3

He rang the old-fashioned iron bell-pull outside the door and waited for what seemed a long time before it was opened to him. Jean Pierre, garbed in a green baize apron, with his sleeves rolled above knotty elbows, showed him into the salon on the ground floor. Savage presented a business card and asked the old butler to give it to the Comtesse. Left alone, he paced quickly round the room, taking stock of the fine eighteenth-century furniture, and the pictures. Ancestral faces, some simpering, some arrogant, looked down at him, and Savage remained unimpressed. He was more interested in a photograph which showed a very pretty dark haired woman posing beside a fountain with two children. He picked it up. She certainly photographed well. He was still holding it when the door opened behind him and he heard a light step cross the floor.

‘Monsieur Savage?’

Louise held out her hand and he kissed it, making a little bow. The room faced south and the sunlight fell directly on her; he had placed himself to be in shadow. It was the right woman, no doubt at all about the large brown eyes and the cast of face which was so palpably American. Even after so many years, she spoke French with a Boston accent. He smiled at her.

‘You must forgive me for descending on you,’ he said, ‘without any warning: I would have telephoned, but unfortunately I arrived very late in Paris, and there was some difficulty getting through here this morning.’

‘The lines are terrible,’ Louise said. ‘Please sit down; let me offer you something. Would you like to sit in here or in the garden? It’s quite warm outside.’

‘The garden would be very nice,’ Savage agreed. Less chance of anyone listening in the open air. She seemed relaxed and friendly. He felt she was excited to see a stranger. Life must be dull, he decided. He followed her out into the sunshine.

The butler brought wine; it was pale and dry, with a slight pétillance. ‘It’s our own,’ she explained. ‘It makes a nice apéritif. You will stay to lunch, of course.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Savage said. ‘You will have had Monsieur Felon’s letter, so you know why I’m here.’

‘No,’ Louise said. ‘I’ve heard nothing. Of course, I know your firm. Monsieur Savage, because of my family trust, but I never received any letter.’

‘Oh.’ He made a gesture of annoyance. ‘How ridiculous—it must be the censorship. It will probably arrive after I’ve left. I shall have to explain it myself.’

‘It’s about the trust?’

‘Not exactly.’ Savage offered her a cigarette. The sun was warm and he watched her close her eyes for a moment, lifting her face to it. She had a fine profile. She opened her eyes and turned to him.

‘What do you mean, not exactly?’ Her father had died before the war; with America’s entry into the conflict, her affairs had been placed in the hands of the Swiss lawyers whom Savage represented. She knew M. Felon personally.

‘I haven’t come about money.’

‘No? Then what is it—is something wrong?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Can I ask you a question, Madame de Bernard? A very personal question.’

‘I suppose so. I won’t guarantee to answer it.’ Her mother, was inclined to interfere. For a moment Louise wondered whether some rumour of her estrangement from Jean had reached Boston, and the repercussions had found themselves at St. Blaize via Switzerland. She gave Savage a hostile look. ‘What is your question?’

‘What are your feelings towards the Allies?’

Louise didn’t answer him. She got up. ‘I’m afraid I never discuss the war.’

He didn’t move; he blew a smoke ring at her.

‘You haven’t answered the question,’ he said. There was nobody near them; trees, lawns, the fountain in the photograph, but no lurking gardener, no passing maid. He spoke in English. ‘Sit down and take it easy. I’ve got news from home.’

She stared at him. She did as he suggested.

‘You’re American!’ she whispered. ‘What is this? Who are you …?’

‘I saw your mother before Christmas,’ he said. ‘She’s fine; remarkable woman. You look like her. There wasn’t any letter from Felon. There isn’t any trust-busting to be done. I’m here on my own. Now—how do you feel about the Allies?’

London said she was reliable. Their information was gathered through an unlikely source. Father Duval, parish priest of St. Blaize en Yvelines, was a gossip, and priests visiting the area paid a call upon him, which he encouraged because it gave him the opportunity to talk. He was a stubborn man in his mid-fifties, devoted to his parishioners and disdainful of the Germans whom he had fought in the First War. He had given a young curé from Paris a complete picture of the conditions in the area and the attitude of the people of the village. He had mentioned the Comtesse’s presence at the Palliers’ Requiem, and lamented the collaborationist stand taken by the Comte. Within two hours, the curé had picked up enough information to relay it back to London through a radio operator hiding in Chartres, one of a thin chain of Allied secret communication that stretched across France and was being constantly broken up by German intervention. The operator only worked another two weeks before the detector van caught up with him, and he was killed in a gun battle.

Savage hoped that London and his OSS chiefs had been correct in their assessment. It was one thing to make a gesture from the safety of marriage with a known collaborator. It might be quite different for the Comtesse de Bernard to actively help an Allied agent. Women were fond of adopting heroic poses or just being bloody-minded. Watching her now, he felt more confident. There was nothing exhibitionist about her; she even looked frightened, which was reassuring.

‘I hate the Germans,’ she said quietly. ‘I hate them for what they’re doing to the world, for what they’re doing to the Jews. I hate their arrogance and I hate their beliefs. If they win this war it’ll be the end of civilisation. Does that answer your question?’

‘I guess so,’ Savage said. ‘I need to stay here for a few days. I need to operate from here. I’ve got a perfect cover story and everything will check. You’ve nothing to fear from that angle.’

‘Then you’re not with Felon and Brassier …’ Louise said.

‘I was,’ Savage answered. ‘For about three years before the war. Now I’m working for a bigger firm. Will you help me?’

He saw emotions changing on her face; she was a woman who showed her feelings. Surprise, fear, hesitancy. And then resolution. It was in her eyes as she looked at him. London had been right about her. For some reason, apart from his own skin. Savage was glad.

‘I’ll help you. I’ll do anything I can.’

‘Thanks.’ He leaned over and refilled their glasses; when he gave one to her he felt how cold her fingers were. But the resolution was still there.

He raised his glass to her. ‘Thanks,’ he said again. ‘I can’t say you won’t regret it, because if anything goes wrong you may. How long can you keep me here?’

‘As long as you like,’ Louise said. She was already seeing Jean in her mind’s eye, hearing his questions … Why should a Swiss lawyer stay with them—couldn’t he finish his business in a day—food was short …

As if Savage knew her thoughts he said, ‘I’m your cousin. I have all the family data. Your mother was a great help. I’m the son of your father’s first cousin, Roger Savage. He married a Swiss girl, Marie Thérèse Fielharben, daughter of a rich glass manufacturer. The family weren’t exactly pleased, and after I was born the couple divorced. I was brought up in Berne and I became naturalised before the war.’

‘That’s right,’ Louise said. ‘There was a Roger Savage … Did my mother know what this was for?’

‘She didn’t know you were going to be involved,’ he said. ‘She was asked for details for a cover story and she gave it. She’d no idea we’d ever meet up.’

‘What have you come for?’ Louise asked him. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Sorry.’ Savage shook his head. ‘No questions; no answers. I’m your cousin from Switzerland and you’ve asked me to stay a while. Just act naturally.’

He smiled constantly, but it was without warmth; there was an alertness about him even in repose. She started to exclaim out loud and then stopped, suddenly. The plane circling overhead, the German alert. That must have been him …

‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘I forgot—you can’t stay here! We’ve a German officer billeted on us.’

‘I know,’ Savage said. ‘Major Minden. That’s okay.’

‘How do you know?’ Louise said. ‘How could you know about him …?’

‘No questions,’ Savage reminded her. ‘How about your husband?’

‘He’s for Vichy,’ she said bitterly. ‘He went over to the Germans in 1940. He couldn’t be trusted with anything.’

‘He’ll accept the story; so long as you act naturally,’ he repeated. ‘Does he come home for lunch?’

‘He may not today,’ she said. ‘He’s in the village with the Mayor. There was a fire last night and a poor woman was burned to death. Jean takes that sort of thing very seriously. He does what he can for the people.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Savage sounded unimpressed. ‘Tell me about the Major.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Louise dismissed him; the subject embarrassed her. ‘He’s at the staff HQ at Château Diane. He doesn’t obtrude and that’s all I can say for him.’

Not quite all; Savage noticed how that pretty mouth had tightened, the look of wariness in her eyes. Major Heinz Minden. She needn’t have warned him; he knew more about the Major than she did. The old manservant appeared beside them, wearing a faded alpaca jacket, and formally announced lunch.

They talked about the weather, about Switzerland and the Marshall Trust Fund, Savage giving a good performance for the benefit of Jean-Pierre who shuffled in and out of the dining room. He noticed that Louise de Bernard was uncomfortable; she said as little as possible, leaving the major role in the deception to him. He didn’t falter in it. Years ago he had been an enthusiastic amateur actor at college; his histrionic talent had taken him to the bar where a peculiarly incisive mind promised a brilliant future in the law if he ever got the chance to go back to his practice. It wasn’t a chance he would have bet good money on. He didn’t expect to get out alive and he didn’t care. He had told as much to his own General who had looked worried and responsible, as if the life of one man were important in their kind of war. Savage enjoyed his wine. He believed in taking what was on offer, like the warm sunshine during his trek across the fields that morning. What had happened hadn’t soured him for the good things, for food and drink and women and the pleasure he derived from an ironic joke. Just because you expected to die you didn’t have to reject life prematurely.

And for him it would be easy; he carried death in his cuff link like a talisman. But only when he had finished what he had come to do. He hadn’t pretended it was patriotism. He had told his worried General exactly why he had volunteered and what made him such a suitable choice to go to St. Blaize. The General had been distressed. Not so much by the reason. Savage suspected; stories like this were not uncommon. But by the hate he had showed the General when he talked about his mission. Personal, burning, obsessional hatred. The same feeling had brought him into the special OSS unit, and made him the most promising trainee of his group. He was rougher, quicker, more ruthless than any of them. He learned to kill with his hands, to silence with a single blow. To use many types of weapons, to handle explosives. His French and German were fluent; like many with a natural acting talent he was also a good linguist, with an ear for dialect. He could pass for a Swiss in Switzerland, after his three years spent working there. They took their coffee in the salon, because it had turned colder outside and clouded over. He glanced at the grey skies through the window. The weather must break soon. Clouds and rain, holding back that fleet of barges, keeping the armies on the leash … He looked across at Louise de Bernard and smiled. She had been watching him silently for some minutes.

‘You’re doing it again,’ he said.

‘Doing what?’

‘Asking questions. I can see it on your face. “Was he dropped last night when the plane came over—what’s he going to do here …” Stop it. Stop thinking about me as anything but your cousin from Switzerland. Otherwise you’ll never make it stick.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Louise said, ‘but it’s not easy.’

‘Nothing like this is. Tell me about Major Minden.’

She shrugged. ‘There’s not much to tell. He’s been billeted here for six months. He gets on well with Jean, my husband. I see as little of him as I can.’

‘I take it he’s not the strutting Nazi type?’ He had cold eyes; however much he smiled, it stopped at his mouth. There was something about him which made Louise uncomfortable.

‘No, he’s certainly not that. He’s rather quiet. He’s a staff officer.’

‘I know,’ Savage said. ‘Reliable, a bit stuffy, tries to show it’s not his fault the others are such bastards. I can imagine.’

‘He wants to be friends,’ Louise said. ‘He brings us things—luxuries—my husband takes them. I hate him.’

‘That must be distressing,’ Savage said. ‘Since I guess you’re the one he wants to be friends with …’

‘That isn’t true!’ She felt herself changing colour.

‘It ought to be,’ Savage said. ‘Unless he’s a fag. Married, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘Never mind. Go on talking about him. What happens here in the evenings?’

‘He has dinner with us; Jean insisted on it. I couldn’t stop him. Then he comes and sits in here; I often go to bed early, I hate sitting with him. Sometimes he goes straight up to his room and works.’

‘How much work does he bring back?’

‘I don’t know. He has a briefcase with him; I never go near his room, I don’t know what he does.’

‘And he gets on well with your husband. What do they talk about—the war?’

‘Sometimes. Books and music. He likes music very much. He gave my father-in-law some records.’

‘He sounds ideal,’ Savage mocked. ‘When does your husband get home?’

‘Soon now. It must be nearly three. What am I going to tell him—if he thought for one moment you were …’

‘Don’t even say it.’ Savage stood up. ‘Don’t say it and don’t think about it. You don’t need to explain about him; I know all about him, so don’t worry. You just stick to the story. I’ll be up in my room when he gets back. It’ll be easier for you if I’m not there. He won’t be surprised; the Swiss are hogs for sleep. Just remember I’m your cousin Roger.’

‘The real Roger Savage never visited the States,’ Louise said. ‘How did you know about him?’

‘Through contacts,’ he said. ‘He died in Lausanne two years ago. Motor smash. Actually he was a drunk. We did our homework properly. Nobody can pick any holes. Play it straight and your husband will believe you.’

‘I won’t have to go into much detail,’ she said. ‘We haven’t much to say to each other any more. He goes one way and I go another.’

‘Good,’ Savage said. ‘That makes it easier. Let’s find my room.’

She took him up the broad stone stair, past her room and to the floor above. His suitcase, securely locked, was on a chaise longue by the end of the bed. It was a large room, furnished in old-fashioned floral chintz; it had a Victorian atmosphere, emphasised by a mahogany four-poster bed. There was a faint smell of must and stale air. Louise apologised and opened the window.

Savage went and looked out.

‘I’d hate to leave here in a hurry,’ he said. ‘That’s a forty-foot drop. Who sleeps near?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘On the floor below. My husband’s two rooms away from mine; Minden is down the passage, my sister-in-law is next to you.’

‘You haven’t mentioned her,’ Savage said. He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced gently up and down. ‘Comfortable mattress. Where is she?’

‘In Paris,’ Louise answered. ‘She’s a student at the Sorbonne. She lives with Jean’s aunt and she comes home for odd weekends. She’ll be here for dinner this evening.’

‘Is that nice, or nasty?’

She shrugged, as she had done when he asked about the Major. ‘She doesn’t bother me. We’ve nothing in common and we know it.’

‘How would you describe her as far as I’m concerned? Friend or foe?’

‘Foe,’ Louise said slowly. ‘I’d say definitely—foe. For God’s sake, watch yourself!’

‘I will, don’t worry,’ Savage said. He got off the bed and came towards her. ‘I’ll unpack now. You go back downstairs and look like somebody with a long-lost cousin.’ He closed the door and locked it. He hung his coat over a chair back, and went to the suitcase. The clothes were innocent, the ammunition for his gun was concealed as a box of cigars. Each cigar held four bullets; built into the false bottom of the suitcase was a small two-way radio transmitter set. Savage went to the window again and looked out. The view was so beautiful he paused. Chequerboard fields of green wheat and bright yellow mustard, belts of trees outlined against the sky, bending in symmetry before the wind. Below him the gardens of the Château, hedges and yew walks, flower beds—from above it wasn’t possible to see the weeds and the signs of neglect. In the courtyard the stone fountain threw up a meagre spray.

There were no ledges, no windows near him; if anything went wrong he was as effectively trapped in the room as a prisoner in a cell. Transmission from there was impossible. He would have to get on the roof; and for that he would need Louise de Bernard’s help. It had been easy to say he wouldn’t tell her anything, to pretend she could be kept on the perimeter. It was a glib lie in one sense but a necessity in the other. The less she knew the less she could tell the Gestapo if she were arrested. But without her help he couldn’t hope to complete his mission. Frederick Brühl. Savage knew the face as if it were his own. There were few pictures of him, many were pre-war civilian snapshots. The latest showed him among a crowd, wearing his peaked cap, a blurred and grainy image which had lost outline when it was blown up. Spectacles, a stubby nose, small mouth with rather full lips. A most unremarkable man. Savage stood by the window with the panorama of a peaceful countryside below him, and saw nothing but that face. And then another face, laughing and with hair dishevelled by wind, streaked across the forehead. Eyes that were wide and bright, half closed against the sun, a brown hand raised to shield them. And then the image changed. Savage slammed imagination’s door. Brühl … He could think about Brühl, and his hands curled into fists, he could let the hate rise in him. It was safe to think about Brühl, it was like giving the batteries of his purpose a recharge. If he had been afraid for himself or concerned for other people, like the American Comtesse de Bernard, the old woman in the village he had shot in the back the night before, he had only to think about the reason why he was in St. Blaize. Nothing and nobody mattered but to succeed. He pulled the window shut. His chiefs in OSS had chosen well. They had chosen a man with a personal reason, knowing that the force of motive would send him on when other men might have turned back.

And they had made a wise choice when they picked on Louise de Bernard as his liaison. She was brave and she was honest; would hold up well enough to reasonable pressure. She was reliable. She was also going to help him more than either of them knew. He had been sent to St. Blaize because a member of Brühl’s staff was living in the house of a collaborator with an American wife of Allied sympathies. Major Heinz Minden. What he made of his situation was up to him. Time, as the sarcastic English Colonel had impressed on him, was not on Savage’s side. He had a few days, a week at the most, to make the invasion safe. A tremendous burden. He could hear the pedantic voice, unmasculine in pitch, repeating the remark. The responsibility was almost too much to place upon one man. If he had any doubts—Savage hadn’t believed in the offer; they had told him too much to let him off the hook. It was part of the game, part of the tests applied to agents like him. He had given the Englishman a look of contempt and not bothered to answer. Major Heinz Minden. Not the strutting Nazi type; unobtrusive, Louise had called him, anxious to be friends. He remembered the colour coming into her face when he suggested that Minden might be interested in her. Which of course he must be. She was a beautiful woman. Her hostility probably intrigued him. Some men were like that. He would need her help in setting up the transmitter. It was to be used once only. To report on the success of his mission. If he failed there wouldn’t be a message. He took his shoes off and lay on the bed. Somehow he had to Ilse Minden in his plan. Possibilities flitted through his mind, but didn’t stay. Until he met him and could make a judgement, it was premature. He had a strong intuition that the part Louise de Bernard was going to play would be a vital one. He couldn’t afford to be sorry about it, but he was. He liked her. But that wouldn’t stop him. He didn’t hear the Comte de Bernard’s car come up the gravel drive. He was making up for the sleep he had lost in the fields the night before.

Jean de Bernard had spent the morning in the Mairie; he and Albert Camier were shut up in the little office on the first floor, and the air was blue with cigarette smoke. Camier had sent for wine.

‘We don’t want trouble.’ The Mayor repeated it again. ‘We have to think of the village. Trade has improved since they came to the Château Diane; my own business is doing very nicely. We don’t want any Allied agents here!’

‘Even if there is an invasion,’ Jean de Bernard said, ‘it could fail—nobody beats them on equal terms. Russia was different. That was the winter. They’ll throw the Allies back into the sea, and who will suffer then? We will. If we’ve turned against them, they’ll crush us to pieces.’

‘They haven’t taken our men,’ Camier said, sipping at his wine. ‘We’ve no Jews here, thank God, so that’s no problem. They buy from us and so long as we obey the law, we’re left alone. There are no more Palliers in St. Blaize, Monsieur, depend on it. If someone’s come to this district to make trouble, they’ve picked the wrong place!’

‘They’ve given me this proclamation to put up.’ He pulled a roneoed sheet out of a drawer and handed it to Jean. ‘I thought I’d write something myself and sign it.’

The sheet of paper informed the inhabitants that anyone found sheltering enemy agents would be shot; it was signed by the district commander. A different man to the indignant German who had dined with him the night the Palliers were executed. He had been very indignant; Jean remembered how hard it had been to calm him. He looked up at Camier.

‘You put a notice up,’ he said. ‘Warn the people.’

‘Why should we die for the British?’ the old man said. ‘What have they ever done for us—I remember my father saying, they’ll fight to the last Frenchman! If we do have to live under the Germans it’s not that bad.’

‘The Comtesse would not agree with you,’ Jean said. He refused more wine.

‘With respect for Madame,’ Camier said, ‘women aren’t the ones to judge. We men have the responsibility. Thank God you’ve given such a good example; it’s made a great difference.’

‘We’re a tired people,’ Jean said slowly. ‘Bled white by wars. We need peace, and time to recover ourselves. They won’t be here for ever. France will survive them. That is what matters. I must go now. Since Madame Pallier had no relatives, there’s nothing we can do.’

‘It’s a pity about the shop.’ The mayor shook his head. ‘It was a nice little place, good position. She did quite well. Mind you, it could be rebuilt …’

He spoke more to himself; he owned the grocery and wine store, and he supplied the officer’s mess at Château Diane. If he were to buy the site of the Palliers’ bakery and build—it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to get permits for labour and building materials, but then he was on good terms with the district headquarters; someone there might recommend him. He was known for his co-operation with the Government and the occupation forces. He might open a second grocery store, or else employ a baker. He got up quickly as Jean prepared to leave. He shook the Comte’s hand, making a little bow. He was not in such awe of the family as he might have been if the war hadn’t changed everything. They held comparatively little power. That was in German hands.

Jean started his car and drove slowly back to the Château. Camier’s wine was sour on his stomach; the stench of smoke from the smouldering ruin of the bakery clung to his clothes. He had talked to people, taken council with Camier, who was typical of his class and age. Cunning, commercial-minded, concerned with the realities of survival. Men like him abounded, and they made the task of governing France so easy for the conquerors. He remembered his short war service, the overwhelming numbers and efficiency of the enemy, the sense of being swept away like sand before a tidal wave. Men he had known since childhood had thrown their weapons away and turned for home. His people’s spirit waned and died; for some it was not so much a rape as a seduction. They welcomed the German strength as an antidote to their own national weakness. France could be great again, and powerful again; what had revived a crippled, beaten Germany within twenty years might well be the saving medicine for ailing France. He knew many who believed this. He had friends who were more Nazi than the S.S. whose attitudes they imitated.

The Jews had always been unpopular; now they were hated. When the Germans asked for Jews, their French neighbours helped to round them up. He frowned, deepening the line between his brow, ashamed of his own knowledge. The Comte in his Château, the Mayor in his grocery store, the people going about their work and living their lives in St. Blaize. For what should they fight, at this late stage? For Allies who were their hereditary enemies, and who blamed them for their surrender? For a place in a world which would be dominated by outsiders, by Americans who had stayed neutral until Japan attacked them—by England, the foe of centuries … He turned into the driveway and slowed down, protecting the loose-laid gravel. Louise thought he was a coward. But then they judged by different standards. The difference in priorities was as fundamental as her desire to fight a war which was already lost and thereby lose the chance of gaining from the peace. She despised him; he didn’t blame her. He loved her, as he had always done. He accepted her rejection because he knew she couldn’t change. He accepted his own suffering for the same reason.

If it was borne with patience, some good would come out of it. He went into the dark entrance hall, and shivered. It was high vaulted, stone walled, with two large Flemish tapestries hung down one side; the temperature was chill.

‘Jean?’

He turned and saw his wife facing him, standing in the doorway of the salon.

‘I wanted to come with you this morning. You should have waited.’

‘I’m sorry; you were still asleep. There was nothing you could have done. The poor woman was dead long before they got to her.’

‘It’s horrible,’ Louise said. He had followed her into the room and they were both standing. She had a cigarette in her hand, and she found an ashtray at the other side of the room, where she could turn her back on him for a moment. He had a way of looking directly at her, watching her face. She had found it attractive once; he had fine dark eyes, full of expression. Now it made her falter. He was an enemy, not to be trusted.

‘I had a surprise,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you remember I had a cousin Roger, father’s first cousin—Roger Savage?’

‘I heard him mentioned, but I can’t remember meeting him. Why?’

She turned and faced him. ‘His son arrived here this morning. From Berne. He works for the family trust lawyers. He’s upstairs. I said he could stay with us for a few days.’

Jean de Bernard took a cigarette from his case and slowly lit it.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How nice.’ He didn’t have to look at her. He didn’t ask for explanations. He knew with infallible instinct that she was lying.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m going upstairs to see Papa.’

At six-thirty a car drew up at the gates of the Château. The lodge was empty, its windows shuttered. There was no gatekeeper and the gates stood open. The car was sleek and highly polished; the driver sprang out and stood at attention by the back door. Inside two people turned towards each other. The man was in his forties, clean-shaven, with close-cropped brown hair and high cheekbones, deep-set eyes.

He slid his arm round the shoulders of a girl, much younger, with dark hair down to her shoulders and a rapt expression on her face. He bent and kissed her, opening her lips; one hand closed over her breast. Outside the car, his driver stood at attention, staring straight ahead.

‘I shall miss you,’ the man said. ‘I shall think of you with your family while I’m alone.’

Her face was pale, like a mask, the eyes closed. ‘I have to come,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t know how I hate it. You don’t know how I hate every minute I’m away from you!’

‘One day I shall come up to the house,’ he said. He searched her mouth again. ‘Let me drive you now. Why should you walk, carrying that bag …’

‘No,’ she murmured, holding on to him. ‘No, Adolph, not yet. Give me time to talk to them. Let me talk to my brother first …’

‘All right.’ He drew away and opened the door. ‘I won’t force you, my darling. I won’t embarrass you. Till Monday.’

Régine de Bernard got out. The driver handed her her weekend case and saluted. The rear window of the car was down. She blew a kiss through it. The man replaced his black cap, the skull insignia of the Death’s Head division of the S.S. gleamed above the peak.

‘Till Monday,’ Bernard’s sister whispered. The Mercedes waited till she had gone through the gates. Then it did a U-turn in the narrow drive and headed back towards Paris.

Régine went upstairs to her own room. Whenever she returned to St. Blaize she cried herself to sleep because she could have been with Adolph. She banged her door shut, sighing deeply, and touched her breast where he had caressed her. They must never know, of course. Her brother and her sister-in-law, whom she hated. They wouldn’t understand the fire in the loins that drove her mad, when she was separated from him. She was a de Bernard, a well brought up Catholic of impeccable family, and it wouldn’t be conceivable that she copulated with a German old enough to be her father. The only person with whom she felt comfortable was in fact her father. He was frail and wandering, a dying child, who asked no questions and was content to sit and hold her hand. Her brother had become a stranger. The world was full of strangers now, of people who wouldn’t understand how she could be the mistress of a Colonel in the S.S. Privately Regine jeered. She knew friends of her aunt who were having affairs with the upper-class officers of the Wehrmacht.

It was only the black uniform that frightened them. It didn’t frighten her. She loved it; she loved the inference of force and cruelty, the way he hurt her when they were making love. She wanted to crawl and kiss his feet. She threw the little case on the bed and began to pull out her clothes. There was a noise from the room next door. She stopped, listening. Nobody slept there; it was always empty. Her fool of a brother, whom his wife had turned out of her bed, occupied the room below. Somebody was staying in the old guest room. She stood still; the walls were very thick, they muffled and distorted noise. There was a faint bang, which she thought must be the window; her own made a similar noise because the frame was heavy and it swung on its weight. Régine went outside and paused by the door. She was tense, curious as a cat. She knocked and then opened it.

A man was inside, knotting his tie in front of the dressing table. He turned round and looked at her. She saw a smile which didn’t come from his eyes.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be Régine. Come in.’ She found herself shaking hands. He had taken the initiative away from her.

‘I’m Roger Savage, Louise’s cousin. I’m staying for a few days.’

‘I didn’t know anyone was here,’ she said. She could feel the colour in her face. ‘I heard the window bang. Please excuse me for bursting in …’

‘That’s quite all right.’ He smiled down at her. There were deep rings under her eyes and she looked plain and tense. ‘What time is dinner? I’m afraid I’ve been sleeping.’

‘Seven-thirty. I’ve only just arrived.’

‘From Paris,’ Savage said. ‘Louise told me about you. How is it there?’

‘How should it be?’ Hostility flashed at him.

Foe, he reminded himself. Definitely foe. ‘I’m asking you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been there since the occupation. I hope it hasn’t changed.’

‘I don’t think so; perhaps you ought to go and see for yourself.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ he said. ‘We Swiss are such dull fellows; it would be good for me. I might even take you out to lunch.’

‘I’m at the Sorbonne,’ Régine said. ‘I wouldn’t have time.’ She made a little movement, awkward and unwilling. Thank you.’

‘I’ll see you downstairs,’ Savage said. He opened the door for her.

Louise hadn’t misjudged her attitude, but he felt her dismissal of the sister-in-law was a mistake. She reminded him of an animal living on its nerves. It was ridiculous, but he had a prescience of danger. He inspected himself in the glass. Hair brushed down, clothes conservative and neat, expression relaxed. The Swiss were dull fellows; he must remember that. He heard voices in the salon and opened the door to find Louise in front of it.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I was coming to call you.’

Savage took her hand and kissed it; he felt her fingers tremble.

‘I hope I’m not late.’

‘Of course not, come in. We’re having a drink.’

She wore a yellow printed dress with a long skirt; the cut was pre-war.

‘My husband Jean. This is Roger.’

He shook hands with the Comte; he formed a quick impression of a good-looking dark eyed man with prematurely greying hair and a firm grip, and then his stomach knotted quickly. A man in grey uniform moved forward.

‘Major Minden, my cousin Monsieur Savage.’

Minden. Heinz Paul Minden, Major in the 23rd Infantry Corps, aged thirty-seven, married with two children, home in Breslau. Savage bowed. Nothing remarkable, pleasant-looking in a clean-cut way, tall, well built. They shook hands. Louise handed him a glass of the dry wine he had drunk before lunch. The Major offered him a cigarette; he could see Jean de Bernard watching him. He felt Régine come in, and forestalled an introduction by announcing that they had already met.

She accepted a drink and retreated into a corner seat.

‘This is my first visit to St. Blaize.’ Savage spoke to the major. ‘It’s beautiful; it must be pleasant to stay here. Do you work in Paris?’

‘No, my office is at the local headquarters,’ Minden said. He didn’t like the Swiss. He was surprised and irritated to find another man in the house. His eyes strayed from Savage, who was describing the train ride from Paris in tedious detail, and followed Louise as she moved round the room. She seemed restless; her cousin’s visit appeared to have unsettled her. He thought she looked very beautiful in the yellow dress. Regine was as quiet and withdrawn as usual. Minden paid her no attention. He was wholly absorbed by the older woman.

The voice of Savage recalled him. ‘I was stopped on the way here,’ he said. ‘It looked like a road block. I must say your troops were very polite.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the Major said. ‘There’s an alert on for enemy agents in the area. But it’s only a formality. I don’t think it’s a serious possibility.’

‘Roger.’ Louise had appeared beside them suddenly; she linked her arm through his and pressed fiercely with her fingers. Savage looked down at her. He gave her arm a friendly squeeze.

‘You don’t know how interesting I find all this,’ he said. ‘Imagine how quiet it is, living in a neutral country. Enemy agents! That sounds very exciting.’

‘I disagree.’ Jean de Bernard spoke directly to him. The last time these people were dropped round here, they involved a local family and two of them were shot. It was a useless, irresponsible act, and it cost French lives. We don’t want any more of it. If I found anyone hiding here and trying to cause trouble for the occupation forces, I shouldn’t hesitate to give them up!’

There was silence then; Savage felt Louise stiffen beside him. The Major looked embarrassed. ‘And quite right too,’ Savage said. ‘You French are sensible, like the Swiss. You prefer peace. Just think, if I hadn’t become a citizen when I was younger, I could have been fighting in the American Army!’ They were all looking at him. He patted Louise’s hand; he could feel the German wince. He’d noticed the wandering look that followed her, the contracting of jaw muscles when she held his arm. The Major didn’t like the cousin from Switzerland handling what he wanted to touch so badly himself.

‘Of course,’ Minden said, his voice unfriendly. ‘I didn’t realise you were American.’

‘Only my father,’ Savage explained. ‘My mother was from Lausanne. I’ve spent all my life in Switzerland. Do you know it?’

‘No,’ the Major said. ‘I’ve never been there.’

‘We used to ski at Verbier before the war,’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘My father skied extremely well.’

‘How is he today?’ The Major channelled the talk away from Savage and Louise led him to a sofa which was set back by the wall. She sat beside him. He lit her cigarette and saw that her hand trembled.

‘You must be mad,’ she said quickly. ‘Talking about enemy agents …’

‘Mad to ignore it,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t I mention it? I’ve nothing to hide; stop looking frightened or they’ll notice something. Smile. And put that cigarette out, your hand’s shaking like a leaf.’

‘It’s terrifying,’ Louise whispered. ‘There’s something odd about Jean. I don’t think he believes me. How did you meet Régine?’

‘She came into my room; said she heard a noise. I’d watch your step with her. She’s sharp as a tack.’

‘She’s completely wrapped up in her own life,’ Louise said. For a moment she glanced across to where her sister-in-law sat, holding a glass of wine in both hands, not drinking it and watching her brother talking to the Mayor. ‘She’s just young, self-centred. I don’t take any notice of her.’

‘Well, I shall,’ Savage said, ‘and you should. My hunch says she’s dangerous.’ He leaned against the sofa, one arm stretched out along the back. Louise looked at him and suddenly he smiled. It made him look different.

‘I like your dress,’ he said. ‘Try to relax with me, don’t look so strained.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ll try my best. I won’t let you down. Aren’t you scared yourself? Sitting here with that man across the room …’

‘No.’ Savage shook his head. ‘He interests me. Put me sitting next to him at dinner. I want to make a good impression.’

‘You ought to avoid him,’ Louise protested, ‘keep out of his way. I think you’re taking unnecessary risks. I’ve calmed down now, give me another cigarette. It was just when you mentioned the alert …’

‘Here.’ He lit it for her and for a moment their hands touched. His were warm and steady. There was nothing about him to make her feel protective, and yet she said it. ‘Be careful. Please.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Savage got up, and slid his hand under her elbow. ‘Your manservant has just come in. And don’t forget, put me next to Minden.’

Louise sat at the end of the table, with Jean at the head, candles burning between them, lighting the faces of Savage and Minden and Regine.

Savage was talking; he talked to Jean, to Régine, who hardly answered, and most of all to the Major, who was dour and unresponsive. Watching, Louise felt herself relaxing. He was so confident, so bold in his assumption of the role. And so Swiss that she could hardly believe it was acting. She ate little and only sipped the wine, aware that Jean was glancing at her from the other end, with an expression which she couldn’t analyse. Did he suspect anything? It was impossible to tell. She had no practice in lying to him, or to anyone; she had been brought up to tell the truth and to despise evasions. Now she had agreed to live a terrifying lie and to deceive people so close to her that every mood and look was known. And if she failed, if Jean suspected that Roger Savage was not her cousin, that he was in any way connected with the airraid warning of the previous night, then the man she had promised to help was already dead. ‘I’d denounce them immediately’, that was what Jean had said, and she knew that the words were directed at her. And he’d do it; she had to remember what happened to the Palliers, to reject the hope that he had been incapable of the final infamy.

And if that happened beyond doubt, then even the chill compromise of living under the same roof would be impossible for her.

Savage’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘What excellent brandy,’ he said, talking to his left to the Comte. ‘I didn’t know you could still get it in France.’

‘Major Minden was kind enough to give it to me for Christmas,’ Jean de Bernard said.

‘And the cigars too? How very generous.’ Savage made the German a little bow. ‘And are you stationed near St. Blaize?’

‘I am at the headquarters, at the Château Diane,’ Minden said. ‘About half an hour’s drive from here.’ He looked up at Louise and his expression softened. ‘Even if it were Paris, I should prefer to live here.’

‘The Château Diane? Haven’t I heard of it?’

‘It belonged to Diane de Poitiers.’ Jean de Bernard answered Savage’s question. ‘It was built for her by Henri II. It’s only a part of the original building; much of it was destroyed after the Revolution. But it’s very beautiful.’

‘Most of the original furniture is still there,’ Minden said. ‘Wonderful tapestries—my General uses the State rooms.’

‘How interesting—does he like history?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Minden laughed. He had drunk a lot of wine and he felt suddenly bold. The presence of Louise sitting so close, and the faint drift of cologne she wore acted as a delicious goad upon his imagination. He wished she would open his scent and use it … ‘He doesn’t care for history much but he’s madly in love with Diane de Poitiers!’

‘Really?’ Jean de Bernard said. ‘You never mentioned this before.’

‘It’s quite amusing,’ Minden said. He felt a moment of disloyalty but suppressed it. He wanted to interest Louise. There’s a portrait of her as Diana the Huntress—you know the kind of picture, a naked allegory, very voluptuous. He had it moved into his sitting room. He sits in front of it, staring. He’s read everything written about her; he even sleeps in her bedroom, in her bed!’

‘He sounds as if he’s a romantic,’ Savage said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘General Brühl,’ Minden answered. Nobody had laughed or even smiled at his account of Brühl’s obsession. Perhaps he had merely sounded coarse. He looked anxiously at Louise and found her watching her cousin. He felt irritated. He felt obliged to defend his General to these people, for whose benefit he had just held him up to ridicule.

‘He’s a very talented man,’ he said. ‘He paints in his leisure time—very well. And apart from this little foible about Diane de Poitiers, he’s very interested in antiquities.’

‘Then we have that in common,’ Savage said. ‘I should love to see the Château. I suppose, Major, it wouldn’t be possible?’

‘Not inside, I’m afraid,’ Minden said. ‘I’d invite you as my guest, but unfortunately non-German personnel are not permitted. I’m so sorry. However, there’s some very fine carving on the outside, you could see that. The gateway is remarkable; it’s Diane de Poiters again, as Diana. Three times lifesize, supported by a stag.’

‘I must certainly go,’ Savage said. ‘Louise, could you find time to take me tomorrow?’

‘Yes of course. We could go in the morning. But we’d have to bicycle. We have a little petrol but it has to be saved for emergencies. Would you mind that?’

‘I haven’t cycled since I was a boy.’ Savage smiled round at them. ‘I’m sure the exercise would do me good.’

‘Not at all,’ Minden spoke to Louise. She tried not to look away, but the moist brown eyes with their message of desire disgusted her. ‘Madame, you can use my car. I’ll send it back for you and you can drive over and spend as much time as you like. It will be my pleasure.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Wasn’t there a story,’ Savage said, ‘that Diane de Poitiers had a skin like a young girl when she was sixty?’

‘I read that somewhere.’ Régine spoke suddenly, and because she hadn’t joined the conversation everybody looked at her. There was a polite little smile on Savage’s mouth. ‘I read all about her; eternal youth and the rest of the nonsense. Personally I don’t believe a word of it. Women like that are just myths. As for being in love—those sort of women aren’t capable of it!’

‘What sort of women?’ Louise asked her. ‘Kings’ mistresses?’

‘Professionals,’ Régine said. The sort of French woman who only exists in the minds of foreigners. A kind of national whore.’

‘Régine!’ Jean de Bernard spoke sharply. ‘That’s not a word for you to use. Please …’

‘There isn’t another,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m not a child, Jean. Please don’t rebuke me as if I were.’

Louise pushed back her chair. ‘I think we’ll go into the salon.’ Before she could leave the table, Minden was beside her, pulling the chair away.

‘A wonderful dinner,’ he murmured.

Louise brushed past him. ‘Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ Régine followed her; she looked pale and there were dark pits under her eyes. For a moment Louise was tempted to ask her if she were feeling ill. But the eyes looked at her and through her, opaque and hostile, the sullen mouth set in a stubborn line.

‘I’m very tired,’ Régine said. ‘Would you mind if I went to bed now?’

‘No, of course not. You look tired.’

‘Say good night to Jean and the Major and your cousin for me. How long is he going to stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ Louise said. ‘A few days. He’s come on business over my family trust.’

Régine looked at her for a moment and then away. It was a way she had of being rude. ‘He doesn’t look at all like you,’ she said. ‘If he’s a cousin he can’t be very close.’ She walked out of the room before Louise could answer.

They settled in a little group close to the fire; Louise had a frame of embroidery which she worked on in the evenings; both Minden and Savage looked at her. The fire was alight; the light flickered over her as she sewed, casting soft shadows over her face. Both men examined her, but in different ways. The German’s eyes ranged over the line of her neck, down to the outline of her breasts and the curve of one leg crossed at the knee. Before his imagination the yellow dress disappeared and the hair caught up behind her head was loose and flowing over bare shoulders. He shifted in his chair and forced his thoughts away from her. To Savage she was more complicated. Sexually attractive, remote and independent, vulnerable and yet brave. There was no need for mental stripping, for the laboured erotic imaginings of the other man. He looked at her and he was stirred.

She had done well that evening. She had kept the balance between them, hiding the fear which he alone had seen. Her hands were steady as she used the needle; the fingers were long and graceful, the nails unpolished. She looked serene in the firelight, removed from them all, as her husband and the Major talked together, excluding him. Once she looked up and caught him watching her. He left his chair and came over to her.

‘What are you making, Louise? Show me …’

‘It’s a stool cover—for Papa’s room.’ He bent over her.

‘That’s very nice. It must take a long time.’

‘About three months, if I do some every night.’

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll come to your room later.’ He went back to his chair, stretched out his feet and gave a little grunt.

‘This is so pleasant,’ he said. ‘I never imagined life was so peaceful in France.’

‘It is peaceful,’ the Comte de Bernard said. ‘And that is how we want to keep it.’

Louise went upstairs first; she paid a visit to her father-in-law and found him sleeping deeply, his bedside light still on. She arranged the bedclothes round him and switched it off, leaving the door a little open. Jean-Pierre and Marie-Anne slept on the same floor within his call. Then she went downstairs to her room to wait for Savage. She heard Jean and the Major come up; she heard Savage saying good night. The minutes went by until an hour had passed, and then a knock sounded on her door. She opened it and he came in.

‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘I gave them time to get to sleep; do you have a cigarette?’

‘Over there on my dressing table, help yourself.’

Savage sat on the bed. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to her. Again their fingers touched. She wore a dressing-gown, and he noticed how much younger she looked with her hair down.

‘I learned a lot tonight,’ he said. ‘You were terrific. Come and sit down here.’

‘You took so many risks,’ Louise said. ‘I haven’t stopped shaking yet. All that business about enemy agents—I nearly died!’

‘It was quite natural to talk about it,’ he said. ‘A real Swiss would have been indignant as hell, being stopped and questioned. I wanted to be convincing.’

‘You were certainly that,’ she said.

‘That Kraut can’t take his eyes off you,’ Savage said suddenly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was like that?’

‘Why should I?’ She was surprised and then angry. ‘It’s bad enough for me having him here, seeing him looking at me like that. I hate him; I hate myself for even speaking to him!’

‘And your husband—how about him? How does he like having that goon licking his lips over you?’

‘He ignores it,’ Louise said. ‘Minden will never try anything and Jean knows it. It’s part of the price he’s willing to pay. For St. Blaize, for being safe.’

‘He’d better make the most of it,’ Savage said. ‘It may not last long. I’m going to need a lot of help from you. How frightened are you? Maybe I should put it differently. How brave?’

‘Not brave at all.’ Louise shook her head. ‘Thinking about this kind of thing is not the same as doing it. I’m scared to death. But I’ll still help all I can. You may think this is funny, but I’m grateful to you for the opportunity.’

‘To risk your life? It’s a hell of a thing to be grateful for.’

‘I’ve been living this life since 1940; living with capitulation, with people thinking of nothing but their own skins. I came here full of pride in being married to a Frenchman—a fine old family, you know the kind of thing. I thought St. Blaize and the Château were marvellous and I was just so lucky to be part of it. Well, I don’t feel that any more. I despise them. I despise my own husband. And I was getting like them, taking that man’s food and drink, letting him lend his car tomorrow. At last I’ve got a chance to do something to help. And whatever happens I can keep my self-respect. I mean it. I’m very glad you came.’

‘If things go wrong,’ he said, ‘you will be sorry. I hope you realise that.’

‘I do. That’s why I’m scared.’

‘It’s a good way to be,’ Savage said. ‘It makes you careful. Do you have any books on local houses here? I want something on the Château Diane.’

‘I’m sure we have—there’s a huge library. But why there? Surely you’re not thinking of getting in there! It’s Brühl’s headquarters—it’s guarded like Fort Knox!’

‘That figures,’ Savage said. ‘What do you know about Brühl?’

‘Nothing. He doesn’t mix socially; nobody’s ever met him.’

‘No,’ Savage said. ‘I don’t suppose they have. Can you look out some books for me tomorrow?’

‘I wish you’d tell me what you’re going to do. I could do so much more if I knew. Why can’t you trust me?’

‘If you’re arrested,’ Savage said calmly, ‘you can’t tell them what you don’t know. I do trust you. I believe you’d be brave and hold out as long as you could. I trust any woman to keep her mouth shut except when someone is using an electric probe inside her.’

‘And what about you? Are you so sure you’ll hold out?’

‘Damned sure,’ Savage said. ‘Because they’ll never take me. Within two seconds I’ll be dead. That means if I fail to do the job, somebody else can try.’

‘Is it so important? Is it really vital, this thing you’ve come to do?’ She shivered; it was past one o’clock and the room was cold.

‘Here,’ Savage said. ‘You’re freezing.’ He dragged the quilt off the bed and wrapped it round her. ‘Keep this on. Okay, I’ll answer that question. It is important. It’s more important than you or me or anything that may happen to us. It’s the difference between winning and losing the war.’

‘I won’t ask you any more,’ she said quietly. ‘You know I’ll do anything I can.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I only hope you don’t regret it. But at least I’ve warned you. You’d better get to bed now.’

He got up and stretched himself. ‘Put your light out before I open the door.’

Louise sat in the darkness for some moments after he had gone. He hadn’t touched her or said anything, but she knew that there was a moment when he wanted to stay. She got into bed, pulling the quilt into position. There had been something in his face when he wrapped it round her. Some current of communication, sharp and shocking in its implication. Moments before he had talked about her being tortured as coolly as if he were discussing someone far away. Then there was that sudden blaze inside him, which was as quickly dampened down. Something had answered him; sparks had struck between them without words, without touch. If he had stayed she would have let him. The moment of self-knowledge showed her that she had reached a time of total crisis in her life.