Harriet Smart: The Romances, page 67
She sat up, suddenly uncomfortably awake, and waited for him to return. He came and sat down at the end of the bed. He was naked and looked gaunt and vulnerable. It was easy somehow to imagine his body being beaten and destroyed. She pulled the covers more tightly about her, wondering what he was thinking. She longed to start the conversation but at the same time she felt she had already said far too much.
At last he spoke.
“You said last night you’d heard I was in Pont-Croix?”
“Yes, well, I think it must have been you. Monsieur Segouze said he had been talking to someone who said they had been asked by someone about –”
“Let’s start again,” he said. “You’ve talked to Segouze?”
“Yes, I went there with Denise. Yesterday.”
“With Denise?”
“We were trying to find you. When I found your mother’s letter, I knew I had to find you. So I went to see her. I told her everything. I couldn’t help it. And she took me to see Monsieur Segouze.”
“Who said?”
“That someone in Point-Croix had been trying to find out who told the Gestapo that your parents were Jewish. And that the general opinion was –” She hesitated.
“Yes?” he said.
“So you weren’t in Point-Croix asking about this?” she said.
“I was, but I didn’t get a very clear answer. What did Segouze say to you?”
Her mouth dried.
“That... he said that it was Marianne.”
He said nothing, but got up from the bed and began to get dressed.
“Did you not hear that, then?” she ventured.
“He was quite definite?” he said at last. “Segouze, I mean?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and gathered up the rest of his clothes and went into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him. Saskia hurled herself out of bed and got washed and dressed as quickly as she could manage, before tapping on the door.
“May I...?” she asked.
She went in without waiting for his answer. Almost the first thing she noticed was the revolver lying on the chest of drawers. He was standing in front of the glass knotting his tie.
He glanced at her.
“Yes?”
She had no words left. She had no idea where to begin with him. She walked across the room to the far window and looked out, searching for what she hoped would be the final devastating argument. At the same time, as she looked at the beach, she heard the sound of the revolver being loaded and locked. When she dared to glance around, it had gone. Presumably he had put in his jacket pocket.
She stared out at the sea again, and noticed a small white dog on the beach, like a white pudding on legs. It was barking and running about in frenzied circles, chasing a stick thrown by its master. Another man was sitting on the rocks nearby. Both of them wore rough, dark clothing and nearby, on the empty beach road, there was an old farm van, painted a particular shade of blue that she now vividly remembered.
She turned and caught his arm, pulling him towards the window.
“Look,” she said. “It’s those men. I remember that dog.”
“Desbordes et fils,” he said.
“Oh my God. We need to get out of here,” Saskia said. “Now.”
“And go where? Perhaps I should just let them have what they want,” he said, reaching for the handle to the casement.
“What are you doing?” she said, dragging him away from the window. “Haven’t you heard a word I said?”
“Every word. And I appreciate it, but no. It’s better that this ends now. For you, as much as anyone.” And he moved towards the window again.
“No!” she said pulling him back. “I refuse to let you do this. We are getting out of here, and you – well, you are going to talk to Marianne!”
She was astonished at herself for saying this. Allowing him to talk to Marianne with a loaded gun in his pocket was scarcely a solution at all, but it felt like the only weapon she had to deal with this. Anything was better than having him walk out onto the balcony and announce his presence to the Desbordes.
“We will go to the Seigneurie,” she said, laying her hands on his shoulders. “And then, we will see what we shall see.”
He flicked her hands from him and turned away.
“Tell me you don’t want to talk to her,” she managed to say. “Tell me that. You can’t, can you?”
“All right, all right!” he shouted, turning back. “Have it your way. We’ll go!”
THE TRUE VALUE OF PEARLS
Chapter Thirty-seven
Of course, the van did not want to start. She turned the engine over and over, and finally it spluttered reluctantly into life and she was able to nudge the van along the beach road towards the mouth of the estuary. They turned onto the cobbled quay and went jolting along towards the bridge across the river. From there lay the back road to the Seigneurie.
Whether or not the Desbordes had seen them leave, she had no idea. She only wanted to get away as soon as possible and put themselves out of sight of them, if that were possible. It had not helped that Jean-Jacques had settled the bill in the most leisurely way imaginable, as if he wanted the Desbordes to come into the hotel and find him. When they had gone out into the street to the van, she could not see them on the beach. Perhaps they were waiting in their own van for them to leave.
They got to the bridge, but had to wait until a horse-drawn cart lumbered off the bridge and turned up towards the church. As they waited, she saw the Desbordes’ van in the mirror behind her.
“Damn, damn, damn!” she said, and the van decided to stall. Frantically she restarted the engine and lurched over the bridge, only to shoot off the other side and almost miss the sharp turning onto the back road. Such was the swerve and swing that Jean-Jacques reached out and grabbed the wheel.
“Are they behind us?” she said. “I can’t see.” They were now hurtling down a narrow lane with high hedges on either side.
“Slow down!” he said, “for God’s sake! You are going to get us killed.”
“As if you care!” she said.
“Slow down!” he shouted. “Christ, yes, I do care! I do want to talk to Marianne, you are right, and don’t forget your baby. Just slow down! But gently –”
She applied the brake as gently as the circumstances permitted.
“Thank you,” he said.
“My pleasure,” she said.
He twisted in his seat and said, “They’re still there.”
“And how do I lose them at this speed?”
“We can’t. All you can do is keep driving sensibly. Like this. As if you have a croquembouche to deliver.”
The image of a pyramid of choux buns sitting in the back of the van with all her other rubbish struck her as risible.
“What would I be doing with a wedding cake?” she said. “It’s funny, in England we have very solid wedding cakes, and in France they are so fragile – oh God, what the –”
The Desbordes’ were trying to overtake, but the road was too narrow, and she had to veer towards the ditch on her side of the road. As she did, the Desbordes thought better of overtaking and sank back behind them again.
“Don’t veer off!” he said. “Stay straight in the middle. They are trying to force us off the road,” he said, then added something in French which sounded obscene and furious.
“What did that mean?” she said.
“You can guess... oh –”
The Desbordes were attempting to overtake again.
Her whole instinct was to veer towards the ditch, even though there was a steep, stony escarpment beyond it. On the other side of the road it looked as if the road dropped away. If she did not pull in then the Desbordes would surely go over the edge.
A steep bend was approaching and she could see nothing helpful ahead of her. She slowed down as much as she could to allow for the bend, and the Desbordes came steaming up alongside now, apparently heedless of the danger. There was scarcely any room. She braked frantically and took the bend as tightly as she could, hearing the screech of brakes, and then saw a car in the distance coming towards them. She slammed down on the clutch and brake pedals, and mercifully they stopped.
But the Desbordes van did not stop. It went shooting forward, narrowly missing Saskia’s van; swerving, it struck the oncoming car a glancing blow. The Desbordes’ van bounced off, spinning down the cliff on the far side of the road. For a moment, there was a terrible silence. Saskia gripped the steering wheel and waited. Then the inevitable came – the sickening crunch and boom that signified the extinguishing of two human lives.
She felt Jean-Jacques reach for her hand. He was shaking, as was she.
-o-
An hour or so later, sitting by the fire in a nearby cottage, having drunk several bowls of milky, sugary coffee, she watched Jean-Jacques again laboriously and patiently explaining the sequence of events to a pair of gendarmes. For some reason, she had been spared questions. He had seen to all that. It was as if he had cast some magic cloak around her, and she was off limits. She was glad of it, but somehow could not quite understand how it had happened. It felt like a dereliction of duty. After all, she had been the driver, and surely there was some sense in which it was her fault. Both the Desbordes father and son had been killed, as well as the little white pudding dog. By some miracle, the driver of the other car had not been injured.
The gendarmes now seemed satisfied, and Jean-Jacques came over to her and sat down.
“They say you can go home now,” he said.
“Home?” she said. “Where’s that?”
“I thought we established you owned a Seigneurie.”
“Oh,” she said. “With my husband in it.” The thought of explaining to Adrian what had just happened was inconceivable.
“And my wife,” he said.
“Oh yes,” she said and could not help grimacing.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll drive.”
They drove back in silence. She sat watching the landscape pass, still stiff with shock, her body aching, her heart too, and her head full of whirling anxious questions to which there were no answers. She found herself thinking of the poor little white pudding dog, and it was not his fault that he should be now be dead and not happily running about the beach, fetching sticks. She began to cry.
Two cars and a van were parked by the driveway, and couple of bicycles were leaning against the gateway to the forecourt.
“You’ve got visitors,” Jean-Jacques said as they went through the archway.
“What?”
He had to stop the van in the archway. The courtyard was full of people.
“What is going on?” she said.
She got no answer. Jean-Jacques had already climbed down from the van and was pushing his way through the crowd.
At this moment, two men could be seen manhandling Marianne down the steps from the front door, as if she were under arrest. One of the men was Segouze. There was a sort of vicious cheer as they appeared. Then came another man, this time marching the hapless Georgette, and then the same chilling jeer from the crowd.
Saskia clambered out from the van, and found she could see nothing of Jean-Jacques except for the top of his head. The crowd had enfolded him, pressing him forward.
Then an upstairs window opened and Adrian looked out. He addressed the crowd, in slow, precise French, as if speaking from carefully prepared notes.
“Listen! Listen! I have telephoned the police. I am sure this is unlawful assembly and that there will be serious consequences if you remain on this property! Please leave at once! At once!”
“None of your business, Englishman!” said someone.
Saskia now tried to get through the crowd for herself. She could see that Marianne and Georgette had been forced to sit down on the stone bench by the well, and Segouze was pulling down Marianne’s immaculate chignon, while another man did the same to her maid. There was a pair of shears lying on the ground. Segouze grabbed them and cut off a great chunk of Marianne’s hair and waved it at the crowd, who cheered and began to chant: “Collabo! Collabo! Collabo!”
Georgette had closed her eyes and appeared to be praying for mercy but Marianne was bolt upright, her eyes fixed seemingly on some invisible point in front of her.
Now Jean-Jacques pushed out of the crowd. Segouze saw him and offered him the shears. He took them and stood in front of Marianne. Silence fell. Her remaining hair now covered her face and he reached forward, and pushed it back from her face, the shears still in his hand. He held her hair for a moment, as if he were deciding where to make the next cut.
Saskia could bear it no longer. She had seen photographs after the liberation of women collaborators, half-naked, with shaved heads, paraded up and down village streets, and the thought of his having any part of such barbarism – no, she could not bear it. She hurled herself forwards intending to stop him, only to find herself crashing straight into him as he turned away from Marianne. The shears went clattering from his hand and onto the floor.
He had not cut her hair.
Segouze grabbed up the shears, intending to finish what he had begun, but Jean-Jacques said, “No, comrade, no! The time for that is past. Let them go.”
“But –”
“No. We don’t do this now.” He turned and addressed the crowd. “This must stop. This is France and we do not take cheap revenge. This is not what we fought for. What we fought for and what we won was order, civility and the law. We are not barbarians. This is not allowed. What was allowed in Forty-five is not allowed now. Not for one minute!” He turned back to Segouze. “Give me those!”
There was a long pause, and then Segouze handed him the shears. Jean-Jacques went to the well and tossed them in. Then he reached into his pocket and took out the revolver. He showed it to the crowd and then threw it in as well.
“Vive la France!” he said. “Now go home everyone, please! It’s lunchtime!”
Some of the crowd began to turn and leave. But Segouze and his allies clearly wanted to stay and argue the point. An earnest debate broke out, and Jean-Jacques was in the thick of it, talking and talking, gesturing to emphasise every point. It was over, he kept repeating; revenge was not an option. That much she could understand.
She stood, dry-throated, astonished. She could still not believe he had thrown the gun away. He had changed his mind. He had decided to live.
“Saskia, Saskia!” It was Adrian, calling to her from the window. “Who is that? Is he the local magistrate?”
“No,” said Saskia. “He was something quite big in the Resistance around here, though. A hero.”
“Extraordinary. You won’t believe what has been going on. Where were you, by the way? I’ve been so worried. And now this business! And where are the police?”
She made her way into the house and found Adrian coming down the stairs to meet her.
“I’ve been worried sick,” he said.
“It was only two nights.”
“In your condition –”
“I thought I’d made it clear, that’s none of your business!”
Behind her she could still hear Jean-Jacques making his insistent speeches, and a woman crying. She glanced back and saw that Georgette was now utterly overcome and was bent double, weeping, while Marianne remained upright and impassive, her half-ravaged pale hair flapping about her head in the breeze.
“What do we do with them, then?” Segouze was saying.
“Kick them out,” said Jean-Jacques. “She’s no right to this place, for a start.”
He went over to Marianne and jerked her to her feet.
“Go and pack,” he said, and pushed her back into the house.
She stumbled into the hall and met Saskia’s gaze.
Marianne straightened and said, “This has been a disgusting outrage. I am completely innocent!” She turned to Adrian. “Whatever they said, it is not true, Dr Harper. I’m sure you understand that. This man –” she gestured towards Jean-Jacques. “This man is –”
“Her husband,” said Jean-Jacques, putting out his hand to Adrian. “Monsieur Harper? Jean-Jacques Sebastien.”
“Husband?” said Adrian.
“She married my father bigamously,” said Saskia.
“What?” said Adrian. “As well as sleeping with German officers?” He stared at Marianne, who was rearranging her hair, almost as if nothing had happened. “That was what it was about, I think? I have to confess I didn’t get every nuance.”
“Amongst other things,” said Jean-Jacques. “Yes, Marianne?”
“I’m innocent! Absolutely innocent! And you, how dare you accuse me! I told your wife what this man did,” she said to Adrian. “But I don’t suppose she has told you, because she can’t face the truth of it. How could she? She’s fallen in love with him, the little fool.”
“What did he do?” Adrian asked.
“He’s a dangerous, violent killer,” said Marianne. “That’s the long and the short of it. And –”
“Oh, be quiet, for God’s sake, Marianne!” said Jean-Jacques, “or I will send you back out to Segouze and company. You are lucky they did not string you up. You are lucky I didn’t string you up!”
“But you wanted to, didn’t you?” she said. “I saw it in your face. You were so close.”
“But I didn’t, did I?” he retorted. “Oh yes, I was tempted, sorely tempted. And yes, I have it in me. I know what I am and exactly what I am capable of. I have to live with that burden every day of my life, the knowledge of what I did to those poor stupid lads. And even if the exigencies of war gives me grace and some kind of excuse, I don’t feel it! I never will. So I know what I am fucking talking about, you bitch! How dare you goad me, how dare you, after what you have done, after everything you have done to me, to us? After what you did to my poor maman and papa –” He broke off and turned away from her.
There was a long silence.
“You can’t prove that,” she said, “I think you will find.”
Jean-Jacques now came over and reached for Saskia’s hand. He gripped it as if his life depended on it.
