FRANÇOIS HADN’T REALLY expected Paris to look any different from the last time he’d seen it, but seven months is a long time, and he was relieved, and in some way comforted, to find that the city hadn’t changed. Perhaps there were many more bicycles than he remembered, a result of the petrol rationing no doubt, but otherwise the tree-lined avenues, the pavement cafés, the grey still waters of the Seine, the hurrying people –unmistakably Parisians – were the same.
Inwardly he shuddered as he remembered Warsaw: the smoking ruins, the terrified faces, the jack-booted German soldiers as they looted the debris and beat innocent people half to death. It all came so vividly to his mind that for a moment it was as though it were happening right in front of him. That Paris should suffer in that way was unthinkable. He hoped to God that if it ever came to it, someone would have the foresight to declare her an open city before the Germans razed her glory to ashes.
As he drove past the Tuileries Gardens, heading towards the Champs Elysées, he stole a quick glance at Erich von Pappen who was sitting beside him, his peculiar face turned towards the window. Von Pappen had been at the border to meet him when he drove through at five o’clock that morning in his own black Citröen, which von Liebermann had returned the day before. Thank God von Pappen had brought him a change of clothes, or he might still be wearing the commandant’s uniform the Abwehr had supplied him with before he left. Von Liebermann had insisted he wear it, no doubt to titillate his own perverted sense of humour, as very few members of the Abwehr wore uniform.
Once von Pappen had filled him in on what had been happening while he was away, they had spent most of the journey in silence. As yet neither had mentioned Élise, or François’ family. Now as François swerved to avoid a cyclist on the Place de la Concorde, von Pappen was the first to break the silence.
‘Do you think you’ve gained their trust yet?’
‘Only they know the answer to that, mon ami,’ François replied.
‘Max Helber tells me that they set you a test before you left.’
‘Mmm.’ François’ hooded eyes narrowed, and von Pappen felt rather than saw their virulence.
‘Did you pass?’
‘If you can call torturing two Frenchmen to the brink of death passing, then the answer is yes.’
Von Pappen twitched. ‘Did you know either of them?’ he asked, after a pause.
‘Yes.’ Then abruptly changing the subject, François said, ‘What have you discovered about Halunke?’
‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ von Pappen confessed. ‘I’ve been through the list you gave me, I’ve even come up with some suggestions of my own as to who might have a grudge against you, but as yet I have nothing conclusive.’
‘Did you check on Hortense de Bourchain’s family?’
‘Yes. They’re all still in Tahiti, with the exception of her brother, Michel. He’s serving with the Seventh Army under General Giraud, and hasn’t taken leave since arriving in France.’
‘When did he arrive?’
‘Early in October. Two months after the attack on Élise.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘Absolutely.’
François didn’t bother to ask how von Pappen had got his information; he trusted him implicitly, and had never yet had reason to doubt him. ‘Is Élise up to giving a dinner party?’ he asked.
‘I think so. I think she’ll be glad of something to do. She rarely goes out these days.’
François’ mouth was set in a grim line. ‘How does she look?’ he asked.
‘Better than you might think. Naturally, I haven’t seen her body, though I imagine the scars are as yet barely healed. But her face is good. Her left eye is partially closed, but you have to look closely to notice. She walks with a slight limp.’
‘And her mind?’
‘She still has occasional lapses of memory, forgets what she’s saying or who she’s talking to. The nightmares, as you might expect, are still giving her trouble.’
François nodded. ‘Have you told her I’m coming?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll drop you at the avenue Foch now, and you can tell her.’ He leaned across von Pappen and, opening the glove compartment, pulled out a handwritten list of names. ‘I’d like you to arrange for as many as possible of the people on this list to come to dinner tonight.’
‘Your brief?’ von Pappen enquired, his face twitching as he looked down the list.
‘To persuade France not to go to war,’ François answered prosaically. Then drawing up the corner of his mouth in a smile, he glanced at von Pappen and said, ‘An easy enough task, wouldn’t you say, Erich?’
Von Pappen chuckled. He knew precisely what François meant. He would talk about capitulation tonight, of course, but neither he nor the Germans expected him to succeed in this mission – it was widely known in political circles that France and Britain were on the verge of agreeing that neither country should conclude peace separately. And if Winston Churchill had anything to do with it, the British would fight to the bitter end. No, the real reason why von Liebermann had sent François to France now was to discover how many of the country’s politicians and generals were still prepared to listen to a man who – according to rumour, at least – was a traitor.
‘There’s one other thing I’d like you to do, Erich,’ François said as they drove round the Arc de Triomphe and filtered off into the avenue Foch. ‘I’d like you to travel to Lorvoire tomorrow morning and speak to my father. Try not to be seen, the château will be under heavy surveillance now that I’m back in the country, which is why I can’t go myself. Use the bridge at the back and speak first to Corinne. She’ll arrange for my father to see you.’
‘You have a particular message for the Comte?’
‘I just want him to do as I instructed in my letter and disinherit me. It’s the only way I know of preventing the Germans from sending me back into France again. If I’ve been denounced, publicly, as a traitor, then I’ll be worthless as a spy against my own countrymen. It will cause my father a great deal of pain to do this, so you must make certain he knows all the facts. I want you to do this in person, so I can be sure it’s handled properly.’
‘Understood.’
‘And before you go, Erich,’ François said, pulling in to the side of the road outside Élise’s apartment. ‘D’you know if anything’s been done about my other instruction in the letter?’
Von Pappen pursed his lips. ‘You mean, concerning your wife? I’ve heard nothing.’ Then, when it was clear François was going to say no more, ‘You’re going to the Bois de Boulogne now?’
‘Yes.’
‘The staff are expecting you. I shall telephone you there later.’ And slamming the car door, he walked off across the pavement, his hairless head exposed unflinchingly to the wind.
When François arrived at the Lorvoire house in the Bois de Boulogne he found that fires had been lit in the drawing-room and study, and when he went upstairs to his bedroom, there was Gilbert, his valet, pumping the bellows at the hearth. François almost laughed then, as he thought how old Gilbert might have reacted if he had walked into the house wearing his German staff-officer’s uniform. He greeted him fondly, for he had known the old man since he was a child; then he went back downstairs to the study, where he ate the late lunch which had been prepared for him, and looked at the morning’s newspapers.
Afterwards, he went to sit in a chair beside the fire, intending to consider how best to approach the task in hand for the evening. But instead, he found that his tired mind was continuously and disturbingly arrested by a sense of impending doom that had been with him from the moment he set foot back in France. The mind very often played tricks when starved of sleep, he knew that, but the sense of foreboding was so strong that he found himself sitting forward in the chair and holding his head in his hands. He wished to God now that he’d killed those two Frenchmen before he left Germany. Never leave your man alive to tell tales, one of the first rules of the game. But von Liebermann had particularly required that they be left alive – and by now would almost certainly have tortured them himself and discovered exactly who they were. And once he knew that, he would understand why François had had no compunction about dealing with his fellow-countrymen in the brutal, merciless manner he had. In other words, torturing two French agents whom he knew for a fact to be working for the Soviets, was going to do nothing to prove his fealty to the Third Reich.
So now the question was, what would von Liebermann do to make his displeasure known? To teach him what a madman he was even to consider deceiving the Abwehr … Which led François to the most pressing question of all: where, and who the hell, was Halunke?
‘I don’t like it, Lucien,’ Claudine sighed. ‘Armand said he thought he saw someone this morning. I know it could have been anyone, but who in their right mind is going to go into the forest with this fog still hanging around? And what does this man want? What is he doing here when he must know that François is in Germany?’
‘Assuming you’re right, and there is someone out there,’ Lucien answered, lighting two cigarettes and handing one to her, ‘then I guess François is the only one who can answer those questions.’
Claudine turned to scan his handsome face. ‘What’s he done, Lucien?’ she said. ‘Do you know? He told me he thought this man had some kind of grudge against him …’
Lucien shook his head. ‘There’s a whole side to my brother that’s as much of a mystery to me as it is to you, Claudine,’ he said. ‘I imagine there are any number of people who think they have cause to hate him.’
‘But so deeply that they must terrorize his family like this?’ She shivered. ‘Do you really think this man intends to harm us?’
Lucien smiled, and getting up from the sofa, strolled across to the fire. ‘Who can tell what’s going on in his mind?’ he said. He turned back to look at her and took another draw on his cigarette. ‘Perhaps you should go away for a few days, chérie. You haven’t seemed at all yourself lately. Why not go up to Paris? A change of scene might do you good. Take Monique with you.’
‘I couldn’t leave Louis. Not when that … that man is outside.’
‘Then take Louis too. Though he’s quite well taken care of here, you know. François has seen to that, remember?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, Yes, he has, hasn’t he?’ She looked down at her cigarette as she flicked the ash into an ashtray beside her. Lucien’s suggestion was tempting, though perhaps not for the reasons he thought. Oh, she would certainly like to escape from the loathsome prying eyes that she felt were following her everywhere – but what she really wanted was to get away from Armand for a while. For his sake more than her own. Since they had broken off their affair, he had withdrawn so deeply into himself that any attempt she made to be friendly was met with just a stony glare. And if he did reply, it was in a voice so thick with pain or sarcasm that she could hardly bear it. And as well as Armand, there was François; her fears for his safety, her anger at what he had done, her feelings for him – so many thoughts whirling frenziedly around in her mind that the prospect of getting away from the château, of being somewhere else for a few days, was extremely inviting.
‘Monique is going to Paris anyway,’ Lucien said. ‘And I do believe she has arranged to meet your aunt to go and rated tins at the Ritz with her, for refugee relief and soldiers’ canteens.’
That settled it. Why on earth it hadn’t occurred to her before to go and talk things over with Tante Céline, she couldn’t imagine.
‘Then yes. Yes, I’ll go too,’ she said decisively, getting up to ring the bell for Magaly. ‘Why don’t you come too?’ she said.
‘I can’t. My leave is over at the end of the week, and I don’t think Maman would appreciate it if I spent my last few days anywhere but with her. Anyway, ma chère, what you need is time for yourself – so go to it! And by the way, the uniform for tin-rattling is a simple black dress, or so they tell me.’
‘I’ll tell Magaly,’ she laughed.
He walked across the room, but at the door he turned back. ‘Claudine,’ he said, a serious note to his voice that belied the twinkle in his eyes, ‘you’ll work it out in the end, you know.’
She lowered her eyes, not wanting him to see the sudden and terrible desperation that had rushed from nowhere to swamp her. ‘But it’s not that easy, is it?’ she whispered, ‘when I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again?’
‘Oh, you will. And if I know my brother, much sooner than you think.’ He grinned. ‘And don’t be too surprised, either, if one of these days you discover that he loves you every bit as much as you do him.’
Her hand reached out to grab the back of a chair, ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No, Lucien don’t say that! Please!’ But it was already too late. That tiny, withering seed of hope that she had tried, since the day she married him, to destroy, had absorbed the words so greedily that it was already starting to thrive again.
It was just past five thirty in the evening when the telephone rang. François, heaving himself from the chair where he had fallen into an uneasy slumber, got up to answer it himself.
‘Good news,’ von Pappen’s voice came down the line. ‘There will be eight guests for dinner this evening, including Paul Reynaud, Captain Paillole and William Bullitt, the American Ambassador. Every one of them has cancelled other engagements; they’re obviously keen to hear what you have to say.’
François wasn’t sure how he felt about that, and made no comment.
‘I have also taken the liberty of inviting someone not on your list,’ von Pappen continued. ‘I’m sure you would have invited him if you’d known he was going to be in Paris.’ He paused. ‘It’s Colonel de Gaulle.’
François’ eyebrows flickered. ‘What is he doing in Paris?’
‘He’s here only for the day. There was talk that he was to be made Under-Secretary for Defence, but Prime Minister Daladier has vetoed it. As you can imagine, Monsieur de Gaulle is not in the best of humours.’
François grinned, already looking forward to seeing his old friend. ‘How is Élise?’ he asked, his smile fading.
Von Pappen lowered his voice, and faintly François could hear the sound of Élise singing in the bathroom. ‘Excited,’ Erich answered. ‘And nervous.’
‘You’re sure she’s up to this?’
‘Positive. She’s looking better than I’ve seen her for a long time. Would you like to have a word?’
‘No. But tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her.’
Throughout the evening, François could feel Élise’s eyes on him down the polished length of the dining table. Once in a while he smiled at her, but as yet they had done no more than exchange a formal greeting when he arrived. Through the din of deep male voices and the clatter of cutlery he could hear her frantic laughter, and he saw the way her fingers trembled when she lifted her glass to her lips. He wondered why Erich hadn’t told him how her eyes had lost their lustrous sparkle, her hair its soft, golden sheen, and how she winced with pain every time she made a sudden movement.
The evening passed much as he had expected. There was a great deal of talk, but nothing much was actually said, and he gleaned little information that he didn’t already know. He exchanged a word or two with de Gaulle about Lucien, who, the Colonel informed him, was currently at Lorvoire on leave. François felt a pang of regret; he would very much have liked to see his brother.
‘I’m glad to say that it’s official leave this time,’ de Gaulle remarked.
‘This time?’ François said curiously.
‘I had to reprimand him some time ago,’ de Gaulle explained, ‘for taking off without permission. I left it at that, for he’s not one to desert his post in a time of crisis, which is when it counts. But it wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared for a few days; his pursuit of the ladies is going to land him in deep trouble if he doesn’t watch out.’
A little while later François heard Paul Paillole asking Élise if she was all right, and as he looked up she caught his eye, and he felt the full force of her adoration. How it tugged at his heart! Yet the affection he felt for her now was almost paternal, the painful love of a father for a damaged child. As the evening wore on, none of the guests had failed to notice her periodic moments of confusion. Her green eyes would glaze over, and the smile on her lips would start to quiver as she was sucked into the grip of some terrifying vision. It lasted only a matter of seconds, but afterwards she would be disoriented, off-balance. What was to become of her? François wondered despairingly. Not that he had any intention of deserting her, but how was she going to fill the rest of such a blighted life?
At ten o’clock Charles de Gaulle got up to leave. He wanted to be back with his regiment before morning, he told François, ‘And as for thinking you’re going to persuade the French army to lay down their arms,’ he growled, ‘I can tell you that I for one have no intention whatever of handing my country to the Boche.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Paul Reynaud said, helping himself from the cigar box.
‘And that possibility would not even have arisen,’ de Gaulle went on passionately, ‘if France had prepared herself for this war – which men like you and me, François, were predicting as long ago as thirty-three. It is a tragedy that our country should be blighted with generals who have blinkered themselves to events in Germany for so long. They cannot even begin to imagine what this war will be like, their methods are outdated, their strategy is prehistoric. And even now, is anything being done to expand our Air Force? I tell you, my friend, I shudder for the fate of this nation. And much as I detest the British, at least they will fight, and fight to the bitter end.’
It was another two hours before the others could be prised from their brandy and cigars and the comfort of Élise’s sitting-room, but eventually they departed – encouraged on their way by François, who could see that Élise was beginning to tire. He talked to Erich at the door for a few moments, then turned back into the apartment.
Élise was pouring him another drink. He took it from her, put it on the table beside him and pulled her into his arms. ‘How are you, chérie?’ he murmured.
‘Better now you’re here,’ she answered.
He noticed how careful she was not to press her body against his. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘Have you been well looked after in my absence?’
She lifted her face to look at him, and there was something of the old light in her eyes as she said, ‘If you mean, how am I getting along without sex, then the answer is that it’s not as difficult as you might think.’
He chuckled. ‘That’s not what I meant at all,’ he said. But how much he admired her courage in coming straight to the point of a subject that would have proved extremely difficult for him to broach.
‘That is,’ she said, ‘it hasn’t been difficult until now, because you haven’t been here to tempt me.’
He looked at her warily, not knowing quite how he should respond. Then, to his surprise, she drew his mouth down to hers and kissed him tenderly on the lips.
‘What you meant,’ she said, letting him go and handing him back his brandy, ‘was, how am I getting along with my nursemaid? And the answer is, she has proved an extremely diverting companion. Where did you find her?’
‘I didn’t,’ he confessed. ‘Erich did.’
‘Oh. My other nursemaid.’ She grinned up at him. ‘Little Erich clucks around me like a mother hen,’ she explained. ‘I think in some bizarre way he feels responsible for what’s happened – there are even times when I find myself comforting him, and telling him everything will be all right! Isn’t that funny? But I wouldn’t be without him for the world.’
François grimaced. ‘If anyone is responsible,’ he said darkly, ‘I am.’
She patted her hair, and stole a quick, nervous glance at herself in the mirror over the hearth. ‘No, chéri, you mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s done now, and no amount of self-recrimination from you is going to change it. I’m just glad that you’re here. I was afraid I might never see you again.’ Her lip trembled. ‘You did want to see me again, didn’t you?’ she said, her eyes widening like a child’s.
‘Of course.’
‘Only I got the impression, before … before you went away, that perhaps things had changed between us. That you were going to tell me it was over for us.’
Pulling her back into his arms so that she could no longer see his eyes, he said, ‘No, I wasn’t going to do that.’
‘I’m so relieved.’ She laughed uneasily. ‘I don’t think I’d want to carry on if that were true. And thank you for holding the dinner here tonight. It meant a lot to me to know that I was still of some use to you. You made me feel needed again. It’s important to feel needed, don’t you agree?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, it’s important.’
‘But you don’t like discussing feelings, do you?’ she said, breaking away from him. ‘So shall we change the subject?’
‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked, watching her as she went to sit down.
‘Not really.’ Then her face suddenly changed, and she peered up at him from under her lashes and started to giggle. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘You want to go to bed. Why didn’t you say? Oh, François! You haven’t forgotten the other things I can do for you, have you? Shall we go into the bedroom, or would you prefer it here?’ And getting up from the sofa, she started towards him.
‘Élise,’ he said, closing his hands over hers as she started to unbutton his fly.
‘Yes, chéri?’ she murmured, putting her head back and gazing up into his eyes.
Dear God, how was he going to tell her? How could he explain that he simply couldn’t let her do this?
To his eternal relief the door opened at that moment, and a plain, large-faced woman he had never seen before came into the room.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ she said. ‘I am Béatrice.’ And from the barely perceptible lift of her eyebrows he realized that she was Élise’s ‘nursemaid’.
‘Béatrice!’ Élise cried, turning round. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to put you to bed, Élise,’ Béatrice answered,. ‘It is past midnight.’
‘But François is here,’ Élise said truculently.
‘And he will still be here in the morning,’ Béatrice declared, looking meaningfully at François. ‘So come along now, no arguing.’
Élise shrugged, and giving François a sheepish, naughty look, she obediently walked off to the bedroom.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Béatrice called after her. Then turning back to François, she said, ‘I hope you didn’t mind me interrupting, monsieur. I’m afraid she is like that with most men who call. She needs to know that they – you – still find her attractive. I say you, because she calls them all François when she is trying to seduce them.’
‘Oh, God!’ François groaned. ‘I had no idea.’
‘No. Well, how could you? I hope you don’t mind staying the night. The maid has prepared the spare room for you. It’s only that if Élise wakes in the early hours and remembers that you were here, then discovers you have left, I’m afraid she won’t take it too well. Frankly, I’m surprised I managed to get her off to bed so easily now. She got herself quite worked up earlier when she knew she was going to see you.’
Béatrice hesitated a moment, then said. ‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way of telling you this, monsieur, but I think you should know that she has convinced herself you are going to marry her. She tells me at least a dozen times a day how much she loves you, how much you love her, and that you will find the man who attacked her and kill him. Erich reassures her on this point, since it is something she needs to hear, but as far as you marrying her is concerned, she refuses to understand that it is not possible. She says you don’t love your wife, and she has all but begged Erich to arrange for someone to “remove” her, as she puts it. She even goes so far as to insist that he will be doing you a favour if he does so. Of course,’ she went on, when she saw how strained François’ face had become, ‘she only says these things when her mind is obscured from reason, but nevertheless I thought I should warn you.’
‘Warn is a strong word to use, Béatrice,’ he said.
‘She can be very determined, monsieur, as I’m sure you know. And with the contacts she has, she doesn’t necessarily need Erich to carry out her wishes.’
He closed his eyes as the memory of the movie stuntman, Philippe Mauclair, swelled to the front of his mind. ‘No, she doesn’t,’ he said. ‘And I thank you for telling me this. I shall rely on you to inform either Erich or me if you feel there is any danger of her pursuing this plan.’
‘Of course,’ she said. Then, after a pause, ‘Maybe now is not the time, monsieur, but perhaps we should at some point discuss the possibility of having her institutionalized.’
‘No!’ he said sharply. ‘No. If she had no clarity of mind at all, I might agree – but she has already suffered so much because of me … I will not even consider the idea. Now, I think I’ll take myself off to bed.’
‘Monsieur,’ Béatrice said, as he reached the door. ‘There is one other thing, I’m afraid. It is concerning Halunke.’
François turned back. ‘Yes?’ he said in a tight voice.
‘Corinne, your son’s nanny, managed to get a message to me which I received earlier this evening. It would appear that your wife thinks Halunke might be back at Lorvoire.’
François closed his eyes. ‘Might?’ he said.
‘No one has actually seen him.’
‘No one has ever seen him, apart from Élise.’
‘And then he was wearing a mask.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Have you told Erich?’
‘I caught him as he was going down the stairs. He told me to tell you he has already set out for Lorvoire.’
François knew he must not over-react, but knowing how he had deceived von Liebermann, his instinct was to follow von Pappen to Lorvoire immediately.
As if reading his thoughts, Béatrice said, ‘Erich also told me to advise you not to go to Lorvoire. At least, not until you hear from him. Your presence there would negate the purpose of his visit.’
François seemed thoughtful, almost as if he hadn’t heard what she’d said. ‘I’ll give Erich until tomorrow evening to contact me,’ he said. ‘If I haven’t heard from him by then, I shall go to Lorvoire myself.’
It was a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.
Claudine burst out of her bedroom onto the landing of their Paris home, fastening her watch around the wrist of her black glove and struggling to keep purse and hat under her arm. She and Monique had taken the early train from Chinon, and had arrived at the Bois de Boulogne around eleven o’clock. Now it was fast approaching one, Monique had already gone out to meet an old school friend at the Ritz, and if she, Claudine, didn’t hurry she was going to be late for her lunch with Tante Céline.
Finally snapping the watch into place, she started down the stairs just as Magaly called out after her.
‘Yes, I have it!’ she cried in answer. ‘I should be back around four, but if Solange telephones tell her she can reach me at Tante …’ She stopped dead. Standing at the front door, looking up at her with his piercing black eyes, was François.
Her first instinct was to turn and run back up the stairs. She couldn’t face him now, not when she was so unprepared. But his eyes held her, and she felt the blood running hotly in her veins. Longing filled her, so powerful that she had to grip the bannister to stop herself falling.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her question seemed to amuse him. ‘I live here, remember?’
She was in such turmoil that she hardly knew what she was saying, ‘But … the letter. In the letter you said …’
‘You thought I was never coming back?’ he said. ‘So did I. At least, I hoped I wasn’t.’
His words viciously stripped away her panic, leaving her with a raw, aching emptiness. ‘Are you all right?’ she heard herself ask.
‘As you can see,’ he answered. ‘And you? How are you?’
‘I’m well. Louis misses you,’ she added, after a pause.
He looked away, but not before she had seen the quick pain in his eyes.
He knew he should walk into the study now, get away from her before …
‘François …’
He looked up, but the hunted, almost desperate look retreated from her eyes and she only smiled and shrugged awkwardly.
‘You look lovely,’ he remarked, noting that she was wearing the short sable coat he had bought her. ‘But then you always do.’
She watched him take off his hat and put it on the table beside the front door. Then he looked at her again, measuring her with an arrogant smile.
‘If you have an engagement, don’t let me keep you,’ he said abruptly. Then he turned and walked into the study.
How could seven months away from her have done this to him, he wondered angrily. How could that look in her eyes, the one he had seen so many times before, have suddenly now the power to crack the barrier he had always held between them? What was happening to him that he should want so desperately to take her in his arms, when before he had always managed to resist her?
He tensed as the door opened, and felt the anger spring to his lips as he turned to look at her. But when he saw the temper flash in her eyes, his own evaporated, and he relaxed, smiling, against the edge of the desk. This was the Claudine he knew, the Claudine he could handle.
‘Whatever engagement I have can wait,’ she snapped. ‘You owe me an explanation, François, and I want to hear it now.’
He nodded. ‘I take it you are referring to the contents of the letter I sent my father?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then I think you can be in no doubt …’
‘But how dare you!’ she seethed, slamming the door behind her. ‘How dare you think you could dismiss me like a servant? I am your wife! Louis is your son! Have you no conscience, François?’
‘You need to ask?’ he remarked dryly. ‘And what is all this anger anyway? I thought I’d given you what you wanted. The freedom to marry Armand.’
‘The Catholic church does not permit divorce,’ she cried.
‘But it does permit annulment,’ he said, not without irony.
‘It’s too late for that! We have a son, remember!’
‘Non-consummation is not the only grounds for annulment,’ he answered. ‘And if my father disinherits me, which I have good reason to believe he will in the next few days, I think you will find the Bishop of Touraine sympathetic to your cause.’
She stared at him in horror. He meant it. He did want to be rid of her. Her feelings were in turmoil. She wanted him. God, she wanted him so much … But she wouldn’t think about that now. ‘So you are a traitor?’ she breathed.
‘I’m working with the Germans, yes,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘In fact they have promoted me to the rank of commandant.’
‘No!’ she cried, clasping her hands to her head. ‘No. You can’t! You’re French, your family are French! Haven’t you considered what this will do to them?’
‘I have considered,’ he said, taking a cigarette from the box on the desk and lighting it. ‘But we’re getting away from the point. Which is, that you now have grounds for your annulment, and this time I will do nothing to stand in your way.’
‘I don’t want an annulment!’
She cried out as he suddenly gripped her arm and dragged her towards him. ‘You do!’ he said viciously. ‘Do you hear me? You do!’
She looked up at him, frightened and bewildered. There were tears in her eyes, and as her lips started to tremble he suddenly pushed her away. ‘Go, Claudine,’ he growled. ‘Go back to Armand. I don’t want you. I never have.’
She stood staring at the window, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘But I want you,’ she said quietly, unable to stop herself.
‘No!’ he roared.
There was a long, long silence. The clock over the mantle ticked away the minutes, and François ground out his cigarette. It was tearing him apart to hurt her like this. But why was this happening now? Why was he allowing her to break down his defences at a time when it was more important than ever that they remain invincible? And why, now, was he so longing to tell her how much he wanted her too? How much he loved her. The words were there in his throat, clamouring to be spoken, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, utter them. As von Liebermann himself had pointed out, he was a man who could not allow himself the luxury of love …
And yet, how could he carry on like this? Looking at her now, he saw how straight she held herself, how she averted her head so he could not see her pain, and her courage and dignity wrenched at his heart. He had always known how much she loved him. He had known it, probably, before she knew it herself. But he had hardened his heart, pushed her away – though there were times, so many times, when it had half-killed him to do it. It had never been easy, even at the start, before he loved her, but most difficult of all had been the times when he made love to her, when her exquisite body moved beneath his with such hunger that it was enough to seduce his very soul. But still he had held back, even though her every move, every breath, every murmur, was a source of unbearable torture for him. She was his wife, and he longed for her with an ache that knew no threshold of pain.
And as that ache once again surged through his loins, he closed his eyes and willed her to leave. But still she didn’t move. He wondered how much longer he could hold on. The desire to touch her, to feel her mouth beneath his, was becoming so intense that it was almost beyond his control. Then suddenly his feelings threatened to overpower him. He knew if she didn’t leave now, that very instant, there would be nothing he could do to stop himself pulling her into his arms and crushing her with the full force of his love.
She told herself that soon, any minute now, she would be able to walk away. She must go, and she must not turn back, because if she did she knew she would tell him. She knew that she would be unable to stop herself falling to the floor in front of him and confessing how deeply she loved him. How the need to feel his arms around her was tormenting her beyond endurance. But she would rather die than let him see her like that. And rather die than see the contempt in his eyes as she begged him.
She started to move, and for one terrifying moment felt that she couldn’t. It was as though the tension between them was holding her back, pulling her to him; but taking a breath, she willed herself to try again. She heard him move, and as she felt his hand on her shoulder the breath locked in her throat. His fingers brushed against her neck, and as her head fell back she gave a tortured, choking sob.
He grabbed her into his arms, holding her against him, pressing her face to his neck and breathing the scent of her hair. He could feel her trembling, just as he could feel his own need tearing through him. He lifted her face, and as desire engulfed them he covered her mouth with his.
She clung to him, pushing hard against him, wanting to lose herself in him so that he would never let her go again. Her body shook. She could feel his hands in her hair, his mouth covering her face with kisses, and all she could hear was the agony in his voice as he repeated over and over again, ‘Oh my God, my God, Claudine. I love you. I love you.’ Then his mouth was on hers again, sucking her lips between his own, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
The telephone behind them started to ring, and there was nothing in the world that could have torn him away from her then – except his fear of Halunke. But as he started to pull away she clung to him, begging him with her eyes to stay with her. He kissed her again, more urgently and more passionately than before, then he gently removed her arms from his neck and turned back to the desk.
He picked up the receiver, his eyes on Claudine as she walked to the window. Instead of von Pappen’s voice, as he had expected, he heard Lucien’s. ‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘Claudine is here.’
She looked up, and the way he was looking at her sent a shock of such commanding hunger through her body that she felt herself start to sway.
‘Yes, Lucien, it is François,’ he said. Then after a pause, ‘I arrived yesterday.’
He said no more after that, listening to his brother, and Claudine watched him, unable to tear her eyes away. Then she saw the blood drain from his face, his knuckles whiten with the tension of his grip, and in his eyes, as he looked back at her, a sudden appalling rage. Her heart leapt into her throat and she started towards him.
‘We’ll be there as soon as we can,’ François said finally, and replaced the receiver.
Already her eyes were wide with terror as she whispered, ‘It’s Louis, isn’t it? I know it. François, what’s happened to him?’
‘Sssh,’ he said sharply. ‘Calm yourself. Louis is all right.’
‘Then what is it? What’s happened? Why are you looking like that?’
‘It’s Papa,’ he answered, dashing a hand savagely through his hair.
‘What about him?’ she cried.
He raised his eyes to hers, and his haunted, murderous face sent a jolt of pure terror searing through her veins. ‘What about him?’ she cried again – then she screamed as he swung round and smashed his fist into the mirror behind him.
‘He’s dead!’ he roared. ‘My father is dead!’