Paris: The Novel (146 page)

The Canadian’s name was Richard Bennett. The arrangements for hiding him worked out well. Nobody went to the old garage where Charlie’s beloved Voisin was kept under lock and key, except for Charlie himself; and so there was no need for anyone but the three de Cygnes even to know the airman was there.

“I’ve always wanted to sleep in a Voisin,” Richard told his host cheerfully. He swore he was perfectly comfortable, and though Charlie had produced two traveling rugs for blankets, he said he hardly needed them during those June nights.

He was certainly well fed. Charlie put far more food on his plate than
he really meant to eat, and slipped it into a container when no one was looking. Marie gave Charlie small items from the larder and Roland added an extra bottle from the wine cellar. With these items secreted in a bag, Charlie would go down to the old stable, ostensibly to tinker with his car. No one suspected a thing.

As for keeping himself clean, the Canadian used the hose already in the stable for washing the car. The water was cold, but it was summer. Charlie brought him some of his old clothes to wear. They were a little big on him, but they served well enough. As for his other requirements, Charlie dealt with the chamber pot after dark.

They also made a hiding place. Against one wall in the stable, there was a long, deep stone trough which was used for storage now. With some planks, they made a shelf that fitted over the bottom of the trough, leaving enough space for the Canadian to slide underneath it. Above the shelf, Charlie piled drums of oil, tubing, wrenches and all sorts of mechanical odds and ends. Once Richard was inside, he could pull down a pile of oily rags over the end of the shelf and it was quite impossible to guess that a person was hidden in there.

Charlie would give him the newspaper to read. Sometimes they’d pass the time playing chess together. Charlie was pretty certain that every other game, the Canadian was letting him win.

Roland’s feelings were mixed. They must hide the airman, of course. But all the same, he wished the fellow were not there—not so much for his own safety, or even that of Marie, but for that of little Esmé. If the police came looking for the airman and found him, Charlie’s story that no one knew he was there might work, but Roland doubted it. More likely, the whole family would be arrested. And what would happen to his grandson then?

With luck, he hoped, the family’s conservative reputation would protect them from suspicion. The second day after Charlie’s arrival, he decided to walk down to the village. Seeing a police van in the little square, he went over to chat with the officers.

They were friendly enough, and soon told him that an enemy plane had come down a few days ago.

“Ah?” Roland feigned surprise. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“
Non
, Monsieur de Cygne. It was about twenty kilometers away.”

“That would explain it. Any survivors?”

“There might be one or two. But we don’t think so.”

“So long as they don’t poach my rabbits.”

The policemen laughed.

“Don’t worry, Monsieur de Cygne. If the Maquis find any airmen, they won’t bring them this way. They take them south, to Spain.”

“So I’ve heard.” Roland shrugged. “It’s a long way.” And after chatting a few more minutes, he moved on.

So far, so good.

Now he could give his full attention to Charlie and his grandson.

Charlie had been so delighted and relieved when he had discovered that Louise had brought Esmé to them. “I had no idea,” he explained. “I hadn’t spoken to Louise, because I’ve hardly been in Paris for three weeks.” He’d smiled at Roland. “I have wanted Esmé to know his grandfather for a long time.”

They were wonderful days. Strange, but wonderful. Two hundred miles away, day after day, wave after wave of Allied troops were being landed on the secured beaches of Normandy, where huge artificial harbors were being floated in. “They’ll probably bring a million men over before the big breakout,” Charlie told his father.

The Germans were fighting back furiously. Crack panzer divisions were determined to hold the old Norman town of Caen. Still unwilling to believe that the main invasion would not be up at the Strait of Dover, Hitler was only reluctantly being persuaded to send forces from there to Normandy. “It’s going to be an enormous fight,” Roland judged.

Yet here at the château, everything was so quiet that one could almost forget there was a war taking place at all. It couldn’t last, of course. Once the Canadian was safely on his way, Charlie would want to go back to Paris, where there was so much work to be done. Whatever form the battle for Paris took—assuming the Allies succeeded and Paris was in contention—Charlie de Cygne certainly wasn’t going to miss it.

“So I suppose,” Roland remarked to Marie, “I should be grateful to the Canadian for keeping Charlie here.”

What a joy it was to walk in the sun with Charlie and the little boy. Roland realized with a pang that three generations of de Cygnes had never
been together since sometime before the French Revolution. Dieudonné, born back in those terrible days, had never even seen his father, and had died before Roland was born. His own father had not lived to see Charlie. But now at last, after almost two centuries, a grandfather, son and grandson could all be together. Perhaps it might have been better if the little fellow had been legitimate, he admitted to himself, but one must thank the good Lord for what He gave.

Marie took a photograph of each man standing with Esmé, and then one of the three of them standing in front of the château together. Being of the old school, Roland was reluctant to smile into the camera, but Charlie cracked a joke and Marie caught all three of them smiling in a way that was charming.

Only one thing, like a small dark cloud in an azure sky, briefly caused irritation to Roland de Cygne. They were discussing the Canadian.

“He speaks perfect French, you know,” Charlie told them. “Occasionally he’ll use an expression I’m not familiar with, but the interesting thing is his accent. It’s more nasal than mine.”

“What you are hearing,” Roland told him, “is an accent trapped in time. They say that in Quebec one hears French as it was spoken back in the time of Louis XIV. Curious, but interesting.”

“He told me that’s where his mother’s family come from. Their name is Dessigne.” He smiled. “Do you suppose it could be a corruption of de Cygne? I mustn’t tell him my name, of course. He knows me only as Monsieur Bon Ami. But perhaps we’re related. He says his mother’s family is quite numerous.”

Roland was silent. That letter of long ago, and Marie’s later discovery. Once again he felt a sense of guilt. He’d behaved badly. But there was nothing to be done about it now.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” he said. “Though any link would be centuries old.”

“Well,” Charlie said cheerfully, “he’s a good fellow in any case, and a brave man.”

And that, Roland comforted himself, was the most important thing, in a world whose secrets no living creature knows.

So he thanked fate for sending this kinsman, if kinsman he was, to grant him these precious days with his son, and which were over all too soon.

Each evening a little after dusk, Charlie walked out on a farm track
that led through a wood on the edge of the estate. He had been there a week when, from behind one of the trees, a voice gently called to him: “Monsieur Bon Ami.”

“Who are you?”

“Gauloise.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

“Toronto.” The password.

“Is it safe now?”

“God knows. The police have picked up dozens of men, all over the place. English, Canadian, airmen from New Zealand. It’s a huge mess. But we have a new route now. Men we can trust.”

“I hope he makes it. He’s a good fellow.”

“They’re all good fellows.”

“Wait here. I’ll get him.”

It was a quarter of an hour before Charlie came back with Richard Bennett.

“Good luck,
mon vieux
,” he said, as he embraced the Canadian. “Monsieur Gauloise will get you to Spain.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Take this.” He handed him the little lighter his father had given him. “It brings luck. You can return it to me after the war’s over.”

“I can never thank you enough.”

“Go safely.”

Moments later, like shadows, the Canadian and his guide had disappeared into the night.

The next morning, after saying good-bye to his family, Charlie returned to Paris.

It was a pity, Louise thought, that both Colonel Walter and Schmid should be coming. It was the second week of June.

The girls liked Colonel Walter. He was uncomplicated. His needs were those of any normal man, and his manners were excellent. She was a little surprised he didn’t keep a mistress. Did he feel it was too time-consuming? Or perhaps he preferred the amusement and variety the establishment could offer. In any case, he was always welcome.

When Schmid turned up, however, even when he was trying to be agreeable, there was tension in the air. She was pretty sure that Colonel Walter didn’t like him, either.

But nothing could have prepared her for the scene that took place that evening.

They both of them came rather early, as it happened. She greeted them herself, and joined them in the salon. Two of the girls came in and one, called Catherine, started talking to Schmid. But it seemed that she displeased him in some way, and he told her rudely to go away and send him someone better-looking. The girls were used to handling all kinds of behavior, but it was obvious that Catherine was offended; and Louise was about to ask Schmid to be a little nicer when Colonel Walter intervened.

“My dear Schmid”—his voice was silky soft, but the rebuke in it was clear—“I know you have many things on your mind, but you will find it easier to relax if you make an effort to be pleasant.”

“I always have things on my mind, Colonel Walter.”

It was apparently intended to close the conversation, but Walter went on, quite unperturbed.

“My dear Schmid, the word is that you have the honor of conducting a certain visitor to the theater tomorrow night.” He shrugged. “Though what our friend Müller will make of
Antigone
, I cannot imagine. But if I were you, I would go home now and get a good night’s sleep, rather than exhausting yourself here tonight.”

Müller? Louise’s face did not move a muscle. It was a common German name. There were several senior figures in the Reich who bore the name. But the effect on Schmid was remarkable.

“May I ask where you heard this, Colonel?” His voice was icy.

“At least two people said it to me when I was in headquarters today.” For the first time, she caught a hint of nervousness in the colonel’s voice.

“I believe you, Colonel, because we are aware that someone has started this rumor. But I can tell you that it is entirely untrue.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do, Colonel Walter. Because rumors can be dangerous.” Schmid’s voice rose. “Dangerous also for those who spread them.”

“You are the only person to whom I have said it, I assure you.”

“I hope so for your sake.”

And then the mask dropped. The look that Schmid gave Walter was venomous. Gone was the deference to his rank. The Gestapo man looked like a snake about to strike. And Walter shrank with fear.