Stéphanie Des Horts
The Panther
Publisher:"&'()(*+,"jc"-.))/,
Date of Publication:"01234.35"6787
Foreign Rights Manager: 9:.";31'(+
1231'(+?@.))1,AB3
Translation: -(+'."C*:13'.@1
@>?*:13'.@1<.*@A?*D
!"#$%&'()(*+,"jc"-.))/,
BIOGRAPHY Stéphanie Des Horts is a literary critic for Valeurs actuelles and a regular contributor to
Service littéraire, Le Magazine des livres, and La Revue littéraire, with a special interest in English literature.
The Panther is her second novel.
PUBLICATIONS La Scandaleuse Histoire de Penny Parker-Jones, Ramsay, 2008.
44
Here, told for the first time, is the remarkable he left her in the end, Louis appointed Jeanne
story of Jeanne Toussaint. Born at the dawn of Toussaint Director of Luxury Jewelry and
the twentieth century, she grew up in Brussels, gradually allowed her to take full charge of
where her mother made lovely bobbin lace that his company. She threw herself heart and
her father sold in local marketplaces. When soul into the business, bringing to its creative
her father became ill, however, the family fell designs her genius and flair for modernity, as
apart, and sixteen-year-old Jeanne ran away. well as a spirit of resistance that might well
Promising marriage and a life of ease, a French have proved fatal during the grim years of the
deserter captured her heart and carried her off German Occupation—if a certain Coco Chanel
to Paris, only to become engaged to another had not saved her from the clutches of the
woman. Jeanne Toussaint then met the man Nazis. The Panther is a fascinating recreation
who would be the great love of her life: Louis of the legendary Paris of Proust, Cocteau, Dior,
Cartier, the “Jeweler to Kings.” He taught Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds—and a magnificent
her how to work with precious stones and portrait of a woman who made her way through
mysterious alloys, and together they created her century with her head held high, leaving in
fabulous masterpieces of jewelry. Although her wake the sparkling elegance of diamonds.
I
The Majestic
March or die, that was my motto …
Paris, 1941.
Who am I? A bird in a cage, glittering and most certainly precious: that’s what
they claimed, those men whom I loved and who did not marry me. Where are
they now when I need them so? Let them come tear me from the grip of the
Gestapo and not leave me face to face with myself, alone in this windowless
room with memories of less merciful times. Who will come get me, who will
dare defend my name, restore my lost honor, who? Louis, Pierre, where are
you? Don’t abandon me! I’m not as strong as I try to appear. Please … What’s
left of my pride? Five strands of precious pearls with a silvery luster. The tears of
the Gods … And that brooch they stole from me. Lapis lazuli, coral, sapphire,
rose-cut diamonds in a platinum setting, a bird in a cage … Oh, I made fools
of them, all right. Filthy Krauts!
Early this morning, they pull up in front of the store. We have just opened
the doors, but the atelier has already been busy for two good hours. Accesso-
ries, charms for watches and bracelets, drop earrings and other trinkets make
up the chief part of our production. These days, the bestiary is in fashion: birds
45
of paradise, roosters, ladybugs—customers go wild for them, for the touch of
frivolity they offer in these dark times. There is less and less call for pieces made
to order, so we’re turning out our usual inventory. The Germans have taste, I’ll
say that for them, and money, too, which I mean to make them spend!
Sipping my third ersatz coffee, a vile concoction, I wonder if I ought perhaps
to have stayed down in Ciboure, near Saint-Jean-de-Luz. “There’s no point
in having a tantrum, Jeanne,” Louis told me before he finally left the country
for New York. “We’re powerless against them, and since the current situation
doesn’t exactly foster a love of finery, let’s wait, let’s stay put in unoccupied
France for the time being.” Louis, so wise, so far away … The Gestapo have
just tossed eleven of our personnel into prison, eleven employees, including
Lucien Lachassagne, my favorite designer, and Georges Rémy, a wizard with
rings. What a sad fate, to be ruled by boors! Yes, maybe I should have remained
in Ciboure …
Two ominous black cars screech to a halt in front of number 13. Doors
slam as soldiers pile out, their boots hammering the pavement. And there he
is, Werner Best—but I don’t know his name yet, although I’ll learn it soon
enough. Curious passersby wait to see who’ll be carted away this time. The
soldiers burst into the first showroom; I can make out hard, sharp, guttural
sounds: “Schnell, vernünftig, still!” I don’t speak German. I loathe the Germans.
With a brusque gesture, Best has the window display cases opened. Excellent,
my fine friend: now I know why you’re here. You’ve come for me. I’m not
afraid. Not yet. One of the soldiers yells, “The Toussaint woman, go get her!”
Finette, a young sales clerk, is shaking all over, stammering; when they strike
her, she collapses. Stinking bastards! How I hate you!
“Jewish,” yells the soldier. “The Toussaint woman is Jewish!”
“Mademoiselle is Belgian, she’s from Flanders,” replies Finette, gasping
for air.
“Where is she? Where is she?” the man barks, then slaps the poor child.
“Right here, monsieur,” I reply, descending the wrought-iron staircase.
“Please stop mistreating her. I am not hiding and am ready to answer your
questions.”
I have always paid particular attention to my entrances, and this one will go
down in the firm’s history. Standing defiantly on the last step, gripping the
crystal globe at the end of the balustrade with a trembling hand, I choose to
confront the man who seems in charge. Werner Best, as it happens. I am la Pan-
thère of Cartier. At almost fifty-five years old, I have nothing left to prove, and
nothing left to lose, either. Certainly not my dignity. That’s right, Monsieur
Best. Certainly not my dignity!
46
“Ah, perfect, madame, you’re being reasonable,” observes this unnerving
person. “I feel that we’re going to get along just fine. Let’s take a little tour of
our headquarters. The Hôtel Majestic, you know it?”
“Avenue Kleber, as I recall …”
“Take her away!”
Not one glance at my employees; they might see the distress in my eyes. Strong, Stéphanie Des Horts
stay strong. Always. For the legend, the memorable figure I’ve forged year after The Panther
year. A woman of bronze. An iron lady. The carapace commands respect; a cold
demeanor is my armor. Emotion terrifies me. Hold on come what may, chin
up, master my fear. Don’t give in to panic. No tears, no sobbing, go straight
ahead. As always.
A crowd has gathered on the rue de la Paix. And not to catch a glimpse of
Edward VII or the Maharajah of Kapurthala going shopping chez Cartier. No,
someone is being arrested: I am. The soldiers shove me unceremoniously into
the second car. The engine roars to life and we head up the Champs Élysées
in an infernal racket. I arrive at the seat of the German military government
with quite an escort. It’s a sinister place. The Third Reich has taken over the
premises. Nazi flags wave above each window and swastikas cover the walls.
Only a jeweler could still see the hotel as an art deco masterpiece. The clatter of
boot heels, the rattle of machineguns, arms thrust forward in the Hitler salute.
Heil! My heart is pounding wildly. The other prisoners have lost all composure,
and that woman pleading for the release of her son gets only the butt of a gun
in her face for an answer. My God, why have you forsaken us?
I’ve been brought here to this gloomy cell where I languish interminably with
nothing to drink, no cigarettes, only the waiting, and the uncertainty of each
passing moment. In the distance, moaning; suddenly, a shattering din. The
sound of footsteps approaching, then moving off, muffled noises, sharp bangs,
as if the past were about to erupt into the present, and always those words out of
the void: “Schnell, vernünftig, still!” No. I will not let all this affect me. Memories,
what are memories … Bits of life that create a woman—or else destroy her.
But it’s not that time yet; the door opens to admit a few men who know what
they want. Soldiers. Officers. Torturers. Germans. Again, the underground
passageways of the phantom hotel: screams, shots, then an unsettled silence
disturbed by the stomping of boots on the polished parquet.
I’m ushered into a paneled room with an old-fashioned air, a faint perfume
of bygone days when life was good. Werner Best is there; around him hover
two guards and an aide-de-camp. He waves me to a seat. His confederates
address him as Obergruppenführer. I gather that he’s the chef of police. Should
47
I consider that an honor? He’s younger than I am. He has a craggy face, thick
black eyebrows, dark eyes. I bear up under his gaze: no animosity or hatred, no
arrogance, either, but the slightest touch of boredom. I know that I am not here
by chance. If only the whole thing were just a bad joke … The chief of police,
however, has no sense of humor.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Jeanne Toussaint.”
“A Jewess?”
“No, Belgian and Lorrainese.”
“That is for us to determine. Address, phone number, date of birth,
continue.”
“I was born on January 13, 1887, in Charleroi, to Marie-Louise Elegeer,
Flemish, and Édouard Victor Toussaint from Hauvettes, near Domrémy. I live
at 1 place d’Iéna in Paris in the sixteenth arrondissement. I have dual French and
Belgian citizenship. I work for the firm of Cartier at 13 rue de la Paix. I am the
Director of Luxury Jewelry.”
Hoarse but firm, my voice seems almost to belong to someone else. My self-
confidence has grown formidable over many years, an exacting discipline
that forces me to stifle emotion at any cost. The police chief is intimidating,
but any fear remains well in the background. And of course this is not my first
battle. The young man at attention just behind Best is staring at me strangely.
He’s pale, gripping his machinegun tightly, almost as if he’d just met death
in person. Am I that disconcerting? Is my persona so imposing that a modest
guard should find me that upsetting? Roles are not interchangeable in wartime.
Nor are hierarchies of power. And it’s the guard who holds the gun. So why that
imploring look?
Just as Werner Best is about to resume his interrogation, there is a sharp
rap on the door, which opens to reveal the general in charge of the occupa-
tion forces. Otto von Stülpnagel, a man not unknown to me. He is a client
of Cartier’s, where André Denet, our principal salesman, takes care of him
personally. We’ve sold him one of our “mystery clocks,” a rectangular model
with an onyx base and a case of curved crystal glass. We keep precise notes on
each of our regular customers: occupation, preferences, “lady friends,” and
all those little things that can make the difference between a faceted rubellite
and a pale yellow diamond. I’m familiar with the personal information cards
of every important Nazi. General von Stülpnagel is in charge of the efforts to
win over the French population, a priority of the German high command, but
the endeavor is proving far from successful.
“Forsaken citizens of France, put your trust in the German soldier!” How
can you reassure a captive people when you’re simply enslaving them a little
48
more every day by encouraging denunciations and other villainy? Massacres,
summary executions, reprisals against innocent hostages … In various well-
informed milieux, rumor has it that Otto von Stülpnagel has begun seriously
to doubt the wisdom of the Führer’s policies and that were it not for concerns
about the safety of his family, left behind in Berlin, he would have long ago
resigned his commission.
Stéphanie Des Horts
“I heard that you were extending our hospitality to Madame Toussaint. Would The Panther
you have any objection to my presence, Obergruppenführer?” asks the general,
taking a seat without waiting for Best’s reply.
“Be my guest,” answers the other man anyway, with a faint sardonic smile.
Werner Best locks eyes with me. A shark, I see him as a shark, and I shudder
in spite of the summer heat. He doesn’t know that I’m called The Panther and
can strike out of nowhere with my claws. Now, at last, we’ve come to the point.
The chief of police is holding one of my creations, a brooch called The Caged
Bird, a silenced nightingale behind the bars of a gilded prison, a pin displayed
in every one of the shop windows on the rue de la Paix: my ever so discreet
participation in the Resistance.
“What’s this?” asks Werner Best, tossing the brooch disdainfully onto his
desk.
“Lapis lazuli, coral, sapphire, rose-cut diamonds in a platinum setting, and
yellow gold for the cage,” I reply, picking up the pin.
I caress it with my thumb and index finger. So smooth, the coral body of the
bird; such a glittering eye, the sapphire en cabochon; and that almost invisible
setting … Louis would be proud of me.
“A handsome piece, monsieur l’officier, I assure you, very handsome indeed.
Perhaps it would have been simpler for you to stop by the store, where I would
have … had it wrapped up for you.”
“Don’t play games with me, madame,” snaps Best, his anger mounting.
“Explain to me why this caged bird appears in all eight windows on the rue de
la Paix. Surely I’m imagining things, but I see this as a deliberate insult to the
occupation forces. I don’t know what you think of it, mon général; you asked to
be present at this interrogation, so give us your opinion on the matter.”
Plucking the brooch from my hand, Otto von Stülpnagel turns it this way and
that in his fingers. Yes, the general is indeed a man who appreciates fine jewelry.
He looks at me, then turns to Best.
49