Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“Monsieur is very trusting to tell me this!”

De Richleau bowed again. “No one with the eyes of Mademoiselle could be unkind or indiscreet,” he smiled.

“You know that I am not a Russian, eh?”

“Mademoiselle at this moment should be taking her tea at the ‘Marquis de Sévigné.”

“‘The Marquis de Sévigné’?” She frowned, puzzled. “What is that?”

“Surely, I cannot be mistaken? Mademoiselle is French, and ‘Sévigné’ the most fashionable tea-shop in Paris. It is there that you belong.”

She smiled a little sadly. “I do not remember Paris, but I am French. How did you know?”

The Duke spread out his elegant hands. “The carriage of Mademoiselle proclaims it from the house-tops — the way Mademoiselle wears that little hat is in the manner born of the Parisienne.”

“My mother was French,” she admitted.

De Richleau spoke earnestly. “Mademoiselle, as a foreigner here you are no doubt regarded with some suspicion, the last thing that we wish is that you should incur danger on our behalf, but, if without doing so you could inform us where we should be likely to obtain horses, we shall owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

“Come with me.” She turned abruptly on her heel. “For the present you shall remain in my cottage, later — we will see.”

“That’s real kind,” said Rex, smiling. “But I’m afraid we can’t accept your hospitality. It would mean big trouble for you if we were found in your place.”

She shrugged, impatiently. “I am the teacher of languages there, in the school. I am not a foreigner to them — they have known me since I was a child — come, then!”

They followed her through the darkening woods — the shadows of the trees grew rapidly longer, and it was almost dark when they reached a small cottage, carefully fenced about. No other houses were in sight.

The interior of the tiny place was like the girl herself, neat and gay; the furniture was clumsy and old-fashioned, but the covers and curtains were of bright woven stuffs. A long shelf of well-thumbed books had been carefully recovered in sprigged linen that suggested a bygone bedspread; each bore a little hand-printed label.

The Duke and Simon had not been inside a comfortable room since they had left Moscow; Van Ryn had known the rigours of a Bolshevik prison for the last two months. They all sank into Mademoiselle’s comfortable chairs with relief, and praised Heaven that she had found them.

“Permit us, Mademoiselle, to introduce ourselves. My friends are Mr. Rex Van Ryn of New York, and Mr. Simon Aron of London. I am the Duke de Richleau.”

She smiled at each in turn and to the Duke she said: “So you also are a Frenchman?”

“Yes,” he said, “but unfortunately, like yourself, I am an exile.”

“Ah, that is sad.” The smile died from her face. “Myself, I left France when I was five. I do not remember it, but always I long to return. But what am I thinking of — you must be hungry after your long journey!”

They hardly had the courage to protest, only Simon, thinking of the difficulties which he knew existed about rationing, began half-heartedly to unpack the cold food from the rucksacks.

She waved it impatiently aside. “I leave you for quarter of an hour, perhaps,” she shrugged, with a typically French gesture, as she resumed her worn furs. “No one will come here — you will be as safe as can be.” Before they could protest she was gone with a smile and a wave of the hand, closing the door softly behind her.

De Richleau stretched his tired legs. “We are in luck,” he said to Simon. “It is certain that we have one guardian angel left between us.”

A slight snore drew their attention. Rex was sound asleep on the sofa. It was the first sleep he had had since he had risen from his bunk in the prison at Tobolsk, little knowing that his friends were near, thirty-six hours before.

“Hope she doesn’t get in a muddle through helping us,” said Simon, thoughtfully.

The Duke took out his automatic, and removing the magazine, began to clean it carefully from the fouling of the morning.

In a very short time the girl returned, bringing with her a basket of eggs. She took down her largest frying-pan, and started to break the eggs into a basin.

Simon questioned her, while Rex snored loudly in the corner. How had she managed to evade the rationing laws?

She threw back her head, and gave a delicious ripple of laughter. That rationing — what nonsense! It was gone long ago, in the country towns at least. It had failed miserably; the greedy peasants lied and cheated, always withholding secret stores. In the end it had been thought better to let them do as they would, although there were still heavy penalties in force against anyone who was discovered hoarding. The only redress that the Communists had was to charge them higher prices for the goods, which they could obtain only from the Co-operative Stores. For her it was simple — her little pupils liked her — the peasants, their parents, were her friends — she had but to ask and for her there was always plenty and to spare.

As she talked she was frying a great yellow omelette. Rex was roused from his short slumber, and soon they were all seated round the table enjoying this unexpected treat. De Richleau declared that it could not have been better cooked by Mère Poulard of the Mont St. Michael herself.

“Ah, Monsieur,” she answered, “the making of an omelette is one of the many things that I learnt from my poor mother.”

“Your mother is dead then, Mademoiselle?”

“Alas, yes — in the year of the great famine. It was terrible, that. I do not know how any of us survived.”

“May one ask why your mother came to settle in this wild place, so far from home?”

“It was Le Prince Shulimoff, Monsieur. My mother had known him many years — before even I was born. She was of gentle people but very poor, you understand. When I was five he offered her a position as companion to his niece. Never would he permit this niece to live in St. Petersburg or Moscow — here only, in the solitude of the great Château among the woods, and so we came to live in the Château, also. That was a year or so before the War.”

De Richleau nodded. “It is remarkable that you should have escaped in the years of revolution, Mademoiselle.”

She shrugged. “My mother was much respected in the town; all her interests were with the poor and sick. She was the Châtelaine — none but her and the little Princess Sophie and myself lived in the Château. And Monsieur le Prince, he was a strange man. On his occasional visits to us he would sneer at her charities one day, and give her great sums of what he called ‘sin money’ the next, to spend as she would. When the troubles came there were many to protect my mother. She had, too, the great courage, she feared to go nowhere, and she organized the hospital — nursing Reds and Whites alike.”

“Would the Château be any great way from here,” asked Rex, who had been listening intently.

“No, Monsieur, not more than half a verst on the far side of the highway. One could walk there in fifteen minutes.”

“Would there be any folk living there now?”

“Ah, no. A great part of it was burnt. It is said that Monsieur de Prince himself set it on fire when the Bolsheviks came. I remember it well, that night; it was the day after my tenth birthday. I cried and cried because all my presents were destroyed. I was not old enough to be frightened for my mother or Monsieur de Prince. I thought nothing about all the beautiful and valuable things which were burning up in great columns of red flame. We stood there, on the lawn, watching the peasants throw the furniture out of the windows, saving what they could. That was until they thought of the cellars. Then, when they began to loot the sweet wine and brandy, we had to go away.”