Page 58 of Daughters of Paris

Fleur’s mouth watered at the thought. It would be good cake, as the hotel was well supplied with rations. She blinked to clear her head of the temptation. She could hardly disapprove of Colette spending time at the hotel and then benefit herself.

‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly.

‘It’s only cake,’ Colette said with a slight eye-roll.

Fleur couldn’t be bothered to argue. Just when she had thought Colette was starting to change, she proved she wasn’t all that different.

‘Then go and enjoy it with a clear conscience.’

‘Yes, I will.’ Colette rammed her felt hat firmly onto her high roll of hair and tossed her head. ‘I don’t have enough friends to offend the ones I have.’

She stalked out of the house leaving Fleur with a sense of contrition that didn’t seem at all fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and there was nothing stopping Colette trying to make new friends.

For once, the shop was busy. A party of young Germans in uniform appeared at half past one. They discovered the brash covers of the crime novels with cries of enthusiasm and spent time, and eventually francs, among the shelves. When the clock on the desk rang two o’clock with a shrill trill, Fleur ushered them back into the street, and closed the front door. Fortunately, the Germans had been too absorbed with their good-humoured chatter to notice the two French men idly thumbing through volumes, who had not been asked to leave.

Fleur wrote the purchases in her ledger, which was already much neater and more organised, (she told herself to compliment Colette about it later) then led Sébastien and Pierre up the stairs.

‘This is a large flat,’ Pierre said, gazing round with interest.

‘You should move here,’ Sébastien suggested. ‘It would save you from having to travel all the way from Passy.’

Fleur stared around. It was a good size but the presence of Monsieur Ramper was still there, in the choice of carpet and drapes at the windows. Bookcases lined two walls, all filled with volumes, photographs, and bibelots. The furniture was terribly old fashioned, heavy and dark. One large window overlooked the street and another at the other end looked over an alleyway. What passed for a kitchen in one corner was quite filthy with dust, and the crockery was old and fussily ornate. There were two bedrooms, but Fleur had never been in them. She opened the rear window, struggling slightly with the heavy sash.

‘I have considered it, but I don’t think I would like to live alone. The four of us pool our rations and somehow that seems to go further than if I had to cook for myself. I pay no rent and Monsieur Nadon does not ask me for any money for the bills.’

She put her basket of shopping on the table and sat.

‘That reminds me, I don’t know what you said to Colette the other day, Sébastien, but when I got home, she asked me what she could do to help. She wanted me to teach her to cook.’

She watched him carefully, not knowing exactly what she was hoping to see at the mention of Colette’s name, but he just lifted his hands in a shrug.

‘Nothing I can think of. Is she any good?’

‘Why, are you looking for a wife?’ Pierre guffawed. Sébastien shot him a dirty look.

‘She doesn’t know the first thing,’ Fleur said. It wasn’t quite true. The previous day Fleur had talked Colette through instructions inTanteAgnes’ well-thumbed volume ofLe Livre de Cuisineby Madame E. Saint-Ange.Fleur had learned to bone and fricassée a rabbit, while Colette made a pepper sauce that the whole household agreed was excellent. ‘That is, as long as I keep an eye on what she’s doing, she doesn’t burn things.’

Pierre gave a contemptuous snort. ‘She has no other occupation. She should do everything. Women like her are a waste of time and space. They care only for their own comfort.’

Fleur’s neck grew hot at the hatred in Pierre’s voice. It was one thing for Fleur to judge Colette’s behaviour, but old loyalties bubbled to the surface.

‘Colette has a good heart when something reminds her to use it. She gave money to a mother and child as we all tried to leave the city, and she bought lollipops for some children when their mother got in a fight.’

‘Oh it’s easy to have compassion and do charity when you are rich,’ Pierre said.

Fleur looked away, unable to disagree. Nothing Colette did required effort or risk. At least she hadn’t mentioned the defiant hats and given him even more of a reason to despise her!

‘If she lived as we have to, I’m sure things would be very different. Suffering changes people.’

‘Talking of changes, what changes are you proposing to what we write?’ Sébastien asked, smoothly changing the subject before Pierre continued ranting.

Pierre helped himself to one of the apples from Fleur’s basket. She eyed him indignantly.

‘Nothing we write makes a difference to the situation we are living in. Nothing anyone has written has changed the course of the war or encouraged Paris to rise up.’

He took a knife from his trouser pocket and began to peel and quarter the apple as he spoke, the sharp blade slicing the fruit he cupped in his hands. His manner was savage, and Fleur shivered a little. His words echoed Colette’s judgement on the leaflet she had discovered, and she was dryly amused at the thought of telling Pierre so.

‘We are giving people hope that they are not alone,’ she commented.

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