Paris: The Novel (143 page)

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.

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 told 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.