Darkest Longings (83 page)

At last he turned to look up at Helber, almost paralysing

him with his terrible eyes. Helber could feel the hatred as

though it were twisting round his neck. After a while

Francois spoke. ‘You say my brother was arrested too?’

‘And your vigneron.’

Francois turned to stare sightlessly at the bed where his

luggage was piled ready for his departure. Then, in his deep

steady voice he said, ‘It’s one of them isn’t it?’

Helber nodded.

There was a long, asphyxiating silence. ‘How do I know I

can trust you?’ Francois said.

‘You have no choice,’ Helber answered. ‘But I give you

my word I will tell you.’

Francois threw him a look of such violent loathing that

Helber’s pulsating erection momentarily lost its urgency.

‘And if I tell you that I am not prepared to do what you want,

you will remind me that you are holding my wife?’

Helber only looked at him.

Francois stood up, towering monstrously over Helber’s

plump little body. ‘Then we’d best get on with it,’ he said,

and turned to pull the curtains, shutting the daylight from

the room.

Twenty minutes later Francois emerged, fully clothed,

from the bathroom. His face was strained, his mouth

compressed with loathing. Helber was sitting on the edge of the tousled bed, still naked, and to Francois’ unutterable

disgust the man’s flabby penis started to respond to his

presence. His eyes bored into Helber’s, and Helber knew

that if de Lorvoire’s wife had not been in captivity, his

genitals would have undergone a very different experience

from the one they just had. As it was the ravishment of

Francois de Lorvoire’s body, inanimate as it had remained

throughout, had surpassed all expectation. Helber’s only

regret was that it would never happen again.

Francois picked up his luggage and moved it to the door.

He wasn’t sure why von Liebermann, using Helber as his

messenger, had decided to tell him now who Halunke was,

but he could guess. He had long outlived his usefulness to

the Abwehr, so the execution order he had been expecting

must have arrived. Which could only mean that von

Liebermann wanted to bring Halunke’s revenge to its

climax.

He turned to face Helber. Helber looked up at him, and

every cell in Francois’ body suddenly recoiled from hearing

the word Helber was about to speak. It was unthinkable that

Halunke should be either of them, but worst of all was that it

should be Lucien. Why should he, why should either of

them, feel the need to exact such a terrible revenge? What in

God’s name had he done?

Then, from the darkest corner of his mind, a terrible

flame of suspicion suddenly roared like the inferno of hell. It

was as though Erich von Pappen were standing there in the

room with him, telling him that it was all because of

Hortense de Bourchain’s death. And if that was true… But

it couldn’t be! Lucien could not possibly have inflicted the

kind of mutilation Elise had suffered; he could never have

gunned von Pappen down in cold blood, terrorized his own

family - killed his own father.

But he had, Helber had just confirmed it.

- 32

Blomberg was contemplating a map of Touraine, propped

on an easel in front of him, when Hans knocked on his office

door. Scowling, Blomberg barked admittance, but when he

saw who was standing on the threshold his face visibly

brightened. ‘Ah, Madame la Comtesse,’ he said, ‘come in.

Thank you, Hans, you may go.’

Claudine took a few paces into the room and stopped.

The only colour in her face, apart from the caked blood and

dirt along her hairline, was the blueish-black of the swelling

over her left eye, where the German soldier had hit her with

the butt of his rifle the night she was captured. Her jacket

had been taken away from her before she entered the room,

and now she wore only her jodhpurs, boots and a thick

sweater. She smelt dirty and stale, and her hair fell in matted

strands about her shoulders.

Blomberg walked to his desk and sat down, not taking his

eyes off her for a moment. Beneath her feet, sunlight

dappled the thick blue carpet, and particles of dust floated in

the rays that streamed across her body. The room was long

and airy, and the tall windows behind her looked out onto

gardens which sloped in tiers down to the River Indre.

Claudine knew where she was; they had driven through

the outskirts of Montbazon to get here. Of course she might

have guessed, when they’d come to get her from her cell an

hour ago, that they were bringing her here - to the Chateau

d’Artigny, to Blomberg - but weary and worn down as she

was, she hadn’t really cared where they were taking her.

She had lain awake all the previous night, too numb to

think beyond the gnawing pangs of her hunger. Just before

five in the afternoon they had come to take Armand from his

cell. Schmidt had been with her then, giving her the chance,

right up to the last, to change her mind and talk. But she had

remained silent, still not for one minute believing that any of

it was real.

The firing squad had assembled in the yard above her

cell, so she had heard every command, every footstep - and

every shot. She was too tired even to be amused by the

lengths they were going to to convince her that Armand was

paying the price of her silence. Though the gunfire, when it

came, had shaken her. But not enough to shatter her

resolve, and when Schmidt finally left her he had told her

not to make the mistake of believing her ordeal was over.

In the hours that followed she had tried to close her ears

to the sickening sounds of torture going on in cells around

her. She knew she must try to sleep because she would need

all the strength she could muster to face her own when it

came. But every time she closed her eyes, the sounds of

gunfire seemed to echo mercilessly through her brain. It

wasn’t that she believed they had shot Armand; on the

contrary, to her the sound meant that he had been released and

now there was nothing and no one to stop him, because

no one, apart from her, knew who he was. She had wept for a

while, feeling like a child and longing for the comfort and

safety of Francois’ arms. But she wasn’t going to give the

Germans the satisfaction of seeing her weakness, so she had

let the tears dry on her cheeks and lain quietly on the bed,

praying that Francois would come…

Blomberg’s scrutiny continued. His desk was at the other

end of the room, beneath a massive portrait of the Fuihrer,

and despite the ache in her neck she held her head high as

she regarded him, not bothering to hide her repugnance.

‘Come forward,’ he said eventually.

Keeping her eyes defiantly on his, she walked towards the

desk.

‘Good,’ he said, his protuberant bottom lip trembling as

he smiled. He dropped the pen he was holding and sat back

in his chair. Then, taking a sheet of paper from the drawer

in front of him, he put it on the desk and said, ‘Herr Schmidt

informs me that, you do not believe we have shot the vigneron.’

Claudine’s nostrils flared over an insolent smile.

‘Perhaps you will tell me why you refuse to believe this?’

he said, folding his hands over his belly.

‘I’m not a fool.’ she said, biting out the words.

‘Perhaps not. But I must inform you that you are gravely

mistaken in your refusal to believe he was shot.’

‘I’ll believe it when you show me the body.’

Blomberg sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Would I

be correct in thinking that you suspect him to be the man

who is avenging himself on your husband?’

Now how would they know that, she thought, unless

Armand had told them? ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t suspect it. I

know it’

Blomberg’s body rocked back and forth as he nodded.

‘You seem very certain, madame. Are you equally certain of

your husband’s fidelity? That Monsieur le Comte puts your

safely above all else? That he loves you, madame?’

Her eyes darted to his. ‘Yes,’ she said carefully, wondering

what this could possibly have to do with anything.

‘I see.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘And if I were to tell

you,’ he continued, raising his head until his malicious eyes

connected with hers, ‘that for the past ten months your

husband has been regularly visiting his mistress, Elise

Pascale, who now resides in a house he has leased for her in

Montbazon, what would you say then?’

‘I would say you were lying,’ Claudine snapped.

‘But I am not lying,’ Blomberg smiled pleasantly. ‘And I

shall prove it.’

She stared at him. Weak with hunger as she was, her legs

began to tremble with the effort of holding her steady.

‘Your husband told you, did he not,’ Blomberg

continued, ‘that his rendezvous in Vichy was at nine o’clock

in the morning. It was a lie, I’m afraid.’ He leaned forward

and pushed the sheet of paper across the desk. ‘There is the

memorandum instructing him to present himself at three in

the afternoon, six hours later than he told you. He lied so

that he could spend an uninterrupted night with his

mistress. Oh dear, you look a little shaken. Would you like to

sit down, madame?’

Claudine glared at him, inwardly struggling to fight back

the panic - and persuade herself that it was only tiredness

that was making her react like this.

‘Suit yourself,’ Blomberg shrugged. ‘But maybe you will

change your mind when I tell you that not long after your

husband arrived at Elise Pascale’s house, on the afternoon

when you supposed him to be travelling to Vichy, Elise

Pascale informed him of our intention to arrest you. She

knew, because I had told her myself. Your husband had

ample opportunity then to return home and try to prevent it

happening, but as you know, madame, he continued on to

Vichy. Now, are you still as firm in your belief that your

husband loves you?’

She wished her head would stop spinning, then she

would be able to think. As it was, tears were welling in her

eyes, bitter, desperate tears. But she wouldn’t listen to him.

He was lying. Francois would never…

‘No, of course you aren’t,’ Blomberg answered for her.

‘So now I return to the matter of Armand St Jacques,

though I am sure it must have already occurred to you, madame, that you may have made a terrible mistake there too.’

Everything inside her suddenly froze. Her lips were

parted to scream the denial, but nothing came out. She

mustn’t listen to him. She must trust her instincts, and every

instinct in her body screamed that he was lying. Why, then,

was she suddenly so afraid?

Blomberg got up from his chair and walked round his

desk. ‘I see you are not quite so sure of yourself now, madame,’ he said, his little round eyes gleaming with pleasure. ‘What is more, you appear to have mislaid that

arrogance I find so offensive. And what has happened, I

wonder, to that acerbic tongue? The one you used with such

contempt when addressing me, an officer of the Reich.

Perhaps you do not feel so superior now. Perhaps you are

beginning to understand what it means to ridicule a German

officer. You surely didn’t think you were going to get away

with it, did you?’

He lashed out with his fist, so fast that Claudine didn’t

even see it coming. She staggered across the room, fell

against a cabinet and struck her head on the corner.

‘How does it feel, madame,’ he said, advancing towards

her, eyes glittering and lip trembling, ‘to know that your

husband has betrayed you?’ He caught her by the collar and

rammed her head against the cabinet again. ‘Does it feel as

good as knowing that you have sent an innocent man to his

death?’

Tears of pain were streaming through the grime on her

cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound as he hit her again, so

hard that stars exploded before her eyes.

‘No, you’re not so proud now, are you?’ he jeered, letting

her go and slapping her to the floor. His boot smashed into her

thigh, then he grabbed her hair and jerked her to her knees.

‘You know what you’re going to do now, don’t you?’ he

growled, and slammed his fist into her face.

Blood spurted from her nose and mouth, but as she made

to cover them he caught her hair again and yanked back her

head.

Oh God, let me die, let me die now, she prayed,

squeezing her eyes shut against the searing pain. He

slapped her again and again, harder and harder, until she

started to gag on her own blood.

At last he let her go. She fell back to the floor, blood and

saliva trickling from her mouth, her head rolling from side

to side as she moaned softly at the terrible pain in her head.

It was nothing compared to the pain and confusion in her

heart, but still she wouldn’t let go, still she wouldn’t allow

herself to believe that Francois had betrayed her, or that she