‘Ariane,’ he said and moved quickly forward. ‘Ariane.’

He smelled her scent, the same as before. He could never remember what it was called when he went to buy it. He embraced her and felt her thin torso, less substantial than four years ago. He put his hand to her neck and felt a faint clinging of perspiration beneath his fingertips.

Her arms hung at her sides and her face was pressed against his neck. He leaned back to look at her, putting his hand to her head. Hers followed, but it was too late; the silk scarf slid to the floor. A metamorphosis was taking place in front of his eyes and he was holding a stranger in his arms. Her familiar face became unrecognisable, a mask fixed to a skull that was covered with black stubble, white skin flecked with black like a plucked fowl’s, repellent to the touch.

Part Two

Paris and Bonnemort

10 September 1944 – 28 January 1945

Chapter Two

Swords and shields, flags like silk scarves, blue, yellow, and red, hung on the walls of the dining room of the Hotel de Brionne. This was the Ministry of War where the general had taken up his function as a minister on 7 June 1940, just ten days before leaving for London and exile. Now he was back, sitting down to lunch as if there had been no interruption. The smell of the meal rose agreeably to the nostrils of the four men as they took their places. Even with the current difficulties of procurement, the Ministry’s food was good, which was nice for the guests. Nothing else about the meal would be designed for their enjoyment. In the last four years Theo de Cazalle had eaten many meals with the general, so he knew what to expect. His fellow guests, two eminent members of the Resistance from the National Committee of Liberation and the National Front, were not accustomed to the tension, so bad for the digestion, that was often a feature of dining with the general, at least when he had lessons to impart, as he had today.

They drank their soup in a silence that exaggerated the sounds of swallowed liquid. Theo watched the great jaws masticating bread and waited for the metaphorical chewing up that was to come. He avoided the eye of Palewski, opposite him, who was looking preternaturally grave, and concentrated instead on the armour-covered walls. Four years of close association with the Big Man had produced familiarity, but not intimacy. He was always courteous to his staff, but difficult to handle on any subject where the facts did not fit his wishes. The general recognised Theo’s skill at mediating between him and the Resistance, who had rarely fallen in with his line, but he did not admire him for it.

Theo, like his leader, was a career army officer, the son of an officer. His family came originally from the Touraine, but during the course of the nineteenth century a combination of obstinate monarchism and financial incompetence had left them with just one decaying chateau on the banks of the Loire. Theo’s father had been forced to sell even this remnant and the only property that remained was the farm of Bonnemort. It had been kept because it was the home of the aunts, his grandfather’s sister and sister-in-law, who had both been widowed young and pensioned off in this obscure house.