Topaz - Leon Uris [105]
An eruption of sizzling language was heard above the engines. General La Croix had obviously found something to cause him discomfort, and a half-dozen officers leaped to their feet and surrounded the General.
“Our leader calls,” Jacques said. “Look, don’t worry about Nicole for now. She’ll be in Algiers, fatter than ever, when we get back.”
“No, she won’t,” André said, getting out of his seat to answer La Croix’s summons. “She’s left for Spain to rejoin her parents till the end of the war.”
10
Albert Hall, London February, 1944
A HIGH-PITCHED MULTITUDE of French in exile filled every seat. Out in the street, thousands more jammed around loudspeakers. Inside the hall, red, white, and blue bunting knitted the balconies. On the rear of the stage stood an enormous Cross of Lorraine and the blazing words, FREE FRANCE. The gathered throng buzzed in nervous anticipation.
Now, a convoy of staff cars inched through the crowd. Inside Albert Hall they could hear the swelling roar outside and the audience came to its feet.
Pierre La Croix, who always aimed to make himself recognized, walked slowly, erect, a giant who hovered over his countrymen. He recognized the adulation by a papal-like wave of the hand. Behind him a bevy of Free French officers followed at a respectful distance.
By the time General La Croix had finished his slow, calculated trip into the hall, the crowd was hanging over the balcony rails and standing on their seats craning for a glance. He walked the center aisle slowly, allowing himself to be stopped by stretching hands, allowing the cheers to swell to a crescendo that trembled the hall.
On stage his military and political advisers and a gathering of French and foreign celebrities surrounded him as he ascended the stairs.
Silence fell.
There were speeches.
And then, the moment. In ringing oratory he was introduced and as he advanced to the rostrum they were all on their feet. The ovation went on as the great Pierre La Croix stared down on them and at last his awesome stature brought the crowd to silence.
André Devereaux watched La Croix’s performance with a mixture of admiration and fear, for grave disenchantment had already begun within him. Yes, he knew that Pierre La Croix was France now and that without him the chances for self-determination and a return to greatness would be small. But in the end, France was France. It was the end that concerned André. The food of “glory” filled every fiber of Pierre La Croix.
“Sons and daughters of Mother France,” La Croix began, “we are gathered here to proclaim to the world the mission of Free France and the mission of Pierre La Croix. La Croix,” he cried, “has accepted the authority of France in the cause of national honor. He left the defeated motherland and climbed from the morass of defeat to the mountaintop. La Croix shall not come down until our beloved France is free!”
They were mesmerized by his phenomenal aura of authority. La Croix had them like a man practicing mass hypnosis. There was a scattering, like André Devereaux, who chilled at the sound of unvarnished demagoguery. What rattled from Pierre La Croix’s throat were the words of a man who would be dictator.
“France has been mortified ... debased ... schemed against ... gone unrecognized ... double-crossed by the very ones who claim to be our allies. But! So long as Pierre La Croix lives. So long as Pierre La Croix has assumed the burden of fallen France ... we shall not succumb. That is my mission.”
In the streets outside and over the clandestine radios in metropolitan France, millions more heard his words. In the name of national redemption it appeared they all stood ready to surrender to this single, fearless man.
“Who is La Croix? He is the man who struggles in the name of France tirelessly. He has unified Frenchmen outside of the defeated motherland. Now hear this clearly. No power on this earth will plot the fate of France behind her back. No power on this earth will make decisions