to persuade Bennet to stay, assuring him that he would be safer here than on the roads of France, but Bennet had made it clear that not only was he not prepared to stay in Paris and be polite to the Germans, but that he would not be prepared either to stay there with
her
.
Lais shrugged away her discomfort at the remembrance of what Bennet thought of her. She could bear it here alone no longer,
she had to see what was happening
.
Driving too fast, Lais crossed the Pont Marie and sped along the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, making for the Place de la Concorde. France was defeated. To avoid the destruction that had already devastated cities like Reims, Paris had been declared an open city and was to be handed over to the Germans at the American Embassy that day. Tears flowed suddenly down Lais’s face as she saw the ugly swastika flag already flying over the German HQ at the Hôtel Crillon. The streets were empty and shuttered; no one wanted to give the enemy the satisfaction of watching them take their city. Lais felt as if she were abandoned in a lonely nightmare. Tearfully she pulled the car into a side street. The rumble of tanks and armoured vehicles drummed through the silent city as she ran the last few blocks, along the rue de Rivoli. Afew people, their faces grey and bitter, stood on the pavement behind rows of immaculate French gendarmes, as their enemies—young and blond and strong—marched through the Paris they now claimed as their own.
With a roar a fleet of powerful motor cycles revved down the rue Boissy d’Anglais. Their riders were helmeted and sinister behind dark goggles and black leather. A long, black, shiny Mercedes followed, its swastika flying, its chauffeur stiff and proud with the importance of his task and his passenger.
Lais’s thin flowered silk dress whipped against her as she stood on the kerb shivering, not from the wind, but with fear. The eyes of the man in the back of the car flickered her way for an instant, his monocle glinting as it caught the sun. Gold braid gleamed on his immaculate grey-green uniform, and a rainbow of medals decorated his chest.
Tears burned Lais’s eyes. Paris would never, ever be the same. Turning suddenly, she ran for the safety of the car and, curling up on the soft cream leather of the back seat, she cried for Paris, and for herself.
When the tears were over, she sat up and peered at her swollen face in the mirror. Pulling out the oval gold Cartier compact she dabbed on a layer of powder and dashed the scarlet lipstick across her trembling mouth. With her hair pulled back and secured severely by two tortoise-shell combs and the dark glasses to cover her swollen eyes, she didn’t look too bad. What she needed now was company. Company—and a drink!
She toured the streets in the car searching for a bar that was open, but everywhere was locked and shuttered. No Paris café was prepared that day to offer its hospitality to the conquerer. Lais drove aimlessly, avoiding the northern roads where the Germans were still pouring in, until she found herself near Les Halles. Paris still needed to be suppliedwith food and such fruit and vegetables as were available were being sorted and crated. A couple of bars were open to service the porters and working men and Lais sank thankfully on to a stool at the zinc counter. “Brandy,” she ordered, her throat raspy from the storm of tears. Shifting his Gauloise from one side of his mouth to the other in a cloud of pungent smoke, the barman placed the drink on the counter. Lais’s hand shook as she downed the dense amber liquid. She pushed the glass back across the counter. “Another,” she said.
Her eye caught that of the man sitting next to her. He was of middle height, with the olive skin of a southerner and dark hair that sprang in thick waves from an intelligent forehead. He was maybe thirty-four or thirty-five and his hand, clamped firmly around the neck of a bottle of brandy as he topped up his glass, was
her
.
Lais shrugged away her discomfort at the remembrance of what Bennet thought of her. She could bear it here alone no longer,
she had to see what was happening
.
Driving too fast, Lais crossed the Pont Marie and sped along the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville, making for the Place de la Concorde. France was defeated. To avoid the destruction that had already devastated cities like Reims, Paris had been declared an open city and was to be handed over to the Germans at the American Embassy that day. Tears flowed suddenly down Lais’s face as she saw the ugly swastika flag already flying over the German HQ at the Hôtel Crillon. The streets were empty and shuttered; no one wanted to give the enemy the satisfaction of watching them take their city. Lais felt as if she were abandoned in a lonely nightmare. Tearfully she pulled the car into a side street. The rumble of tanks and armoured vehicles drummed through the silent city as she ran the last few blocks, along the rue de Rivoli. Afew people, their faces grey and bitter, stood on the pavement behind rows of immaculate French gendarmes, as their enemies—young and blond and strong—marched through the Paris they now claimed as their own.
With a roar a fleet of powerful motor cycles revved down the rue Boissy d’Anglais. Their riders were helmeted and sinister behind dark goggles and black leather. A long, black, shiny Mercedes followed, its swastika flying, its chauffeur stiff and proud with the importance of his task and his passenger.
Lais’s thin flowered silk dress whipped against her as she stood on the kerb shivering, not from the wind, but with fear. The eyes of the man in the back of the car flickered her way for an instant, his monocle glinting as it caught the sun. Gold braid gleamed on his immaculate grey-green uniform, and a rainbow of medals decorated his chest.
Tears burned Lais’s eyes. Paris would never, ever be the same. Turning suddenly, she ran for the safety of the car and, curling up on the soft cream leather of the back seat, she cried for Paris, and for herself.
When the tears were over, she sat up and peered at her swollen face in the mirror. Pulling out the oval gold Cartier compact she dabbed on a layer of powder and dashed the scarlet lipstick across her trembling mouth. With her hair pulled back and secured severely by two tortoise-shell combs and the dark glasses to cover her swollen eyes, she didn’t look too bad. What she needed now was company. Company—and a drink!
She toured the streets in the car searching for a bar that was open, but everywhere was locked and shuttered. No Paris café was prepared that day to offer its hospitality to the conquerer. Lais drove aimlessly, avoiding the northern roads where the Germans were still pouring in, until she found herself near Les Halles. Paris still needed to be suppliedwith food and such fruit and vegetables as were available were being sorted and crated. A couple of bars were open to service the porters and working men and Lais sank thankfully on to a stool at the zinc counter. “Brandy,” she ordered, her throat raspy from the storm of tears. Shifting his Gauloise from one side of his mouth to the other in a cloud of pungent smoke, the barman placed the drink on the counter. Lais’s hand shook as she downed the dense amber liquid. She pushed the glass back across the counter. “Another,” she said.
Her eye caught that of the man sitting next to her. He was of middle height, with the olive skin of a southerner and dark hair that sprang in thick waves from an intelligent forehead. He was maybe thirty-four or thirty-five and his hand, clamped firmly around the neck of a bottle of brandy as he topped up his glass, was
Similar Books
