Barbara Cartland - Escape from Passion

The ability of the Comtesse to arrange certain matters had rested on her own personal influence and on the power she exerted in the village traditionally because of her position. Now her place would be taken by another and a very different personality – Monsieur Pierre.

Fleur had often smiled at the memory of the Mayor coming up to the Château at the Comtesse’s command.

However much France boasted of democracy, in these outlying villages the aristocrats still had their importance and still held their place in the local hierarchy.

The Comtesse requested his presence and the little man, who was a grocer by trade, came apprehensively into the salon where Madame was waiting for him. He was sweating a little, Fleur noticed, and he turned his hat round and round as he listened to what Madame had to say.

“Monsieur le Maire, our beloved country has been invaded again by Barbarians. Once again our soil is violated and the sacred blood of our countrymen cries out for revenge. You agree, Monsieur le Maire?”

“Yes, Madame – but Madame will pardon me if I suggest that she does not speak of such things quite so loudly.”

The Comtesse had smiled.

“I am an old woman, Monsieur le Maire, and I can only die once. My son has already given his life for France and I should be proud to offer mine in the same cause.”

“Madame is brave.”

Nevertheless, as if he spoke them out loud, Fleur had guessed that his thoughts were of himself, of his large fat wife to whom rumour had it he was consistently unfaithful and of his six children, the eldest of whom was a prisoner in Germany.

“We understand each other,” the Comtesse then went on. “There is no need for me to say more. But, monsieur , in my anxiety to speak of politics I have omitted to present you to my daughter-in-law, Fleur, Monsieur le Maire, Madame Lucien de Sardou.”

Just for a moment the little man had looked surprised and then with the quickness of his race he understood.

“ Enchanté , madame , my sincere felicitations,” he had murmured and then he had waited, understanding now what was expected of him.

“My poor daughter-in-law,” the Comtesse continued, “has had an unfortunate accident, monsieur . A little fire occurred here last night, nothing very serious, we were able to put it out ourselves, but unfortunately Madame’s papers were burned including her carte d’identité. There is nothing left and, still more unfortunate, no one had thought to keep its numbers.”

“I understand, Madame, they can be replaced.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire, it is most agreeable of you.”

The Comtesse had held out her hand, the Mayor had bowed over it and the interview was at an end.

The next morning his second son, Fabian, had arrived on his bicycle. An identification card with her new name with the date of issue mysteriously smudged, had been handed over.

Yet now Fleur saw the pitfalls of what had seemed an easy subterfuge. Most of all she regretted that the Comtesse had made her burn her British passport.

“It is dangerous,” Madame had insisted and, despite all Fleur’s protestations, the flames, real ones this time, had licked greedily round the blue canvas cover and the page that held the Foreign Secretary’s name.

Yet how right the Comtesse had been!

The next day the Germans had arrived. Marie, a scared look on her usually placid face, had fetched the Comtesse and Fleur from the garden.

“Madame! Nom de Dieu ! excuse me, madame , but there are Germans at the door.”

She was panting and the frilled cap that she wore was askew on her grey hair.

“Germans?”

“Yes, madame . They wish to speak to you.”

“Thank you, Marie. You will be calm, Marie.”

“ Oui , madame .”

“And your cap is crooked, Marie.”

“ Pardon , madame !”

The Germans then searched the house. They looked in every nook and cranny for French soldiers. They took away the pigs and chickens and a side of bacon that had been hanging in Marie’s kitchen. They drained the petrol from the car standing in the garage and made a note to send later for the car itself.

They came again a few days later and then took away Louis, the man who worked in the garden, no one was told why. At first they did not know whether the Château and the village would be in occupied or unoccupied territory.

They did not talk about it, but Fleur guessed that the Comtesse prayed that they might be favoured in the little grey Chapel where the flags captured by de Sardous in battle hung above the altar.

One day they learnt that the line had been drawn and they were some twenty miles inside German-occupied France.

*

Fleur stood up suddenly and walked to the window. The garden was quiet and peaceful.

Strange to think that there was terror and brutality over the whole Continent, men being shot and imprisoned, concentration camps where those who entered them were beaten into insensibility or tortured until they died or became insane.

Fear and misery everywhere, panic and sorrow, privation and sheer sadism.

‘Oh, God, I am afraid!’ Fleur thought to herself.

Then she knew that somehow, in some way, she could and would escape these horrors.

Something was happening, something was frightening her.

Fleur stirred convulsively and tried to scream.

Even as she did so a hand was pressed down over her mouth. She experienced a moment of sheer terror and then she heard Marie’s voice,

“It’s all right, mam’selle , it’s me, Marie. Don’t be afraid.”

“Marie!”

Fleur turned over, the terror of her dream still with her so that she could feel her heart beating too quickly and her breath coming pantingly through lips that still felt the imprint of Marie’s fingers.

“Hush! We must be very quiet. I have news for you.”

Fleur sat up in bed. There was a candle by the bedside, but its flickering light illuminated only a portion of the room, the rest was sombre and menacing in shadow.

“What is it?”

Marie came very near her and their faces were almost touching.

“Fabian has brought information. You must leave at once, mam’selle , you are in danger.”

“Tell me, what did he say?”

Marie came a shade nearer and her voice dropped lower so that Fleur must strain her ears to hear what she was saying.

“It is Monsieur Pierre. When he went into the village, he went not only to see the Priest and the doctor, but also to telephone – to telephone to Paris about you, mam’selle !”

Marie paused dramatically, as one who has reached the climax of her story.

“About my marriage!”

Marie nodded.”

“Yes. He spoke to a friend of his, in some office, I think Fabian said it was, and he told him to go to the Madeleine first thing this morning and make inquiries as to whether you and M’sieur Lucien had been married there and gave him approximate dates. He was in a hurry. At first, Fabian said, he commanded his friend to go at once that very moment, but there was some difficulty, the Priest in charge of the Register would not be there. Anyway, he is to enquire this morning. That, mam’selle , is why you must go.”

“And when he does not find it,” Fleur said reflectively, “what then?”

“Then Monsieur Pierre will discover other things. Oh, mam’selle , I was listening last night at dinner when he talked to you. You speak beautiful French, but it is not quite good enough to deceive a Frenchman. A German, yes, what would they know of our language? But Monsieur Pierre, he knows better. I could see the way he was watching you, the way he was listening. mam’selle , he suspects your nationality!”