The Last Judgement

‘He was an odd man in many ways. For a start, I wasn’t Jewish, and for him to marry me was something of a scandal. But he went ahead anyway, saying he was too old to worry about what other people thought. He was also quite easy-going; wanted me to go with him to functions and act as his hostess, but otherwise let me be. I liked him; he provided everything I needed, except love.

‘And I needed that; I needed to be in love. Then the war came.

‘We were going to leave, the moment that it became clear the whole thing would be a disaster. Jules saw it; whatever his limitations, he was perceptive. He knew the French had no stomach for a fight, and knew that people like him would get rough treatment. He’d prepared for it, and we were about to head for Spain when I went into labour.

‘It was a bad birth; I was bed-bound for several weeks in dreadful conditions; everybody had left Paris, the hospitals weren’t working properly and were overflowing with wounded. Few nurses, fewer doctors, little medicine. I couldn’t move and Arthur was so fragile he would have died. So Jules stayed too, to be with me, and by the time we could go it was too late; you couldn’t get out without permission and someone like him couldn’t get it.

‘And life sort of drifted back — not to normality, obviously, but to something which seemed understandable and bearable. Jules became wrapped up in trying to preserve his business, and I went back to my life with students. And we sat and decided we should do something to fight back. The government and the army had failed us, so now it was time for us to show what being French was all about.

‘Not everyone thought like us; in fact very few people did. Jules, as I say, merely wanted to keep out of trouble; in the case of my parents — well, they had always been on the right. Bit by bit the students departed, to be replaced by German officers billeted on them. They liked that, my parents. Getting in well with the new order. Their natural tendencies had been reinforced by Jules’s refusal to hand over money; now it was encouraged, they became openly anti-Semitic as well.

‘About a year after the armistice, there was only one student left, a young lawyer who’d been there for years. I’d always liked him, had introduced him to Jules, and they’d taken to each other like father and son. Jean was just the sort of son Jules had always wanted. Handsome, strong, honest, intelligent, open-minded; he had everything except a decent family, and Jules set about providing that. He paid his fees until he qualified; encouraged him in every way; introduced him to important people; set about giving him the chances he needed and deserved. Even gave him presents. They got on so very well. It was wonderful while it lasted.’

‘This was Rouxel, I take it?’ Flavia asked quietly.

She nodded. ‘Yes. We were about the same age. He took a room at my parents’ and I saw a lot of him. If it hadn’t been for Jules, I imagine we would have been married; as it was, we had to content ourselves with being lovers. The first man I loved. In a sense, I suppose, the last as well. With Jules — well, what passion he had was used up shortly after we married. And Harry was a good man; but not like that, and it was too late then anyway.

‘I imagine you find that — what? Surprising? Disgusting even, to look at me now. An old wizened cripple as I am. I was different then. Another person, you might say. Do you smoke?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Do you smoke? Do you have any cigarettes?’

‘Ah, well. Yes, I do. Why?’

‘Give me one.’

Somewhat surprised by this departure from the way the conversation had developed thus far, Flavia fished around in her bag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. She handed them over and gave one to the woman, who tugged it awkwardly from the packet with her gloved hands.

‘Thank you,’ she said when it was lit. Then she broke into an appalling hacking cough. ‘I haven’t had a cigarette for years.’

Argyll and Flavia looked at each other with raised eyebrows wondering if they’d lost her for good. If she drifted off the subject now, it might be impossible to steer her back on to it.

‘I gave up when I was in the asylum,’ she said after smelling the burning cigarette with interest for a while. It was strange; her voice had become louder, more solid in tone now that she had begun to talk.

‘Don’t look like that,’ she went on after a while. ‘I know. No one ever knows what to say. So don’t say anything. I went mad. It was simple enough. I spent two years in there, in between operations. Harry did his best to look after me. He was a very good man, so kind and gentle. I missed him when he died.

‘I got the best of treatment, you know. No expense spared. I have no complaints at all. The finest doctors, the best private asylum. We were looked after as well as possible. Many soldiers got much rougher treatment.’

‘May I ask why?’