TARASCON
At ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, the funeral procession left the église de la Daurade and made its way slowly towards the yew-lined avenue that led to the cemetery. At the head of the line, behind her husband’s coffin, Célestine Déjean walked slowly and with dignity on the arm of Eloise Breillac. Geneviève and her mother were a few steps behind.
Achille Pujol stood apart from the others. He was there as a family friend, one of Pierre’s only surviving comrades-in-arms, but his darting eyes betrayed the fact he was watching the blue berets of the miliciens, rifles cradled in their arms. A little behind them, four Gestapo soldiers.
Audric Baillard fell in beside him. He was very thin, his wrists, neck and shoulders jutting through his collar and cuffs. His lined face was gaunt and his once thick white hair was little more than down on his head, but his eyes were the same amber colour. Autumn leaves turning to gold.
‘Achille,’ he said quietly.
At first Pujol frowned at the intrusion, then his expression changed. First to horror at the sight of his friend, then to joy.
‘Audric, how the hell . . .?’ He shook his head. ‘Damn you, I thought you were dead. We all did.’ He broke off and peered. ‘It is you?’
Baillard smiled. ‘Yes, amic.’
‘You look dreadful.’
‘I am well aware of that,’ Baillard said lightly.
‘Where in the name of God have you been?’ said Pujol, under his breath.
‘Not here.’ Baillard looked at the cortège. ‘What happened?’
Pujol sighed. ‘Fact is, Pierre never recovered from Antoine’s death. Célestine is strong, but Pierre . . . Kept going as long as he could, I suppose, but in the end he gave up.’
Baillard nodded, then his eyes drifted to the soldiers. ‘Why so many?’
‘There are teams of Nazi archaeologists and engineers everywhere down here,’ Pujol said heavily. ‘Worst at Montségur, but also Montferrier, Ussat-les-Bains, Quéribus. Lombrives and Niaux, you can imagine.’
‘Soularac?’
‘Soularac?’ Pujol said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Not so far as I’ve heard.’
‘Good.’
Pujol waited for a moment, in case Baillard had something to add, then continued.
‘Added to which, they suspect Tarasconnais are smuggling food and supplies to the Maquis at Salvezines and the Roc Blanc. Our own lads.’
‘Are they right?’
‘Of course they’re right,’ Pujol growled. ‘I’m surprised you even need to ask.’
Baillard held up his hand. ‘Forgive me, my friend. I have been gone some time. Things change.’
‘Not here they don’t,’ said Pujol fiercely. He jerked his head towards the phalanx of soldiers. ‘They’re hoping some of the maquisards will come to pay their respects.’
‘They would not be so ill advised, surely?’
Pujol shrugged. ‘You know what these boys are. Living like outlaws in the hills. Put a gun in their hand, think they’re invincible.’
Baillard gave a thoughtful smile. ‘We used to call them faydits,’ he said. ‘Dispossessed. Now they are maquisards. But it is the same spirit, all the same.’
‘Faydits? You’re about seven hundred years out of date, Audric,’ Pujol said. ‘Anyway, Célestine put them right. Told them she’d tan their hides if any of them set foot in the town.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘Oh yes, none of them would get very far without Célestine.’ He stopped, the smile slipping from his face and the strain painfully evident. ‘It’s been two years, Audric,’ he said softly. ‘I thought you were dead.’
Baillard sighed. ‘I know, my friend. I know.’
The two old men looked at each other for a moment, then Baillard glanced again at the blue berets of the Milice.
‘If you do not mind, I shall excuse myself for now.’ He dropped his voice. ‘But you do still have the map? It is safe?’
Pujol nodded. ‘It’s just where you left it.’
Baillard let out a long exhalation of release. ‘Then there is still hope,’ he said.
‘Even when we couldn’t find you, Audric, I could never bring myself to believe you were gone. That you wouldn’t be back,’ Pujol said in a rush, then stopped and turned red.
Baillard put his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘I am here now, Achille.’
‘Yes, yes, of course you are,’ he said gruffly, embarrassed by his show of emotion. He stepped back into the line. ‘I’ll meet you at my house later, as soon as I can get away. There’s a wake at the Oliverot. I ought to show my face.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The key’s where it always was,’ Pujol said. ‘And help yourself to something to eat. God knows, you look like you could do with it.’
When Pujol arrived, it was past two o’ clock. Baillard was sitting at the kitchen table holding the antique glass bottle in his hand.
‘You found it, then?’
‘It is more of a relief to find this kept safe than you can know, Achille.’
Pujol shambled to the cupboard, got out two glasses, filled them with Guignolet. He handed one to Baillard, then sat down opposite him.
‘Did you find something to eat?’
‘What I needed, yes.’
Pujol nodded. ‘What happened, Audric? Where’ve you been? I thought they’d got you. We all did.’
Baillard closed his eyes. Memories of his long, debilitating, violent incarceration came rushing back. The smell and the heat. Later, the cold. The endless sounds of suffering and the stench of the ditches filled with corpses and excrement when dysentery spread through the camp. In the past, in his youth, Baillard had seen epidemics like it – siege sickness, they used to call it – but nothing as bad as what he had witnessed in the past two years.
‘Audric?’ Pujol prompted.
He opened his eyes. ‘Before I tell you, what of you, amic? What of here? How many have we lost?’
‘Too many,’ Pujol said in a quiet voice. ‘From Tarascon, Espéraza, Couiza, Coustaussa, Limoux, all over the valleys.’ He trailed off. ‘Too many.’
‘Each life lost is one too many,’ Baillard said. ‘The things I have seen, the stories I have heard about the camps in the East. This is a war like no other I have known, Achille.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake away the memories. ‘Forgive me. Tell me of life here.’
‘Very well,’ Pujol sighed, accepting that Baillard would not tell his story until he was ready. ‘Pierre and old Breillac are gone,’ he said. ‘Gestapo. Both went down fighting. Young Guillaume is still fighting. Formed the Couiza Maquis with Yves Rousset. Do you know him?’
‘I know Madame Rousset.’
‘Guillaume’s wife Eloise is still hereabouts. Geneviève and Liesl stayed in Coustaussa with Marieta.’
A slow smile spread across Baillard’s face. ‘That is the best news yet, my friend. She was so ill, I feared she might not have survived another winter.’
‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ Pujol said with a satisfied smile. ‘Marieta’s still going strong. Will see the rest of us out, I don’t doubt. Looks after those girls like a mother hen.’
‘Good, ben.’ Baillard smiled, nodding his head. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘And Madomaisèla Sandrine and her sister?’
‘They both returned to Carcassonne shortly after you left. They do a great deal to help the résistants there. Taking messages, keeping lookout, what have you. Mademoiselle Ménard and her son stayed in Coustaussa for a time, but went back to Carcassonne last summer.’
‘Her son, you say?’
Pujol smiled. ‘Jean-Jacques. Bright as a button, must be eighteen months old by now.’
‘Tèn perdu, jhamâi se recobro,’ murmured Baillard, thinking of all he had missed and all that was yet to come. The joy as well as the sorrow.
‘What’s that you’re saying?’
‘Time lost can never be regained,’ Baillard translated. ‘An old Occitan proverb my grandmother, Esclarmonde, was rather fond of.’ He smiled. ‘And Sénher Pelletier?’
‘He, too, has proved to be a courageous man. With Guillaume and Yves some of the time, but travels to Carcassonne to help there too.’
Baillard raised his eyebrows. ‘And to see Madomaisèla Sandrine?’
‘That too,’ Pujol said impatiently. ‘But now, for pity’s sake, tell me where you’ve been.’
Baillard looked into the honest, anxious face of his friend. He raised his arms and then let them fall again, a gesture of resignation.
‘I was caught, Achille. That very day after I left you. A collaborator, pretending to be a partisan. Walked straight into a trap some two hours out of Ax-les-Thermes.’
Pujol drained his glass and poured himself another measure. The air in the kitchen was infused with the sweet smell of cherries.
‘Where did they take you?’
‘I was arrested, one of five or six raids that day.’ Baillard sighed. ‘They asked for me by name.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I had done that route many times. Too many times, perhaps. Someone talked.’ He paused, as he took himself back to that day. ‘Two of those I was helping knew who I was – a Jewish scholar, quite brilliant, and a Dutch résistant – but did not give me away. I was able to give false information and so was charged under that name instead.’
‘That explains why “Baillard” didn’t show up on any lists,’ Pujol said. ‘I checked everywhere.’
Baillard smiled. ‘Thank you, my friend.’
Pujol flushed. ‘You’d have done the same for me,’ he said gruffly, then waved his hand for him to continue.
‘During those first weeks after I was arrested, I was moved from place to place. It was only after the Germans crossed the line and occupied the Midi as well that I was finally sent to a satellite camp close to Rivesaltes.’
‘So near,’ Pujol said, shaking his head. ‘If only I’d known you were there, Audric, I swear I would—’
‘I know, my friend. Don’t reproach yourself. We were the unwanted prisoners. Too old to fill the STO quotas, most of us veterans of other wars.’
‘Left to rot.’
‘That saved us,’ Baillard said simply. ‘We were not considered dangerous. They assumed that age and the bitter weather would do their work for them.’ He paused. ‘The worst of it was knowing how much needed to be done, but being trapped, unable to act.’
He fell silent, remembering his sense of frustration and rage. The endless tiny humiliations of the camp, the relentless grinding down of men’s spirits. The waste of life.
‘Audric,’ Pujol said gently, misinterpreting his silence, ‘you don’t have to go on if it’s too much.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘If I do not, you will imagine things to be worse than they were.’
Baillard recounted the story of his incarceration and his escape, then gave a long sigh. He took a sip of Guignolet, letting the sugar and alcohol ease his bones, before continuing. ‘We waited until it was dark, then the Spaniard and I went our separate ways. García headed for the border. I came here.’
‘I still can’t quite believe it,’ Pujol said gruffly, digging in his pocket for a scrap of tobacco. He rolled himself a thin cigarette. ‘You made good time, I’ll give you that. It must be a hundred and fifty kilometres, give or take.’
‘People were kind. I walked to Collioure, then found a lift almost all of the way to Belcaire. From there, cross-country to here.’
Pujol put out his hand and touched Baillard’s arm. ‘You can stay here as long as you want. You need to rest. Recover your strength.’
Baillard reached out and took the antique glass bottle from the table. ‘I have rested long enough, amic. This task I must now finish.’
Pujol’s expression changed. ‘Not that, Audric. Surely not now, after all this time. Why stir it all up again? Let sleeping dogs lie.’
For a moment, Baillard didn’t speak. He turned the bottle over in his hand, thinking about the precious information contained in the map.
‘Why, Audric?’
He sighed. ‘Because it was announced this morning on the wireless – I heard it at the Café de la Gare as I waited to see you – that Leo Authié is being sent back to the Midi. Although it is said he is to lead the fight against the Resistance, I do not believe that is the true reason.’
Pujol’s expression froze. ‘He’s just one man,’ he said eventually. ‘There are many like him. Leave it be, Baillard. The tide is turning in our favour. Don’t draw attention to yourself.’
Baillard met his gaze. ‘It is true that Führer Hitler is losing the war. And after the Allied success in northern France, it is likely he will pull back troops from the south to defend Paris and the eastern territories.’
‘Well then.’
Baillard shook his head. ‘Do you not understand, Achille? This will make Authié more dangerous, not less. More desperate. He is a clever man. He knows there is little time left. When the Wehrmacht leave the Midi, he is aware of what his fate will be. If he is to find the Codex, he needs to act now and be ready to leave when the Nazis withdraw.’
‘There’s not been a whisper they ever found out the document was a forgery,’ Pujol said. ‘Not a hint of it.’
‘Saurat is dead. He has family near Collioure, that’s why I went there first. His cousin told me he died in Montluc at the hands of Hauptsturmführer Barbie.’ He sighed. ‘He will have talked, Achille. For all his qualities, he was not a strong man.’
‘Poor devil,’ muttered Pujol.
Baillard looked out of the window towards the Pic de Vicdessos in the distance. The fierce afternoon sun blasted down upon the exposed peaks, casting long shadows across the land.
‘Authié has spent the past two years in Chartres, if the wireless report is to be believed. So I am certain, now, for whom he works and what other prize that man is seeking.’ His voice hardened. ‘I intend to make sure he does not get it.’
‘If you say so, Audric.’
‘The story is coming to its end, amic,’ he said. ‘This story, at least.’
‘So long as it’s a happy ending,’ Pujol muttered.
Baillard did not answer.
CARCASSONNE
Sandrine stood by the sink, feeling the cold edge of the porcelain in the small of her back. Marianne was at the stove. Raoul was sitting at the table, his hands in his pockets, watching Suzanne work.
Suzanne placed her ingredients on the table. Forty centimetres of cast-iron pipe, a section of a drainpipe taken from one of the derelict houses near the abattoir in the Aire de la Pépinière. The pipe was already packed with explosive. Sandrine watched as she bolted a stopper into each end, drilled a small hole about halfway down, and pushed into it a fuse that went down into the explosive.
‘It’s a simple, reliable, basic device,’ Suzanne said. ‘A child could do it. There’s two centimetres of fuse here, which will take about two minutes to burn, give or take.’
Sandrine glanced at Raoul’s face.
‘Not much time to get out of the way,’ he said.
‘Long enough,’ Sandrine replied.
‘What’s the rest of it?’ Raoul asked, pointing at the duplicate parts.
‘A decoy,’ Sandrine explained. ‘We’ve done it before, placing two identical devices in locations close to one another – one in the Tour du Grand Burlas and the other in the Tour de la Justice – except one is live and the other one’s a dummy. It means that if anyone talks, the soldiers have a fifty-fifty chance of finding the wrong device rather than the real one.’
Raoul nodded. ‘Good idea. Who’s responsible for the dummy?’
‘Gaston has a friend who works in a restaurant by the Porte de l’Aude, a kitchen porter. He’s going to set it in the Tour de la Justice tonight. It’s the closest we can get to the Hôtel de la Cité, where the dinner’s being held.’
Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘Is that ready yet?’
Marianne came over from the stove holding the tin saucepan at arm’s length in front of her. Raoul wafted his hand in front of his nose.
‘Goose fat,’ Suzanne said, seeing the expression on his face. ‘Vile smell, I grant you, but the best way to keep the pipe airtight. More efficient than wax. Less volatile.’
They watched as Suzanne greased the pipe, then put the last few components in place.
‘Right, that’s done.’
She stood up, gathered everything up in a tea towel and gently carried the device to the sideboard beside the kitchen door. Marianne handed her a cloth for her hands.
‘I’ll show you what to do before we go,’ Suzanne said to Sandrine. ‘You’re sure you don’t want me to stay? Just until it’s in place, at least.’
Sandrine glanced at her sister and saw the look of resignation in her eyes, then shook her head.
‘No, it’s all right. Better you should go. Take the package to Gaston, then catch tonight’s train. Who knows when there’ll be another.’ She smiled. ‘Raoul and I will manage.’
‘Isn’t Lucie going with you two?’ Raoul asked.
Marianne shook her head. ‘Not at the moment. She doesn’t want to uproot Jean-Jacques.’ She paused. ‘Suzanne’s mother is very fond of him. She helps out with him a great deal.’
‘Lucie should be all right,’ Sandrine said, seeing the look of concern on Raoul’s face. ‘She’s so changed since Authié last saw her. And even if he did go looking for her, he’d never think to try Madame Peyre’s address.’
Raoul nodded, but Sandrine could see he wasn’t convinced.
‘The most important thing at this moment is for Suzanne and Marianne to leave,’ she said.
‘Are you ready?’ Marianne asked Suzanne.
‘I need to pack this lot up, then change.’
‘The train isn’t until six thirty, is it?’ Sandrine said.
‘Yes, but the checks are bound to take some time,’ Marianne said. ‘Why don’t I do this for you,’ she offered, gesturing at the components for the decoy, ‘and you go and get ready.’
‘Give me five minutes,’ Suzanne said, walking out of the kitchen. Seconds later, Sandrine heard the heavy tread of her boots on the stairs.
For a moment, no one said anything.
‘Could you do me a favour and check the wireless, Raoul?’ Sandrine said. ‘Just in case something’s happened we should be aware of. There should be a bulletin any minute now.’
Realising that she wanted time to say goodbye to Marianne in private, he got up quickly and went out of the room.
The two sisters were left alone. Marianne found a canvas bag and carefully put the parts into it, then sat down at the table again. Overhead, they could hear Suzanne moving about.
‘This is it, then,’ Marianne said.
‘For a day or two, that’s all,’ Sandrine said. ‘We’ll do what we have to do, then we’ll join you. By Sunday we’ll all be together in Coustaussa.’ She smiled. ‘Like old times.’
Marianne nodded. ‘Now the time’s come, I can’t wait to see Marieta. I’ve tried not to miss her too much.’
‘Me too,’ Sandrine said. ‘Though I bet she won’t have changed a bit.’
Marianne smiled. ‘I wonder what Liesl will be like? Two years is a long time between sixteen and eighteen.’
‘Raoul says she’s very beautiful.’
Marianne threw a glance at her. ‘Is that a touch of jealousy?’
Sandrine blushed. ‘No, not at all. I’m just saying.’
Marianne laughed, then the smile slid from her face. ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘You know I will,’ she said softly. ‘And Raoul will be with me. He’ll make sure I’m all right.’
Marianne nodded. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been going to pieces in the last few weeks. You keep going and keep going then, suddenly, you lose your nerve. No reason, or rather . . . I suppose Suzanne being picked up, that did for me.’
Sandrine nodded. ‘I know. I understand.’
She hesitated, then decided to ask outright what she had known for a long time.
‘You love her,’ she said.
Marianne met her gaze. She hesitated, on the point of framing the conventional response, then stopped. It was clear in her face that she, too, was conscious of the fact that however much care Sandrine, or Marianne herself, took – however matter-of-fact their conversation – this might be the last time they spoke to each other.
‘I do.’
‘Did Thierry realise?’ Sandrine asked, genuinely curious. ‘Or is it a more recent thing?’
‘Certainly Thierry knew.’ Marianne smiled. ‘It suited him just as well, you see. Harder for him, of course.’
Sandrine frowned, then realised what Marianne was saying. ‘Oh. I see. You were a cover for him.’
‘It’s the only good thing that’s come out of any of this,’ she said quietly. ‘In some ways, it’s been easier than it would have been in peacetime.’
The sound of Suzanne coming back down the stairs brought the conversation to a close.
‘I’m glad for you,’ Sandrine said quickly.
Marianne nodded. ‘Me too.’ She turned and smiled as Suzanne walked in. ‘Are you ready to go?’
Suzanne nodded. ‘All set,’ she said.
The three women walked back into the hall, where two suitcases were sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Raoul came out of the salon to say goodbye.
‘We’ll join you as soon as we can,’ he said. ‘Sunday, Monday at the latest.’
‘Look after her,’ Marianne said, as Raoul hugged her.
‘I will.’
Raoul shook hands with Suzanne, then went back into the salon to act as lookout at the window.
‘You’re clear on what to do?’ Suzanne said to Sandrine.
‘Lord, you two are as bad as each other,’ she said with a smile. ‘I will be careful, as I always am. I will go through the exact same procedures as I always do.’ She smiled. ‘And it will be fine, as it always is. Don’t worry.’
‘All clear,’ Raoul called from the salon.
‘All the copies of Libertat were collected by the couriers,’ Suzanne said, ‘so nothing to worry about there.’
‘Good.’
Suzanne turned to Marianne. ‘I’ll see you on the platform at half past five. If for any reason I’m not there, you go on. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Why wouldn’t you be there?’ Marianne said quickly. ‘I’m not going without you.’
‘Come on, don’t get rattled. It’s just the usual precautions, you know how it is. I will be there. But if there’s a problem, it will be better if I know you’re on your way. Safe. You see?’
Marianne pulled herself together. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
Sandrine opened the door. Suzanne picked up her suitcase, then, without a backward glance, walked down the steps and away to the right, out of sight.
A few minutes later, Marianne did the same, though headed in the opposite direction, away from the station.
Sandrine stood listening to her sister’s footsteps echoing down the rue du Palais, blinking away the tears. Neither of them had said it, but both sisters knew it was possible they were saying goodbye to their childhood home for ever.
‘Just us now,’ she said, as Raoul came to stand beside her.
‘Just us,’ he said, putting his arms around her.
Finally, and for the first time in longer than she could remember, Sandrine gave in. She broke down and cried. Raoul held her, stroking her hair and saying nothing.