The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [94]
“Docteur Lagarde sent us. We are looking for a barge,” she said.
He was tall, his face thin, features boyish under a coat of dirt. He glanced at her, then at Marta, who woke up and stared at him.
“This way,” he said.
They followed him until the sun rose well above the trees and lit small clearings in bright light. He walked with one eye on the trail ahead and the other scanning the trees around them. Still, that didn’t keep him from exchanging looks with Marta. They are miraculous, Claire thought as she adjusted Anna resting on a hip. The young in the world will always be the same. She turned to share a smile with Grey, then remembered she was alone. Fear and loneliness pricked at her chest before she forced the throbbing away. One foot in front of the other. Just keep moving and it will be alright.
She heard a low-pitched gurgle but the river remained hidden. The forest opened up onto a clearing surrounding a shack. As they approached, a man appeared out of the trees with a rifle casually pointed at Claire’s chest. In his twenties, she guessed, muscles earned the hard way, his eyes cold and his face showing his distrust. She forced herself to keep walking.
An older man stepped out of the shack. A dingy white beard bristled over a thick collar. His face was dissected in lines from too many hours under a blazing sun, but his features matched the boy’s.
Claire steeled herself as she faced the old man. She set Anna on the ground behind her and offered her warmest smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”
“I found them on the trail, Papa,” the boy said.
“Who sent you?” the rifleman said, keeping the barrel fixed on Claire.
“Docteur Lagarde.”
They exchanged a look.
Claire set the Luger on a knotted wooden table at her side and tossed the reichsmarks next to it. “The pistol and money for transport to Paris.”
Flicking the gun across the worn surface to the rifleman, the father flipped through the bills like a banker. He examined Claire with respect in his eyes.
“Bof!” The rifleman exhaled in a burst. “That’s not enough. Not for all three.”
The father nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke to Claire. “The danger is greater with three. Not easy to hide. And the young one may scream out and jeopardize everyone. No good.”
“But, Monsieur.” Claire stopped. She had nothing to say. Nothing more to offer. She stared at the packed dirt beneath her feet, unable to argue or meet Marta’s eyes.
“There is more,” Marta said.
Everyone turned to stare. Marta’s skin was chalky and her forehead had picked up a welt along the trail. Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and her lips pressed together in a hard line. She stepped forward with the monogrammed leather case, unlocked the latches and swung it open.
Two canvasses were rolled up inside. Marta reached for the first. “These were painted by Tamara Decler.” She opened the canvas against the scarred wood. “This is called Adam and Eve and was commissioned by the Duchess du Boucard.”
The man and woman stood, unclothed, twisted around each other like tree trunks. The lines were refined, the colors luminous. Claire was awed at the artistry revealed in every brush stroke.
Marta unrolled the second canvas. “This one was not commissioned. These two paintings were worth over four hundred thousand francs. There are people who will pay. A list of their names and addresses is in this case.”
Tears sprang to Claire’s eyes. On the second canvas a dark-haired girl slept with her head on a table. The thin fabric of her nightgown was tight against a lean hip. Thoughtful, even in sleep. It was Marta, painted with a loving hand.
“There will be a boat tonight,” the man said.
“But we can’t trust girls not to talk,” the younger man protested.
“They have more to fear than we do, Jean. Show our guests where they may wait, Luc.” The father gestured toward the trees. He reverently rolled up the canvasses