Paris: The Novel

quiet of the château.
    It was very peaceful. Indeed, with the increasing difficulty of getting gasoline, it was like returning to an earlier time. They walked or rode, or used an old pony trap that had been kept in the stables. Roland would go out into the woods with his gun and return cheerfully with a brace ofpheasant, or pigeons, or a rabbit or two. He also enjoyed the gentle exercise of splitting logs, and as winter set in, they would sit in front of the fire, well supplied with firewood from the estate, and taste the pâté that Marie and the cook had made together, with a fine Burgundy that Roland had retrieved from the cellars—“For we may as well drink them while we are here,” as he charmingly put it—and they would read to each other.
    In the depth of winter, the old château looked like a medieval scene in the snow.
    She missed her daughter. Claire had two children now, both girls, and Marie wished she could see them. While her husband continued his teaching, and she looked after her children, Claire had taken up studying again. In particular, she was studying the history of art, taking courses when she could. Her teachers were impressed with her essays. She might even try to write a monograph one day, she confessed. When the children were older.
    Was she happy with her husband? Marie wasn’t quite sure. One of her letters, while it had still been possible to receive them, had been slightly ambiguous.
    Being Mrs. Hadley isn’t so bad, I have to say. I wouldn’t want to be married to a man I shared everything with, I don’t think. I guess we complement each other. The girls are a delight. We share them at least
.
    But Marie had another little girl to look after now, in any case. Little Lucie, as they called Laïla. She seemed to regard the château as her home now. She especially liked the old hall where the unicorn tapestry hung. The tapestry itself seemed to fascinate her.
    Marie and her husband were sitting by the big fire and gazing at the tapestry one evening shortly before Christmas, when Roland quietly asked Marie if she remembered the day when Colonel Walter had come. She said that of course she did.
    “And I told him that my father had bought that tapestry to stop it being bought by a Jew.” Roland nodded thoughtfully. “It was quite untrue.” He was silent.
    “It satisfied our visitor.”
    “Yes. But you see, the point is that I had no difficulty saying it. None. It came quite naturally.” He paused. “And now, with this little girl here.” He shrugged. “I don’t feel the same way.”
    “Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t put her parents on that train.”
    “No. But I could have. Perhaps I would have.”
    “What matters is what you did do. You saved Laïla.”
    “I? I did nothing. I did it because Charlie asked.”
    “Are you glad she’s here?”
    He nodded, but did not speak.

    As winter drew to an end, however, Marie could not help feeling a new emotion: impatience. She hadn’t enough to do.
    She had the château to run, of course, but she had long ago discovered all its mysteries, and the place now ran itself beautifully. The little girl was learning everything the cook and the housekeeper could teach her, and Marie did lessons with her for a couple of hours most afternoons. She looked after her husband, she took exercise. And she liked to read.
    Ever since her marriage to Roland, Marc would come down to join them at the château once or twice a year, always bringing something interesting to read. Soon after the arrival of Laïla, he had arrived with various books that had passed the censor, but also an illegal item—a slim volume titled
Le Silence de la mer
.
    “It’s by a French patriot who has taken the name Vercors,” he explained. “It’s about an old man and his niece who make the German in their house understand the true nature of the occupation by maintaining total silence all the time. Hence the title,
Silence of the Sea
. It’s clandestine literature, of course. But it’s being read all over France.”
    Of all the books she had, Marie found this novella the most moving, and she read it many times.
    But there was the problem. Vercors, Charlie, all kinds of brave people were doing something for Free France. As the spring of 1944 began, with Charlie’s whereabouts frequently unknown, she could sense that the preparations were becoming large, and urgent. And what was she doing?
    Her frustration came to a head in early April. She and Charlie were at