Stranger at the Gates (38 page)

He threw the cigarette away.

He turned to Louise; they were alone, as the others dispersed and somebody started Camier's van. ‘I thought you would have gone with him,' he said.

‘No,' Louise answered. ‘I'm staying here; with you and Papa and Régine. The children are in Paris, they'll be safe there. But I loved him, Jean. And I'll never know what happened to him.'

‘I know you did,' the Comte said. ‘Thank you for staying. God knows what the end will be for us all. Will you take care of St. Blaize and Papa and Régine for me?'

‘You know I will,' she said. He took her hands and held them. Tears came into his eyes.

‘At least now you can be proud of me,' he said.

‘I will always be that. God bless you, Jean. Come back to us.' She came close, and for a moment they held each other.

‘I don't want to say goodbye,' Jean de Bernard said. ‘So just go with them now, my darling. Just go …'

Louise pulled away and ran to the little van; the passenger door was flung open for her and she jumped inside. She sat, tears running down her face, refusing to look back until they came to the edge of the road. Then suddenly she couldn't bear it. She leaned out of the window, staring back through the trees. It was too late to see him. There was nothing visible but shadow.

They were all silent. Paul was standing in front of the fireplace, looking down at the ground; there was a frown between his eyes; his wife was sitting with her hands clasped on her lap, staring at Louise. Suddenly Sophie got up, flung her cigarette into the fire and went over to her mother. Louise glanced up and felt her daughter's arm slip round her shoulders.

‘All right,' Sophie said. ‘Now you've told us. What a hell you must have gone through. All of you.' She bent down and kissed her.

Louise's eyes filled with tears. ‘Thank you, darling. I hoped you'd understand.'

‘Perhaps it's easier for her.' Françoise de Bernard spoke in a strained voice. ‘Sophie wouldn't mind anything coming out—she hasn't got a family and a position to think about. But we have!' She faced Louise. ‘What about Paul and the election? What in God's name would his enemies make of a story like that? His father was a collaborator who only resisted at the end—his aunt was the mistress of that dreadful butcher …' She stopped suddenly, both hands to her mouth. ‘Oh my God—under that big rockery—is that where those bodies were buried?'

‘Yes,' Louise answered quietly. ‘I'm afraid so. They're still there.'

‘Oh my God! It's horrible!' Her daughter-in-law was sheet white. She stared at Louise, ‘And you lived here—knowing that!'

‘Let's keep it in proportion,' Paul de Bernard said. ‘Forget about the rockery. After all these years there's nothing left there anyway. What you've told us, Mother, is exactly what that woman Minden hinted at. Only worse. She didn't know that Régine murdered that man Vierken.

‘They'll bring it out that you slept with that German, and that's why he risked his life to save your children,' Françoise said. ‘They'll make it as sordid as they can. Two of you, you and Régine. Nobody will believe it was only once—you know what people will think … We'll be disgraced, Paul's career is as good as over now, if even a whisper of this gets out.'

‘I don't believe that,' Paul said. ‘They've nothing to gain by dragging mother through the dirt. All they want is a case for mitigating the sentence on Minden, something to prove he was personally humane. Saving Sophie and me is just what they need. They'll concentrate on that. Nothing else need come out in court at all. Don't worry about it, Mother.'

‘I think we're trying to delude ourselves,' Louise said. ‘That woman threatened to bring every detail out in court. And in telling the story of what Heinz Minden did, she'll see that my part in it, his relationship with your father, Régine and Vierken, everything will be exposed. I believe she'll do it. If she's told the defence council all this, and I refuse to testify, they'll have to make a big drama out of it to emphasise his heroism. But if I go to court, I need only say that he was fond of you both, and risked his own life to save you. My presence there to speak for him will have tremendous impact. That's why not even an affidavit will satisfy them. I shall have to go and give evidence at the trial.'

‘No you won't!' Sophie said loudly. ‘You're not going near any court! How do you know what they'll ask you when you get up on the witness box—what do you think the prosecution's going to try and make of this? They'll tear you to pieces! As for you, Paul, if you let her do this, I'll never speak to you again! To hell with your political career—Mother's not going to be sacrificed.'

‘I shall be sacrificed anyway if the truth comes out,' Louise said to them all. ‘I could bear that, but not to see you hurt, Paul's future destroyed. Your father's good name smeared. He was a hero, decorated for his work in the Resistance. To hear him called a collaborator would break my heart. To see your Aunt Régine's memory disgraced … I can't do it. I knew that even before I came down here, but I suppose I was hoping to escape. I'll have to go to Germany.'

‘No!' Sophie interrupted. ‘I won't let you!'

‘I think you've made the right decision,' Françoise said. She stood up, and linked her arm through her husband's. ‘Paul would never ask you, but I know how much his political career means to him. I know how hard he's worked for St. Blaize, and this would ruin everything for him. The whole family would be disgraced. As it is now, the Comte is a hero, his sister a Resistance heroine, killed fighting the Germans. Please, please let us keep this between us. Go to Germany and speak for this man. Otherwise we're destroyed.'

‘No, Mother,' Paul said. ‘Don't do it. Not for me. I'll withdraw my candidature. Then they can say what they like. It was a very long time ago. People won't be all that interested if there's no political capital to be made out of it. It'll soon be forgotten.'

‘I've made up my mind,' Louise said to them. ‘There's nothing else to be done. I'll telephone Ilse Minden in the morning.' She smiled at her son. He looked strained and guilty. His arm was still linked to his wife's, and as she watched, Louise saw them clasp hands. They were in agreement, and she couldn't blame either of them. Paul had built his own life at St. Blaize; whether Louise and she had little in common or not, didn't denigrate the efforts of Françoise to be a good wife and to advance his chosen career. Louise might not like her, but she appreciated her loyalty to her husband. And she even understood the shock and condemnation which the younger woman hadn't been able to conceal. She had been brought up in the post-war world, married into a family with a reputation for heroic resistance in the late war, and had never imagined that all was not exactly as it seemed. In Françoise's conventional world, people did not fornicate and kill, or invite a German into their bed, however patriotic the motive. She glanced up at her daughter, and saw with a pang that the face was pale, the mouth taut. Sophie had been shaken too, although she was too loyal and protective to her mother to reveal it. Not by the infidelity, but by the unconsummated love for Roger Savage. Instinctively Louise knew that to Sophie that love was a betrayal of the father she had loved so deeply, and knowing this had hurt her.

‘Thank you,' Françoise said. Her tone was final, discounting any possibility of second thoughts. ‘I know you've made the right decision. Now let us go and have some dinner.'

She led the way out of the salon, into the panelled dining room. It was a silent meal, and immediately afterwards Louise excused herself and went upstairs. At the door she turned and said gently to Sophie, ‘Come and say goodnight to me.'

‘Of course.' Love flowed between them; forgiveness was implicit in the way her daughter squeezed her and the kiss she gave was warm. ‘I'll look in,' she said. ‘If you're asleep I won't disturb you. Goodnight, darling. And don't worry.'

But when she came Louise was wide awake. It seemed to Sophie that her mother looked much younger suddenly, sitting up in the bed with her hair hanging down like a girl's, her face slightly in shadow.

She must have looked like that during the time when Roger Savage was at the château. She had always been aware of her mother's beauty and elegance; now, with a sense of shock, she recognised the sexual quality that distinguished her. Louise held out her hand.

‘I'm glad you came; come and sit beside me. You're hurt and disappointed, aren't you?'

‘Not about Minden.' Sophie brought out the Gauloise packet and lit a cigarette. She had chain-smoked throughout the evening.

‘You did the right thing. But the American—I was surprised, that's all. I never thought for a moment you'd ever looked at anyone except Father. You seemed the most devoted, loving couple.'

‘And we were,' Louise said quickly. ‘After the war when he came back, so terribly hurt and helpless, I realised that I had always loved him. And we were happy, right to the day he died. You know that.'

‘I know,' Sophie said. ‘You did everything for him. I used to watch his face when you came into the room. It was quite something to see. I suppose I knew I'd never be able to affect anyone that way. Maybe that's why I've never wanted to get married. It would never be like that for me. That's what I thought.' She blew smoke into the air. ‘I'd like to ask you something. If you don't mind?' She glanced at Louise, awkward and anxious not to hurt her.

‘You can ask anything you like,' Louise said gently.

‘Did you ever see Roger Savage again?'

‘Yes,' Louise answered. ‘For months I thought he was dead. Your father was fighting, the Allies were advancing. Régine and I were here with your grandfather. I couldn't forget the last time I saw Roger. I was sure he'd died, even on the journey. I went through a very bad time, Sophie. I wouldn't have left your father while there was any danger, and I'll answer one question I know you won't ask me; I never had an affair with him. But I loved him. I loved him with all my heart.'

‘Poor Mother.' Sophie reached out to her. ‘How awful for you. Don't talk about it any more. It doesn't matter.'

‘Months later I got news that he was alive and recovering. He'd been sent back to America. And then he came to St. Blaize.' Louise paused. ‘You wouldn't remember it, but you saw him arrive. I can see you now, running into the hall, calling for me. And he followed behind you. I sent you out into the garden. He'd kept his word. He'd come back for me.'

‘And you didn't go,' Sophie said. ‘But you wanted to, didn't you?'

‘Yes,' Louise said. ‘He wasn't an easy man to refuse. When he wanted something he got it. But I didn't argue with him, Sophie. I just took him into the salon and showed him your father sitting in the garden in his wheelchair. He understood why I couldn't ever leave him. He left here and I've never heard from him since. That's many years ago.'

‘It's sad,' Sophie said. ‘Terribly sad for both of you.'

‘I never regretted it,' Louise said. ‘Your father was happy. That's all that mattered.'

‘Darling,' Sophie said suddenly. ‘Don't go to Germany. Never mind about Paul and his bloody silly election. Don't put yourself at these people's mercy. I really mean it. I'm afraid of what could happen to you.'

‘Nothing will happen to me,' Louise said. ‘I'll give my evidence and it'll all be over very quickly. Then I'll come straight home.'

‘I'll come with you,' Sophie said. ‘But I have a very nasty feeling about the whole thing.'

On the 3rd of October, exactly two weeks after Ilse Minden had come to the house in the Rue Varenne, Louise took the Lufthansa flight to Bonn. Normally she found flying peaceful; unlike many women whose nerves objected to the speed and altitude in jet flying, she was relaxed and calm in the air. On this journey she spent the hour and ten minutes in taut discomfort, wishing she had allowed Sophie to come with her. The more she tried to convince herself that the ordeal would be minimal, the more uneasy she became. Minden's wife had been brief and non-committal on the telephone. She didn't thank her for agreeing to help, or say anything but that Minden's lawyer would be in touch with her. The letter, signed Siegfried Kopner, had arrived within three days; it was friendly and courteous and said all the grateful things which Ilse Minden had omitted. Temporarily Louise was reassured. Paul and Françoise accepted the tone of the letter with relief; only Sophie was sceptical. The affair with Gerard was coming to a graceless close; there were rows and mutual walk-outs, and Sophie looked pale, and had lost weight. Louise refused to have her travel to Germany. She had installed her in the Rue Varenne, where she could escape the importunities and tantrums of her lover, and promised to send for her when the trial began. At Bonn airport she found a uniformed chauffeur waiting with her name written on a card. He bowed and spoke in clumsy French, ‘Herr Kopner's compliments and I'm taking you to your hotel.'

The gesture was unexpected. So too were the flowers she found in her hotel room. Welcome to Bonn. Siegfried Kopner. It was a luxurious hotel, the Steigenberger Hof; smartly decorated in modern style without extremes of taste. She dined alone in the large dining room, watched by groups of business men who interrupted their conversations and negotiations long enough to admire the elegance and beauty of the new arrival. She felt lonely and conspicuous, more of an alien in the atmosphere than she had ever felt before, and since Jean's death she had travelled every spring. Her last trip had been to Mexico. She was neither shy nor self-conscious about going anywhere alone; but in the heavy chic of that German hotel dining room, Louise felt a sense of total isolation. The food was excellent, the service impeccable; she ate very little and didn't look round her. A large middle-aged man at a nearby table was staring at her openly. There was an appointment with Siegfried Kopner for the next morning at eleven. If it wouldn't inconvenience her, he preferred the meeting to be in his office.