Darkest Longings (52 page)

‘All the men have gone except us old ones. There’s no one

to buy my drinks.’

Taking the hint, Claudine sent the children off to get

some lemonade and followed Gustave to a table outside the

cafe. Across the square she could see Solange talking

animatedly over her shoulder to the children on the horse.

‘Queer kind of war, this, don’t you think, madame? Gustave said, putting a large glass of wine in front of her.

‘Three weeks and almost nothing has happened.’

Claudine gave him a droll look as she picked up the

unordered wine and took a sip. ‘I had a letter from my aunt

this morning,’ she told him. ‘She’s still in Paris. She says all

the cinemas and theatres have reopened, that people are

even walking about the streets without gas-masks.’

‘Mmm,’ Gustave grunted. ‘Maybe Hitler has lost his

nerve. What does the Comte think?’

‘I’m not sure what he thinks,’ Claudine answered. ‘He

hasn’t been well these past few weeks.’

‘So I hear,’ Gustave said mournfully. ‘How is he now?’

‘A little better, I’m glad to say.’ Then in a whisper she

added, ‘Well enough to ask for cigars.’

Gustave’s face brightened at the prospect of making a

sale, and as Solange approached with the horse and its two mounts, he cried, ‘A glass of wine for you, Madame la Comtesse?’

‘Certainly not, Gustave!’ she cried. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘Madame la Comtesse is going to play war,’ Thomas’

grandson informed everyone as Claudine lifted him down

from the horse. ‘She said that her car is the ambulance and

the cafe is our hospital.’

‘There you are, Gustave,’ Claudine said, ‘you have plenty

of customers now. So,’ she turned back to Solange and the

children, ‘do I take it you’ve finished with my horse? I’d

better be getting home to see my own little boy, then, or he’ll

think I’ve forgotten him,’

No one waved as she trotted off down the street, they

were all too busy fighting for a place in the ambulance. She

could hardly wait to tell Louis what his wife was up to;

already she could hear him chuckling as she described how

Solange was lining up the injured and bullying them with

her stethoscope … Louis would be as glad of the diversion

as she was. If only for a little while, it would keep Solange

from thinking about Francois.

Since he had telephoned her that night, when she had all

but accused him of being a traitor, Claudine had heard

nothing from him. Nor had Louis, though he had somehow managed to discover that Francois was no longer in Paris and suspected he was somewhere in Germany.

That her husband was a traitor was something Claudine

could not allow herself to think about - it dragged emotions

from too deep within her. Armand was certain it wasn’t true,

that somewhere there was an innocent explanation for

Francois’ behaviour. But he hadn’t even bothered to refute

her accusation. He hadn’t cared enough even to let his

father know where he was or what he was doing. She knew it

was breaking Louis’ heart. And, if Louis really did disown

his eldest son, as he had threatened to do if Francois’

treachery was proved, Solange’s heart would be broken too.

Trying to dismiss her misgivings Claudine rode round

the corner to the gates of the chateau. Suddenly her horse

reared as it came face to face with a lorry. She managed to

keep her seat, and leaned forward, soothing her mount,

while the lorry, the first of a convoy of four, turned into the

drive.

Claudine followed them up to the chateau, and once she

had dismounted at the stables, walked back to the front of.

the house just as Louis was coming down the steps.

‘What on earth are all those lorries doing here?’ she

asked.

Taking her by the elbow Louis led her round to the small

courtyard in front of the wine caves where the lorries were

now parked. ‘I received a message from Francois’ courier,

Erich von Pappen, this morning,’ he told her. ‘Francois

wants the contents of these lorries stored.’

‘But what’s in them?’

‘I don’t know.’

One of the drivers approached and asked for the Comte

de Lorvoire. ‘That’s me,’ Louis informed him. Then

turning to Jean-Paul, who had followed at a distance, he.

said, ‘Show the men where to take the … ?’ But the driver

simply started unloading. Jean-Paul unlocked the arched

door at the side of the chateau which led down to the cellars,

and Louis and Claudine stood at the top of the steps hoping

to have their curiosity satisfied. But all that came out of the

lorries were wooden crates, dozens of them, tall and flat,

small and square, crate after crate.

‘Can’t you ask what’s in them?’ Claudine whispered, as

they stepped back to let one of them pass.

Louis shrugged, but when two men struggled by with the

next one, he did.

‘Je ne sais pas, monsieur,’ the man answered, giving Louis

an incredulous look as if to say, ‘They’re yours, aren’t they?’

Louis shrugged again, then beckoning Claudine after him,

he started down the steps into the wine cellar.

The endless racks were illuminated by bare bulbs, thick

with dust, hanging from the ceiling. Through the gloom

Claudine saw Jean-Paul and one of the lorry drivers

gingerly shifting a rack from the back wall.

‘The inner cellar is behind,’ Louis explained. ‘It’s where

Francois wanted the - er, boxes, to be stored.’

They remained in the cellar until the last crate had been

carried through, their breath forming clouds in the chill air.

‘Thank you, Jean-Paul,’ Louis said, as the butler edged the

wine-rack back into place. ‘Perhaps you would like to offer

the men some refreshment?’

The drivers’ grimy faces visibly brightened, and brushing

the cobwebs from their clothes, they followed Jean-Paul

back up the stairs.

‘What are we going to do now?’ Claudine asked as the

door closed behind them.

We’re going in there to find out what’s in those boxes, of

course.’

The musty smell of the inner cellar was stifling, and the

wall lamp cast a weak, dull light over the imbroglio of

wooden crates. Louis handed Claudine a handkerchief to cover her mouth with, and pointed to the box nearest them.

‘Did you see this, written on the side? There are letters like

this on every one.’

‘Yes, I noticed,’ came her muffled voice. ‘I wonder what it

means?’

‘No idea. Probably some kind of code. We don’t stand

much chance of deciphering it, though, so we’ll just have to

break the boxes open.’

‘But how?’ Claudine asked, tilting one of the smaller

boxes. ‘They’re sealed very securely.’

For a moment Louis seemed defeated, then peering at

her through the darkness he said, ‘Run upstairs to the caves

and see if Armand is there. If he is, get him to bring some

tools down here and he can give us a hand.’

Claudine was back within five minutes, carrying

Armand’s tool bag. ‘Armand has gone into Chinon,’ she told

Louis. ‘I found this under the workbench.’

‘Try this one here,’ Louis said, tipping up one of the boxes.

‘One of the nails isn’t quite in, it should be easy to pull.’

It turned out to be more difficult than they expected, but

eventually they managed to prise the lid off, and reaching

into the box Louis pulled out a large cloth bag.

‘Mon Dieu!’ he spluttered as he peered inside.

‘What is it?’ Claudine whispered. Despite the dim light

she could see that his face had turned quite pale. ‘Here.’ He

passed the bag over. ‘Take a look.’

Claudine could hardly believe her eyes. She pulled out

guttering diamond tiaras, ruby necklaces, sapphire rings,

emerald brooches and gold earrings. She looked at Louis.

‘Where can he have got them?’ she whispered.

Louis shook his head.

‘But not all these boxes can be filled with jewellery,’ she

said, looking at the bigger ones. ‘What do you suppose is in

them?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time they slid the

wine-rack back into place and went upstairs.

‘What are we going to do?’ Claudine asked, as Louis

closed the drawing-room door behind them and went to

pour himself a brandy.

‘What can we do? Those paintings are even more valuable

than the jewellery, you know.’

‘But where have they all come from?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if they’re his. We’ll just

have to wait until he comes to Lorvoire and ask him to

explain.’

‘Did this von Pappen man say where he is now?’

‘No. But he’ll know. Erich von Pappen always knows

where Francois is.’

‘Can’t we get on to him again?’

‘Easier said than done, cherie?

There was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and

as Louis took a sip of his brandy Claudine went to pour one

for herself. ‘Are you going to tell anyone about this?’ she

said.

‘No. And nor should you. I can’t for the life of me think

what it might be, but there could be a perfectly reasonable

explanation.’

His voice held no conviction, and knowing what he was

thinking, Claudine felt herself overtaken by an engulfing

dread. What else was there to think, after all? Rumours of

Nazi looting had long been rife in the salons of Paris.

Not for the first time, Claudine felt the incongruity of

standing at the dilapidated stove of a rundown farmhouse,

heating a midday meal for a man who was not her husband.

It wasn’t simply that the novelty had worn off-it was that

the impropriety of it had recently started to bother her. Why

that should be, she didn’t know. She preferred not to ask

herself the question, because she had an uncanny feeling she wouldn’t like the answer. So, attempting to put her

unease aside, she continued to stir the cassoulet as Armand

strolled listlessly across the room and went to sit at the foot

of the broken staircase.

‘I can’t fire Henri Jallais, Claudine,’ he said, wiping

crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve lost

half the workers as it is. Besides, he wasn’t the one who said

it, it was his wife. And you’ve certainly made yourself an

enemy there. What exactly did you say to the woman?’

‘It hardly matters what I said,’ she retorted. ‘It’s what

Florence Jallais said that matters.’

‘But no one takes any notice of her.’

‘They do!’ she flared. ‘The children are repeating it, and

Gertrude Reinberg has enough to contend with without

Florence Jallais’ spiteful little mind making things worse.’

‘But there was no reason for you to get involved,’ he said

wearily.

‘There was every reason!’ she shouted. ‘I happen to care

about that little boy. I thought you did too.’

He sighed. ‘All right. All right. I’ll speak to the man if

that’s what you want.’

Swallowing hard on her anger, Claudine turned back to

the stove. She knew that if Armand didn’t do something

soon to pull himself out of his apathy, she would end up

saying something they would both regret. His depression

since the declaration of war was getting on her nerves. Every

time she saw him it was as though another layer of his selfesteem

had been peeled away - and she wasn’t sure that she

particularly liked the man being revealed underneath. It was

so at odds with the man she had known before, the man she

loved; she simply didn’t know how to react to him any more.

She carried a bowl of cassoulet over to the table, and

seeing his bowed head her impatience flared again; but as he

looked up at her, his bronzed face creased with

hopelessness, her irritation gave way to pity. She knew he was suffering badly - but if only he would tell her why! She

was certain there was more to his despondency than the fact

that he was unable to fight, but how could she help him

when he refused to talk about it?

‘You haven’t told me why you didn’t come yesterday,’ he

said, as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

‘As a matter of fact, I did,’ she answered, ‘but you

obviously weren’t listening. I was helping Louis with some

things and time just ran away with us.’

‘What things?’

‘We were putting some boxes into store for Francois.’

She didn’t know what she was going to say if he asked what

was in the boxes, but he seemed to lose interest then, and

picked up his spoon to begin eating.

‘Did you make this?’ he said, after the first mouthful.

‘No. Your mother did.’

‘I thought so,’ he said, and put down his spoon.

‘What’s the matter with it? Why aren’t you eating?’

‘Have you given up cooking for me yourself?’

‘No, but there isn’t always time.’

‘Yet you can make time to help Louis or interfere in the

affairs of the village.’

‘Don’t be childish, Armand!’ she snapped, and turned

back to the stove to ladle herself a helping of stew.

‘Is there any more news regarding Francois’ whereabouts?’

he asked as she sat down.

‘No.’

‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if he might do us the favour of