Stranger at the Gates (14 page)

‘Good morning.' Savage wore his broadest smile. ‘The sun is shining and I'm going for a walk. I hope you will keep me company.'

Minden lowered his book. ‘I'm reading,' he said.

‘You can read this afternoon,' Savage said. ‘It's cold in here. Come and get some exercise.' With a sigh the Major put his book aside. He followed him out into the garden. It was indeed a lovely morning, the sun was exceptionally hot and the first cabbage white butterfly of the season fluttered past.

‘Let's go this way.' Savage pointed round the side of the Château. ‘There's a pleasant walk through here; I found it yesterday. I find this more beneficial than going to church. You're not a Catholic?'

‘I was brought up a Lutheran,' Minden answered. They were walking side by side down a shaded path towards an avenue of lime trees. ‘Personally I'm an agnostic'

‘The religion of the scientist,' Savage remarked. ‘And the law. I prefer the rational law to metaphysics. One could say our society is substituting pharmaceuticals for prayers.'

‘I hope that's not a sneer,' Minden said. His tone was sharp. He didn't like Savage; he hadn't wanted to be dragged away from his book to take this walk. Now he detected a sarcasm at the expense of what he most believed in and he reacted angrily.

‘A sneer?' Savage repeated it with surprise. ‘My dear Major, why should I sneer at the greatest science of them all? Man is controlled by chemistry. That is a fact, not an accusation.'

‘It's not a theory people like,' Minden said. The apology had mollified him. Both men began to quicken their pace towards the avenue of trees. ‘Nor to be fair, is it completely proven. Certainly most human reactions can be altered by chemical means, but it's not yet certain how decisive a part chemical balances play in the basic behaviour patterns of man. This will be the study of the future.'

‘If there is a future,' Savage said. ‘The world has been ravaged by war, and there is still the major battle to be fought.'

‘It will be won,' the Major said. ‘I have no doubts about the outcome. And then there will be peace for the next five hundred years. Time for rebuilding, for re-shaping Europe.'

‘You're very confident that the Allies' invasion will fail,' Savage said. Over their heads the sun broke through the trees, dappling them with light. Minden's face was blotched and leprous, as if he had a skin disease. Then the trees closed over them and the illusion passed. ‘How can you be so certain of a German victory? I must tell you frankly, Swiss opinion has begun to veer towards the Allies.'

‘Then it is mistaken,' Minden said. He spoke without emphasis, coolly, from a position of knowledge denied to a neutral. He had a profound contempt for Swiss money-making and dealing with both sides. Minden didn't need to be on the defensive; Savage recognised the absolute certainty in his answer and the skin on his body pricked.

‘You're facing an invasion; a huge Anglo-American army will be thrown against you. And you must admit, your best troops were lost in Russia. It's not the old Wehrmacht defending Europe today. There are unfortunate parallels to be drawn with Napoleon.'

‘That's understandable,' Minden agreed, ‘but it happens to be the wrong conclusion. Certainly our manpower is not what it was. But this won't be the deciding factor. The invasion will fail. England and America will have to capitulate. If Switzerland backs the Allies she will regret it. Shall we turn back now?'

‘Are you suggesting that Hitler really has a secret weapon? I can't see what else would make America and England ask for peace.'

‘VIs and rockets are already falling upon England,' Minden pointed out. ‘The Führer keeps his word. He's promised victory and we shall have it.'

‘Then there must be something else, some other weapon,' Savage said.

‘If there is,' the Major answered, ‘I wouldn't know about it. I'm only a simple staff officer.'

‘You're not offended by this conversation?' Savage sounded concerned. ‘I felt we could discuss it openly.'

‘And why not? I'm not a political fanatic. I enjoyed our talk. Beautiful grounds, aren't they? It's a pity the gardens have become run down. My batman helps with the vegetables but he hasn't time to do more.'

‘They must be glad to have you here,' Savage said. ‘You've been very helpful to them.'

‘I've done what I could,' Minden said. ‘They're a nice family. The Comte is a sensible man; we get on very well.'

‘My cousin has become very French,' Savage remarked. They were within sight of the Château. ‘I'm surprised; Americans don't usually lose their identity so completely. I have the feeling she resents you. You don't mind my saying that?'

The Major did mind, and his frown showed it. However, he shrugged. ‘I suppose so. No woman likes a stranger in her home. I think she's grown used to me. One day we will be friends.'

‘I'm sure you will. I met my little cousins yesterday. They're delightful children. I've always heard that American children were monsters; I'm afraid my views on upbringing are very strict.'

‘With an American father?' the Major couldn't resist it.

‘My parents were divorced. My mother raised me. And she had the old-fashioned ideas. I hear the car; they must be back from church.'

‘Ah,' Minden said. ‘Yes, they're back. I promised to play with the children before lunch.' He began to walk very quickly towards the Château.

They turned the corner and there was the car, with Jean and Régine, the children and Louise. As soon as they saw Minden the children ran towards him. He went down on one knee and gathered them into his arms. Savage could see him laughing. He looked up and saw Louise watching him; Jean and Régine had gone inside. He went acros to her; she looked girlish and pretty in a hat. He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Good morning. Did you say one for me?'

‘I couldn't,' she said in a low voice. ‘I felt if I mentioned it at all, something awful will happen. Besides, I haven't been to Mass for months. I told you, I was a coward.'

‘I know,' Savage said. ‘I believe you.'

‘Look at the children,' she said. ‘He always makes such a fuss of them.'

‘So I see.' Minden was standing upright, the children, one on each side of him, swinging from his hands. They were looking up at him and laughing.

‘Mama,' Paul called out, ‘Mama, Major Minden wants to play ball with us!'

‘That's very kind of him,' Louise answered. ‘Lunch is in half an hour.' The three of them began to run across the lawn.

‘So he's a child lover, is he?' Savage said softly.

‘There's nothing I can do about it,' Louise answered. ‘They'll grow up thinking the Germans are nice. Why are you looking like that?'

‘They're not nice,' Savage said. ‘They're a race of bloody schizophrenics, and that bastard is a good example. When can we talk?'

‘Not now,' she said. ‘Jean will be getting us something to drink. After lunch, go to your room and wait for me. I'll say I've got a headache.'

‘I can't find either of them.' Régine faced her brother. ‘He's not in the house and Louise isn't in her room. I looked.'

‘And what is that supposed to mean?' He looked up at her, his face wary, an expression of anger in her eyes. ‘Régine, I warn you, before you say anything, be very careful.'

‘All right, I know you want to close your eyes to it,' she said angrily. ‘That's the trouble with you. But I'm different. I know there's something wrong with this so-called cousin, coming out of the blue! I watched them together this morning when we came back from Mass. I looked out of the window and saw them; he had his hand on her shoulder and they were looking at each other. And it wasn't like cousins! She says she's got a headache and she's going to lie down, he pretends to go for a walk. He went walking this morning, the Major told me. They've gone off somewhere together!'

‘So you went to spy on Louise,' Jean de Bernard said slowly. ‘You couldn't find her in her room, so you come running down to me to make trouble.'

‘He's not a cousin,' Régine said defiantly. ‘He's a lover. I know it. I know by the way he looks at her!'

‘You know nothing about it.' Jean got up and suddenly he seized his sister by the arm. ‘I told you this morning and I'll tell you now. Mind your own business! Louise is my wife and I won't have you snooping and telling lies. Roger Savage
is
her cousin; I know who his parents are, I know everything about him.'

‘He's sleeping with her,' Régine sneered. ‘At this moment I expect she's flat on her back under some trees!'

With his right hand he slapped her hard across the face. ‘Shut your mouth,' he shouted at her. ‘Get out of this room!'

She backed away from him, one hand against her cheek. She had begun to cry. ‘I'm going,' she said. ‘I'm going back to Paris now!'

The door slammed after her; Jean de Bernard stood for a moment, not moving. Régine was right about Roger Savage. Her reaction to him had been instinctive, her deduction wholly feminine. There was nothing Jean could define about Savage that accounted for his suspicion. His performance, if that was what it was, had been faultless; it was Louise who had failed to convince. He knew his wife and their estrangement hadn't changed her personality. She had the natural frankness of her race. The role of deceiver didn't fit her. He walked across to the window and lit a cigarette, staring out. If they had gone for a walk they would return that way.

Minden was wrong. There
had
been a drop of enemy agents, and the man who passed himself off as Roger Savage was the parachutist. Whatever Savage was planning to do, it could only mean death and destruction, with its attendant reprisals against the French. Everything he had worked for and sacrificed so much of his happiness to preserve was now in mortal danger. He had lost his wife and his self-respect, but he had kept St. Blaize and the village intact. He loved the Château above mere stones and trees and an old heritage. It was the house where he was born, where he had played on the lawns and ridden his first pony down the bridle paths. It had survived the Revolution, watching over the village for six centuries. Everywhere he looked there were reminders of the past and of his responsibility for the future. The portraits of his ancestors, the photographs of his grandparents and parents as children, the large studio study of Louise, by the fountain with his son and baby daughter. Standing by the window, waiting for them to come into view. Jean remembered that day four years ago when he had seen the first German scout car drive to the door, and the first Germans to set foot in St. Blaize en Yvelines walked across the gravel. He had been so disillusioned and heartsick, returned from total military collapse to protect what was left of his family's future. At that moment there had been no middle way, no compromise between the decision to step forward and hold out his hand to the ravishers of France, or take out his army revolver and shoot them dead. He had made his choice and paid the price. Now it was threatened with destruction. His old father slipping peacefully out of life upstairs, loved and protected, his sister whom he had slapped across the face like a slut, because she had panicked him, his children, Louise herself. They would all be taken and questioned, before they were dragged before a firing squad.

Jean knew what happened to the dissenters, to the resisters. He didn't feel anger any more; now fear possessed him, fear for the people he loved. Fear for the wife who had betrayed them all by her blind obstinacy, and whose danger he couldn't bear to contemplate. There was only one thing to be done. He had made one choice four years ago. He made a second then. He went to the bureau and from the back of the drawer he took his army revolver and a clip of bullets which had been hidden there since the capitulation of France. Then he went to find Savage.

Savage had his mouth pressed hard against hers; she had stopped resisting him, her lips were open and her eyes closed. He could feel her heart beating fast under his moving hand. It had happened between them without warning. He had gone upstairs and waited for her; he was sure that his mind was occupied by nothing but the Major. When she came into the room his body moved; it came close to her, one hand pushed the door shut and the other caught her by the shoulder. Without speaking, he leant his weight against her, pinning her against the wall.

He hadn't meant to make love to her; equally he was sure she hadn't expected it. The fact was that it had happened. He raised his head and looked down at her.

‘This is breaking all the rules,' he said. ‘They didn't teach me about this in training school … I want you very much. I feel you want me.'

The muscles pinning her against him were steel knots. And yet there was a warmth in the eyes and for all his strength he hadn't hurt her. ‘Oh God,' Louise whispered, ‘you know I do. Let me go.'

‘No,' Savage said. ‘We're going to make love. We nearly did last night. It's going to happen anyway. You know it is.'

‘Take your hands off my wife!' Jean de Bernard stood in the open doorway, his revolver pointing at Savage. He spoke in English. Savage moved a step back; his eyes flickered to the door, judging the chance of crashing it shut on the Comte and jamming him against the lintel. The gun was too close. He stood clear of Louise.

‘I ought to kill you,' Jean de Bernard said. ‘I would have done if I hadn't been afraid of hitting Louise. Get away from him.'

‘No,' she said quietly. She moved to Savage and took hold of his arm. ‘Put down that gun,' she said. ‘Nothing happened between us.'

He didn't look at her; he said slowly to Savage, ‘I heard everything. You're no more Swiss than I am. You've come to this house and brought us all into danger. My foolish, romantic-minded wife let you stay. You know what the Gestapo would do to her, don't you? But you don't care! You'll use her and try to sleep with her, and never think of what could happen to her—to all of us!'