Escape from Passion

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWOMarie crossed the hall very slowly, her feet shuffling over the marble floor and then she fumbled with the bolts and chains of the great door.

Slowly it swung open, its hinges creaking, and the man who was waiting outside in the bright sunshine stepped in purposefully as if he had been impatient at the delay.

“I am Pierre de Sardou.”

He spoke with some authority and his voice, ringing through the hall, was grating and unpleasant.

“The Comtesse?” he asked, staring at Marie, who was half-sheltered behind the door.

“Madame is dead.”

“So!”

The man came further into the hall. Fleur, listening, had the strongest impression that the announcement held no surprise for him, he had known before he came, she was very certain of that.

She wondered who could have told him. The doctor? The Priest? If so, surely they would have warned her, or at least Marie, that a relation was on the way.

She took stock of Monsieur Pierre de Sardou and was not impressed. He was not so short as he had seemed when she had first viewed him from the upper floor, but he was stocky and inclined to corpulence and it was hard to believe that he could be a blood relation of Lucien.

There was nothing aristocratic in his appearance nor in his bearing for his arrogance and his sharply spoken sentences seemed more assumed than natural.

Then he turned his dark eyes towards her and she had the feeling that he was surprised and unpleasantly so by her presence

“This is – ?” he questioned, speaking to Marie rather than to her.

“La femme de Monsieur Lucien.”

Fleur felt her heart beat quicker, but she said nothing and made no movement, only stood and waited, as it were, for events to come to her rather than making any effort to precipitate them.

“His wife!” Monsieur Pierre expostulated. “But why were we not told? We received no announcement of it when we were informed of his death.”

Neither woman replied and abruptly he strode across the floor towards Fleur.

“It is correct what she says,” he asked, “that you are Lucien’s wife?”

Fleur took a deep breath, then in a voice that she hardly recognised as her own she lied,

“Yes, I am Lucien’s wife.”

“Madame!”

She felt her hand taken and raised to Monsieur Pierre’s lips.

Now he was speaking suavely.

“You must forgive my surprise. I had no idea. I believed that my aunt, the Comtesse, was living here alone with her servants, but I realise that I was mistaken. And are there, you will forgive me for asking, are there children of your marriage?”

Fleur had a sudden insane desire to strike him in the face. She did not know why, it was just that there was something in his smile and the expression in his eyes that made her not only resent his questions but feel afraid of them.

The moment was too chaotic and too unexpected for her to remain cool, but she was certain of one thing, if of one thing only, that there was danger in every word she uttered and that this man was her enemy.

“I have no child.” She spoke quietly. “But will you not come in to the salon? You would like something after your journey, a cup of coffee perhaps?”

“I thank you, but I have not long finished luncheon.”

Fleur led the way into the salon. As she opened the door, she caught sight of Marie’s face and knew by her expression that she was warning her that she too had sensed danger.

The afternoon sun shining in through the lowered Venetian blinds made stripes of gold across the Aubusson carpet with stripes reminiscent of bars, prison bars.

“You have been here long?”

“A long time.’”

“I really cannot understand my dear aunt not acquainting me of so interesting an event as Lucien’s marriage. Besides, I should have liked to commemorate it with a suitable gift.”

“We were married only a short time before he was killed,” Fleur said through stiff lips.

“That accounts for it, of course. The shock and the unhappiness must have been terrible. And yet courageously she answered her letters of condolence, I received one myself. She spoke proudly and at some length of Lucien, strange that she should not have mentioned his wife. She must have forgotten it, of course, that is the explanation, but it is so odd you must agree. My aunt was most punctilious in these matters as you may have noticed. When did she die?”

“This morning at half-past six. Would you like to see her?”

“There is plenty of time for that as I shall be staying here tonight, of course. The funeral will be tomorrow?”

“The next day.”

“So. Then we shall have the pleasure of each other’s company until Wednesday. Perhaps other members of the family may turn up, I don’t know, but I myself will have a great deal to do. You understand, I am now the Head of the Family.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. Of course I am entitled to call myself the ‘Comte de Sardou’, but then we of the younger generation are not in the least concerned with such trifles or the gaudy baubles left over from an effete aristocracy. No, no, I much prefer to be ‘Monsieur’. I am a democrat, as I am sure you are, madame?”

“Of course.”

“I am delighted to hear it. We shall have much in common, I can see that. You have seen the will of Madame la Comtesse?”

The last question was shot at Fleur.

She took her time to answer, stooping to arrange some small china snuffboxes on a table and amused to keep her inquisitor on tenterhooks, knowing that here lay the real crux of the whole situation.

“No, I know nothing at all about it,” she said at length. “If she has made one, it will be with the Advocate.”

“Of course.”

She heard the quick breath of relief that Monsieur Pierre drew. He walked a few paces across the room and then back again.

“May I smoke, madame?”

“Of course, please do. I am sorry I forgot to suggest it.”

“That comes of being in a manless household for so long.” He lit a cigarette. “You were here when Lucien was killed?”

“Yes, I was here.”

“Where were you married?”

Fleur felt herself tremble. This was the question that she had been afraid of. It was only a matter of time now before she was discovered.

“In Paris.”

“At Notre Dame?”

“No, at the Madeleine.”

She did not know why she contradicted him save for the pleasure of it.

“Strange indeed! All the de Sardous have been married at Notre Dame.”

“Lucien wished to be the exception.”

“You will forgive me, madame, if I ask your maiden name?”

Fleur smiled.

She was on safe ground now, no need to lie. She could give her grandmother’s as they were a large family.

“Fleur de Malmont.”

“But, of course, I know the family.”

There was a note of respect now in the suave voice, yet Fleur knew he was by no means satisfied. He was still suspicious, perhaps even more so than he had been before.

Too late she realised that the only possible explanation for a secret marriage might have lain in the fact that Lucien had chosen a nobody, a girl of some doubtful antecedents whom the family would not have accepted.

Well, it was done now and there was nothing she could do but wait for the next question. Then gladly she heard the sound of the door opening. Here, for a brief moment at any rate, was a respite.

It was Marie with the coffee or rather that horrible ersatz substitute which was all that they had been able to purchase for over a year.

“Coffee, monsieur?”

“Thank you. If you will put it down I will help myself in a few moments.”

Fleur fancied that his nose wrinkled at the smell of it. Doubtless Monsieur Pierre with his German friends had ways of procuring much more palatable beverages than his less fortunate countrymen.

Marie turned to leave the room. As she reached the door, he spoke to her sharply.

“I wish to send to the village. Is there anyone who can go?”

“Mais non, monsieur. There is only myself and Madame here in the house.”

“But that is ridiculous! A garden boy, perhaps a man from the farm?”

“No one, monsieur, to whom we can give orders. Before the war there were many who were glad to serve at the Château. Now they serve our conquerors.”

Monsieur Pierre gave an exclamation of annoyance.

“I must go myself, then. I have to see the Priest, the doctor – ”

He stopped.

‘And the Advocate,’ Fleur added for him in her mind.

“Yes, of course, monsieur.”

Marie stood patiently waiting, stolidly uncommunicative and unhelpful.

“You can go.”

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“She is telling the truth, of course,” he said, turning to Fleur. There is no one I can send and no other way of telling such people to come here to me?”

“I am afraid not,” Fleur said deprecatingly, “and naturally we have no conveyance.”

“Naturally. The car – ?”

“The Germans took it away over a year ago.”

“Yes, of course. They reimbursed Madame for its value?”

“I have no idea.”

Fleur knew quite well that the Comtesse had received no recompense for the removal of Lucien’s car. She had been told vaguely that if she applied she might be given a voucher for it which in time would entitle her to claim its value. She had done nothing in the matter.

Fleur was determined now that no word of hers should enable Monsieur Pierre to benefit from what had been Lucien’s.

“Well, I must go myself, Mahomed to the mountain!” he laughed with some effort. “Au revoir, madame, I shall not be long. We will dine together, I hope?”

“What time would suit you, monsieur?”

“Seven o’clock would be convenient?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very well. Until then, madame.”

He gave her a glance, which Fleur realised was meant to be gallant and left the room with a swagger, as one who imagines that a woman is admiring him.

Fleur stood very still. She waited until she heard the front door close and the footsteps scrunching on the gravel came fainter and fainter until there was only silence.

Then she sank down on the sofa and put her hands over her aching forehead. Slowly she felt her tension relax.

“I must think,” she said out loud. “I must think.”

What was she to do? How could she escape from the trap that she felt was slowly closing round her? Why had Marie said that she was Lucien’s wife? It was madness and yet what else could she have said? He might have asked to see her papers and then any subterfuge and any other lie might have made him more suspicious than he was already.

How had she been so crazy, she wondered, not to have anticipated all this, to have gone away before and yet she knew that it would have been just impossible for her to leave the Comtesse while she was dying.

She had loved the old lady, had been afraid of her, had not understood her and how could she understand someone of another type of life and of another nationality? But she had been her last link with Lucien and Fleur had clung to that, happy in the fact of being in his home.

Yes, it had been impossible to leave, impossible to go and forsake all these things which had meant so much and yet now she saw the danger.

The ability of the Comtesse to arrange certain matters had rested on her own personal influence and on the power she exerted in the village traditionally because of her position. Now her place would be taken by another and a very different personality – Monsieur Pierre.

Fleur had often smiled at the memory of the Mayor coming up to the Château at the Comtesse’s command.

However much France boasted of democracy, in these outlying villages the aristocrats still had their importance and still held their place in the local hierarchy.

The Comtesse requested his presence and the little man, who was a grocer by trade, came apprehensively into the salon where Madame was waiting for him. He was sweating a little, Fleur noticed, and he turned his hat round and round as he listened to what Madame had to say.

“Monsieur le Maire, our beloved country has been invaded again by Barbarians. Once again our soil is violated and the sacred blood of our countrymen cries out for revenge. You agree, Monsieur le Maire?”

“Yes, Madame – but Madame will pardon me if I suggest that she does not speak of such things quite so loudly.”

The Comtesse had smiled.

“I am an old woman, Monsieur le Maire, and I can only die once. My son has already given his life for France and I should be proud to offer mine in the same cause.”

“Madame is brave.”

Nevertheless, as if he spoke them out loud, Fleur had guessed that his thoughts were of himself, of his large fat wife to whom rumour had it he was consistently unfaithful and of his six children, the eldest of whom was a prisoner in Germany.

“We understand each other,” the Comtesse then went on. “There is no need for me to say more. But, monsieur, in my anxiety to speak of politics I have omitted to present you to my daughter-in-law, Fleur, Monsieur le Maire, Madame Lucien de Sardou.”

Just for a moment the little man had looked surprised and then with the quickness of his race he understood.

“Enchanté, madame, my sincere felicitations,” he had murmured and then he had waited, understanding now what was expected of him.

“My poor daughter-in-law,” the Comtesse continued, “has had an unfortunate accident, monsieur. A little fire occurred here last night, nothing very serious, we were able to put it out ourselves, but unfortunately Madame’s papers were burned including her carte d’identité. There is nothing left and, still more unfortunate, no one had thought to keep its numbers.”

“I understand, Madame, they can be replaced.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire, it is most agreeable of you.”

The Comtesse had held out her hand, the Mayor had bowed over it and the interview was at an end.

The next morning his second son, Fabian, had arrived on his bicycle. An identification card with her new name with the date of issue mysteriously smudged, had been handed over.

Yet now Fleur saw the pitfalls of what had seemed an easy subterfuge. Most of all she regretted that the Comtesse had made her burn her British passport.

“It is dangerous,” Madame had insisted and, despite all Fleur’s protestations, the flames, real ones this time, had licked greedily round the blue canvas cover and the page that held the Foreign Secretary’s name.

Yet how right the Comtesse had been!

The next day the Germans had arrived. Marie, a scared look on her usually placid face, had fetched the Comtesse and Fleur from the garden.

“Madame! Nom de Dieu! excuse me, madame, but there are Germans at the door.”

She was panting and the frilled cap that she wore was askew on her grey hair.

“Germans?”

“Yes, madame. They wish to speak to you.”

“Thank you, Marie. You will be calm, Marie.”

“Oui, madame.”

“And your cap is crooked, Marie.”

“Pardon, madame!”

The Germans then searched the house. They looked in every nook and cranny for French soldiers. They took away the pigs and chickens and a side of bacon that had been hanging in Marie’s kitchen. They drained the petrol from the car standing in the garage and made a note to send later for the car itself.

They came again a few days later and then took away Louis, the man who worked in the garden, no one was told why. At first they did not know whether the Château and the village would be in occupied or unoccupied territory.

They did not talk about it, but Fleur guessed that the Comtesse prayed that they might be favoured in the little grey Chapel where the flags captured by de Sardous in battle hung above the altar.

One day they learnt that the line had been drawn and they were some twenty miles inside German-occupied France.

*

Fleur stood up suddenly and walked to the window. The garden was quiet and peaceful.

Strange to think that there was terror and brutality over the whole Continent, men being shot and imprisoned, concentration camps where those who entered them were beaten into insensibility or tortured until they died or became insane.

Fear and misery everywhere, panic and sorrow, privation and sheer sadism.

‘Oh, God, I am afraid!’ Fleur thought to herself.

Then she knew that somehow, in some way, she could and would escape these horrors.