They came to their feet, the old man leaning on his walking stick. Guyon was very pale, dark circles under his eyes, and the gash on his forehead was red and angry.
“It seems I must congratulate you, Captain Guyon,” de Beaumont said calmly.
Guyon shook his head. “No need. You were doomed from the beginning. A pity you didn’t realise that a few lives ago.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. The game isn’t over yet.”
“It will be the moment Colonel Mallory makes land.”
“And what if he doesn’t? From what I hear, Fleur de Lys was in a sinking condition when last seen.”
“You’re forgetting Granville and his wife. They must have contacted the authorities now. The sands are running out, de Beaumont. You were wrong from the start, always have been. We don’t need you and your bully-boys to tell us how to govern France.”
Marcel took a step forward and de Beaumont pushed him back. “Let him go on.”
“A country’s greatness lies in the hearts of her people, not in the size of her possessions, and France is people. In one way or another, blood and suffering is all they’ve been given since 1939 and they’ve had enough. But not you, Colonel. You couldn’t stop if you wanted to.”
“Anything I have done I have done to the greater glory of France,” de Beaumont said.
“Or the greater glory of Philippe de Beaumont? Which is it? Can you tell the difference? Have you ever been able to?”
De Beaumont’s face seemed to sag, and for the first time since Guyon had known him he looked like an old man. He turned and walked out. Marcel hesitated and then followed him. The door closed and the bolts rasped into place.
“Quite a speech,” Hamish Grant said out of the long silence which followed.
“Accomplishing precisely nothing,” Guyon said wearily, and sat down, his head in his hands.
“Worth hearing, though.” The old man patted him gently on the shoulder, resumed his seat and they waited.
De Beaumont stood in front of the great glass window of the tower room and looked out over the sea. Far, far to the west the rim of the ocean was tipped with orange fire, He de Roc dark against the sky.
The beauty of it was too much for a man and he opened the casement and inhaled the good salt air and out beyond the island the lights of a ship seemed very far away.
Life was a series of beginnings and endings, that much at least he had learned. He remembered Dien-Bien-Phu, standing on the edge of a foxhole in the rain as the tricolour was hauled down and little yellow peasants from the rice fields had swarmed over the broken ground to take him and what was left of his men.
And then Algeria. Years of bloodshed. Of death in the streets and death in the hills. He had believed implicitly that the end justified the means, but what if that end was never realised? What if one were left only with the blood on the hands? Blood which had been shed to no purpose, which could never be washed off.
He felt curiously sad and drained of all emotion. A small wind moaned around the tower and then there was only the silence. In that single moment the heart turned to ashes inside him. Looking out over the moonlit sea he knew with a bitter certainty that he had been wrong. That in the final analysis all that he had done came to nothing. That everything Raoul Guyon had said was true.
He walked to the fireplace and looked up at the old battle standard for a long moment. He nodded, as if coming to some secret, hidden decision.
He picked up the telephone and pressed an extension button. When the receiver was lifted at the other end he said briefly, “Send up Jacaud.”
He replaced the phone, moved across to a narrow door, opened it and stepped into the small turret bedroom. Anne Grant sat in a chair by the window. Fiona lay on the bed.
They got to their feet and faced him. He bowed courteously and stood to one side. “If you would be so kind.”
They hesitated perceptibly, then brushed past him. He closed the door, moved to the fire and turned.
“What have you done with my father?” Fiona demanded.
“There is no need to alarm yourself. He will come to no harm. I give you my word.”
“And Raoul Guyon?”
De Beaumont smiled faintly. “A great deal has taken place of which you are not aware. Captain Guyon is at this moment with General Grant. Except for a nasty cut on the head he seemed in fair condition when I saw him an hour ago.”
“You haven’t mentioned Colonel Mallory,” Anne said carefully.
De Beaumont shrugged. “All I can say with truth, my dear, is that at this precise moment I haven’t the slightest idea where he is.”
There was a knock at the door, it opened and Jacaud entered. He came forward and waited, the cold eyes in the brutal, animal face giving nothing away.
“Have Foxhunter refueled and made ready for sea,” de Beaumont said.
“I’ve already seen to it. Are we leaving?”
“I should imagine it would be the sensible thing to do. Even if Mallory hasn’t managed a landfall yet Granville must certainly be in touch with the French authorities by now. Admittedly they will then have to contact British Intelligence, but I shouldn’t imagine it will be long before we’re faced with some sort of official delegation.”
“Where are we going – Portugal?”
“Perhaps you, but not me, Jacaud.” Philippe de Beaumont extracted a cigarette from his case and fitted it carefully into his holder. “We leave in half an hour for Jersey. When you have landed me in St. Helier you are a free man. You and the others may go where you please.”
Jacaud’s eyes narrowed. “Jersey? Why would you want to go there?”
“Because they possess a more than adequate airport, my dear Jacaud, and an early-morning flight to Paris. I intend to be on it.”
“You must be mad. You couldn’t walk ten yards along the Champs Elysees without somebody recognising you.”
“No need,” de Beaumont said calmly. “You see, I intend to place myself in the hands of the authorities.”
For once Jacaud’s iron composure was shattered. “Give yourself up? You’d face certain execution.”
“That would be for the court to decide.” De Beaumont shook his head. “I’ve been wrong, Jacaud. We all have. I thought I wanted what was best for France. I see now that what I really wanted was what was best for me. Further bloodshed and violence would accomplish nothing. The events of the past few days have taught me that.”
“And what about the women and the old man? What do we do with them?”
“We can release them before we leave. They’ll be picked up before long.”
“And Guyon?”
“Him we will also leave.”
Rage erupted from Jacaud’s mouth in a growl of anger. “I’ll see that one on his back if it’s the last thing I do on top of earth. God in heaven, I could have left him to drown.”
“Sergeant-Major Jacaud!” De Beaumont’s voice was like cold steel. “I have given you certain orders. You will see that they are carried out. Understand?”
For a dangerous moment the fire glimmered in Jacaud’s eyes, and then, quite suddenly, he – subsided. “I beg the Colonel’s pardon.”
“Accepted. Release Captain Guyon and General Grant and bring them up here. We leave in half an hour.”
Jacaud opened the door and went out. De Beaumont sighed, and said almost to himself: “Twenty-three years of blood and war. Too much for any man.”
It was Anne who answered him, her face very pale. “Before God, Colonel de Beaumont, I pity you.”
He took her hand and kissed it gently, then crossed to the door to the turret room and opened it. “Perhaps you would wait in here?”
They walked past him. He closed the door and went to the fireplace. He looked up at the standard for a long moment, then sat down at his writing desk and picked up a pen.
Marcel sat at the table in his tiny room, a bottle of cognac in front of him. He was reading an old magazine, turning the pages slowly, his mind elsewhere. They should have been out of this place the moment Jacaud had returned with the news of the loss of L’Alouette, so much was obvious. He wondered what de Beaumont had wanted, and raised his glass to his lips. Behind him the door crashed open and Jacaud entered.