Topaz - Leon Uris [81]
“But anarchy, monumental anarchy, is on the planning boards in Moscow. With France out of NATO and the French Communists imbedded, when Pierre La Croix dies, a rage of confusion will sweep over France. It will be followed, gentlemen, by a Communist takeover.”
11
DEAREST PAPA,
A great sadness has overcome Mamma. A kind of lethargy owns her. She’s left Paris and stays in Montrichard all the time. I think something has happened to make her frightened to really search into herself because the truth may be too painful.
I’ve worried over Mamma so much. Mamma is a beautiful bird, but one meant to stay down in her own little part of the sky. If she tries to fly too high, her wings will break. She wants to soar to the heavens and fly through the high winds, but she cannot. She sees you reach up despite the risk and pain, but she cannot follow and she hates you for it and herself for her own inability. Is it wrong for me to think this?
I’m happy studying at the Sorbonne. When Tucker followed me to France to make his inept plea, I could see how shallow a life he was about to lead me into. Lord spare me from being the well-groomed, mechanical, basic functionary.
With François I want to dare to climb, to fly, to find the courage as you have. Papa, I want to be counted in this world and I want to count.
What a dismal day it is here in Normandy. François and I got back to the cottage ahead of a driving rain. There is a fire now and a background of Brahms. François is across the room framed in the window, terribly handsome, terribly intense. He leans over the typewriter, makes a correction, and grumbles as he writes his column for Moniteur. Papa, I am hopelessly in love.
Your
MICHELE
She folded the letter, sealed and addressed it. Then, after mending the fading fire, she walked up behind François’s chair, folded her arms about him, laid her cheek on the top of his head, and felt beneath his shirt.
François stopped his pondering, took her hand and kissed it. She read the words in the typewriter.
FRANÇOIS PICARD’S COLUMN
What now, President La Croix! The new French demand for American gold on the balance of payments strikes another low blow to our jaded diplomacy.
But once again our President has struck out with a reckless tactic. One does not use a battalion of horse cavalry against a division of tanks in a frontal assault. This ill-advised attack on the American dollar, a move born of pure vengeance, is bound to backfire, for the stability of the world depends on the dollar.
If the American dollar is weakened, France can fall into a state of chaos overnight. And who will cry louder than a greed-riddled French public made fat by the good will of the ally we are trying to destroy?
How long will Frenchmen tolerate Pierre La Croix doing the Kremlin’s work as though on orders ...
Michele detached herself from him, looked at the wind-driven rain pelting the window, and sighed.
“What is it, Michele? You do not like it?”
“It’s very good.”
“What then?”
“It’s also very dangerous. I become frightened for you.”
“I cannot quit, Michele. I cannot quit.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I’ll never ask it. Only don’t ask me not to be frightened.”
He shoved away from the typewriter and paced before the fire.
“François, never give a thought about how I stand. I’m with you in whatever you are trying to do. Darling ...”
“Yes?”
“What have you been trying to tell me all weekend?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Dreadfully. I don’t think you could ever lie to me. You are like a little boy.”
François pouted a moment, adoring this young girl who seemed to speak with a wisdom far beyond the innocent face, the nymph smile, the wide-eyed admiration.
“Michele, this is our last weekend for a time.”
“Oh?”
“The first smells of pressure from our government-controlled television. The news department is sending me out under the guise of doing special coverage