Page 47 of Whispers At Dawn
By the time he turned the corner, the men had already disappeared into the château. Armand released an anguished sigh, and his blue eyes were like angry slits in his salmon-pink puffy face. A woman exited a side door and called over to him. ‘Good evening. You must be Monsieur Armand.’
He nodded, unable to construct a suitable reply in his indignation.
‘We ate early as there is much to do for our distinguished guest this evening, but I saved some for you, so you may dine in peace whilst we serve in the kitchen.’
The housekeeper spoke to him as though she were doing him a great favour and he had to hold his acidic tongue from slaying her offer with a furious response.
A huge black and tan dog came rushing around the corner, and Armand stiffened and stopped. He was afraid of dogs, especially big ones.
The housekeeper noticed his reaction. ‘Come here, Beau, don’t bother our guest,’ she said, calling him until he nuzzled against her, and she stroked his massive head as he trotted beside her through the door.
How absolutely vile. A dog in the house. Armand would have expected higher standards from the upper classes. He sniffed and resumed walking after the woman. The day would come when he wouldn’t be relegated to the kitchens with dogs, and he would dine with the crème de la crème and be party to their innermost secrets.
His vision was clear on how the Vichy government would merge seamlessly with the Nazi regime and he intended to play a vital part in the machinations that would be instrumental in bringing this extraordinary collaboration about.
Armand attempted to conjure a small smile for the housekeeper, who showed him into a pleasant room and poured him a glass of brandy when he said that was his poison of choice. Soon after she brought him a meal, and when he finished eating, he flopped into a comfortable chair by the window and admired the view of his red roofed city below.
Oh, to live like the nobility and look down on his subjects from above. Even in the staff’s quarters, the accommodations were far more splendid than his small apartment near the river where he lived alone.
Armand felt the heat of the liquid permeate his throat, and he lit a cigarette and contemplated what would surely be his glorious future, whilst trying not to dwell on the fact he had been relegated to the servant’s quarters and not given a seat at the table.
My time is coming, Monsieur Saint-Clair. There will be another revolution and I’ll be the one living in your fine château if you’re not very, very careful.
He touched hismédaille commémorativefrançaise de la guerre, which was a standard medal awarded to veterans of the First War. It still burned, he’d been overlooked for anything more significant, despite his contributions in two wars.
His thoughts circled back to the attractive young man, Michel Dubois. Now he knew where he was staying, there was no need to waste his precious resources tracking him down as he had intended. He could focus his energies on keeping an eye on him at the château. There was something about the newcomer that intrigued him, and it wasn’t just his fine physique.
He puffed on hisGitanesand decided he would commence his surveillance as soon as he had a vacancy in his busy schedule.
‘If there’s more to you than you are saying, Michel Dubois, I will soon know about it,’ he said aloud, his voice low and chilling.
Armand planned his petty revenge. If he wasn’t who he claimed, the commissaire would be disgraced for falling for the ruse. And if Dubois checked out to be who he said he was, Armand consoled himself: he would have an enjoyable time monitoring him, for he was a delight to the eye. There would be other opportunities to bring the commissaire down. The head of the police was entitled and wouldn’t suspect his position was in danger.
Forbidden feelings raced through him, causing him to shudder with the ache of unfulfilled desire as his thoughts swung back to Michel Dubois like a magnet. He had made several visitsto his mistress since first laying eyes on the delectable mystery man, but unfortunately, through no fault of her own, she was not equipped to satisfy his needs in anything more than a perfunctory fashion.
This was the curse Armand had lived under since he was an adolescent. He had tried everything he could think of to banish his unnatural carnal desires, but each time he thought he had them under control, they raised their head again like a venomous snake. He blamed his father, who had been an effeminate man. Armand assumed he must have inherited the wicked gene, so there was nothing he could do to stop it, but he would make sure no one ever suspected his unfortunate cravings. His bright future would be over if the truth were ever to get out.
Armand finished his brandy and let his eyes close until he drifted off into a light sleep. He may as well rest whilst the opportunity presented itself.
CHAPTER 23
Jack was nowhere to be seen as Lizzie descended the sweeping staircase in her evening dress and hovered at the entrance to the formal dining room, not sure whether she should knock. Suzanne and her small team had been buzzing in and out of the room all day. The heavy wood door swung open, and the butler announced her arrival and ushered her inside.
Luc was seated alone at the long table, which was decorated with vines and vibrant floral bouquets of summer blooms freshly picked from the gardens.
Lizzie gasped in wonder at the sheer beauty of the scene, which was opulent yet tasteful. She gazed about her in wonder at the paintings on the walls and the high plastered ceiling and glittering chandeliers. She had not dined in a setting as grand as this, even though her parents moved in wealthy circles in Jersey before the war. She was a mere child then and hadn’t been invited to regal dinners her parents attended.
Like the rest of the château, the furniture showed signs of slight wear, but if anything; it added to the romantic grace of the room. She imagined the countless glamorous parties and dinners that must have taken place there over hundreds of years.
It was difficult to keep up with repairs since the war broke out and the subsequent austerity. In truth, Lizzie didn’t know what sort of access wealthy French people like Luc retained to their pre-war money. He had mentioned it wasn’t a time for indulgence when people in the village were struggling to put food in their children’s mouths.
Luc seemed like a good man. Jack had told her they regularly sent château produce they could spare, that wasn’t taken by the Germans, to be distributed amongst the villagers.
‘My dear, here you are,’ Luc said, his lined face breaking into a genuine smile as he stood and moved towards Lizzie. He looked dashing in a velvet dinner jacket and cravat and was dressed more formally than for their usual dinners. His silver hair was swept back neatly and added to his distinguished appearance.
They kissed, French style, and he escorted her to sit next to him. ‘You look exquisite. I confess it is my fault your usually diligent husband isn’t here to meet you. Don’t be nervous, my friend has risen to a high rank in the police force, but to me, he is still the fellow with whom I used to play boules.’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘Remember that, if he asks any difficult questions.’
Just as Lizzie was about to ask where her husband had gone, Jack appeared in the doorway with the commissaire at his side, who proffered a charming smile. Jack introduced them and they were soon all seated and making polite pre-dinner conversation.
