The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [64]
“Liberté, égalité, fraternité,” she said. Liberty, equality, fraternity. The motto of France. At least before Pétain. She met his eyes, her voice sweet. “Expensive, these things.”
He closed his mouth on his reply and appraised her. His eyes cold, like steel bearings. “The price is high. In lives or in treasure. You were offered one. Not both.”
Claire fought the urge to backpedal. A dark hardness stirred in his eyes. She knew what happened to people who turned against the Resistance. No torture, but death just the same. But she also knew what this money could buy. Desperately needed food for Madame, perhaps even replace the pair of shoes that Georges outgrew. She ransacked her mind for a weapon. Real or not. She smiled, her mouth sweet, eyes cold. “Yes. But that is the manner I work, Monsieur Kinsel.” His real name bled out between her teeth. “The circles I move in. I meet interesting people. Like Comte Jean-Luc de Vogüé.”
“I am familiar,” Christophe said.
“He too appreciates my particular abilities. And has made a proposal of a certain nature. I am a businesswoman. I must weigh all offers on the table.”
Claire held her breath as Christophe leaned back, crossed his legs and adjusted a pant leg. Either she had him where she wanted him, she thought, or he was about to kill her.
“And?” Christophe examined her face. “What is your price?”
This was for Madame. She smiled at him, fingered a button on her coat. “Six thousand francs.”
A small smile, too tight. “You are quite confident in the importance of your particular abilities. Perhaps you haven’t yet been introduced to your own limits.”
“You, Monsieur, have personally benefited.”
He shrugged, the slightest nod. “Perhaps. Two thousand, then.”
“Tellement petit!” So little. A dramatic sigh. The smallest shake of her head.
“A generous offer. And only because of the courage you displayed at the train station,” Christophe said, his quiet voice strained.
Claire smoothed the skirt against her legs and stuffed back the doubt that snaked into the edges of her mind. There was no room for doubt or conscience. Not now. “Four thousand francs. On the first week of every month. I will let you choose the manner of delivery. That is your area of expertise.”
He stared at her a moment longer, the skin around his eyes tight. “Very well. One day, Claire, you will understand. And then you will sacrifice everything for something greater than the indulgence of a few sparkling diversions.”
Claire exhaled slowly, kept the smile. One day inferred she would see tomorrow. And Madame and the shop would survive.
“In addition to your reports, you will get phone orders, like you did today, for certain locations. On the route, you will be handed a message to slip inside the flowers. You won’t see me again.”
“Vive la France,” Claire said, her mouth dry.
He reached down for the flowers and turned them over in his hand. “Very beautiful. You are a talented woman. For the price, you’d better continue to impress.” He walked out.
Claire sat back in the chair and took a deep breath. The church smelled of incense, wax and the wear of hundreds of years. She would have prayed, if she were the type. Instead she pulled out a pocket mirror, smoothed her hair and applied her lipstick. She puckered her lips at the serious face staring out at her.
She would have been happy with three thousand.
Still, she did the right thing. She knew it by the warm fire she felt deep in her chest. Madame had given her a new life, and she, in return, would do everything in her power to save her friend. But Claire Badeau better be damn careful.
Two weeks later, Claire swept the sidewalk in front of the shop as the sun dipped into the horizon. A stiff breeze whipped hair into her eyes and tossed fallen leaves faster than she piled them. Still, she hummed as she worked.
That morning, a small boy selling newspapers approached Claire as she opened the shop for business. Inside the day’s edition of Le Temps, a small bundle. Her heart in her throat, she finished sweeping, then went inside and up to her