But he thought he had never spoken to anyone less bent on concealment than this woman. ‘You will, of course, want to know the truth of my relationship with Dominique. Yes, that is his name. He is Dominique de Villancourt. A cavalry officer with the Dragoons. A Parisian. Graduate of the Academy at St Cyr. He was my lover throughout the war years. He told me that he had a wife in Paris and that he did not love her. I can only assume he was telling me the truth of this because he spent every available leave with me. When the German army invaded Champagne in 1914 he managed to reach me and put me on the last evacuation train into Paris. He pushed an address into my hand and told me to go there. It was an apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. I spent the more dangerous periods of the war years there and he came whenever he could. Sometimes we met here when things calmed down. We were lucky – this house escaped the shelling, you see.
‘His wife, he said, knew nothing of the arrangement. The Paris apartment was in my name. He transferred the deeds from his name to mine. I kept all the documents and handed them to Inspector Bonnefoye for verification. He has, I understand, successfully authenticated Dominique’s signature. After the war when he did not return I sold it and invested the money in reinvigorating my father’s business here in Reims. I learned much in Paris. I was not a “kept woman”, monsieur. Oh, no! I earned wages by working in the theatres. Starvation wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing rather well, you see.
‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work – ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel – for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death . . .’ She gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’
‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry . . . excuse me . . . it’s none of my business . . .. Sorry, Uncle Joe.’
Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.
‘It was very romantic! I was working here – in the old shop, that is – helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a hurry – his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time . . . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.
‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’
‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’
He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.
‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world . . . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not fear it but who can – and does – live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short. You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you. This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’
Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque, was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room – after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.
There was a pair of well-worn armchairs, one on either side of the fireplace where a log fire smouldered, and it was towards these chairs that Dorcas strayed. Joe watched her take in the collection of items cluttering the top of a table by the side of one of the chairs: a pipe, still half full of burned tobacco, a tobacco pouch, a dusty brandy glass with the faintest trace of brown liquid in the bottom. From under a footstool a pair of black patent slippers decorated with bumble bees peeked out. A copy of War and Peace had been abandoned over one arm of the chair. The other chair was occupied. A fat white cat gave Dorcas silent warning of his displeasure at being disturbed and she crept away.
Joe breathed in the atmosphere of the room, torn between two reactions. Should he be seduced by the homely allure, the suggestion of every kind of masculine comfort on offer? He didn’t doubt that upstairs there existed a similar shrine ready to provide solace for a weary returning soldier. His mind ranged briefly over feather beds, fresh linen, afternoon sun filtering through shutters, and flushed at the thought. Catching Mireille’s slight smile he wondered if she had caught him out. Of course she had. And the woman’s intelligence and awareness rendered invalid his alternative reaction. This was no Dickensian scene of mad longings never to be fulfilled. Mireille Desforges was no Miss Havisham. She understood herself, laughed at and forgave herself for this indulgence.
‘This is the room he will return to?’ whispered Dorcas, respectful as a pilgrim at a shrine.
‘It’s the room he has never truly left,’ said Mireille quietly, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. ‘He was happy here. If only I can bring him back, he will settle into his chair and pick up his book where he left off. He will feel secure with his cat on his knee. His cat will know him and welcome him.’
She picked up the cat and hugged him but he struggled and made it quite clear that this demonstration was inappropriate. With a shrug, she replaced him on his cushion. ‘Louis was a kitten when Dominique brought him to me as a gift. The trouble with cats – do you have a cat, mademoiselle? – then I’ll tell you – you cannot compel or even expect their affection. And Louis has always understood himself to be Dominique’s cat. Indeed, I do believe he understands Dominique to be his human. You’d swear that he holds me responsible in some way for his disappearance! He’s getting old now but he’ll remember. He’ll leap on to his master’s knee, purr in triumph and favour me with his narrow-eyed proprietorial sneer. And – believe me – I shall be delighted to see it!’