CARCASSONNE
Lucie was waiting in the blue Peugeot 202 at the corner of the rue Mazagran. Marianne came out of the front door with her usual shopping basket. Suzanne went out of the back with the luggage. They didn’t want to risk Madame Fournier seeing the suitcase and putting two and two together.
Marianne and Lucie were both dressed for summer, in short-sleeved cotton dresses and straw hats. If they were stopped, they would look like any other girls out for a summer outing. Suzanne was wearing her customary slacks and shirt.
‘How did you get the car?’ Marianne said, putting her things in the boot.
‘My father went back to the Café Edouard last evening. His drinking companions carried him home, out for the count. I waited until I could hear him snoring, then crept in through the workshop, took the key and the car. By the time he wakes up, we’ll be south of Limoux.’
‘How did you manage to get enough fuel?’ Suzanne was peering at the three full cans of petrol on the floor in the back of the car.
‘From the “official” pumps,’ Lucie said. ‘I said it was for him. Returning POW and all that . . .’
They drove out on the Route de Toulouse, heading for the Montréal road. A few kilometres out of town, they saw their first roadblock. Ahead of them, a car was pulled over, the doors and bonnet open, being searched by police.
‘Shall we take another road?’ suggested Marianne.
Lucie turned off and doubled back, then followed a smaller road heading south.
They arrived in Couiza a little after midday. Lucie turned off the engine, then slumped theatrically back in her seat.
‘I know it’s not much further, but she’s got to cool down a little. I need to put fresh water in the radiator, otherwise she won’t cope with the hill. It’s steep, you said?’
Marianne nodded. She got out, then Suzanne climbed through from the back.
‘Hot,’ she said.
Lucie rolled her neck, to shake the drive out of her shoulders, then reached into the glove compartment, pulled out her powder compact and lipstick, tilted the rear-view mirror and started to do her face.
‘I look a sight,’ she said.
Suzanne lit a cigarette and walked away from the car.
‘She always has tobacco, how come?’
‘She claims her father’s allowance, I think,’ Marianne said, not adding the fact that it came more often from people Suzanne and she had helped. ‘How long do you think we’ll need? I’m keen to be there.’
‘Once I’ve filled her up with water, it won’t be long.’
The girls went to the Grand Café Guilhem on the bridge. One or two people recognised Marianne and nodded, but mostly people kept themselves to themselves. They took a table in the shade, close to the door, and ordered three glasses of wine.
Suzanne nodded to Marianne. ‘You think we’re safe here?’
Marianne shrugged.
‘How are you holding up, Lucie?’ she said quietly.
‘Fine and dandy,’ Lucie replied, though her eyes were anxious.
In the heat of the day, nothing was stirring. Few sounds were heard, just the occasional clatter of a plate or a glass from somewhere in the dark interior. They finished up, paid and walked back out into the blistering August sun.
Lucie fanned herself with her hat, Marianne looked around at the familiar landmarks, then her eyes widened.
‘It can’t be.’
‘What?’ Suzanne said.
‘There, look.’
Coming towards them, on the far side of the concourse, was Sandrine, accompanied by an elderly man in a pale linen suit.
At first Sandrine thought she was imagining it. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes and saw she wasn’t mistaken. Lucie’s corn-coloured hair and Suzanne’s short crop were so distinctive. And her sister was wearing her favourite blue dress.
‘Marianne!’ she cried. She walked faster, then broke into a run. ‘Marianne, I can’t believe it.’
She flung her arms around her, then kissed Suzanne and Lucie.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she said again. ‘What are you doing here? More to the point, how did you even get here? We had such a storm, the line’s still closed at Alet-les-Bains. There’ve been no trains for days.’
‘Lucie “borrowed” one of her father’s cars,’ Marianne said, making inverted commas in the air with her hands. ‘As for why, since you didn’t call – and didn’t answer the telegram I sent – Suzanne and I thought we had better come to see for ourselves everything was all right.’
‘Telegram?’ Sandrine shook her head. ‘Didn’t get anything, but never mind. Marieta will be so pleased to see you. I’m so pleased to see you.’
‘It’s nice to be out of Carcassonne,’ said Marianne. ‘How’s it been? Everything all right?’
‘A bit odd at first, without you and Papa,’ Sandrine admitted, ‘but then . . .’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘But the thing is – and there’s nothing to worry about now, because she’s going to be fine – the thing is, Marieta was taken ill almost immediately we arrived.’
‘What kind of ill?’ Marianne said quickly.
‘A heart attack,’ Sandrine said, then, seeing Marianne’s expression, rushed on. ‘Very mild.’
Marianne put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh God.’
Sandrine hugged her. ‘She’s on the mend, really she is. It was more of a warning, but it was pretty frightening at the time. The doctor says there’s no reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. She just has to keep off her legs and let us do the work.’
‘How’s she managing that?’
‘Not awfully well. But Liesl’s been wonderful. And without Monsieur Baillard, well . . . Let me introduce you.’ He was standing a little apart, his hat held in his hands. ‘He’s the friend Marieta wrote to, remember?’ ‘She used to work for him in Rennes-les-Bains when she was young and why she was so keen to come to Coustaussa in the first instance.’ She smiled. ‘Monsieur Baillard, may I present my sister Marianne.’
He held out his hand. ‘Madomaisèla Vidal.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Baillard.’
‘The pleasure is mine,’ he said formally. He turned to Sandrine. ‘I will leave you to your reunions. You are certain, filha? There is still time for you to change your mind.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘No. I want to do it.’
He nodded. ‘Very well. Until Wednesday, then. Dimècres.’
Sandrine dropped her voice. ‘Promise me you’ll look after Raoul, Monsieur Baillard. Don’t let any harm come to him.’
‘I will do my best,’ he said.
He raised his hat again, then slowly walked across the concourse towards the Espéraza road. Sandrine watched him go with a catch in her throat, something about his unruffled presence reminding her of her father. She sighed.
‘What’s happening on Wednesday?’ Marianne asked.
Sandrine turned to her sister. ‘Antoine Déjean’s funeral in Tarascon.’
‘Yes, we saw in the newspaper he had been found,’ she said quietly, ‘though I’m not sure—’
‘Antoine was working for Monsieur Baillard.’
Marianne looked doubtfully after the frail white figure, like a ghost on the far corner of the square.
‘Working for him? In what capacity?’
‘I’ll explain when we’re home,’ said Sandrine, dropping her voice even lower. ‘Raoul’s stepped in to help now.’
Marianne’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’s been in touch?’
A brief smiled played across her sister’s lips. ‘Better. He came in person.’
‘How did he know you were here?’ she said.
Sandrine shrugged. ‘He took a chance. He was worried that now Antoine has been found, Coursan would make renewed efforts to track me down.’ She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know if he’s right.’
‘Coursan . . .’
‘Coursan, or whatever his name is. The man who set Raoul up.’
‘Authié,’ Marianne said. ‘It’s Authié.’
‘It is? How do you know?’
‘I had his description from several people, in the end,’ Marianne said, going on to explain what had happened in Carcassonne. ‘Attached to the Deuxième Bureau.’
‘Well,’ Sandrine said, keeping her voice steady. ‘I’m sure everyone’s worrying too much. If he – Authié, Coursan – wanted to find me, he could. Everyone knows we have a house here. And as Lucie said, it was me who handed my details to the police in the first place. It’s not her fault.’
‘All the same . . .’ Marianne started, then decided to hold her tongue. ‘Where’s Raoul now? Still in Coustaussa?’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘He left this morning with Geneviève. She’s taking him to somewhere south of Belcaire, where Eloise will meet him and take him on to Tarascon. He can’t travel openly, there are posters everywhere.’
‘Seen them,’ Suzanne said. ‘And I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you ready to get going? The waiter wants the table and Lucie needs to lie down.’
‘Why? What’s wrong with Lucie?’ asked Sandrine.
Marianne sighed. ‘We have a lot more to tell you too.’