on marching practice, but who knows what may happen? I wonder if the wife or either of the young ladies are on the lookout for visitors.’

Out came photograph number three, which showed that the little column had turned left and were now almost up to the front door.

‘What can this be?’ asked Brouzet, ‘the soldiers have come to call. What on earth do they want?’

Photograph number four showed the men, still standing in line, listening now to an officer who seemed to be addressing them from the top of the steps. A sergeant and a private had been sent inside. ‘See,’ Brouzet purred, looking carefully at his victim, ‘the Captain brings good news, a rare event for anybody to hear good news from their officers!’

Photograph number five showed the first detachment of soldiers making their way up the stairs. Those at the front had begun taking off their greatcoats; it looked to be a warm day.

Colonel Argaud was clasping his hands together and rocking slowly in his chair. The next picture was taken higher up and showed that the first four had taken their greatcoats off and were busy unbuttoning their trousers. To their left was a
madame
, traditional keeper
of the rules in French Army establishments of this sort. She was knitting vigorously as she kept watch on her charges.

Photograph number six showed the men outside, chatting and laughing and punching their fists in the air. Half of them were making obscene signs with their hands and fingers.

Photograph number seven was not one of the clearest. It appeared to show a woman’s knees, very indistinct, a couple of rough ropes they might have used to tie her feet to the bedposts at the bottom, and a second
madame
, also knitting happily in the corner.

‘See how our French photographers take care not to show what should not be seen,’ cried Olivier Brouzet. ‘This photograph is not at all clear. I should have told you before that the men were told that this is a set menu here today: first the wife, then the beautiful daughters, with the youngest one last, if the
poilus
have any fire left in their bellies. It is customary, I believe, in these cases, to afford a pillow to the women to make life more comfortable and to drown out any screams. Even French privates can be squeamish at times. But the
madame
is keeping watch at all times.’

Colonel Argaud was sweating now, wiping his face with his monogrammed handkerchief.

Photograph number eight showed the first soldiers on their way out. They were laughing and joshing. One or two waved their rather limp equipment in the air, as if they had won a major victory. Photograph number nine showed the queue still waiting at the bottom of the steps.

‘See, Colonel, the parade of the satisfied is now making its way down the stairs. But look!’

Photograph number ten showed the last group of soldiers kicking their heels outside, grinning and joking.

‘There is more to come, Colonel, there is indeed more to come. The sport is only just beginning.’

The Colonel was turning pale. Brouzet moved in for the kill.

‘We know where you live, Colonel Argaud. We know your son is away at St Cyr. How sad he will be to have missed all the fun this afternoon. We know the times the daughters are in the house and when they are away.’

Photograph number eleven showed a long queue coming down the stairs and only a few unfulfilled ones waiting at the bottom.

‘Come, Colonel, this is only the first course. The men will receive some refreshment when have finished the hors d’oeuvres. Then it is time for the eldest daughter! She will be put in the same bed, of course. No point causing a lot of dirty washing for the staff, who are currently locked up in the basement. And then the youngest for pudding! What a feast!’

Colonel Argaud was not to know it, but Brouzet’s photographs were beginning to lose their power. There were only a limited number of shots available on such an occasion, and most of them had been pressed into service.

‘Photograph number eleven,’ Brouzet began, but photograph number eleven never saw the light of day that afternoon. Colonel Argaud cracked.

‘All right, Brouzet, all right. I give in. You really would carry out that awful ritual against my family, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Brouzet lied. ‘We are all in the service of France.’

‘If I tell you exactly what you want to know, will you promise never to interfere with my family in any way?’

Brouzet looked him coolly in the eye. ‘I will.’

There was a pause while the two Colonels looked at each other, the girl in Fragonard’s swing rising gracefully to the top of her arc on the wall behind Brouzet.

‘These questions can be very painful,’ said Brouzet finally. ‘I apologize for that to a man of your military distinction.’

‘There won’t be much of that left after this afternoon,’ Argaud said sadly. ‘But carry on. You must do your duty.’

‘Were you passing information about French military tactics to another power?’

‘I was.’

‘I am compelled to ask to whom you were sending this information,
mon Colonel
? To the Germans?’

Argaud was scornful. ‘To the Germans? Me, an officer in the French Army? After Sedan? After their ludicrous Emperor had himself crowned in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles? After Alsace-Lorraine? I thought you would have thought better of me than to ask that question.’

‘Not to the English, surely? They probably know it already after all these joint exercises.’

‘Not to the English, no.’

‘The Russians? Surely not.’

‘Surely so, Colonel Brouzet. They are not fools, these Russians. They know the problem facing Germany of fighting on two fronts. And it takes ages for the Russians to mobilize their forces across the vast space
of the Russian interior with their ignorant peasants and their inefficient railroads. The Russian generals want to know how long they have got before the full might of the German Army comes to fight them. If the French hold out and win, as our generals are always telling the Russians they will every time they meet, then they may never face the full might of the German military machine at all. But if the French look like losing, it is a different matter. That is what I told the Russians, that the French would not win an immediate victory in the West.’

‘The Russians are not stupid,’ said Brouzet. ‘This knowledge could impact on their military planning.’

‘Such as it is,’ said Colonel Argaud. ‘One general told me the entire country would be paralysed by the effort of getting the troops to the front, wherever that might be.’

‘I see. And how was your information sent on to St Petersburg, might I ask?’

‘You will laugh when I tell you.’

‘Tell me.’

‘It was sent to St Petersburg through the Ballets Russes.’

‘The Ballets Russes! When they were here in Paris?’ Brouzet could see it all, the limitless possibilities of sending messages as they travelled from the Russian capital to Monte Carlo, to Paris, to London, now perhaps on to some cultural city in Germany. They travelled through and across the possible combatants in any future European war with their vast entourage and mountains of paraphernalia. This knowledge could occupy weeks and weeks of time for the customs men of Europe. There was somebody he knew in England to
whom this information would be pure gold. He would send it on at once.

‘That’s a very imaginative choice, those ballet people; you could send anything down that route and not get caught.’

‘Tell me, Monsieur Brouzet, what is to happen to me?’

‘Well, I shall have to write a report, Colonel Argaud. Whether I ever send it anywhere is another matter. It seems to me, you see, that your sending this information to the Russians might work in France’s favour. If they think the French are going to collapse early in the war, they will have to be ready sooner than they might have planned, and that could only work in France’s favour if the Germans have to move divisions from the west to the east, if you follow me. I shall let you know what I decide. If I were you,
mon Colonel
, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it, but I wouldn’t do it again.’

‘Thank you.’

As the elegant Colonel made his way downstairs, Olivier Brouzet put away his photographs. It was the fourth time he’d used them and they hadn’t failed him yet. Not bad for an afternoon’s work with some actors, a director, an experienced photographer and some props from the Comedie Française at his mother’s house in the country.

Coda

Literally ‘tail’. As in music, a
coda
is a passage which brings a movement or a separate piece to a conclusion.

In ballet, the coda is usually the ‘Finale’, a set of dances known as the
Grand Pas
or
Grand Pas d’action
and brings almost all the dancers onto the stage. A particularly large or complex coda may be called a
Grand coda
. If a large group of dancers are concerned, the terms
Coda générale
or
Grand coda générale
may be used.

In ballet there are many famous codas, such as the one found in
Le Corsaire Pas de Deux
. The so-called
Black Swan Pas de deux
from the ballet
Swan Lake
features the famous
coda
where the ballerina performs thirty-two
fouettés en tournant
.

Powerscourt thought there was something rather sad about watching the stages being dismantled shortly after seven thirty the next morning. Floorboards were
being removed from the stages in the lake, the great staves that held them in position just visible beneath the water. He had already had a conversation with Inspector Jackson, who saw the logic, if not the practicability of his proposal.

‘Let’s try it by all means,’ he said. ‘Thank God it’s a Sunday and there are no performances of the Ballets Russes in London. I’ve got a couple more translators, students at the medical school, coming to help with the translation. But they say Diaghilev was refusing to talk to anybody at all last night. He stomped off and looked at the pictures and wouldn’t speak to a soul, even though the Duke’s guests had a couple of fluent French speakers among them.’

Michel Fokine was looking troubled when Powerscourt found him drinking coffee in the State Dining Room.

‘Of course I will take you to him. He is in a terrible mood. “The afternoon of my greatest triumph”, he keeps saying, “spoilt by some silly girl who decides to throw herself over the balcony.” For Diaghilev, my lord, art wins out over everything.’

They found him pacing up and down the Palladian bridge, as the planks and beams were being dismantled beneath him.

‘Good morning, Mr Diaghilev,’ said Powerscourt. ‘May I offer my congratulations on your ballet yesterday afternoon. It was a triumph. It will live long in the memory of all who saw it.’

Diaghilev stamped his cane on the side of the bridge. ‘They will remember it for the dead girl, that Vera Belitsky, not for the poetry of the Ballets Russes.’

‘Mr Diaghilev,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I think you are wrong about that. But I wish to speak to you about matters of today. The local Inspector here will not let your people go until they have been questioned by the police. It is just not possible. You wish to bring your company back to London for tomorrow’s performances in Covent Garden. As things stand, those interviews may still be going on when the curtain goes up. There will, inevitably, be one or two people to whom Inspector Jackson and his staff will wish to talk again. He is well aware of your problems, the Inspector. He has organized another couple of interpreters to come here with all speed from the Oxford Medical School. They are Russian born and one of them is also fluent in French from his time at the Sorbonne. If your people could be organized in groups of five or six, to be interviewed one at a time, of course, the process could be over by early afternoon, if not sooner.’

Diaghilev smacked his cane onto the bridge once again and muttered something to himself in Russian. Fokine kept his own counsel. Diaghilev began making short sorties away from the bridge as another three boards were carried off.

‘Think of it, Monsieur Diaghilev,’ said Powerscourt. ‘If your dancers and your staff do not cooperate, you could still be here tomorrow or even the next day. You could miss out on two performances in London. Those who have bought the tickets, all people desperate to see your Ballets Russes, will be disappointed. Your reputation, so high after yesterday, will suffer. It’s bound to.’

A rather chastened Diaghilev stopped walking for a moment. ‘It is not my reputation I care about,
Lord Powerscourt, but my art; the art we create and take with us wherever we go. Art is the only thing that makes life worth living. The rest is all show and vanity.’