Darkest Longings (79 page)

spun round, her nerves like needles and her heart in her

throat. Then she saw that it was Lucien, standing at the

other side of the clearing. She was about to shout at him for

making her jump when Estelle walked out from behind him.

Imagine, Claudine thought as she turned back into the

forest, shy little Estelle flirting with Lucien! But then she no

longer found it quite so amusing. Armand had had a lot of

bad luck where women were concerned, and Lucien had

plenty of women fawning after him without having to add

Estelle to their number.

She tried to concentrate on this as she walked on through

the trees; anything to keep her mind away from the terrible

misgivings she had about Francois’ visit to Vichy, and to

dispel the sense of unease that had started just after she left

Thomas’ hut that morning. But her hand on the gun was as

tight as the tension in her head. He was back, she knew it.

She could feel his eyes on her as surely as she could hear her own voice humming its tuneless melody.

She took the gun out of her pocket and quickened her

pace. She should go back, ask Lucien to walk her to the

chateau, but her feet kept moving her deeper into the forest.

Everything was so still, not even a breeze moved the

branches above her.

Suddenly she slipped in the mud, and as she righted herself a bird fluttered from a branch. She jerked the gun upwards and fired. Then, hearing footsteps behind her, she swung rounds both hands on the gun. Again she squeezed

the trigger, but there was nothing there. Something

slithered in the undergrowth, only feet away. She jerked the

pin towards it, slipped and fell. Another bird flew screeching

from a tree, and she fired, the din of it drowning the

beating drum in her head. Terrified, she pulled herself to

her feet, her eyes hunting the shadows. Then suddenly she

knew that someone was there, standing behind her. She

turned. She tried to fire, but her hands were shaking. She

looked up into his face and then her legs buckled under her.

‘Armand,’ she choked. ‘Oh, Armand!’

‘Were you expecting someone else?’ he said, putting a

hand under her arm to help her up and apparently quite

unruffled by the fact that she had almost shot him.

‘He’s back!’ she sobbed. ‘Armand, he’s here. I know it. I

can feel it.’ She looked up into his face, and suddenly her

eyes dilated. ‘Armand, why are you looking at me like that?’

she cried.

‘Ssh!’ he hissed.

Then she heard it too. Someone running. They spun

round as Lucien came racing through the trees.

‘What is it?’ he cried. ‘What’s happening? I heard a shot

…’ He looked at Claudine’s white face, then at the gun

hanging limply in her hand.

‘It’s all right,’ Armand told him. ‘No one’s been hurt.’

‘But what happened, for God’s sake!’

‘It’s Halunke,’ Claudine interrupted. ‘He’s back.’

Lucien’s eyes shot to Armand, and Claudine turned to

look at him too. Then she moved her gaze to Lucien, and in

that instant, as she stared up at their strikingly handsome

faces, the world around them started to spin. The gun

slipped from her fingers and there was a terrible cacophony

in her ears. She covered them with her hands, shaking her

head as the two faces seemed to whirl about her, faster and

faster, ballooning and shrivelling, writhing and twisting.

And through it all the long-forgotten words of the old

fairground gypsy returned to her.

She started to back away. She stumbled, picked herself; up, then turned and ran. She could hear them coming after her, shouting her name, their voices drowning the terrible

words in her head.’… He will be like a brother,’ the old

woman had said. ‘Or perhaps it will be his brother.’

- 30

The reason Francois had lied to Claudine about the time he

was expected at Vichy was because he had promised to

spend the night with Elise. She was now living in the upper

two storeys of a town house in Montbazon, overlooking the

river Indre, which he had taken for her and Beatrice soon

after returning to Lorvoire. The house was forty kilometres

from Lorvoire, but little more than a stone’s throw from the

Chateau d’Artigny.

When he arrived in the middle of the afternoon, letting

himself in with his own key, it was to find Beatrice sitting

alone knitting and looking every bit the middle-aged woman

she was. How deceptive appearances could be, he thought

wryly. Beatrice was as dangerous as her Secret Service

name suggested: the Alligator, they had called her.

‘It’s good to see you, monsieur.” She smiled warmly,

setting aside her needles. ‘We weren’t expecting you until a little later. Elise is taking a nap. I’ll fetch some coffee.’

‘How is she?’ Francois asked when she returned a few

minutes later. He took a sip of coffee, and could not hide his

distaste. ‘Acorns?’ he said.

‘All there is, I’m afraid,’ Beatrice laughed. ‘Revolting,

isn’t it?’ She took up her knitting again. ‘Elise is much the

same. There has been no real change.’

‘Has anyone called recently?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Beatrice sighed.

Francois’ face darkened. He jerked himself to his feet

and walked to the window.

They had been in Montbazon only three weeks when

Beatrice first told him that Abwehr officers were paying

calls again on a regular basis. Francois had been livid, but

Beatrice had begged for tolerance. Debasing as it was, she

told him, Elise needed to do it. It was all part of the fantasy

that gave her a reason for living: the services she performed

for the Germans were to persuade them to enter into a plot

to kill Claudine. If it wasn’t so pathetic, Francois thought

bitterly, gazing down at the people milling about on the

bridge below, it would be laughable.

He had always known that Elise loved him, but now her

love placed on him an almost insupportable burden of guilt

How deeply now he regretted the way he had treated her in

the past, how he had used her to the point of abusing her.

Almost since he had first known her, he had been aware that

behind the sophistication she held like a barrier between

herself and the world, there was a child crying out to be

loved; but he had refused to acknowledge it. And now it was

too late. Nothing he did would ever make up for what she

had lost because of him. All he could do was reassure her

that he would never desert her - which he wouldn’t,

anymore than he would allow himself to give way completely

to his guilt. It was what Halunke wanted, that he should

destroy his own life with self-condemnation and blame for the deaths and mutilations of those he loved.

He looked up as the door opened and Elise walked in.

The instant she saw him, her face lit up, and she hurtled

across the room into his arms. ‘Kiss me, cheri,’ she said,

tilting her face back to look at him. ‘Kiss me and tell me how

you’ve missed me.’

He kissed her gently, then took her hands from around

his neck and held them between his own. Every time he saw

her, he felt the tragedy of what had happened to her more

deeply than ever. The doctors had told him that she might

never improve, but they had not prepared him for the fact

that she might get worse. Her once beautiful green eyes now

held the depraved look of a madwoman, and the effort it cost

her to control her poor, tormented mind showed in the deep

ridges forming round her mouth. Her hair, as ever, was

immaculately dressed, but the golden sheen had vanished and the grey strands were thickening. From her dress he could see that today she was the Marquise de Pompadour,

though she must have removed the wig before she lay down

to sleep.

‘How are you, cherie?’ he asked.

‘Troubled,’ she said, frowning.

my is that?’

‘Because you have not been to see me for so long. But I

tell myself that it is because you are looking for that man

Halunke. Have you found him?’

Francois’ eyes darted to Beatrice, but she too looked

surprised. It was the first time for months that Elise had

mentioned her attacker.

‘No, cherie, I haven’t,’ he said gently.

‘It is of no matter,’ she trilled. She picked up her skirts

and tried to glide across the room in a way her limp would

not quite permit. ‘You will sleep with me tonight?’ she said,

suddenly turning round.

Again Francois looked at Beatrice. ‘You know Francois is

staying, Elise,’ Beatrice said. ‘I have prepared the room next

to yours.’

Elise’s eyes flashed. ‘No! He is to sleep with me!’ she

declared. ‘You want to sleep with me, don’t you, Francois?’

But before he could answer, she said, ‘Beatrice, fetch monsieur some wine.’

Obediently Beatrice got up and left the room. ‘Take no

notice of her,’ Elise said, not even waiting for the door to

close. ‘She is a prude. But I have laid out my prettiest silk

nightgown and perfumed the sheets. You see, I knew you

would come. You said you would, and you never let me

down, do you Francois? You never lie to me. Not like the

others.’ She was moving towards him again, and his heart

sank as he saw the smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

Any moment now, regardless of Beatrice’s imminent

return, she would drop to her knees and beg him to let her

satisfy him. He often wondered which was worse, that or the

hideous embarrassment he felt when she behaved as though

he were a king.

But to his surprise and relief she stopped before she

reached him, and assuming a coquettish stance, her head

lowered so that she was looking at him from beneath her

lashes, her hands trailing along the back of the sofa, she said

sweetly, ‘When did you last make love to a woman,

Francois?’

The question threw him. She had never asked him that

before, even though he had never permitted her to ‘satisfy’

him, as she put it, and he was at a loss to know how he should

answer.

‘When?’ she prompted.

‘Does it matter?’

She nodded.

‘Why?’ He was watching her closely, beginning to suspect

that there was more to this than he had realized.

‘Because I want to know.’

They eyed one another for a long moment until, to his

profound relief, she seemed to lose interest and turned

away. But then she looked at him again, and he realized that

it wasn’t over yet. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips drawn in

a tight, bitter smile. Like a striking snake, she rasped,

‘You’ve been making love to her, haven’t you?’

Francois was dumbfounded. There weren’t many situations

he couldn’t handle, but this was beyond him.

‘You’ve been making love to her, haven’t you!’ she

screamed, advancing towards him. ‘Admit it! You’ve taken

her to your bed. You’ve given her everything that belongs to

me!’

She stopped an arm’s length away from him, and her eyes

blazed into his. ‘Say something!’ she yelled, and suddenly

she sprang at him, her nails brandished like the claws of a

wild-cat, and her teeth bared. ‘Answer me!’ she screeched.

‘Answer me, you bastard!’

He caught her hands, but only after she had scratched his

face. ‘Elise, calm down!’ he barked, trying to take her by the

shoulders. But with tremendous strength she threw herself

at him again, hitting, kicking, scratching and biting. ‘I’m

going to kill her!’ she spat. ‘I’ll get her out of your life. She

can’t have you! You’re mine! It’s me you love, not her. You

despise her!’

He grabbed her arms and twisted them behind her back.

The door opened and Beatrice came running in.

‘They’re going to kill her for me!’ Elise screamed. ‘Tell

him, Beatrice! Tell him they’re going to annihilate The

Bitch!’

Beatrice rushed across the room as Elise sank to the floor.

Francois let her go, but as she rolled over she struck out with

her feet, kicking Beatrice hard in the stomach. Winded,

Beatrice fell back, and Elise screeched with demonic

laughter. ‘They’ll get her, Francois!’ she cried. ‘They’ve

promised me. They’re going to arrest her, and torture her,

and then they’re going to kill her. They’re going to do it

tomorrow, Francois.’

Suddenly her eyes rolled back in their sockets, her back

arched and her whole body started to convulse. Immediately

Francois dropped to his knees, taking her in his arms, but

Beatrice pushed him away.

‘Leave her to me,’ she said. But even as she spoke Elise’s

body went limp as unconsciousness overtook her.

It had happened in a matter of minutes, but it was more than half an hour before Beatrice came back into the room.

Francois was standing in front of the mantlepiece, staring

down at the dying fire.

‘That’s the first fit she’s had,’ Beatrice said pouring them born a thimbleful of precious cognac. ‘But the doctor warned me it might happen if she ever became seriously

overwrought.’ She passed him a glass and went to sit in the

window-seat. She could see how shaken he still was. ‘I’m