The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [133]
He looked her over, didn’t reply.
Claire dropped her hand, stung. She didn’t know what to say. To apologize, to confess, to explain. Nothing seemed adequate.
He grimaced from pain as he examined her. “You look like merde.”
Claire looked down; her aching hands unconsciously smoothed the soiled wrinkles of her dress. With shaking fingers she traced a trail of blood up her front, gingerly felt her raw neck, touched her swollen mouth and nose, both sticky with blood. She felt an oozing over a cheekbone where the gash from Sophie’s bullet had been reopened. Her hand came away crimson.
She looked back at Jacques. The slightest smile tugged at the edges of her mouth. “You are not so beautiful yourself.”
He nodded, chewed his lip, as if he were taking that into account.
The guard shouted a command, pointed his rifle toward the man standing in front of Jacques. “You there. First group.” He counted off. Jacques was seven, Claire eight. “Come now.” A group of soldiers broke them off from the rest.
Claire flinched, lost her breath, as she put her arm around Jacques.
He muttered as they staggered forward. “We join an esteemed group of patriots, today. The next group is going to have to load our bodies onto trucks before they die.”
Her body screamed at the effort. She forced her legs to stay straight, her eyes on Jacques. She couldn’t look at the posts or she might collapse. “Aren’t we lucky to go first and miss that chore.”
Jacques chuckled, it sounded more like a groan. “Grey was right about you.”
“No, Jacques. I don’t think he was.”
Jacques pulled her to stop. “You did what you had to do. It’s nobody’s fault except for those boche we didn’t get Grey out.”
A guard barked out a command and shoved his rifle barrel into Claire’s side.
Claire stumbled, hauling Jacques forward. She spoke under her breath, her voice shaking. “Did you see him die?”
Jacques turned to her, his face twisted. “Grey?”
“He was chased down by their dogs. Shot.”
He shook his head. “No. I was hit. And he was at my side, the last I remember. I’m sorry.”
Jacques was yanked from her arms. They were lined up each in front of a post. Claire closed her eyes as a soldier looped a rope around her, pulling her tight against the wood. She looked down the line of people. Young and old. Male and female. Aristocrats, schoolteachers, communists, farmers. The firing squad leveled their rifles.
Claire trained her gaze on the sky. Felt the sun on her skin, the breeze in her hair.
A deafening blast wrenched the pole from the earth and tossed Claire with it to the ground, knocking the air from her lungs. She laid there dazed, then took in a breath of air and dirt. The rope came free beneath the pole. Claire rolled over, gasping and choking.
She opened her eyes to the courtyard filled with smoke, bodies and running legs. Stone and wood splinters rained down; their impact kicked up dirt whorls in front of her face. Claire looked down. She wasn’t shot. She wasn’t dead. A crater the size of a car smoldered between her and what was moments ago the firing squad.
A pair of legs ran up to her; a hand pulled her to her feet. A French policeman, half his uniform cast off, pointed toward a large opening in the wall to the street. Her ears ringing from the blast, it took a moment before Claire realized he was yelling.
Fighters swarmed in through the opening, a mix of men in business suits, worker’s coveralls, and uniforms of firefighters and police. They carried pistols, rifles and machine guns. The citizens of Paris were around her. By God—Paris was armed and fighting.
Claire grabbed the policeman’s arm and pulled. Crouching, they picked their way over bodies and rubble. She dropped to her knees in front of Jacques’ crumpled form and rolled him over onto his back. Leaning over his face, she felt his warm breath on her cheek. A bullet tore into the dirt next to her hand.
Jacques’ eyelids fluttered. Claire grabbed his arm, the policeman grabbed the other. Dragging Jacques between them, they fell over a splintered post and around a