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A rmand’s chest swelled with pride as he drove the Legion’s finest vehicle through the streets of Toulouse. He was excited about tonight.

He tried to make conversation with the commissaire like they were peers, but his illustrious passenger only grunted a few times in reply and then stuck his head in the papers he was reading in the back of the luxury car.

The commissaire eventually slid his papers into a folder and rested it on the back seat to prepare for arrival. The heavy car crawled to the top of the hill, and Armand spun the steering wheel sharply and the tyres bumped over the uneven ground at the entrance to the chateau.

Armand inhaled when the full splendour of the medieval castle came into full view. He’d never been inside the grounds before, and like most Toulousians, he had only admired the ancient house from afar. He had thanked the commissionaire for assigning him as his driver and was thrilled by the honour.

A tall man dressed in a fine dinner jacket cut from expensive cloth stood waiting in the courtyard and ushered them towards a parking spot.

Armand parked carefully, his pulse racing and his throat dry as he realised it was the handsome man from his lunchtime spy games.

He must be a resident of the chateau, because a dinner guest wouldn’t officially greet them like this.

Armand took a deep breath to steady his nerves as he exited the car.

The man wished him a good evening, and Armand opened the door for the commissaire.

The man stepped forward and introduced himself to the commissaire as Michel Dubois, a relative of Luc’s from Brittany. His accent was undeniably upper class, and his deep velvet voice drifted on the warm summer air like a caress.

The two men walked ahead without glancing at Armand, who shuffled behind.

Suddenly, the man turned to Armand. ‘Sorry, how remiss of me. I should have said, supper will be served for you by the housekeeper in the staff quarters.’

Armand flinched as though he had been punched in the stomach.

He had dressed appropriately for dinner, taking special care with his uniform, and brushing his shoes until they shone, thinking that although he had been asked to drive the commissaire, he would also dine with them.

He was an esteemed and respected member of the Legion, after all, not some lowly chauffeur relegated to eat with the kitchen staff. Or so he had assumed.

He fought to keep up with the two men who strode ahead, but it was impossible with his limp slowing him down, and he tugged at his tunic, which was suddenly too tight, and his face flushed with mortification.

By the time he turned the corner, the men had already disappeared into the chateau. Armand released an anguished sigh, and his blue eyes were like angry slits in his salmon-pink puffy face. A woman exited a side door and called over to him. ‘Good evening. You must be Monsieur Armand.’

He nodded, unable to construct a suitable reply in his indignation.

‘We ate early as there is much to do for our distinguished guest this evening, but I saved some for you, so you may dine in peace whilst we serve in the kitchen.’

The housekeeper spoke to him as though she were doing him a great favour and he had to hold his acidic tongue from slaying her offer with a furious response.

A huge black and tan dog came rushing around the corner, and Armand stiffened and stopped. He was afraid of dogs, especially big ones.

The housekeeper noticed his reaction. ‘Come here, Beau, don’t bother our guest,’ she said, calling him until he nuzzled against her, and she stroked his massive head as he trotted beside her through the door.

How absolutely vile. A dog in the house.

Armand would have expected higher standards from the upper classes.

He sniffed and resumed walking after the woman.

The day would come when he wouldn’t be relegated to the kitchens with dogs, and he would dine with the crème de la crème and be party to their innermost secrets.

His vision was clear on how the Vichy government would merge seamlessly with the Nazi regime and he intended to play a vital part in the machinations that would be instrumental in bringing this extraordinary collaboration about.

Armand attempted to conjure a small smile for the housekeeper, who showed him into a pleasant room and poured him a glass of brandy when he said that was his poison of choice.

Soon after she brought him a meal, and when he finished eating, he flopped into a comfortable chair by the window and admired the view of his red roofed city below.

Oh, to live like the nobility and look down on his subjects from above. Even in the staff’s quarters, the accommodations were far more splendid than his small apartment near the river where he lived alone.

Armand felt the heat of the liquid permeate his throat, and he lit a cigarette and contemplated what would surely be his glorious future, whilst trying not to dwell on the fact he had been relegated to the servant’s quarters and not given a seat at the table.

My time is coming, Monsieur Saint-Clair. There will be another revolution and I’ll be the one living in your fine chateau if you’re not very, very careful.

He touched his médaille commémorative francaise de la guerre , which was a standard medal awarded to veterans of the First War. It still burned, he’d been overlooked for anything more significant, despite his contributions in two wars.

His thoughts circled back to the attractive young man, Michel Dubois.

Now he knew where he was staying, there was no need to waste his precious resources tracking him down as he had intended.

He could focus his energies on keeping an eye on him at the chateau.

There was something about the newcomer that intrigued him, and it wasn’t just his fine physique.

He puffed on his Gitanes and decided he would commence his surveillance as soon as he had a vacancy in his busy schedule.

‘If there’s more to you than you are saying, Michel Dubois, I will soon know about it,’ he said aloud, his voice low and chilling.

Armand planned his petty revenge. If he wasn’t who he claimed, the commissaire would be disgraced for falling for the ruse.

And if Dubois checked out to be who he said he was, Armand consoled himself: he would have an enjoyable time monitoring him, for he was a delight to the eye.

There would be other opportunities to bring the commissaire down.

The head of the police was entitled and wouldn’t suspect his position was in danger.

Forbidden feelings raced through him, causing him to shudder with the ache of unfulfilled desire as his thoughts swung back to Michel Dubois like a magnet.

He had made several visits to his mistress since first laying eyes on the delectable mystery man, but unfortunately, through no fault of her own, she was not equipped to satisfy his needs in anything more than a perfunctory fashion.

This was the curse Armand had lived under since he was an adolescent.

He had tried everything he could think of to banish his unnatural carnal desires, but each time he thought he had them under control, they raised their head again like a venomous snake.

He blamed his father, who had been an effeminate man.

Armand assumed he must have inherited the wicked gene, so there was nothing he could do to stop it, but he would make sure no one ever suspected his unfortunate cravings.

His bright future would be over if the truth were ever to get out.

Armand finished his brandy and let his eyes close until he drifted off into a light sleep. He may as well rest whilst the opportunity presented itself.