Page 87 of Daughters of Paris

She went upstairs and returned in her going out outfit. Colette regarded her appraisingly. The calf-length split-skirt with black stockings underneath for extra warmth, a claret blouse with a dark blue cardigan on top, and a larger sweater Colette had liberated from Louis’ wardrobe in her basket for when it grew chilly. With a dark blue headscarf tied behind her ears and her winter coat, she looked as warm as she could possibly be.

‘God speed you,’ Colette murmured, kissing her cheeks. ‘And Laurent keep you safe.’

Fleur nodded. She slipped out of the house, leaving Colette wondering what sort of upside-down world it was where the closest a woman might get to a romantic encounter was skulking around the city in the dead of night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Fleur and Laurent met as planned on the furthest bank of the Seine. Laurent led her on a route to the north-western edge of the city. He cycled ahead, stopping occasionally to check that she was following but at no point did he make eye contact with her, or indicate they were acquainted.

They crossed the river twice, queuing with others to pass over small bridges where the guards barely glanced at papers as they waved the travellers across. It was bitterly cold and no one wanted to be there, the Germans included.

The densely packed boulevards of apartment blocks and offices gave way to spacious roads with factories and low buildings, and gradually they segued into farmland as the city became villages. Laurent turned left at a crossroad, a sharp right shortly after that, and dismounted. With a quick glance behind him, he wheeled his bicycle down a narrow lane between a churchyard and a barn. Fleur followed, excitement and trepidation rising.

They emerged in a small village square, almost identical to hundreds across France. Laurent leaned his bicycle against the wall of an old stone building and went inside, ducking his head to avoid the low doorway. Fleur followed and found herself in what appeared to be a village hall crossed with a restaurant. A dozen people sat at two long tables, all sharing benches. Laurent was seated at the furthest end of one.

‘Roxane, over here.’

He gestured to Fleur to join him.

‘What are we doing, Augustin?’ she asked, climbing over the bench to sit opposite him.

‘Eating. It’s too early to do what we need to do but I wanted to be safely out of the city. It’s always easier to avoid notice when the checkpoint guards are facing a queue of tired people trying to get home for their supper. Madame Pontoise does a very good cassoulet with leeks and meat that I’m almost certain is rabbit rather than rat. Don’t bother asking for a menu, there isn’t one.’

Fleur looked around. Sure enough, every diner had an earthenware bowl and a glass of red wine. Plates of dark brown bread were set at intervals. Fleur doubted anyone would take more than their entitlement. Laurent produced ration tokens and money, and handed them to the waitress, who returned shortly with a tray bearing the cassoulet.

It was good. The white beans well flavoured with thyme and leek, and whether it was rabbit or rat (a fact upon which Fleur chose not to dwell), the small nuggets of meat floating in the broth were nicely browned and tender.

The tables filled up with villagers and farmers. Friends greeted each other. Couples squabbled or canoodled.

‘They don’t seem to mind us being here. I would have thought they would be suspicious of strangers,’ Fleur observed.

‘I’m not a stranger here,’ Laurent answered. He rested his arms on the table and leaned towards Fleur confidentially. ‘I have worked with many of these people over the past months.’

‘They are Resistance?’ She whispered it, leaning close so he could hear her.

‘Some of them.Maquis, they are known as. They do the roles I mentioned to you before. Setting explosives. Ambush. Sabotage. Dangerous activities.’

Fleur swallowed. Her mouth was dry all of a sudden. ‘Will we be doing that tonight?’

‘No. I wouldn’t subject you to that for the first time you are out here. We are merely collecting supplies.’

He reached across and squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘There will be people watching our progress and if it looks like we are about to be exposed, they will deal with it.’

A middle-aged man entered the restaurant. He was obviously popular as loud greetings hailed him. The reason became clear when he picked up an accordion and began to play. His song was a slow, mournful chanson that was slightly old fashioned to Fleur’s ears, with melancholic lyrics about a man pining for the woman he had lost to another man. The next song followed a similar story, with the sexes of the lovers reversed.

‘Everyone would be happier if the two forlorn lovers from each song found each other,’ Fleur remarked.

Laurent smiled. ‘That spoils the point of the song. Imagine if it was so simple to give everyone a happy ending. There would be no great literature and opera would only last half an hour.’

‘Ballerinas could wear the same pair of shoes for an entire season.’ Fleur giggled. She grew serious. ‘Don’t you think life is already complicated enough, though? It would be much easier if everything was simple.’

‘Yes, it would.’ Laurent’s eyes met hers. They were warm but wary. ‘It is complicated indeed, and I would rather not make it more so.’

He reached across and briefly brushed the back of her hand.

‘We need to leave. We have a little further to go. Come on.’

Together they left the restaurant and as Fleur watched Laurent nod to people – both men and women – she wondered if they were part of the group he had referred to. They returned to their bicycles and Fleur discovered that while they had been inside, someone had attached a trailer to the back of Laurent’s. It was the first hint that whatever they would be retrieving would not be small.

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