Peach (7 page)

They told Leonore and Lais later that afternoon. “Let me come with you, Jim,” begged Lais, bored with the lack of activity at the Cap. The hotel was almost empty and all the young men had been drafted into the army. At least Paris would be
alive
. “Someone had better pack up the silver and the paintings at the Ile St Louis, and get them into a safer place,” she said. “I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

But listening to her sister’s easy promises, Leonore knew why Lais wanted to be in Paris.

Lais prowled the big house on the Ile St Louis like a caged animal, pausing now and then to peer from the long windows of the great first-floor drawing room. The bridges were empty and the streets silent. Even the Seine was quiet without its usual bustle of barges and river traffic.

Switching back the heavy yellow silk curtains, she peered out yet again. There was nothing. Just the noise in the distance. The heavy roar and rumble of the traffic of an advancing victorious army.

The staff had departed and the house was deathly quiet. There was just the concierge left in his apartment by the gate. Faithful old Bennet, who had returned after the incident with Nikolai years ago that had precipitated her own departure from Paris, had left last week for the south where he was to stay at the hotel for the duration of the war, though the butler was now so aged that Lais had privately doubted whether he would survive the terrifying journey. All the roads south of Paris were jammed with families fleeing the city, their possessions strapped to the roofs of their cars, and they were sitting targets for the German planes raking them with machine guns.

She’d done her best to persuade Bennet to stay, assuring him that he would be safer here than on the roads of France, but Bennet had made it clear that not only was he not prepared to stay in Paris and be polite to the Germans, but that he would not be prepared either to stay there with
her
.

Lais shrugged away her discomfort at the remembrance of what Bennet thought of her. She could bear it here alone no longer,
she had to see what was happening
.

Driving too fast, Lais crossed the Pont Marie and sped along the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, making for the Place de la Concorde. France was defeated. To avoid the destruction that had already devastated cities like Reims, Paris had been declared an open city and was to be handed over to the Germans at the American Embassy that day. Tears flowed suddenly down Lais’s face as she saw the ugly swastika flag already flying over the German HQ at the Hôtel Crillon. The streets were empty and shuttered; no one wanted to give the enemy the satisfaction of watching them take their city. Lais felt as if she were abandoned in a lonely nightmare. Tearfully she pulled the car into a side street. The rumble of tanks and armoured vehicles drummed through the silent city as she ran the last few blocks, along the rue de Rivoli. A
few people, their faces grey and bitter, stood on the pavement behind rows of immaculate French gendarmes, as their enemies—young and blond and strong—marched through the Paris they now claimed as their own.

With a roar a fleet of powerful motor cycles revved down the rue Boissy d’Anglais. Their riders were helmeted and sinister behind dark goggles and black leather. A long, black, shiny Mercedes followed, its swastika flying, its chauffeur stiff and proud with the importance of his task and his passenger.

Lais’s thin flowered silk dress whipped against her as she stood on the kerb shivering, not from the wind, but with fear. The eyes of the man in the back of the car flickered her way for an instant, his monocle glinting as it caught the sun. Gold braid gleamed on his immaculate grey-green uniform, and a rainbow of medals decorated his chest.

Tears burned Lais’s eyes. Paris would never, ever be the same. Turning suddenly, she ran for the safety of the car and, curling up on the soft cream leather of the back seat, she cried for Paris, and for herself.

When the tears were over, she sat up and peered at her swollen face in the mirror. Pulling out the oval gold Cartier compact she dabbed on a layer of powder and dashed the scarlet lipstick across her trembling mouth. With her hair pulled back and secured severely by two tortoise-shell combs and the dark glasses to cover her swollen eyes, she didn’t look too bad. What she needed now was company. Company—and a drink!

She toured the streets in the car searching for a bar that was open, but everywhere was locked and shuttered. No Paris café was prepared that day to offer its hospitality to the conquerer. Lais drove aimlessly, avoiding the northern roads where the Germans were still pouring in, until she found herself near Les Halles. Paris still needed to be supplied
with food and such fruit and vegetables as were available were being sorted and crated. A couple of bars were open to service the porters and working men and Lais sank thankfully on to a stool at the zinc counter. “Brandy,” she ordered, her throat raspy from the storm of tears. Shifting his Gauloise from one side of his mouth to the other in a cloud of pungent smoke, the barman placed the drink on the counter. Lais’s hand shook as she downed the dense amber liquid. She pushed the glass back across the counter. “Another,” she said.

Her eye caught that of the man sitting next to her. He was of middle height, with the olive skin of a southerner and dark hair that sprang in thick waves from an intelligent forehead. He was maybe thirty-four or thirty-five and his hand, clamped firmly around the neck of a bottle of brandy as he topped up his glass, was large and square with a sprinkling of crisp black hair. Lais turned back to her brandy, sipping it this time.

“So,” he said quietly, “the Germans are sticking in your throat too.” His voice was low with a faint regional intonation.

Lais nodded, sipping her drink without looking at him.

“You are a foreigner?”

She frowned. He was persistent. But then she needed company—all her friends had flown. “American,” she replied, “and French too.”

Leaning forward he topped up her glass from his personal bottle. “I am from Spain,” he said, “a Basque from Barcelona. Enrique García,” he bowed with a slightly mocking smile, “at your service.”

Lais stared at her drink. Was she ready for this kind of encounter on a day like today? A pick-up in a bar? She wondered how many men she had gone home with after some mad gay night that had ended here in Les Halles, in
just such a bar as this? The brandy tasted bitter as it flowed down her aching throat and tears stung her eyes. Damn it, oh damn it, why did this war have to
spoil everything? Why did it have to spoil her life!
Her eyes met Enrique García’s knowing glance. Suddenly she recalled overhearing a snatch of conversation between her mother and Uncle Sebastião do Santos, her real father’s brother.

“She’s like
him
, Amelie,” he’d been saying to her. “You
know
that Roberto was two people—but you don’t know the whole story and you never will. Roberto loved you, but he kept his other life away from you. There were the temptations that Roberto never could resist—not with Diego leading him on.”

The door had slammed, leaving Lais still standing in the hall, her mouth open in shock and her heart pounding. The picture of her father that she had carried in her mind, cribbed from the old sepia photographs that curled at the edges, of Roberto, blond and open-faced, his blue eyes meeting the camera’s stare head-on, was shattered.
And she was like him
. What did it mean?
What was she?

What did it matter any more? They were probably all doomed now anyway. She pushed her empty glass towards Enrique García’s. “I’m Lais,” she said to him, “at your service.”

They finished his brandy while he talked. He was a lecturer in Economics at the Sorbonne, and a stringer for a Spanish newspaper contributing a weekly Paris column. He should have left weeks ago, but for some reason he’d hung on. There was a good story to be had and his paper—as well as others—would pay him well for it.

“So,” said Lais flatly, “you’re profiting from Paris’s downfall.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But the world needs to know
what’s going on, what Paris really feels like in the throes of a defeat. People like me can fill that gap.”

The night was blue-black and filled with the strong odours of over-ripe fruit and rotting vegetables as they made their way back through the streets around the market to where she had left her car.

“A de Courmont,” Enrique said admiringly. “A wonderful car.”

Lais drove in silence back to the Ile St Louis, avoiding the main boulevards and ignoring the curfew, daring any German to stop her, but the streets were empty and none did.

Enrique’s low whistle took in the immaculate courtyard and the grey stone mansion admiringly. “You live here?” he asked, surprised.

“Like the car,” said Lais, slamming shut the door, “I’m a de Courmont.”

“Well, well,” said Enrique as he followed her up the steps, “how very useful.”

The bulky figure of the German commandant strode up the steps of the Hostellerie la Rose du Cap, pausing for a moment, silhouetted against the blue and gold of a calm Mediterranean evening. Leonie clutched Peach’s hand tighter in hers, her eyes meeting Leonore’s apprehensively. “I will deal with this,” she murmured, “you are not to speak to them unless addressed directly.”

“But Grand-mère …”

“It’s better this way,” whispered Leonie, “they’ll not dare to try to bully an old woman.”

Despite herself, Leonore smiled. Leonie was sixty-two years old and looked fifty. She was wearing her favourite yellow linen dress and pretty cream high-heeled shoes with Jim’s pearls gleaming against her elegant neck. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a smooth chignon and tied with a yellow silk bow. She looked every inch the chic Frenchwoman and any man—even the enemy—would surely find her desirable. “I warn you,” whispered Leonore, “if it’s rape the enemy is after it’ll be you, Grand-mère, not me.”

“Sshh.” Leonie pulled herself taller, head up, shoulders back, praying the pounding of her heart couldn’t be heard.

“Kommandant Gerhard von Steinholz.” The burly man removed his gold-braided cap and clicked his heels, bowing. “May I say, Madame Leonie, that I saw you many times in my youth, at theatres in Munich and Paris. It is a great honour for me to meet my idol in person.”

“I am always pleased to make the acquaintance of an admirer of my work,” said Leonie coldly, “but I am afraid I cannot say the same for my country’s enemy.”

Herr Kommandant von Steinholz shrugged away her comment with a genial smile. “It is the misfortune of war, Madame, that places us in this position. But our personal views are our own.” He turned to Leonore, clicking his heels smartly. “Mademoiselle.” His pale blue glance took her in from head to toe.

“My granddaughter, Mademoiselle Leonore de Courmont.”

Leonore nodded coldly, ignoring his outstretched hand.

“Ah yes. Of course, a de Courmont. Though by adoption only, I understand?”

Leonore flushed angrily. “Gerard de Courmont is my
stepfather,” she said, then biting her lip she fell silent. Damn, he’d already provoked her into speaking to him!

“And this?” Kommandant von Steinholz smiled at Peach and she gazed up at him in awe, dazzled by the glitter of gold braid and the glint of medals.

“Peach de Courmont,” said Leonie. “My youngest granddaughter.”

Von Steinholz patted Peach’s head with a large heavy hand, and Peach wriggled uncomfortably. “I understand this one is a true de Courmont.” He frowned as he caught sight of the steel calliper on her leg. “But what happened here?”

“An illness,” replied Leonie, “she is almost better now.”

“We have very good doctors, Madame Leonie. If there is anything we can do to help I can place them at your disposal.”

Her eyes met von Steinholz’s round pale blue ones. “I am very fond of children, Madame,” he said quietly. “I have three of my own.”

“Thank you, but Peach has had the best of attention.”

“And Grand-mère makes me better than any doctor.” Peach rubbed her hair where he had touched it. His hand had been warm and sweaty. She didn’t like this man. Gripping Leonie’s hand tighter she slid out of sight behind her grandmother.