The Memoirs of the Duchess of Windsor — The Twelfth Installment

I made another attempt to reach David, but I spent an hour without getting anywhere, and I returned to the car with my strength exhausted.

So too was my companion. When we reached Blois, in the valley of the river Loire, it was seven o'clock, the darkness was pitch black, and the snow was falling heavily, so we decided to pass the night at the Hotel de Guise... Before I went to sleep, I heard Perry knocking at the door of my room to tell me that twenty journalists were encircling the hotel, with their cameras and all their gear, and that some of them had stretched out on the hotel's chairs or tables. To throw them off, he told the hotel keeper, within their hearing, that we would be leaving at nine in the morning. Then he came back to me and said: we must leave before dawn. He then bribed one of the porters to bring us coffee at three in the morning and lead us out by the back door. On tiptoe we went out at that dark hour until we reached the Buick. One of the journalists lay sound asleep in our path; our driver approached the car and moved it off without the journalist stirring from his sleep.

The weather was foul, and after four hours we managed to reach Moulins, where we had our breakfast. Before we continued our journey, Perry sent two telegrams. I learned afterward that one was to Walter Monckton and the other to Lord Beaverbrook, and in it he expressed his confidence that the crisis would pass if the King postponed the matter of his marriage for at least a year.

We drove at tremendous speed until we reached the valley of the Rhone, on the outskirts of Lyon. Fatigue had got the better of the driver and he lost the way; here he appealed to a passerby, who was kind to the point of giving us every detail. Standing near him was a friend of his, who was looking into our car as though he were watching a scene at the movies; then all at once he cried out: "It's the lady...!" His cry was followed by the cries of the passersby, who came crowding around our car, which shot off racing the wind. This incident, for all its absurdity, had a deep effect on me: I was no longer Wallis Simpson or any other woman — I had become "the woman" who bears the distinguishing mark... It seems the shouting reached every corner of the streets of Lyon, for faces stared at us and cars stopped on both sides of the road. We learned that the press had discovered our whereabouts; at last we were caught in the trap we had been trying to avoid throughout our journey. We were speeding toward Vienne, and we turned in at the "Pyramids" restaurant at three o'clock, with the chase at our heels grown fiercer. None of the journalists pressed me to make any statement, but the look of triumph that rose to their faces was not lost on me: they had at last managed to fasten themselves to my skirts.

I went with Madame Point, the proprietress of the restaurant, to her private room, and she left me there while she prepared my lunch. In the meantime I managed to reach David by telephone, and I repeated to him the earlier conversations. This time he understood what I said, but he showed no sign of being pleased.

Madame Point managed to rescue us, for the journalists had grown hungry and ordered a lunch, which she prepared for them while we were in a private room. That lady was confident that the delicious dishes her kitchen served were enough to keep a man occupied for a while. She came back to us with her well-laid plan: we were to go out through a very small window. I squeezed myself and my body through until I passed, while Perry and his companions stood on the ground below, waiting for my arrival to catch me in their arms. Had the gymnastics mistress of my high school seen me, she would have awarded me a grand prize for that singular exercise! The main thing is that I got through; but Perry, who never lacks a sense of humor, commented on this by saying: "What a pity that Stanley Baldwin did not witness this performance!"

As the car moved off with us, the voices of the journalists drifted to our ears as they ate their meal with relish, waiting for an effortless prize... We headed toward "Ladbroke." Fatigue and drowsiness had overtaken us all, and I could not believe that I had left the Fort only two days before, and that all these...

We were three hours away from Cannes, and we began to think that Herman Rogers and his wife, who were expecting us, might grow alarmed at this delay. We thought of telephoning them, but the road was deserted and the houses shut up. At last Perry ventured to knock at the door of a house; four men looked out asking what he wanted, and when they learned his request they hurled abuse at him, then told him that it was a very impudent way of going about things, since he could use the public telephone in the street. Whoever has once tried to stand in the street, under a downpour of rain and in the dark of night, to put through a call, can appreciate the trouble Perry endured that night. Then came the crowning misfortune: the lines were out of order, and most of the operators were asleep. But in the end he managed to speak to Rogers and informed him of the precautions he must take; he even sent policemen to keep the journalists away from around the villa.

It was half past eight on the morning of December 6 when we drove along the road leading to Cannes. The story of my arrival was written up, and the teller of it said that the moment our car reached the villa, I got out with lightning speed, then threw myself on the floor of the room with my head wrapped up in a rug... I did not deny the story, because it is true — except that I was covering my head and face with a piece of cloth, not a rug. Katherine Rogers came up, drew the covering away from my face, and overwhelmed me with warmth, and for the first time on that journey I felt something like relief.

The press remained for several days encircling the villa, and the Rogers family lived under watch, with questions raining down on them from every side; some of the reporters even tried to bribe the servants to ferret out some news. Even so, Herman and Katherine kept the situation under control with perfect calm. One morning Katherine came into my room to tell me that about a hundred journalists and photographers were surrounding the house, in a kind of demonstration; the zeal of some of them went so far that they climbed the trees, so that I could no longer open the window of my room — and this despite the intervention of the French police. I had wanted to slip out of one trap, only to be caught in another; yet none of it would matter if only David were well... He telephoned me several times that same day, and we had to be as guarded as we could in what we said. I understood that David had managed to get the situation in hand, but that Mr. Baldwin advised him to consult Winston Churchill, who was working with Lord Beaverbrook in complete harmony... From his conversations I drew one conclusion: if Lord Beaverbrook and Mr. Churchill were still at work now, that could mean only one thing — persuading the King to give up the marriage, if only temporarily; then he would be crowned, according to the plan laid down, in the month of May, and if the scheme took Mr. Baldwin in, he could return to the marriage after he had secured his footing on the throne. But these embellished words could not cover over all the other thoughts that were churning in my head and that showed plainly in David's voice. I begged him to listen to his friends, and not to be hasty in taking any decision about the future, and I could scarcely hear his voice as he repeated: "You can depend on me... I must deal with the situation according to my own experience."