Paris: The Novel (135 page)

“No,
mon colonel
. I broke my leg quite badly in an accident. So I missed the fighting.”

“You had good doctors, I hope.”

“Very. At the American Hospital.”

The colonel nodded, and Charlie supposed that the information would probably be checked. Colonel Walter’s attitude was made apparent, however, when he turned to Roland and remarked: “The French army fought with gallantry, monsieur. But your High Command did not prepare correctly.”

“That is what I think,” Roland answered. “It is gracious of you to say it.”

But the defining moment came a few minutes later. They were in the old hall where the lovely tapestry of the unicorn hung on the wall, and they all stopped to admire it.

“Truly beautiful,” Colonel Walter remarked. “A jewel in a perfect setting. Has it always been here?”

And then Roland, remembering the circumstances of his father’s purchase, had an inspiration.

“As it happens,” he replied, quickly rearranging the facts to suit, “it was my father who bought this tapestry. The price was a little high, but he discovered that if he didn’t buy it at that price, it was going to be acquired by a Jew. So he paid.” He gave the colonel a glance, accompanied by a faint shrug. “We felt that it belonged here.”

“Ah.” Colonel Walter inclined his head. “A good deed.” Charlie could see the two staff officers visibly relax.

The lunch was pleasant. The German officers were correct in their behavior, but it was clear that, as far as they were concerned, the family of de Cygne were just the kind of people they wanted to encourage.

As they were leaving, Roland did murmur to Colonel Walter that, should the army need to requisition the château, he hoped he might receive a little notice.

“Of course,” Walter replied, and smiled. “Look after that tapestry.” Charlie was pretty sure that his family would not be troubled further.

He was still walking with a stick, but looking otherwise well, on the Sunday afternoon when he turned up to see Louise. It was the first time he had been to her apartment since the previous autumn, and although she had come to the hospital once, she had been reluctant, because of her fear of meeting his family.

Under his arm, so that anyone could see it, he was carrying a book by Céline, the darling of French reactionaries, whose anti-Semitism left even the Nazis awestruck.

As he approached, Charlie wondered what would happen between them. Thanks to the war, it had been a year since he and Louise had been alone together. She had the child she wanted, and she had made her desire for independence very clear. Would she still want to continue the affair? And did he want to continue it himself? He didn’t really know. He thought he probably did, but he decided he’d just have to see how things developed when they met.

In the meantime, he realized that he was quite excited to see his little son.

They stood in the salon of her apartment opposite the museum.

“We should celebrate your return,” she said. “Champagne?”

They were face-to-face, just a little apart.

“I’m still a cripple,” he said.

“So I see.” She smiled.

How wonderfully attractive she was. Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. He was about to take her in his arms when she gently held him back.

“Wait. You have somebody to see first.”

She led him across the small hall and into the second bedroom, which was arranged as a nursery.

How quickly little children grow, he thought. The baby he remembered had turned into a little boy. Only two years old, but a child who walked, and talked—and who resembled him. He picked Esmé up and held him so that the little fellow looked straight into his eyes. He smiled.

“Do you know who I am?”

“My papa.”

“Yes. Your papa.”

“Will you stay here?”

“Not all the time.”

“Maman belongs to me.”

“I know. But I shall see her sometimes. Whenever I see you.”

The tiny boy gazed at him thoughtfully.

“You are my papa.”

“Yes.”

And then Charlie suddenly had an urge to stay with this woman and with his son. And he hardly cared that she was much older than he was, and that she owned a brothel, and that he was the future Vicomte de Cygne. And he wanted to marry Louise, even though he knew that he would not.

He stayed half an hour with his son, playing with him. Then the nanny came in to take Esmé for a walk, and Charlie and Louise retired to her bedroom and made love.

It was early evening when she told him about her dilemma. Should she keep L’Invitation au Voyage open—in which case she’d have to cater to the occupying German officers—or should she try to close the place down?

“You dislike the Germans?” Charlie asked.

“Occupation is occupation.” She shrugged. “But perhaps you like them, Charlie. Most of the fashionable people seem to. And you turned up here with a book by Céline under your arm.”

“A German colonel and his staff paid us a visit at the château. They are well satisfied that the Vicomte de Cygne and his family share their views on life. That suits me very well, and I mean to keep it that way.”

“Are you telling me to do the same?”

“Tell me,” said Charlie after a pause, “what’s the most important priority in your life?”

“To protect Esmé.”

“Then do so. Carry on as normal. Entertain the Germans. What else can you do?”

“I don’t know.”

“France is occupied, Louise,” he said earnestly. “De Gaulle sets up his headquarters in London, and hopes that the French colonies and the Americans may drive Hitler out. But it’s just a dream. More likely, London itself will fall.” He paused. “However, just suppose that one day things were to change, that there was a real chance that Hitler could be driven out.” He gave her a steady look. “If, in those circumstances, you
had senior German officers spending their time here, you might hear all sorts of things that could be useful, if you wanted to pass them on.”

“I see.” She gave him a curious look. “Are you up to something, Charlie?”

“Absolutely not.” It was a lie, and meant to be seen as such. “I’m cooperating like everybody else. I have passages of Céline by heart already,” he added cheerfully. “By the way, may I come and see you and Esmé next Sunday?”

“Of course,” she said.

It was at the end of September that Louise received a visit from Jacob. He came to the door of L’Invitation au Voyage without any forewarning and asked to see her. She took him straight up to her office, and asked what she could do for him.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Have you seen the new ordinances for the Jews?”

Louise knew that the community had been swollen by Jews fleeing the harsh German rule in the east. Now the Germans were cracking down on the Jews in France as well.

“I haven’t read them,” she confessed.

“We all have to register with the authorities, both our families and our businesses, so they know exactly where to find us. If there are food shortages—and that always happens in time of war—we aren’t allowed to stand in the food lines. We can’t even use public telephones.” He shook his head. “But the word is that they’re going to start taking over our property.”

“I’m sorry,” said Louise. In truth she was disgusted, but she didn’t want to say it. “But why have you come to me?”

“Would you store some of my pictures?” He looked at her earnestly. “You see, Madame Louise, you already have quite a few. No one would have any reason to doubt you if you said that they belonged to you.”

“You know that the German officers are starting to come here?”

“Yes. I think that makes it even safer. The last place they’d suspect would be right under their noses. Some you could put on the walls, some you could store …”

She hesitated. She imagined it was illegal. On the other hand, there
was no reason for anyone to know. She could put some in the bedrooms, whose decorations were always changing. Others could go into the apartment nearby.

“Twenty,” she said. “More than that might attract attention.”

He looked disappointed.

“Could you manage twenty-five? And some drawings?”

“All right. But not more. Perhaps you can find other people to help you. But one thing, Monsieur Jacob. Nothing in writing. You will have to trust me.”

“I trust you, madame,” he said gratefully.

After he had gone, Louise shook her head. It seemed that, unexpectedly, her private resistance to the occupation had just begun.

As Marie looked out at the world, she couldn’t help being glad that her daughter was in America. From the BBC broadcasts she was able to gather news that was fairly reliable. In the late summer and autumn of 1940, she had listened day after day as the Luftwaffe tried to destroy the Royal Air Force. Miraculously, by the end of October, it was clear that Hitler had not succeeded. Germany was mighty, but not invincible. For another half a year Hitler had tried to bomb the British into submission, but by May 1941 he’d had to give up. In other theaters too, Britain was pushing back against the fascist enemy. In Africa, Hitler’s Italian allies had retreated under British attack, and Hitler had been forced to send German troops there to hold the line.

And France herself was still fighting. Admittedly, the Vichy government was supplying troops to the German side. But the Free French Naval Forces had brought fifty ships and nearly four thousand men to serve with the British navy. And if there had been Polish airmen in the Battle of Britain, there were soon French pilots flying Spitfires too.

In London, de Gaulle’s government in exile had taken the great, double-barred Cross of Lorraine—the region from which Joan of Arc herself had come—as its symbol; and as de Gaulle had hoped, French colonies like the Cameroons, French Equatorial East Africa and New Caledonia had sided with him, with others likely to follow. In the Middle East, Free French Forces had joined the fight in Syria and Lebanon.

In Paris, however, life had continued quietly. The de Cygnes and the
Blanchard families were not troubled at all. Indeed, the German authorities seemed positively anxious to court them. Marie saw an example of this early in the new year.