Peach (9 page)

Caroline Montalva had always been considered one of the smartest of Parisians and like most of them she was also thrifty. Caro never threw anything away. From the moment
she was seventeen and had bought her first couture dress, she had saved every single garment. “After all,” she’d said to her lover Alphonse, when he’d protested as the closets and armoires grew in size and quantity until whole rooms had to be converted to hold her expanding wardrobe, “anything that costs this much can’t possibly be thrown away. You wouldn’t discard a chair or a painting simply because it had been purchased last year.” And dear Alphonse, round, bespectacled and adoring, had agreed, adding with a laugh, “And when we run out of rooms, your economy will force me to buy a larger house!”

What a pity, thought Caro as she hurried down the rue de Rivoli, that Alphonse was no longer here to see her thrift put to such good use. Despite the war she able to clothe herself decently from the depths of her closet—and some of those garments dated back to the days of Worth at the turn of the century—and, with the aid of a little sewing woman, she saw to it that her friends, too, were supplied with her newly converted “old” clothes. She felt quite chic in this soft blue wool suit, despite the wartime restrictions. And, of course, the hat added just the right finishing touch—a wonderful fine woven straw bought from Madame Reboux ten years ago; she’d simply added a length of spotted veil from another hat and a clutch of purple-blue flowers that had decorated the bosom of some twenties evening dress. Growing older, she decided with a wry smile, had its advantages. But it was
feeling
old she didn’t like, and she had to admit that there were days when she felt every one of her seventy-three years.

A glance at her reflection in a shop window showed that her back was still straight and that the new shorter skirts quite suited her—thank God her legs were still good. “Like a thoroughbred filly,” Alphonse used to say, “high-stepping with slender ankles and a skittish rear end!” She still missed
him even though he’d died twenty years ago—in the
last
war.

Caro stepped smartly aside to avoid being jostled by a band of laughing noisy young German soldiers, back from the front for a few days’ leave in Gay Paree. God, how she hated the very
sound
of that language! Was it different now than it used to be in the old days when she’d enjoyed herself at Baden-Baden in the company of those civilised men and women of Germany? She’d never noticed
then
that her companions were any different. They were cultured, charming, softly spoken. Then who were these new people? All she knew was that they were the enemy and they had driven through her beloved Paris as conquerors. Their ugly swastika flag flew from the city’s most beautiful buildings and so-called “officers”, who were merely underlings inflated with a sense of their own power, could command tables at the Ritz. Rumours of mass exterminations were filtering through the city, though the stories were too hard to believe. Yet people disappeared every day and the Jewish family who owned the elegant apartment on the next floor—a well-known banker with whom she’d been friendly for years—had been escorted away late one night. She had watched from her window, tears streaming down her face, as silently the small family—the banker, his wife and two young daughters—had climbed into the black van with the wire mesh on the windows and the flash of yellow on the hub caps. She knew what that meant. Gestapo. The very word filled the nation with fear.

She had had a visit from them too—a tall young officer in that black uniform with the gleaming high boots they all wore. Did they, as a nation, she’d wondered naughtily, perhaps have a boot fetish? All that polish and heel-clicking?

“Madame Montalva,” he’d said. It was a statement, not a question and therefore she hadn’t deigned to reply. “Lieutenant Ernst Müller. I’m here to check your accommodation,
Madame, with a view to billeting some of my men here.” His unsmiling gaze had taken in her elegant salon filled with memorabilia and possessions collected over a lifetime, but the tall windows flooding the room with light had revealed little of value other than her beautiful antique furniture. Thank God, she’d had the sense to follow Jim’s advice and get the paintings and silver out of Paris, though whether they were still there, beneath the flagstones of the kitchen of her country house at Rambouillet, she didn’t know. Of course she realised that the officer didn’t want it for his men—he fancied a grand apartment for himself. Well, she wasn’t about to let this little upstart have
her
home. But you had to be careful with this type—a
petit bourgeois
feeling his power. In her day an officer was also a gentleman. Now you couldn’t be sure. She considered telling him she was an old woman and he should be ashamed of himself for thinking of evicting her from her home, but she was damned if she would admit to
him
that she was old. “In that case,” she’d replied smartly instead, “I’ll have a word with your commandant. We’ll see how pleased he’d be about billeting noncommissioned men here.”

“Marie-Luce,” she summoned her sole remaining maid. The old woman, more aged than her mistress, trembled with fear at the sight of the uniform, twisting her hands together nervously, unable to speak.

“Marie-Luce, get me my coat, please.” Caro hauled herself to her feet with an effort—it was one of the bad days for her arthritis. “I shall leave with this person for the Gestapo headquarters.”

Marie-Luce gasped. “Oh Madame, Madame. No …” she wailed.

Caro glared at her. “For God’s sake be quiet, Marie-Luce. I need to speak to this officer’s commandant.”

“No. No. You can’t do that,” he protested, stepping back a pace.

“Oh. And why not?” Caro challenged him.

“No one can just see the Commandant. He’s a very busy man …”

“Then I shall return with you and make an appointment.” Caro knew she had him. His face was flushed and his accent was becoming more pronounced—he was just a country boy who had suddenly hit the big time. He was no game for a wily old woman of the world like her: she’d matched wits with better than he for more than half a century.

Clicking the heels of his glossy boots once more, he crammed the cap with its oversized peak hastily on his head and made for the door. “I will ask the Commandant’s office to be in touch with you to discuss the matter,” he called.

Caro smiled as the door closed behind him. “Greed,” she said to Marie-Luce, sinking back into her chair. “The enemy is greedy, Marie-Luce. He calls himself an officer but he is little better than the common soldier looting in the streets.” She knew she wouldn’t hear from him again.

It had been a long time since she’d lunched at Maxim’s, but of course Albert remembered her. Kissing her emotionally on both cheeks, his plump face was torn between smiles and tears. “I hear you are collaborating with the enemy, Albert,” she commented loudly, taking in the mass of Germans at the closely packed tables.

“Ssh, please, Madame Caro!” Albert shrugged, rolling his eyes expressively heavenwards, his jowled face looking even more lugubrious than usual. “It’s a necessary evil, Madame—Maxim’s must be kept open, it cannot be allowed to die. Maxim’s will be here when our men return in victory. But
collaborate
,” he pulled himself to his full short height, “never, Madame. Never!”

“Albert, you are a true bourgeois—business will always come first. And today, I for one am glad. It’s been a long time since I tasted Maxim’s food. And the champagne …”

“Ah, the champagne. For you, Madame, we have the best—and on the house.” Escorting her personally to her table, Albert summoned the sommelier. “The Dom Perignon ’34 please, for Madame, and her companion.” He looked enquiringly at Caro.

“I’m expecting Señor Goncalvez-Herrera from the Spanish Embassy,” she explained. Caro’s Spanish citizenship enabled her a degree of freedom denied the French, and now she was glad she had never succumbed to the temptation to change it, even though she had lived most of her life in France.

Caro sipped the delicate champagne, closing her eyes as it slid deliciously down her throat, bringing back memories of magical nights when, in silks and jewels, she had been considered the toast of Paris. She and Leonie. Old friends, old companions in troubles and triumphs. Thank God Leonie had found a lasting happiness in her relationship with Jim. Good, all-American Jim, tall and handsome and ten years younger than Leonie, who had taken over her life and brought order from its chaos, ridding her of the Sekhmet legend … almost. God, how he loved her! Lucky, lucky Leonie to be so loved still.

Enough of the past with all its regrets! She might as well see how the enemy behaved themselves in a place like this. She certainly hoped Albert didn’t let in any little upstarts like the officer who’d wanted her apartment! Her alert dark eyes roamed the familiar room. It was the same and yet it was different—the huge Art Nouveau mirrors reflected too
many uniforms with only here and there the brightly coloured dress of a woman to relieve the monotony. Ah, it used to be a peacock’s paradise here at Maxim’s, and now, in her modest little blue suit and bravely flowered hat, she looked quite exotic!

“Madame Montalva. Do forgive me for being late. I’m afraid I was delayed at the embassy.” Her lunch companion took his seat with a smile. Carolina Montalva had never married but the “Madame” was a courtesy everyone afforded her these days.

Caro smiled at him. He was quite young—well, to her he was young—forty-five or so! And he was charming and civilised—and he wasn’t wearing that
damned uniform!
“We look quite normal, you and I,” she said as the waiter filled their glasses, “and I feel quite gay, drinking champagne at Maxim’s. Like old times.”

“Almost,” he said quietly. “And it’s as good a place as any to talk over your problems.”

Caro shrugged. “They are not very bad problems,” she admitted, “when I think of some.”

A burst of laughter came from the entrance cutting across their conversation, distracting her, and Caro glanced up irritably.

The German officer must be of a very high rank for Albert to be quite so obsequious. Even from here she could see the glint of gold braid. And the man was loud, calling attention to his presence. Several officers near the entrance scrambled to their feet, saluting, and he waved them back genially. He was a good-looking man, if a little florid, and an officer of the old school. Aristocratic with the ridiculous monocle they all affected, and a coldness behind the smile that could chill your heart. Putting an arm around his companion he drew her forward into the restaurant. Albert bowed over the girl’s hand—Caro would bet it wasn’t his
wife. Who then? Some little French tart selling out for a taste of the good life? Poor silly creature. These girls did it all for the wrong reasons. She looked attractive and beautifully dressed—in this year’s clothes, not 1920s made over! Her eyes must be getting worse, though, because she could swear the girl looked like Lais, but no—it couldn’t be.
It simply couldn’t be her!

Lais paused beside Caro’s table. “Why, Caro,” she said with a surprised smile, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you, Lais.”

“A friend of yours, my angel?” The officer’s hand lingered possessively on Lais’s arm.

“An old friend of my grandmother’s,” replied Lais, “Carolina Montalva—may I introduce General Karl von Bruhel.”

“Well of course any friend of the famous Leonie is welcome at our house, isn’t that so,
Liebchen?
” General von Bruhel bowed. “I am at your service, Madame Montalva. We should be honoured to see you at dinner one evening soon. Lais will arrange it.”

“And which house is that then, Lais?” Caro’s gaze fixed her unmercifully and Lais flushed a little.

“Why,” she tilted her chin defiantly, “the de Courmont house on the Ile St Louis, of course.” She gathered the soft sable stole around her shoulders nervously. “We shall expect you then, Aunt Caro.”

Señor Goncalvez-Herrera had been standing politely by his chair, waiting, and Caro felt sorry for him, caught up in undercurrents that didn’t concern him. He looked desperately uncomfortable as he took his seat again. Caro watched as Lais and her escort were given the best table in the crowded room.

“Don’t ask me, Señor Herrera,” she said, “because I can’t even speak about it right now.”

“I won’t ask,” Goncalvez-Herrera replied, “but I can
tell
you, if you wish.”

Caro took a sip of her champagne wishing it would obliterate what she had just seen so that she needn’t ever think of it again. “Go ahead,” she said quietly, “tell me the worst.”

“The de Courmont mansion is the centre of high-level social activity in Paris. The parties there are not necessarily the biggest, but they are the best—the most
exclusive
. Von Bruhel took over the mansion as his headquarters and the de Courmont girl stayed on—supposedly in her own section of the house. But,” he shrugged expressively, “what happens between a man and a woman happened. Now she lives with him quite openly as his mistress. She shops at the couturiers and her car has a German chauffeur. Von Bruhel loads her with jewels—and humiliates her in small ways in front of their guests.”

Caro raised her eyebrows. “For instance?”

“For one thing, she is never allowed to call him Karl in public. She must always address him formally.” Goncalvez-Herrera hesitated.

“Continue,” Caro prompted.

“Well—I’ve only
heard
this, you understand—but von Bruhel caresses her—intimately—in public …”

Caro drew a shocked breath. “And she permits that?”

“I’m afraid, Caro, that the word is that not only does she permit it, she enjoys it.”

“Oh my God,” said Caro quietly, her eyes resting on Lais. Von Bruhel had his arm around her and was whispering something in her ear. Caro’s appetite for Maxim’s good food suddenly disappeared. She must get in touch with Leonie at once.