“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!”
“And if he does, would he dare to give me up and so to denounce me after his aunt had sheltered me all these months? Surely – ”
“Monsieur Pierre is a traitor to our country,” Marie interrupted. “He is working with the Germans, he would be glad to curry favour with them. He is of the type of Laval, that one, and do you suppose that family pride would matter to him more than his personal advantage? No, no, mam’selle, a man who would betray France would certainly not hesitate to betray the honour of his family. You are in danger, ma petite, you must go at once.”
“But where? Where can I go?”
Fleur made a helpless gesture with her hands.
“I have thought of all that,” Marie replied, “and Monsieur le Maire is not without ideas. He told Fabian that those papers you already carry must be destroyed. It is not safe for you to show them to someone like Monsieur Pierre.”
“But what will he give me instead?” Fleur questioned.
“I have arranged that,” Marie replied. “Écoutez, mam’selle, listen to me. I have a brother Jacques. He is fond of me and I of him, although I have not seen him for many years. He lives at Ste-Madeleine-de-Beauchamps, a little village not far from Dieppe.
“Jacques has a farm there, it is my home, you will understand. Some of his children work with him on the land and some are fishermen. He has a large family. You will go to him with papers from which anyone who reads them will learn that you are his niece.”
“But, Marie, how do I know that he will accept me?”
“He will accept you because I sent you,” she replied. “He has no love for the Germans, his eldest boy, François, was killed fighting in the Ardennes. The Padre wrote and told me of his death for Jacques cannot write. He has worked far too hard all his life to have time for learning.”
“But supposing – ”
“Now don’t you worry, mam’selle. It will be all right, I promise you.”
“Oh, Marie, come with me!”
“I have thought of that,” Marie replied, “but it would not be wise. If Monsieur Pierre was to look for us he might suspect that I would go home, but for you, no, it will not be so easy. He will have to guess in what direction you have gone.”
“But the permit to travel?”
“That is all being arranged for. Fabian has gone back to his father to ask for them to be made out in the name of ‘Jeanne Bouvais’. He will explain exactly to Monsieur le Maire what is required. He will understand, he is no fool, that man.”
“It is dangerous for him too,” Fleur said. “I don’t know why he should do this for me?”
“He does it not so much for you, mam’selle, as to be against the Germans. He may look like a mouse, but he has the heart of a lion.”
“I had no idea.”
“Nor have the Germans,” Marie replied grimly. “He is small and appears frightened and so they let him remain in office, they give him orders and they are pleased by the respectful and humble way he promises to obey them. But they don’t know!
“The other day they brought a large train full of produce into our Station, produce stolen from our farms and being taken to Germany. The trucks were not running smoothly and they sent for Monsieur le Maire and told him that ten men were to be put to work immediately to grease the axle wheels. Monsieur agreed.
“‘And no nonsense, mind,’ they added. ‘If any man is caught putting sand or anything else into the wheels, he will be shot, also his family and those who are working with him.’
“‘We understand,’ Monsieur le Maire answered and he called the men and told them in front of the Germans how important the job was and how well it was to be done.
“‘You must be very careful, mes enfants,’ he said, ‘to see your hands are clean while you are doing this work. If you touch anything save the axle grease, you must go at once to the little stream beside the Station and wash.
“The Germans nodded approval, but those who were listening almost laughed aloud. For that little stream in which they were to wash their hands is the one place in our village where there is sand, good, strong gritty sand.”
“The men understood, of course, and, while they were doing their task, they obeyed his instructions and went often to wash. That train carried into Germany many handfuls of our good strong sand!
“Yes indeed, Monsieur le Maire is not so simple as he looks. You can trust him. But now, mam’selle, we must hurry. You must leave as soon as it is dawn.”
Fleur climbed out of bed.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Nearly four o’clock,” Marie replied. “And look, I have your luggage and your clothes ready for you.”
She raised her candle and pointed to a dark bundle in the corner of the room. Beside it was a wicker basket and an old carpet bag such as the peasants in France often carry when they are travelling, a relic handed down from generation to generation.
“But the clothes!” Fleur said wonderingly.
“Mam’selle will excuse them being my own,” Marie answered. “I had them many years ago.”
There was a note of wistfulness in her voice and then, as Fleur picked up the dress and looked at it closely, she saw that it was almost new, old-fashioned but trimly tailored, of the heavy black material that Marie still wore on Sundays and in which the majority of women in the village went to Mass.
“But,