Barbara Cartland - Escape from Passion

“You have been here long?”

“A long time.’”

“I really cannot understand my dear aunt not acquainting me of so interesting an event as Lucien’s marriage. Besides, I should have liked to commemorate it with a suitable gift.”

“We were married only a short time before he was killed,” Fleur said through stiff lips.

“That accounts for it, of course. The shock and the unhappiness must have been terrible. And yet courageously she answered her letters of condolence, I received one myself. She spoke proudly and at some length of Lucien, strange that she should not have mentioned his wife. She must have forgotten it, of course, that is the explanation, but it is so odd you must agree. My aunt was most punctilious in these matters as you may have noticed. When did she die?”

“This morning at half-past six. Would you like to see her?”

“There is plenty of time for that as I shall be staying here tonight, of course. The funeral will be tomorrow?”

“The next day.”

“So. Then we shall have the pleasure of each other’s company until Wednesday. Perhaps other members of the family may turn up, I don’t know, but I myself will have a great deal to do. You understand, I am now the Head of the Family.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. Of course I am entitled to call myself the ‘Comte de Sardou’, but then we of the younger generation are not in the least concerned with such trifles or the gaudy baubles left over from an effete aristocracy. No, no, I much prefer to be ‘Monsieur’. I am a democrat, as I am sure you are, madame ?”

“Of course.”

“I am delighted to hear it. We shall have much in common, I can see that. You have seen the will of Madame la Comtesse?”

The last question was shot at Fleur.

She took her time to answer, stooping to arrange some small china snuffboxes on a table and amused to keep her inquisitor on tenterhooks, knowing that here lay the real crux of the whole situation.

“No, I know nothing at all about it,” she said at length. “If she has made one, it will be with the Advocate.”

“Of course.”

She heard the quick breath of relief that Monsieur Pierre drew. He walked a few paces across the room and then back again.

“May I smoke, madame ?”

“Of course, please do. I am sorry I forgot to suggest it.”

“That comes of being in a manless household for so long.” He lit a cigarette. “You were here when Lucien was killed?”

“Yes, I was here.”

“Where were you married?”

Fleur felt herself tremble. This was the question that she had been afraid of. It was only a matter of time now before she was discovered.

“In Paris.”

“At Notre Dame?”

“No, at the Madeleine.”

She did not know why she contradicted him save for the pleasure of it.

“Strange indeed! All the de Sardous have been married at Notre Dame.”

“Lucien wished to be the exception.”

“You will forgive me, madame , if I ask your maiden name?”

Fleur smiled.

She was on safe ground now, no need to lie. She could give her grandmother’s as they were a large family.

“Fleur de Malmont.”

“But, of course, I know the family.”

There was a note of respect now in the suave voice, yet Fleur knew he was by no means satisfied. He was still suspicious, perhaps even more so than he had been before.

Too late she realised that the only possible explanation for a secret marriage might have lain in the fact that Lucien had chosen a nobody, a girl of some doubtful antecedents whom the family would not have accepted.

Well, it was done now and there was nothing she could do but wait for the next question. Then gladly she heard the sound of the door opening. Here, for a brief moment at any rate, was a respite.

It was Marie with the coffee or rather that horrible ersatz substitute which was all that they had been able to purchase for over a year.

“Coffee, monsieur ?”

“Thank you. If you will put it down I will help myself in a few moments.”

Fleur fancied that his nose wrinkled at the smell of it. Doubtless Monsieur Pierre with his German friends had ways of procuring much more palatable beverages than his less fortunate countrymen.

Marie turned to leave the room. As she reached the door, he spoke to her sharply.

“I wish to send to the village. Is there anyone who can go?”

“ Mais non , monsieur . There is only myself and Madame here in the house.”

“But that is ridiculous! A garden boy, perhaps a man from the farm?”

“No one, monsieur , to whom we can give orders. Before the war there were many who were glad to serve at the Château. Now they serve our conquerors.”

Monsieur Pierre gave an exclamation of annoyance.

“I must go myself, then. I have to see the Priest, the doctor – ”

He stopped.

‘And the Advocate,’ Fleur added for him in her mind.

“Yes, of course, monsieur .”

Marie stood patiently waiting, stolidly uncommunicative and unhelpful.

“You can go.”

“Thank you, monsieur .”

“She is telling the truth, of course,” he said, turning to Fleur. There is no one I can send and no other way of telling such people to come here to me?”

“I am afraid not,” Fleur said deprecatingly, “and naturally we have no conveyance.”

“Naturally. The car – ?”

“The Germans took it away over a year ago.”

“Yes, of course. They reimbursed Madame for its value?”

“I have no idea.”

Fleur knew quite well that the Comtesse had received no recompense for the removal of Lucien’s car. She had been told vaguely that if she applied she might be given a voucher for it which in time would entitle her to claim its value. She had done nothing in the matter.

Fleur was determined now that no word of hers should enable Monsieur Pierre to benefit from what had been Lucien’s.

“Well, I must go myself, Mahomed to the mountain!” he laughed with some effort. “ Au revoir, madame , I shall not be long. We will dine together, I hope?”

“What time would suit you, monsieur ?”

“Seven o’clock would be convenient?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very well. Until then, madame .”

He gave her a glance, which Fleur realised was meant to be gallant and left the room with a swagger, as one who imagines that a woman is admiring him.

Fleur stood very still. She waited until she heard the front door close and the footsteps scrunching on the gravel came fainter and fainter until there was only silence.

Then she sank down on the sofa and put her hands over her aching forehead. Slowly she felt her tension relax.

“I must think,” she said out loud. “ I must think. ”

What was she to do? How could she escape from the trap that she felt was slowly closing round her? Why had Marie said that she was Lucien’s wife? It was madness and yet what else could she have said? He might have asked to see her papers and then any subterfuge and any other lie might have made him more suspicious than he was already.

How had she been so crazy, she wondered, not to have anticipated all this, to have gone away before and yet she knew that it would have been just impossible for her to leave the Comtesse while she was dying.

She had loved the old lady, had been afraid of her, had not understood her and how could she understand someone of another type of life and of another nationality? But she had been her last link with Lucien and Fleur had clung to that, happy in the fact of being in his home.

Yes, it had been impossible to leave, impossible to go and forsake all these things which had meant so much and yet now she saw the danger.