In the City of Lights [Laroche]

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Country: Occupied France, in the city of Paris.
Current Time: 21:05, Late August of 1942
Weather Conditions: Off-and-on rainfall, with distant rumblings of thunder and vague flashes of lightning. The night has cooled off from the rain, but is still reasonably warm.
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Paris, Paris — the City of Lights. The city of culture, the city of dreams, the hub of all that was France. Behold the Eiffel Tower, glorious construct of iron, iconic symbol of France! Behold the Louvre, one of the grandest museums in the world, filled to the brim with tasteful pieces of art! Behold, the Nazis that were currently marching around the Louvre like stiff-legged geese — and some getting drunk as they sang crude songs in the Eiffel's shadow!

Yes, Nazis. The German invaders. Hitler's so-called "best of the best". Blanchefleur spat at them, kicked dirt in their way, threw wine bottles onto their thick skulls when she was done with them. Beneath her skirt and strapped to her leg, a Luger she had stolen — and not just stolen from anybody, no. It had been stolen from a Gestapo officer, one Herr Otto Wolff, who Blanchefleur knew from the days of the Great War. It was this thievery — and the degrading letter she had sent to him after tracking his headquarters down — that had peaked the interest of a few old friends, who had invited her to Paris for a bit of discussion. The old bat had dug her heels in at first — she was wanted by the Gestapo, Paris would be too obvious to hide in — but after a promise of some of the best wine in France, her interest had been won over. One might say she was easily fooled, but as far as Blanchefleur was concerned, wouldn't Paris be the best spot to find the best wine in current existence, as it had the best of everything? Well, the Nazis made it that way — they wanted the best of everything. What they wouldn't share could easily be stolen.

To the left, to the right, up and down the street — no Nazis in sight, she was free to go. Darting out from the alleyway like a mouse off hot coals, the old alcoholic hurried across the street. Her feet broke the pools of light on the cobblestones into fragments, almost as if they were glass, the puddles from the storm making her feet damp. Blanchefleur muttered a few foul words — couldn't the Resistance be nice enough to give her some decent boots? She lost her shoes all too often — all too often did she become drunk, that was why. Could they not have spared something, instead of just calling an old woman all willy-nilly from (practically) the other side of France?

Everything would be better when it was over with. Once Blanchefleur reached the other side of the street, she quickly hid herself in the shadows of the alleyway parallel to the other. Again, left and right, up and down she looked — nothing to stop her, no annoying Nazi to call her out in the darkness. Without a second thought, she went to the end of the alleyway, crouching by a small, boarded-up window.

One knock. Two knocks. One knock again. A quick series of four knocks. When put together, it was the password, and hopefully, there wouldn't be some inexperienced idiot behind the door that would have forgotten such a vital code. Youth these days — they didn't even know how to save their own country, in many cases. So many buffoons, so many lacking Blanchefleur's wisdom of age. Perhaps that was why the Resistance was so eager to have her in Paris? Their own operatives couldn't tell a Gestapo officer from an SS man anymore? If so, how disgusting. If so, then the saviours of France were more green than what she first thought. Good thing there were people like her to tell them how to get their act straight!

[Jean-Luc Laroche]

Occupied France, Paris…….

The rain had come off and on all through the day. Thunder rumbled above the city as the occasional lightening flash streaked across the dark sky. Despite the gloomy weather it had remained warm for the majority of the evening. In a quiet part of town, four men were gathered around a table playing cards in the candle light.

The sound of rain hitting the roof was the only sound, the room was dead quiet. Jean-Luc Laroche, a member of the French resistance and Marquis stood at the only window that wasn’t boarded up. He watched the street outside waiting for any sign of their contact who was also a trusted Resistance Member. Luc had received orders from higher up to be at this meeting. The intelligence was always known to be good, but for a price. The higher ups told Luc that he would be able to bargain with the contact, try to find a price acceptable for everyone. Times were hard now, information was not always free.

Luc had been confident that this meeting would go well. He did not feel any immediate danger at this time, usually instinct alerted him to threats. It all came from his experiences fighting the Nazis. The invaders who violated the French’s everyday way of life. Hitler had gained his revenge for Germanys loss of the great war and yet he continued to oppress the peoples of this great country. One of the men at the table spoke in a low voice,

“ quelle heure est il?”

One of the others checked his watch in the dim light, “21:05”, he whispered in response to the question. Suddenly a knock was heard, everyone looked into one another’s eyes while hands went directly to their guns. The sound had come from the back of the room behind one of the boarded up windows, then to everyone’s relief it was followed by three more which was code for friendly.

One of the resistance members got up from the table and moved to the back door. He retrieved a Kar98 rifle that was leaning against the wall. All the men in the room had their weapons trained on the door at the rear of the room, Luc nodded signalling the Resistance member to open it a crack…..

“qui va là?” He asked quietly peering through the opening. On the opposite side of the door stood an older woman, she appeared damp and uncomfortable due to the nasty weather outside.

All the men waited quietly for whatever happened next…..

Translations:

“ quelle heure est il?”
(What time is it)

“qui va là?”
(Who goes there?)

[Blanchefleur Paget]

"La Renarde, Monsieur. Un ami d'un ami m'a envoyé." [Translation: "The Vixen, Monsieur. I was sent by a friend of a friend."]

"Faites le tour du virage, il y a une fenêtre ouverte vous attendant." [Translation: "Go around the bend, there's an open window waiting for you."]

A grunt was all the Resistance man would receive from Blanchefleur. The old bat hurried up the alley for a metre or so, then swung around and ducked down — the window indicated was right in front of her. The window was of no bother to her — she easily wriggled her way in, kicking it open with a good, swift one. Her landing was less co-ordinated, as she promptly face-planted into the concrete floor, a wet heap of old, wrinkly flesh and cloth, accompanied by a muffled thunk. A face-planting that, unfortunately for her ego, sent people jogging across the room to help her up.

"Partez!" snapped the old woman as a pair of hands gently encircled her shoulders. Blanchefleur promptly swatted the hands away, stomping on the foot of someone behind her — to which the unfortunate man yelped. What morons. She need not be lifted to her feet by the shoulders — she was perfectly fine! Could the idiots not see that she was fine?! "Je ne suis pas le verre fragile, vous savez! Montrez un peu de respect à vos aînés et quittez le traitement de moi comme une fleur ensanglantée!" [Translation: "Buzz off!" // "I'm not fragile glass, you know! Show your elders a little respect and quit treating me like a bloody flower!"]

"Errr.... Je suppose que vous soyez Mademoiselle Pomeroy, la madame ?" asked a nearby man hesitantly, eyes slightly widened, eyebrows raised at the woman's unexpected outburst. An outburst that, from Blanchefleur's reaction, seemed to be quite normal for the old Frenchwoman, who promptly growled at the Resistance fighter. [Translation: "Errr.... I suppose you are Mademoiselle Pomeroy, ma'am?"]

"Oui, oui, Hélène Pomeroy, vous l'idiot absolu. Que vous êtes-vous attendus à ce qu'ils aient envoyé, une boîte pleine d'oranges ? Honnêtement, messieurs...." [Translation: "Yes, yes, Hélène Pomeroy, you absolute twit. What did you expect them to send, a box full of oranges? Honestly, gentlemen...."]

Would the men get any more sharp remarks from her? Probably, as the evening progressed and they gave Blanchefleur more to grumble about. For now, Blanchefleur just huffed, walking over to a wavy-haired man, standing on her tip-toes so she could look at him better. Being only 5'3", she was the shortest person in the room, which probably attributed to some of the stares she was getting.

"Vous êtes Jean-Luc Laroche, n'est ce pas ?" snapped the old bat. "Que voulez-vous ? Je ne suis pas bienvenu exactement à Paris, en ce moment — j'ai les gens que j'ai irrités, donc le faisons vite, n'est-ce pas ?" [Translation: "You're Jean-Luc Laroche, right?" // "What do you want? I'm not exactly welcome in Paris, at the moment — I've got people I've irritated, so let's make this fast, shall we?"]

[Jean-Luc Laroche]

A reply came through the opening, "La Renarde, Monsieur. Un ami d'un ami m'a envoyé."

Luc had moved closer to hear the response so he would be satisfied by it, "Oui" he responded when he heard the woman’s reply. After a few moments an older woman crawled through the an open window with no issue but fell directly on her face in a jumble of wet clothing, the landing did not go as well as she intended.

Two resistance men rushed to assist her with getting up. When the two men reached outwards placing their hands around her arms the old woman swatted at them, to their surprise, "Partez!" she hissed. Luc grinned nearly reaching the point of laughter when the old woman came down on one of his mens feet with her heel,

"Ahh! merde!" he yelped nearly falling over himself

"Je ne suis pas le verre fragile, vous savez! Montrez un peu de respect à vos aînés et quittez le traitement de moi comme une fleur ensanglantée!" mumbled the old bat..

Jean-Luc shook his head waving his finger in the air, "Shhh, tranquillement"

His expression was that of content, it appeared welcoming although he was slightly shocked at the outburst that had just recently occurred, "Err.... Je suppose que vous soyez Mademoiselle Pomeroy, la madame ?"

Luc raised an eyebrow as she replied, "Oui, oui, Hélène Pomeroy, vous l'idiot absolu. Que vous êtes-vous attendus à ce qu'ils aient envoyé, une boîte pleine d'oranges ? Honnêtement, messieurs...."

The old woman had got to her feet and proceeded to approach Luc who waited patiently. Mademoiselle Pomeroy was indeed an interesting character, Laroche was slightly amused by her ramblings and act of violence against his men. She stood on her tipy toes staring directly in Jean-Luc face, suddenly Laroche started to grow impatient, "Errhmm", he cleared his throat.

The old woman scowled, "Vous êtes Jean-Luc Laroche, n'est ce pas ?" snapped the old bat. "Que voulez-vous ? Je ne suis pas bienvenu exactement à Paris, en ce moment"

When she had finished Luc stepped backwards and gestured towards a table behind him, "Oui, Mademoiselle Pomeroy, je suis lui. svp"

Luc gently pulled a chair out that had been pushed in to the table, he waited for the grumbling old woman to receive the invitation.

"ayez un siège Mademoiselle"

Luc gazed at Hélène Pomeroy with curiosity. He was unsure of what information she could bring to the table. When she had been standing before him he was able to determine she had been drinking this evening. This was one of those times you had to rely on the judgement of headquarters. Simply hope for the best.

Translations:

La Renarde, Monsieur. Un ami d'un ami m'a envoyé."

(The Vixen, Monsieur. I was sent by a friend of a friend)

" "Je ne suis pas le verre fragile, vous savez! Montrez un peu de respect à vos aînés et quittez le traitement de moi comme une fleur ensanglantée!"

("Buzz off!" "I'm not fragile glass, you know! Show your elders a little respect and quit treating me like a bloody flower!)

"Tranquillement"

(Quietly)

"Err.... Je suppose que vous soyez Mademoiselle Pomeroy, la madame ?"

("Errr.... I suppose you are Mademoiselle Pomeroy, ma'am?)

"Oui, oui, Hélène Pomeroy, vous l'idiot absolu. Que vous êtes-vous attendus à ce qu'ils aient envoyé, une boîte pleine d'oranges ? Honnêtement, messieurs...."

("Yes, yes, Hélène Pomeroy, you absolute twit. What did you expect them to send, a box full of oranges? Honestly, gentlemen.)

Vous êtes Jean-Luc Laroche, n'est ce pas ?" snapped the old bat. "Que voulez-vous ? Je ne suis pas bienvenu exactement à Paris, en ce moment — j'ai les gens que j'ai irrités, donc le faisons vite, n'est-ce pas ?"

("You're Jean-Luc Laroche, right?" "What do you want? I'm not exactly welcome in Paris, at the moment I've got people I've irritated, so let's make this fast, shall we?")

"Oui, Mademoiselle Pomeroy, je suis lui. svp"

( Yes, i am him. Please)

"ayez un siège Mademoiselle"

(have a seat Miss)

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Blanchefleur's mouth perked up at the edge — a perk of satisfaction, one would see. So, at least Laroche had some class under his belt . . . the old bat was still pretty sure he was still somehow incompetent. Alas, she would have to see, and see she would — the pit of her gut told her that the process might lead to a long, long night. If only Blanchefleur had a bit of alcohol that moment, as, despite what Monsieur Laroche had thought, she had nought a drop of precious wine to drink that eve. It was purely natural for her to be snappy and impulsive.

With a huffy stride, Blanchefleur happily accepted the seat with a "Merci," immediately leaning back with a sigh — and clunking her wet feet onto the tabletop. At least a scrap of consideration for the men's game could be seen, as Blanchefleur avoided placing her feet on any cards. Cards that, in her mind, she could have beat them at, after a couple of drinks had been served. Ah, thoughts of wine again — how the old bat loved her drink. With a crack of her neck, she swept those thoughts to the background, Blanchefleur instead focusing on the Resistance members approaching her. [Translation: "Thank you."]

"Ainsi mon chers," began Blanchefleur, "que connaissance mienne désirez-vous? Peut-être vous vous demandez comment je garde un si joli visage, quand tous ces idiots allemands courent autour d'et me donnent des rides de tension ? Ou peut-être vous vous étonnez comment parler aux dames. Non, non... Je pense quand vous étiez des enfants. Attendez oh — vous êtes toujours. Permettez-moi de deviner . . . que vous avez entendu de mes peu 'dirigé - dans' avec la Gestapo, est-ce que j'ai raison ?" [Translation: "So, my dears." // "What knowledge of mine do you desire, to your own ends? Perhaps you wonder how I keep such a lovely face, when all these German idiots are running around and giving me stress wrinkles? Or perhaps you're wondering how to talk to the ladies. No, no . . . I'm thinking of when you were children. Oh wait — you still are. Let me guess . . . . you heard of my little 'run-in' with the Gestapo, am I right?"]

Some of the men looked at each other. He, the one whose foot Blanchefleur had stamped on, replied, ". . . Oui, mademoiselle. Nous avons reçu des nouvelles de Fontane vous êtes familiers avec cet homme, correct ?" [Translation: . . . Yes, mademoiselle. We heard from Fontane you are familiar with this man, correct?]

Blanchefleur gave a grin and a confident nod, "mhm-hmming" as she did. "Juste un garçon quand je l'ai rencontré — en arrière dans la Grande Guerre il était. Il était un soldat courant le jupon qui avait toujours un côté arrogant et le fait de parler de femmes, il a eu tendance à aller pour ceux il a supposé étaient stupides. Il aime penser à sa carrière comme le bétail et lui celui en tenant le couteau du boucher. La guerre psychologique fait des merveilles sur lui, pourtant." [Translation: "Just a boy when I met him — back in the Great War it was. He was a womanizing soldier that always had an arrogant streak, and speaking of women, he tended to go for the ones he assumed were stupid. He likes to think of his quarry as cattle, and he the one holding the butcher's knife. Psychological warfare does wonders on him, however."]

"Savez-vous pourquoi il est en France ?" asked another. Blanchefleur snorted in disgust at the obviousness of the answer. [Translation: "Do you know why he is in France?"]

"Parce qu'il est une de la Gestapo, vous clignant de l'oeil l'andouille. Quelqu'un qui pose une menace aux allemands va avoir un d'entre eux sur leurs talons. Il veut des informations sur comment nous travaillons et il le veut mal. Nous avons perdu Monsieur Vasser à eux il y a quelques semaines — je les ai esquivés coppers depuis. Le vieil imbécile était sur le point de chanter comme un oiseau!" [Translation: "Because he's one of the Gestapo, you blinking dimwit. Anyone who poses a threat to the Germans is going to have one of them on their heels. He wants information on how we work, and he wants it bad. We lost Monsieur Vasser to them a few weeks ago — I've been dodging them coppers ever since. The old fool was about to sing like a bird!"]

Laroche's lackies looked disturbed — real disturbed. "Et vous n'avez fait rien pour arrêter cet officier de Gestapo ?" asked the one with the sore foot again. [Translation: "And you didn't do anything to stop this Gestapo officer?"]

"Essayé," replied Blanchefleur. "Ne pouvait faire rien pour Vasser — notre homme l'avait sur la terre déjà. Je suis arrivé tiennent du pistolet du bâtard et du coup lui avec cela, cependant. Veut voir ?" [Translation: "Tried." // "Couldn't do anything for Vasser — our man had him on the ground already. I got hold of the bastard's pistol and shot him with it, though. Wanna see?"]

In just a few seconds, Blanchefleur had her feet off of the table and on the floor, reaching under her brown skirt to get at the holster beneath. Flipping open the buttoned, leather cover, she swiftly withdrew a worn, most definitely German pistol — a Lüger, to be exact. The handle had a couple of marks on it — the old crone's victory marks, to be exact. One from her shot at a certain Wolff puppy, and one from a guard she had shot in the backside as a distraction.

"N'est pas elle une beauté ?" the old woman boasted, waving her recently-attained prize around. Thankfully, the pistol was on safety, and with only a single shot left in it. "Ce Boche-garçon très bien de. Je crois qu'il avait ce fait sur commande, n'est-ce pas ?" [Translation: "Ain't she a beauty?" // "This Boche-boy's very well off. I think he had this custom-made, don't you?"]