Page 116 of Daughters of Paris

Fleur tingled all over. ‘Last night? When did he get home?’

‘We found him on the doorstep yesterday morning. He’s been in and out of consciousness ever since and he hasn’t eaten anything. He’s drunk some wine and brandy, which I think helped him with the pain. If you can get him to eat that would be good.’

‘I’ll try.’

She noticed a half-empty glass jar filled with syrup-preserved pear quarters. She put two and a small knife on the tray along with the wine and a couple of glasses. She didn’t think Laurent would mind if she had a glass too and she felt a definite need for something strong.

Laurent was asleep again when Fleur entered the room so she put the tray on the bedside table as quietly as she could. His eyelids flickered and he sighed, mumbled something unintelligible, and rolled his head to the left, but did not wake. His sleep did not look peaceful, and Fleur could only imagine what horrors his dreams were inflicting on him after his ordeal.

Fleur had fantasised about being in Laurent’s bedroom on numerous occasions, but never had any scenario included him being unconscious. A small armchair with misshapen cushions stood in front of the window. She sat on it and looked down into the courtyard then at the buildings that backed onto the other side of it, wondering if anyone was watching the garage. The idea made her skin crawl, so she looked around Laurent’s room instead, feeling slightly guilty for taking advantage of the opportunity to be nosy.

There was one wardrobe and a plain dressing table, upon which stood a shaving kit and toothbrush, Laurent’s cologne, and a mismatched bowl and water jug. There were no photographs or ornaments. The only sign that the room was occupied were a handful of paperback books that stood piled on top of each other on the bottom shelf of the bedside table.

Fleur, never able to resist books, tilted her head to the side to read the titles. A cheap paperback edition ofLa Maison du Périlby Agatha Christie, a copy of Charles Dickens’Paris et Londres en 1793, and curiously, a copy of the same book in English:A Tale of Two Cities. Perhaps Laurent was attempting to learn English, much as Fleur had. She reminded herself to ask him when he was recovered. There was also a slim volume of poetry by Rimbaud and a dull looking textbook on repairing motorcycles. It was a curious selection, but Laurent was a curious man.

Fleur picked upA Tale of Two Citiesand opened it at a random page, wondering if she would be able to read any of it. Laurent, or a previous owner, had made comments in the margin, underlined words or phrases in pencil and added the French translation, and folded over pages. Fleur smiled to herself. Her own English language books were covered in similar scrawls.

Presently, Laurent’s eyes opened.

‘I fell asleep. I beg your pardon.’

‘No need to apologise. You didn’t do it on purpose to offend me.’ Fleur closed the book hastily, feeling guilty at having helped herself. She slipped it back onto the pile. Seeing Laurent’s eyes following her she continued, ‘You weren’t asleep for too long, but I never miss the chance to read a new book. I’m sorry for taking it. Would you like some wine now?’

‘Please.’

Laurent wriggled himself slightly more upright. He looked to be struggling so Fleur instinctively reached over and slid her arms about his chest to help him lean forward. He paused and looked at her intently. She hadn’t considered how he would respond to being touched, but seeing his reaction, she wondered if she had crossed a line. He was half-naked after all, and she had never touched him like that before. When they had shared the bed on their first night mission he had kept his shirt on.

He was warm and slightly clammy. Not unpleasant but it made her very aware of his body. She wriggled a pillow behind his back with one hand then lowered him down.

While he scuffled from side to side to get comfortable, she poured the wine and gave him a glass. He sipped it gingerly, as if it hurt to drink. Once again, Fleur filled with concern and anger at how he had been treated.

‘Will you tell me what happened? I’ve been out of my mind with worry. I felt sick walking along Avenue Foch thinking the Gestapo had you.’

‘They didn’t. It was the Gendarmerie.’

‘Did they suspect you of being in the Resistance?’

He closed his eyes and grew still for a moment before answering.

‘No. Thankfully they didn’t, or I doubt I would be here now. They had received a denunciation that I was an influentialtrafiquantof themarché noir, selling fuel.’

His eyes were purple and black smears on his face but they were still capable of anger.

‘I think if I had admitted to it, they might have let me off with a quick beating and a heavy fine after confiscating my contraband. Sadly, as I had no contraband to admit to, they kept trying to exact a confession out of me. Eventually they decided the information had been unfounded and probably made out of spite. They were furious at having their time wasted so gave me another kicking before dropping me off here at dawn yesterday.’

His eyes dropped. Fleur followed their gaze down to the mess of bruises. There was barely an inch on his torso that wasn’t purple. She took his hand and held it tight, wanting to cry but not wanting him to see the effect it was having on her.

‘I can’t bear to think of you suffering. How did you endure it?’

Laurent sighed. ‘I forced myself to think of every school lesson I could remember. My multiplication tables, capitals of different cities. The sonnets of William Shakespeare. Anything to stop me letting slip something incriminating by accident. If I had done that, they would have handed me over to another department without hesitation.’

Fleur squeezed tighter, sure that in his place she would have forgotten every poem or fact she had ever learned.

‘Who do you think could have reported you?’

‘I don’t know.’ He licked his lips. Fleur fought the urge to kiss the swollen flesh. ‘Someone who thought I had charged them too much for a job? Someone who has a grudge against me? Someone who genuinely believed it? I don’t know.’

‘Pierre.’ Fleur sat back. ‘He was angry at me for being with you. That time you found us in the alleyway, it was what we had been arguing about. What if he did it as revenge on me, or both of us? This could be my fault.’

---