In the City of Lights - Part II [Victoire]

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Country: Occupied France, in the city of Paris.
Current Time: 21:05, Late August of 1942
Weather Conditions: On-and-off storms, leaning more towards stormy weather as the days progress on. It's obvious that stormy autumn is approaching, and it's getting a little bit cooler outside.
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Could the Resistance not leave an old woman alone? Could she just not take her wine and leave in peace? Wine that, according to her ever-sensitive ears, was stolen from a Nazi officer — how appropriate. There was a Nazi officer of a different kind after Blanchefleur, and that was enough trouble — was the Resistance mad, giving her bottles she could be killed for if caught with? If only she wasn't such a drinker . . . .

Oh, how Blanchefleur would have loved to get out of Paris. How she would have loved to be on the road again, roaming around in the countryside and playing her "little old woman" act. An act that, thanks to her experience in French intelligence years ago, could be very convincing — and could keep the little Wolff puppy off her trail. However, just a night after her arrival in the conquered capital, the Germans had raided yet another establishment of resistance, killing many and revealing a mole in the ranks. There weren't many witnesses to the attack, save for a card player with his skull bashed in and one badly beaten singer — the former still hadn't woken up yet. So, since Fontane — Blanchefleur's "boss", all things considered, and a notable figure in the Resistance — was centering on something important in the Parisian streets, he wanted to hear what had happened, and see if it connected to the issue the man was working on. He would not digress the nature of the issue, because of the "sensitive circumstances" surrounding it, but Blanchefleur figured it might have been another leak. If there was a mole, then there could be connections to the newest attack, could there not?

Her sigh was of impatience as she tapped her foot idly. Hushed murmurs came from beyond the door, which led to a makeshift bedroom — the singer was inside. She was badly shaken from her experience, a young soul who had not ever seen the horrors of war before. That was what made the young French so stupid about the Germans, what made them lose so early in the war — they had underestimated them. They didn't know what they were up against. Blanchefleur had already been through the days of occupation, and had done her utmost to end them — at least, most of the time. A few incidents — which she refused to recall to keep an image up — had been done when she was nothing more than drowned drunk. But it was of no matter, there was information to be gathered, things to be discovered, business at hand! Business, if she could add, would lead to some lovely, pristine, delicious wine later . . . oh yes.

Finally, she was allowed to come and see the poor girl, who was wrapped snugly in blankets and wearing a plain gown. Escorted in by a young Maquis man, Blanchefleur could not help but give a low whistle at the girl's state. She really had gotten herself into trouble, hadn't she? How typical of the day's youth.

"Bonjour, la jeune dame," said Blanchefleur with a grin and friendly tone. "Trouvé vous-même dans un peu de problème, ne vous a pas faits maintenant ? A reçu un nom ?" [Translation: "Hello, young lady." // "Found yourself in a bit of trouble, now didn't you? Got a name?"]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

The young woman pulled the plaid blanket tightly around her cold-bloodedly injured body, her lips (bearing a small cut across the lower surface of what had once been a luscious red) slightly opened as she endeavoured to breathe with more ease, despite the fact it was difficult precisely owing to the sheer amount of pressure she used from her lungs – pressure which came not purely from the exhaustion of inhale and exhale, nor from her heart almost having been ripped off her chest by beating ever so viciously throughout the encounter, in the same vicious manner he had battered her, but right at this moment owing to the waves of wrath and loathing that threatened to tear her apart and pilfer all samples of sanity from her mind forever. As she forcefully grabbed the blanket around her, the additional pressure turned her knuckles white and she had to stretch her fingers from the sudden but short stab of pain she felt with this minimal movement. Victoire Beaudoin, if anything, was a proud woman and to have been treated in such an inhumane, disrespectable and galling manner, to have been forced to watch a cruel and ruthless man penetrating through her defences, her walls that prevented people from breaking her, sensitive as she was, could indeed be a dire experience especially during these times of global anguish and terror – and walls which, should be said, were not always upheld, for she was not one to over-protect herself for absolutely no reason; indeed, she allowed others frequently to know of her passionate opinions and ideals, sometimes even wished them to bear this knowledge, but as a human being she did not want her beliefs to be misunderstood, for this free-spirited and artistically unhinged source of youth had a sensitive heart which though invented illusions of it being strong and invulnerable – and strong, indeed, it were – was rather fragile at the same time, and heavily insecure.

It was only a day afterwards the Nazi raid at the underground pub, and the French Resistance had managed to quickly locate her through the old, crouching woman who had assisted her out of the debris of mess and destruction; she had insisted she accompanied Victoire back on her apartment, but the young woman had far from desired to return to that place, rather desperately wanted to be left alone, in spite of all the inner gratitude she felt for the old lady who had gone out of her way in helping her and refused to leave her on the street in such a condition. Then, Victoire had had no other choice but yell at her to leave her alone, moved away and lost her support, fell flat on the pavement, and while the old woman despite all her rheumatism knelt down to assist her once more, Victoire supported herself against the brick hall and barked for her to leave. The old lady, who had soon after alerted the Resistance as her grandson was a member actively fighting against the Nazi regime, had looked at her sympathetically and then slowly turned around and began to walk away, crouching, poor but ever so benevolent. Victoire had experienced such a rage of guilt against her own thoughtless action but, alas, she was a girl who succumbed to her curiously ever-changing temperament. Nonetheless, she had not yielded to his command; her lack of information notwithstanding, the brute had still believed she was a receptacle of intelligence that could have been of vital importance to him and his national duty – and she had refused to speak, instead resolving to openly and daringly mock him. There was something very pleasurable, very sadistically delightful and fulfilling about the fact she had managed to come out alive from such an encounter with a Nazi, who in many French people’s minds was and would potentially remain the embodiment of evil and terror.

Proud as she was, fierce and profligate, she still felt despoiled. It was dark in the makeshift bedroom, very cold, and damp. She could feel a storm approaching, and the thunder echoing from the open skies through the room penetrated her vulnerable and wounded body, piercing through her entire length in the same way his fists had thumped against her bones, or the sharp blade had slashed through her flesh. The tears that she had shed during the encounter with him had been tears of physical pain, a most natural reaction, and not tears of emotional anguish or surrender. She could hardly remember when was the last time she had cried, it had been such a long time ago, perhaps even centuries, barely in her memories any more – but she could indeed commit to memory how she had taught herself not to cry, for this was only what silly, weak little women were prone to do, especially while undertaking efforts in capturing men within their greedy little hands. She could recall those times when she at a tender age would slap herself once or twice, or several times, with her petite and gentle hands when she felt the corners of her eyes prickling hotly. She looked at the still door, not thinking, not feeling. Her raven black hair was messy, her skin was a colour of sick white and the scars in her legs, particularly the deep wound in the inner thigh, were something she presently wished to conceal. Ironic, wasn’t it, how only some weeks ago she would proclaim pride at these scars, scars that valiant soldiers were bearing, and now that she had graciously accumulated them, she felt ashamed. Ashamed of what, however? The fact she had been treated in such a manner, that she had been regarded as a contemptible vessel instead of a woman that needed to be respected? Where was the gratification she expected to feel at these scars?

The truth was that this gratification eclipsed for her at this moment. But simultaneously she felt proud for this deed, for laughing at this source of cruelty, that brute and mongrel, instead of weeping like a silly woman. It was a contradiction, but the entire world was consisted of contradictions, so it really did not matter. Sitting there at the basement of Christophe Brussard’s private clinic, having been dosed with one or two shots of morphine but still feeling the pain in every inch of her body, which refused to forget with a simple pill, she felt the most deserted creature on this planet. But the Resistance – how she admired those benevolent and courageous human beings who risked their lives for the good of France, for the benefit of her beloved country, how she loved them all. The Germans were dogs and needed to be slaughtered. She swallowed, but that movement hurt in itself. She felt her eyes heavy, weary, and she had not eaten anything since the previous day, all colour having been drained off her body. But when the door creaked open and in walked an older woman, she imagined it was the old lady who had assisted her before – and she immediately sat up straight with an expression of hope in her steely-gray eyes, but it was not her. Disappointed on some level, she leaned back against the wall and glanced at the woman coming from the shadows cast, as the lamp placed upon the old wooden desk and shedding its dim light around its territory could not reach the door, thus incapacitating her of outlining the second figure standing next to the woman. Once she approached, Victoire could finally make out her features; she was an old lady, to be sure, but a rough-looking one. Certainly not one who would be trifled with, as observed from the small cuts on her skin, which signified she had seen the dark of days herself.

Victoire knew not why the woman’s presence helped the fire inside her heart retain the smouldering flame, why the mere grin and pleasant tone the unfamiliar woman used instead of a worrisome expression or shriek of horror was more appreciated by her, and why she instantly felt slightly better emotionally upon seeing this strong and able woman, however short, come through the darkness like some godly spirit who had been sent to give her a moment’s worth of peace of mind and relief. Her nose was rather lumpy, and seemed as though it had been broken a few times, her hair was a gray-white shade, but she moved about as though she was fearless, Victoire never failing to notice and appreciate the devious flint of those cunning eyes. “Victoire,” she replied in a low but firm whisper, staring at the older woman unblinkingly; there was a touch of pride in the way she uttered the word, as if to suggest that despite the fact she had been beaten down and wounded, victory was hers. It was inside her, and constituted her very being, the very essence of her existence. But she spoke not of the surname; the Beaudoin family had once belonged to the elite social circles, and the young woman wanted not at this moment to connect herself to what used to be a family – or a sample of it.

“C’est très froid …” she breathed, and then momentarily closed her eyes, as she leaned her head back against the stone wall. Despite the fact she was wearing a simple black dress reaching down to the lower side of her thighs, the blanket was long enough to cover her body – but the basement had no fireplace, and all the moisture had been accumulated in the walls and up in the ceiling. She opened her eyes, blinked, and then looked at the woman quietly. She knew not what to say, feeling absolutely drained, exhausted, but certainly not sleepy. How could she ever sleep? How could dying people ever lay peacefully upon their deathbeds, and how could nightingales not flail their wings around while singing their last, mournful melody? “Qui est l’homme? Que les deux faites-vous ici?” she muttered only, not wanting to exert her mouth; it still awfully hurt when she spoke loudly and fervently (which she had sadly experienced once she had barked at the old woman in the street), not quite used to the sore feeling of her jaw having been dislodged and then relocated. But she was young, she would learn. They all did in the end. Paris was no longer the city of lights.


♠ Translation ♠

It’s too cold …

Who is the man? What are you both doing here?

[Blanchefleur Paget]

"Victoire." Victory. How ironic a name, but a pretty name, too. Blanchefleur snorted — not unkindly — and placed her hands on her hips, leaning back. The entire look made her seem rather cocky, and cocky she was indeed — this was the same woman who had openly shot at a Gestapo man not too long ago, with his Luger still strapped to her leg. A Luger that, she would happily brag about, was of great value to one Herr Otto Wolff.

"Désolé du froid, cheré," said Blanchefleur, "mais vous devrez être indulgents avec cela un tout petit morceau plus long que vous voudriez. Je pense que vous avez été traînés dans la boue et en arrière, mais franchement, il y a des façons moins stupides d'arriver pour faire ce que vous voulez dans cette guerre. Mais je ne dois pas châtier ici vous, le chéri; je dois parler juste ici. Jean-Claude, pourriez-vous marcher s'il vous plaît dehors ? Allez voient si Christophe a n'importe quoi que vous pourriez faire." [Translation: "Sorry about the cold, dear, but you'll have to bear with it a wee bit longer than you'd like. I understand you've been dragged through the mud and back, but frankly, there are less stupid ways of getting to do what you want in this war. But I'm not here to chastise you, sweetheart; I'm just here to talk. Jean-Claude, could you please step outside? Go see if Christophe has anything you could do.]

The man — who Blanchefleur had addressed as "Jean-Claude" — looked slightly miffed as the old bat waved him off. He was not a child — he was a proud lad of twenty-two years — and Blanchefleur had sounded downright patronizing as she had told him to leave. Nonetheless, he would take this patronizing in stride, allowing the pair of women to be so that Blanchefleur could get her work done. The old bat was happy for this, for she had little patience since being forced to stay in Paris longer than she was supposed to.

"Maintenant alors . . . " began Blanchefleur, pulling up a chair from the nearby desk and sitting on it. "Juste qu'est-ce que vous est arrivé dans là, l'enfant ? Vous semblez que vous vous soyez soûlés et êtes tombés dans un fleuve et je devrais savoir — j'ai eu qui m'arrivent plusieurs fois auparavant. Évidemment, il est très difficile de constater que les fleuves tombent dans quand vous jouez dans un club, bon Victoire ?" [Translation: "Now then . . . . " // "Just what the hell happened to you in there, child? You look like you got drunk and fell into a river, and I should know — I've had that happen several times to me before. Of course, it's very hard to find rivers to fall into when you're performing at a club, right Victoire?"]

As she spoke, her tone was casual, if not a bit fiery, as if she was talking to a friend who had done something rather stupid. Such was how Blanchefleur worked — it was perfectly normal for her to be her old, catty, sometimes irritatingly blunt, don't-give-a-care self. This same attitude would only be strengthened by high emotions, as well as anything from Victoire that Blanchefleur could classify as "moronic".

Before anything moronic could be uttered by poor Victoire, however, the old bat noticed the thick bandage wrapped around her jaw and head. A bandage that — in combination with such a swollen-looking jaw — told Blanchefleur the joint had been dislocated. She tutted, shaking her head, quickly standing upright and with her face mere centimetres from Victoire's.

"Oh mon, vous avez eu certainement tout à fait le coup, ne vous ayez pas maintenant ? Ne moi répondez pas encore — je finirai par quelque chose le rendre plus facile pour vous, Mademoiselle Victoire." She turned, going to the door, poking her head and barking outside, "JEAN-CLAUDE! Recevez-moi un peu de papier et un crayon!" [Translation: "Oh my, you've certainly had quite the blow, now haven't you? Don't answer me yet — I'll get something to make it easier for you, Mademoiselle Victoire." // "JEAN-CLAUDE! Get me some paper and a pencil!"]

With a quick turn of the head, Blanchefleur added, "Je suis Hélène, à propos." [Translation: I am Hélène, by the way.]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire felt stronger with the old woman’s presence around her, as though the latter’s might was transmitted to the former through means of a barking order and a swagger. Simultaneously, however, the woman was not unfriendly towards the girl, instead showing her considerate side, thankfully and most appropriately deficient in any form of mellow affection as would have only served to further exasperate the young woman instead of support her. She had never experienced and lived with a proper motherly figure in her short life, and to have someone take the reins in such a congenially fierce and at the same time selfless comportment was a refreshing encounter. At first she once again imagined that the man standing next to the unfamiliar woman was someone she knew; once the woman began with ‘Jean’ Victoire turned to stare at the man overtly, expecting to see Jean-Luc Laroche, but then once it only proved to be Jean-Claude, the small pang of anticipation evaporated into bitter nothingness. She stared at the woman who approached her, and did not utter anything; the woman wanted to talk to her, but Victoire did not want to engage herself in conversation, regardless who the other speaker would be. She merely desired to rest in a warm bed in a room with a crackling fireplace, and nothing else. But as far as the physical pain was concerned, she wanted it not to cease; perhaps it was some form of punishing herself for thing she had done in the past without present consciousness, perhaps she secretly loved and admired the pain, but one thing was certain – sitting by a corner in a cold, damp basement only stretched her poor nerves and drained her off patience, if indeed she had any at this point.

The way in which the woman spoke to her, however, somehow calmed her, and she closed her eyes fleetingly, until a small and bitter smile crawled across the beaten surface of her lips and lingered for several seconds once the older woman suggested an allegory that described of her current looks; perhaps it would have been better if she had fell into the cold waters of the Seine, perhaps that would have cleansed her off everything which threatened to bring her disturbance. But once the woman stepped backwards and demanded off Jean-Claude her order, the barking tone pierced through her brain with a ringing force and almost gave her a headache. She had been thumped against the head a few times, after all. “Hélène,” she muttered her name, savouring the beautiful sound that echoed from her lips once she pronounced it, a name which flowed like honey and melted in the surrounding air, sweet and sensitive, thus forming a perfect contrast to the woman’s behaviour so far. She wanted not to show weakness in being presently incapacitated of normal speech, and yet the burning stab she experienced every time she endeavoured to speak left her with no other choice. Once Jean-Claude came and provided her with a pencil and a piece of yellow paper, Victoire felt for her head, a migraine shortly on its way, and then thought for a bit, for several moments staring at the paper impassively.

From the coldness her fingers were slightly trembling, and though her handwriting was usually elegant and artistic, when she attempted to scribble down some words, it came out messy and disjointed. She wrote very slowly, making little sounds inside her throat every now and then as she inhaled deeply to satisfy her complaining lungs, but when she came to the point of writing down how the man had grasped a firm hold of her and tore her apart, she hesitated, and closed her eyes, memories seeping through her veins, her mind consumed by the never-ceasing vigour they possessed. The steely-gray, ice-blue eyes opened, and she stared back at the words. Those few, pathetic, meaningless words. How pitiful they were, how laughable.

Il était impossible de trouver notre endroit. Fabien s’en est assuré. Les seuls gens qui en savaient appartiennent à la Résistance. Ils ne nous trahiraient jamais. Personne n’a détecté rien avant que la porte d’entrée n’ait été cassée et ils ont interrompu brutalement. Ils ont voulu arrêter chacun. Ils ont lancé des grenades et ont tiré beaucoup d’ommes, même ceux qui ne luttaient pas. Alors il est venu, un chien Nazi, il m’a saisi et m’a poussé dans la pièce de Fabien. Il a voulu des renseignements.

She let the pencil fall on the floor with a tinkling sound; it felt heavy, so heavy in her weary hands. “Il l’a vraiment voulu,” she whispered at her in a hoarse tone, once the woman had read it, and she would understand what had proceeded due to this want of information, words were needless. Words were vain and empty. Then, she angrily stretched out her hand sideways and with a small grumble of her throat she reached for the packet of cigarettes lying on the wooden table against the wall, a few inches away from her, snatched the lighter, and moments later she shoved the cigarette through her colourless lips, and smoked. She immediately warmed up, and pulled the blanket tightly around her again, feeling the smoke laughing at her lungs; these had their own battle to fight between each other, but for the time being she cared not. She looked at the woman. “Résistance?” she asked her laconically in a low and guttural whisper, looking at her fiercely. “Bon. S’il y avait une fuite de vos gens ... beaucoup d’autres sont morts à cause de cela.” Though her voice was calm, however bitter, the mocking touch of these words were perceivable beneath the seemingly quiet demeanour. Not being a member herself, she admired those who joined the Resistance with the purpose of liberating her beloved country, and was of the belief nonetheless that their actions had no result, and how could they ever when the Nazi regime was so well-established within the heart of France? She could not blame them, but if they were so shamefully disorganized to bear traitors within their circles, that meant loss of innocent lives.


♠ Translation ♠

It was impossible to find our location. Fabien made sure of that. The only people who knew of it belong to the Resistance. They would never betray us. Nobody sensed anything until the entrance door was broken and they barged in. They wanted to arrest everyone. They threw grenades and shot many men, even those who weren’t fighting. Then he came, a Nazi dog, he grabbed me and shoved me in Fabien’s room. He wanted information.

He really wanted it.

Resistance? Good. If there was a leak from your people ... many others died because of it.

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Fabien? Who was this "Fabien"? Blanchefleur's instincts were set on fire by the name presented on the paper. There was a possibility that this "Fabien" — whom Blanchefleur would have to discuss with her superiors — was responsible for the leak. If he was in charge of the establishment's security, then it would be his hands who were stained with the blood of the dead. The old bat's eyes narrowed.

"Il l’a vraiment voulu," Victoire added in a hoarse whisper, before her brow knit in anger and she reached out for a pack of nearby cigarettes. Although sucking on a burning, rolled-up piece of tobacco and paper wasn't the best thing for someone with an injured lip, Blanchefleur let the girl do it. It was no business of Blanchefleur's how much further Victoire's lip was injured — if the performer wanted to be stupid, to be it. Blanchefleur was stupid, and quite often as well — how else would the woman explain her dumb luck and frequent bouts of serendipity?

It was now not the time to reflect on this, however. Now was the time to act, to collect information, as was Blanchefleur's job. She went to open her mouth, but the old bat was quickly cut off by Victoire, who sounded snide as she said, "Résistance ? Bon. S’il y avait une fuite de vos gens . . . beaucoup d’autres sont morts à cause de cela." Blanchefleur made a low growl in her throat, promptly pinching out the burning end of Victoire's cigarette. She flinched not once as the hot ash sizzled against her skin, instead shaking her hand once she withdrew it from the stick of tobacco.

"Et vous êtes un imbécile fichu pour être audacieux et casser le couvre-feu, surtout si vous n'avez rien pour vous défendre avec. La fois dernière que j'ai vérifié, Mademoiselle Victoire, je n'étais pas celui avec une mâchoire disloquée, dans une cave froide avec seulement la morphine pour me calmer. Je suggère que vous regardez votre bouche — autrement, je le renverrai heureusement déplacé pour vous." [Translation: And you're a damn fool for being bold and breaking curfew, especially if you don't have anything to defend yourself with. Last time I checked, Mademoiselle Victoire, I wasn't the one with a dislocated jaw, in a cold basement with only morphine to comfort me. I suggest you watch your mouth — otherwise, I'll happily knock it back out of place for you.]

The ex-intelligence worker wasn't joking. She had grown up roughhousing with boys, spending thirteen years under the hot sun of the Mediterranean. Her skin was touched with tan from her North African mother, who often brought the switch down upon Blanchefleur for being so rebellious and headstrong. Adding to the mix frequent bar fights, vehicle crashes and drunken topplings-over — well, was it any surprise that the woman had good muscle and pain tolerance? She was still pretty limber for her age, too!

"Si vous allez vous plaindre, le mettre par écrit sur un morceau de papier," snapped Blanchefleur, picking up the pencil, handing it and the paper back to Victoire. "Dites-moi plus de ce caractère 'de Fabien'. Et la coupe l'art dramatique, aussi! Vous n'êtes pas les seuls qui a fait disloquer sa mâchoire auparavant, vous savez! Je devrais savoir — j'étais tout à fait le bagarreur dans ma jeunesse et je pourrais toujours frapper Hitler insensé d'ici à l'autre fin du monde!" [Translation: "If you're going to complain, write it down on a piece of paper." // "Tell me more about this 'Fabien' character. And cut the dramatics, too! You're not the only one who's had her jaw dislocated before, you know! I should know — I was quite the fighter in my youth, and I could still knock Hitler senseless from here to the other end of the world!"]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

The older woman pinched the burning end of her cigarette, and Victoire slowly smiled as she stared into the other’s warm but hawk-like brown eyes. She even proceeded to shout briskly at Victoire, but the younger woman knew not to be critical of one’s personality simply from such outbursts. Never before had she come along women who were fierce and not afraid of stating their opinions, who could command and be in charge of affairs, who refused to bow down to men’s supremacy and went so far as even boss them around, such as the hawk had done with Jean-Claude. “Je vous aime, Hélène,” she whispered to her, a small genuine smile etched across her lips. “Je n’ai jamais vu de femme comme vous auparavant.” And it was true. “Le brisement du couvre-feu est mon travail. Il est toujours plus facile de parler des précautions après que le chien vous a mordus. Je me suis fié à la Résistance assez pour les divertir illégalement, j’étais pas prêt pour n’importe quel attaque qui pourrait s’être produit. Je suis juste une fille de spectacle, Madame. Je ne suis pas un bagarreur,” she simply said in a low tone, and then looked away from her in shame.

Shame arising from the fact she had once been a respectable student studying the arts in Sorbonne, the University of Paris, notably one of the most acclaimed Universities in the world; she had aspirations and plans for her future, dreams that involved breaking the norms and proving to the unbelievers how even a woman could have a remarkable place in their world. These, upon occupation, had only remained dreams which she had long since abandoned, crushed hopes she wished never again to possessed, and if she had once thought she would have become a great artist of the time, now had compromised with the fact this was the pathetic title she was always going to have. A mere, little showgirl.

But once the older woman gave her the paper for her to write on, she merely glanced at it, and then her eyes glinted angrily. Weakness. She resented it most of everything, and wanted not to succumb to its engaging, all-embracing powers. She wanted not to become like those silly, little women she observed every day on the streets, accepting their status as mere objects with a passion that was unaccountable and not acting against society’s status quo in that respect, purely conceding to the expectations of them being only involved with domestic affairs. “Fabien Gravois,” she informed her in a low but clear tone, in a way which did not exert her sore relocated jaw to a great extent; “il a assumé la charge du pub souterrain improvisé cette fois. Il a été responsable plusieurs fois.” She twirled the cigarette around her fingers for several seconds, and then placed it on the blanket, looking up at the older woman, perhaps wishing in that way to absord a little of her strength. “Ce n’était pas Fabien,” she delayed not in assuring her. “Il n’aurait jamais compromis sa vie pour deux ou trois francs, tellement moins pour son pays. Il est mort maintenant et bien que ce soit des Nazis de connaissance communs ne sont pas honorables dans leurs accords, sa nature astucieuse l’aurait protégé d’être tirée trois fois dans la tête. Non, ce n’était pas Fabien, si beaucoup je suis convaincu de.”

She stared at the woman cautiously, her expression serious and hard, combined with something concealed behind those steely-blue eyes, a wish of further acquiaintance of some sort. “On a connu que Fabien exploite des situations pour son propre avantage, mais il était aussi trop d’un lâche pour être dans le même périmètre avec les allemands, ils l’ont terrifié – principalement quand il a été témoin d’un de ses voisins étant tirés en raison d’un retard maigre dans le fait de fermer ses fenêtres pendant le couvre-feu. Il était, pourtant, familier avec beaucoup de cercles étranges autour de Paris, n’en appartenant pas nécessairement à la Résistance. Quelquefois Jean-Luc l’a réprimandé pour inviter quelques hommes particuliers pendant nos spectacles, dont les identités ont été fondées surtout sur leurs mots plutôt que les papiers.” She spoke slowly, but made certain her words very uttered in a very firm and comprehensible way; being also positive how the woman would be familiar with Jean-Luc Laroche through his contribution and membership within the circles of the Resistance, she felt not as though she had to explain his identity to her. She stared at her closely once she took a small break in order to absorb the woman’s mental situation at the moment.

“Vous êtes énervés, la Madame. Je comprends,” she told her in a low tone, looking at her sincerely through eyes which glinted with disappointment and bitter frustration. “Mais moi aussi. Je suis énervé qu’il pourrait y avoir quelqu’un parmi les bagarreurs de Résistance qui oseraient trahir leur pays; je suis énervé que les intérêts personnels et les augmentations devraient toujours venir avant le patriotisme et je suis énervé de tels hommes pourraient être le français. Je n’ai pas épargné de pensée de la mâchoire disloquée, la douleur s’atténuera très bientôt et il sera comme s’il n’est jamais arrivé. Une autre douleur me tracasse, cette de ma fierté étant disloquée plutôt.” She pulled the blanket around her body once more, feeling slightly warmer, but all the more bitter with the events which had occurred the evening before. “Pardonnez-moi, je suis très furieux. Beaucoup de bons amis miens ont perdu leurs vies pour rien du tout, il ne devrait jamais être arrivé. Je n’ai pas été tout à fait ferme depuis hier, vous devriez le pardonner.”



♠ Translation ♠

I like you, Hélène. I have never seen a woman like you before.

Breaking curfew is my work. It is always easier to speak of precautions after the dog has bitten you. I trusted the Resistance enough to entertain them illegally, I was unprepared for any attack that might have occurred. I am a mere showgirl, Madame. I am not a fighter.

Fabien Gravois, he took charge of the makeshift underground pub this time. He has been in charge several times.

It wasn’t Fabien. He would have never jeopardized his life for a couple of francs, so much less for his country. He is dead now, and though it is common knowledge Nazis are not honourable in their agreements, his astute nature would have protected him from being shot three times in the head. No, it wasn’t Fabien, that much I am convinced of.

Fabien has been known to exploit situations for his own benefit, but he was also too much of a coward to be in the same perimeter with the Germans, they terrified him – principally when he witnessed one of his neighbours being shot due to a meagre delay in shutting his windows during curfew. He was, however, familiar with many strange circles around Paris, not necessarily belonging to the Resistance. Sometimes Jean-Luc berated him for inviting a few peculiar men during our shows, whose identities were mostly based on their words rather than papers.

You are frustrated, Madame. I understand. But so am I. I am frustrated that there could be anyone among the Resistance fighters who would dare betray their country; I am frustrated that personal interests and gains should always come before patriotism, and I am frustrated such men could be French. I have not spared a thought about the dislocated jaw, the pain shall ease very soon and it will be as though it never happened. Another pain bothers me, that of my pride being dislocated instead. Forgive me, I am very angry. Many good friends of mine lost their lives for nothing at all, it should have never happened. I have not been quite stable since yesterday, you would have to forgive that.

[Blanchefleur Paget]

"Le brisement du couvre-feu est mon travail. Il est toujours plus facile de parler des précautions après que le chien vous a mordus. Je me suis fié à la Résistance assez pour les divertir illégalement, j’étais pas prêt pour n’importe quel attaque qui pourrait s’être produit. Je suis juste une fille de spectacle, Madame. Je ne suis pas un bagarreur."

"Préparez-vous alors," Blanchefleur stated simply. "Ne continuez pas à compter sur tous les autres pour vous garder de la voie de mal. Vous pouvez vous fier à la Résistance tout ce que vous voulez, mais c'est une guerre. Personne ne peut être complètement protégé — pas les généraux, pas les réfugiés, pas personne. Vous avez besoin d'apprendre à garder un ensemble d'yeux derrière votre tête, Mademoiselle Victoire." [Translation: "Then prepare yourself." // "Don't keep relying on everyone else to keep you out of harm's way. You can trust the Resistance all you want, but this is a war. Nobody can be completely protected — not the Generals, not the refugees, not anybody. You need to learn to keep a set of eyes on the back of your head, Mademoiselle Victoire."]

As soon as Blanchefleur handed the paper back to Victoire, the young singer glared at it. Glared at it, and looked as if she wanted to burn a hole through the paper with her eyes. Blanchefleur tutted and rolled her head — was the girl too stupid to realize that talking would hurt her jaw only more? Then again, maybe she was proud. Proud like Blanchefleur, and just as stupid. That thought wasn't about to make Blanchefleur grin — the whole "warm and fuzzy" feeling wasn't going to sit well with her right then and there.

Was Blanchefleur going to interrupt Victoire's speech? Absolutely not. Let the girl talk, let the information be gathered, let things be over with. The old bat would simply grasp her chin and nod, genuinely paying attention all the while — and then scowl at the end. A coward in their midst, and a slightly inattentive one at that? No wonder her little Wolff puppy had thought her so easy to trick. The minds of the French had gone to hell, it seemed — why did the youth of the day have to be so stupid? Especially as a basket weaver, Blanchefleur's mother would never have let her daughter let details slip by so easily!

"Jean-Luc, vous dites ?" said Blanchefleur with distate. "Bâtard. Il devrait avoir prêté plus d'attention. Ce gros petit con a reçu ce qu'il a mérité — s'il a donné comme tellement comme un fichu de vous les gens, il aurait fait un meilleur travail. Pourquoi devrait-il vous surprendre, alors, Mademoiselle Victoire, que vous avez été battus à un pouce de votre vie ? Si ce caractère de Fabien ne vérifiait pas de papiers, pourquoi vous n'êtes pas allés chez quelqu'un d'autre ? Mieux encore, pourquoi n'a pas fait Jean-Luc ? S'il veut faire étalage de lui autour d'en tant que tel un sauveur des gens, il commence mieux à essayer de continuer cette crise à une-image-de-T, merde!!" [Translation: "Jean-Luc, you say?" // "Bastard. He should have paid more attention. That fat little bugger got what he deserved — if he gave as so much as a damn about you people, he would've done a better job. Why should it surprise you, then, Mademoiselle Victoire, that you were beaten to an inch of your life? If this Fabien character wasn't checking papers, why didn't you go to someone else? Better yet, why didn't Jean-Luc? If he wants to parade himself around as such a saviour of the people, he better start trying to keep up that fit-to-a-T image, dammit!"]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

The older woman spoke words of wisdom, and Victoire merely listened to her like an attentive student wishing to absorb all sources of knowledge she could possess, owing to the lack of advice and interest as suffered throughout her life from her parents’ negligence and inattention. Hélène seemed to be a woman with an easy and short temper, a fiery heart and a good bark to accompany her drinking habits, from how it seemed to be. Victoire attempted to recollect whether she could have seen her anywhere within the Resistance circles she was often surrounded with, but could hardly find any memory in which the woman could be involved in, not even in the corner as a mere spectator, someone she could have randomly passed by, or a presence within the Resistance meetings, which she often attended due to Jean-Luc. “Je ne sais pas,” she told her earnestly, her tone simple, her expression inscrutable as she stared up at the older woman. “Je n’y ai jamais pensé,” she minimally expressed.

“Je n’ai jamais cru que la Résistance française serait si faillible; si destine,” she told her, a touch of bitterness in her voice, but then a short and mirthless laugh broke through her throat without she could even control or restrict it, thus causing a small stab of pain around her jaw area, but she did not wince. “Quelle pensée bête,” she mumbled, humiliating her own self, and slightly shook her head over her own disillusionment. But once the woman spoke of Victoire taking better care of the underground pubs she chose to work in, she returned her glance at Hélène. “Comme j’ai dit, je suis juste une femme de spectacle,” she said. “On me paie pour divertir, pas pensent.” The feeling of shame once more crossed her facial features through a glint of the eye, as she spoke thus in an undertone, and turned her glance away from the woman, suddenly interested in the bleak wall opposite her. She could distinctly hear the drops of water trickling from the ceiling down the walls across the pipes in a rhythmic patter – and then there was a noise from above, something falling down on the wooden floor with a large thud, a stream of invective following suit, and then replaced with uninterrupted silence. Victoire remained quiet for several moments after this, and then looked back at the old hawk.

“Mais vous avez raison,” she firmly stated. “Jean-Luc peut être un homme arrogant, étourdi qui préfère penser il ne verra pas le résultat d’escroquerie simplement à cause de son nom de Marquis et connexions souterraines, assez dissuader quelqu’un à apporter le problème parmi ses cercles. Un homme intelligent, mais arrogant.” She did not speak in an accusing manner; if anything could be perceivable beneath the tone of perfect forbearance, a touch of restrained affection would surface. She knew Jean-Luc not to be like one those silly gentlemen to be found wandering in the streets of Paris, boring and ineffectual men, but he was temperamental and prone to acting rashly in certain situations. “Vous vous souvenez vraiment quand en mars les Commandos britanniques ont attaqué la commune de Saint-Nazaire? Jean-Luc s’est trouvé présent, le fait de faire avancer, en ayant une cigarette avec eux par l’estuaire Loire et n’en prenant pas des mesures contre le vol britannique notre blé et chevaux. C’est Jean-Luc, quelquefois étourdi sans plan. Ne vous attendez pas à ce qu’il passe par le processus de vérifier de papiers, il est un homme indolent qui préfère penser les choses aiment travailler par eux. Un bâtard, vrai, qui est une façon de regarder le problème,” she said. “Mais il est un homme très travailleur et fier, je me fie à lui avec ma vie. Il ne l’aurait jamais compromis. Je ne mets pas de blâme dans lui.

She looked at the woman circumspectly, slightly troubled by the fact she would not recognize her from anywhere. “Comment est cela je ne vous ai pas vus autour de dans les cercles de Résistance?” she asked her. “Est-ce que vous n’êtes pas un membre?” Victoire knew she had not been in the heart of Paris once the raid had occurred, or else this form of interrogation would have either never taken place, or would have done so at an earlier time, possibly the very same day during the raid; Victoire sensed Hélène was hardly a woman who liked to wait, especially for events in such scale and with such a sheer magnitude as could have caused a far greater hassle for the Resistance. If this was so, and Victoire had a peculiar feeling it was indeed so, that meant the old hawk had been notified by a source within these circles, sent immediately to Paris to inspect certain issues at hand. She certainly seemed appropriate for this job.



♠ Translation ♠

I don’t know. I never thought about it.

I never thought the French Resistance would be so fallible; so doomed. What a silly thought.

Like I said, I am a mere showgirl. I am paid to entertain, not think.

But you are right. Jean-Luc can be an arrogant, thoughtless man who prefers to think he will not see the result of scam simply because of his Marquis name and underground connections, enough to deter anyone from bringing trouble amidst his circles. An intelligent, but arrogant man.

You do remember when in March British Commandos raided the commune of Saint-Nazaire? Jean-Luc was there, helping along, having a cigarette with them by the Loire estuary, and not taking measures against the British stealing our wheat and horses. That is Jean-Luc, sometimes thoughtless without plan. Do not expect him to go through the process of verifying papers, he is a lazy man who prefers to think things like to work by themselves. A bastard, true, that is one way of looking at the problem. But he is a very hard-working and proud man, I trust him with my life. He would have never jeopardized it. I do not put any blame in him.

How is it I have not seen you around in the Resistance circles? Are you not a member?

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Blanchefleur raised her eyebrows Victoire made yet another showgirl remark. Those same eyebrows dipped downwards, and with a glare, Blanchefleur snapped, "Vous savez, si tout vous allez prévoir une raison est, 'je suis une girl,' vous allez donner l'impression aux gens vous avez de l'eau dans votre cerveau. Arrêtez s'il vous plaît d'utiliser le fait que vous exhibez vous-même autour d'et chantez comme un oiseau sur le café — c'est une insulte aux autres artistes qui auraient été déjà sortis la fenêtre au premier signe de problème." [Translation: "You know, if all you're going to provide for a reason is, 'I'm a showgirl,' you're going to give people the impression you've got water in your brain. Please stop using the fact you flaunt yourself around and sing like a bird on coffee — it's an insult to the other performers who would've been already out the window at the first sign of trouble."]

With a sigh, the old woman shifted her weight, and rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly. She had little patience for Victoire's type of people — the ones that made excuses, who made things harder for the Resistance, who were the reason Blanchefleur had been called up from southern France at a bad time. Here was this young woman, not even putting a scrap of thought into why she had done what she did, and constantly using her profession as the excuse. Did Victoire really think that Blanchefleur was stupid enough to assume every showgirl was mindless and attention-seeking? Of course the old bat wasn't, but the girl sure had nerve at hinting she was!

When Victoire continued, speaking of Jean-Luc's impulsiveness and arrogance, Blanchefleur's ears were keen enough to pick up on the hint of affection. She would have opened her mouth to say something — but Victoire then mentioned the Saint-Nazaire raid. Temples visibly bulged as Blanchefleur fumed, clenching her teeth as the showgirl spoke. Blanchefleur had been at the scene during that raid — and through the workings of the Resistance, not surprisingly. The old bat suddenly snorted like a bull.

"CE PETIT MORCEAU ARROGANT DE CONNERIE!" Blanchefleur roared, throwing her head back. "JE JURE, QUAND JE METS LA MAIN SUR LUI JE TORDRAI SON PETIT COU CRASSEUX!" [Translation: "THAT ARROGANT LITTLE PIECE OF CRAP!" // "I SWEAR, WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON HIM I'LL WRING HIS FILTHY LITTLE NECK!"]

She stomped towards the door with murderous intent — but stopped herself halfway there. Still breathing heavily, she began to rub her temples, her head tilting downwards slightly as she tried to get herself under control. "Foyer, foyer . . ." she murmured to herself, giving herself a couple of moments to calm down before turning back to Victoire. [Translation: Calm, calm . . . . ]

"Le droit, ne discutons pas qu'est-ce qui est arrivé en mars, n'est-ce pas ?" said Blanchefleur briskly, before clearing her throat loudly. Victoire seemed willing to comply, as she then asked why she had not seen Blanchefleur before. The old woman shrugged. [Translation: "Right, let's not discuss what happened in March, shall we?"]

"J'ai travaillé dans la France du sud," said Blanchefleur, "et je préfère le temps là-bas. Mon travail n'est pas de venir et se frotter des épaules avec les gens dans Paris gai — je suis un ouvrier d'intelligence.” [Translation: "I've been working in southern France." // "And I prefer the weather down there. My job isn't to come and rub shoulders with the folks in gay Paris — I'm an intelligence worker."]

She puffed out her chest, suddenly looking proud.

"Vous parlez aussi à un membre de la Résistance française originale, Mademoiselle Victoire. Je suis un expert en battement dans les têtes de ces envahisseurs bêtes. En fait, les Britanniques ont été si impressionnés par mon travail, ils m'ont donné une médaille!" [Translation: "You are also speaking to a member of the original French Resistance, Mademoiselle Victoire. I am an expert in beating in the heads of those silly invaders. In fact, the Britons were so impressed by my work, they gave me a medal!"]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire was by now used to the older woman’s disposition and nature to feel remotely disgruntled by her behaviour; she found it really fascinating, and silently watched her as she expressed her views on performers of the time. “Oh, vous croyez que l’intelligence dans les artistes est servie de tremplin par leur capacité dans le saut des fenêtres quand les premiers signes de danger viennent pour qu’ils puissent se sauver et abandonner tous?” she asked her with interest, her voice calm and collected, and even a smile smile was etched across her lips. This was not the first time someone would think lowly of this profession, and it certainly would not be the last. “Comment bas vous pensez aux artistes, la Madame. Non, ce n’est pas l’intelligence. C’est la lâcheté. Si j’avais voulu rester dans confines sûr et strict de mon appartement, j’aurais déjà fait ainsi. Ne se sont non seulement trouvés présent aucune fenêtre – puisque nous travaillons le métro – mais même s’il y avait, je ne serais jamais devenu de lâche à la charge de d’autres. Je n’avais aucun temps pour penser et agir, j’ai été tout de suite saisi et abusé par un de leurs hommes; pardonnez-moi pour être trop occupés dans être enfoncé. Comment très arrogant de moi!” she breathed, and looked up at her.

No, it certainly would not be the last. “Ne soyez pas si rapides au fait de classifier les gens que vous ne connaissez pas, la Madame. Rien de bon ne vient jamais de telles actions irréfléchies. Je détecte votre humeur courte et le boire des habitudes peut recevoir le meilleur d’entre vous, mais ne penser pas votre expérience et connaissance compenseront pour le fait vous recevez la fin meilleure de l’affaire. C’est les gens de Paris qui souffrent le plus de l’occupation,” she simply spoke in that same low, composed tone, and shrugged her shoulders, looking around her, but there was nothing there, no one there to come and take her away from this rat hole, nothing remotely interesting or satisfying to engage herself in apart from this form of interrogation. But when the woman spoke of her participation to the original resistance movement, Victoire immediately turned her glance at her, a gentle expression combining both admiration and bitterness sewn across her face; admiration for this involvement, and bitterness at the present state of affairs and the unfortunate event which had fell upon her.

“Je suis honoré, la Madame,” she told her. “Si toute la Résistance a été composée des faucons féroces comme vous, il ne devrait y avoir eu aucune occupation par ces chiens allemands. Vous savez vraiment que vous ressemblez à un faucon? Je dirais un faucon au lieu d’un renard; aussi rusé qu’un renard peut être, vous avez la qualité aigre et pointu regardent fixement d’un faucon. Nous devons nous rencontrer un jour de nouveau donc vous pouvez me dire tous ces mouvements brillants contre les allemands. J’aimerais les entendre.”

Ever since Hitler had launched Operation Barbarossa, waves of French communists had decided to join the resistance movement despite the fact they had at first been disappointed certainly by the politicians but still somehow feeling as though not all were lost due to the German-approved Vichy government which bore the illusion of some form of administrative independence in the southern of France that could indeed be established. Victoire fancied the French communists, they were passionate about what they believed should be returned to them. And that was freedom; they were aggressive and successful fighters, as their popularity throughout France and the Allied countries had grown immensely ever since the winter of 1941. Mandatory labour service had been also introduced in this cruel administrative agenda, which had frustrated the southerners to no end. The treatment of Jews, however, was the principal foundation of umbrage towards the Vichy government, and as a result many people joined the resistance as a means of warring against a policy which was generally considered appalling. In this movement the resistance was vastly assisted by Britain, who, through the SOE, was able to distribute to the French the equipment and trained agents required. Thus in return, the French resistance provided for fundamental intelligence reports. Charles de Gaulle founded an independent Central Intelligence and Operations Agency with the British support, while the French resistance movement re-organized itself and founded the Coinseil National de la Résistance, subordinate to de Gaulle who, by the end of 1942, he would become head of the Comité Français de Libération Nationale that was in charge of all resistance movements in France.

“De toute façon …” Victoire said, and slightly shifted in her position, feeling her limbs sore. “Fabien connaissait ce vieil homme, ils l’ont appelé Lazare La Charronne, un négociant de détail, mais il est pensé que c’est une de beaucoup de ses identités fausses. Il ferait ces questions inconvenantes, insolentes à Fabien, toujours au temps faux, à l’endroit faux, de la Résistance française, si Jean-Luc a planifié une autre réunion bientôt dans Levallois-Perret, s’il avait vu ces deux soldats britanniques de nouveau – ceux il s’était rencontré dans Ardennes l’année dernière, les choses comme ça. La Charronne a été vu autour d’avec les officiers Nazis, mais personne ne savait s’il négociait seulement des affaires ou leur donnait des renseignements. Fabien n’en a jamais fait rien, mais il ne lui a jamais donné le mot de passe; il était trop d’un lâche pour même le faire, en ayant peur que La Charronne ruine le spectacle et le partisan sentant avec ses discussions d’affaires. Personne ne sait où il est maintenant, certains disent qu’il est toujours autour de Paris, d’autres qu’il a voyagé en bas à Vichy.”


♠ Translation ♠

Oh, you believe intelligence in performers is showcased by their capability in jumping out of windows when the first signs of danger come so that they can save themselves and abandon all? How low you think of performers, Madame. No, that is not intelligence. That is cowardice. Had I wanted to remain within the safe and strict confines of my apartment, I would have already done so. Not only were there no windows – since we work underground – but even if there were, I would have never become a coward at the expense of others. I had no time to think and act, I was immediately grabbed and abused by one of their men; forgive me for being too busy in being beaten down. How very arrogant of me!

Don’t be so quick at classifying people you do not know, Madame. Nothing good ever comes out of such rash actions. I sense your short temper and drinking habits may get the best of you, but don’t think your experience and knowledge will compensate for the fact you get the better end of the deal. It’s people of Paris who suffer most from the occupation.

I am honoured, Madame. If all the Resistance was comprised of fierce hawks like you, there should have been no occupation by those German dogs. You do know you are like a hawk? I would say a hawk instead of a fox; as cunning as a fox may be, you have the biting quality and sharp stare of a hawk. We must meet one day again so you can tell me all those brilliant moves against the Germans. I would love to hear them.

At any rate … Fabien knew this old man, they called him Lazare La Charronne, a retail merchant, but it is suspected it is one of his many false identities. He would make these inappropriate, impertinent questions to Fabien, always at the wrong time, at the wrong place, about the French Resistance, whether Jean-Luc planned another meeting soon in Levallois-Perret, if he had seen those two British soldiers again – the ones he had met in Ardennes last year, things like that. La Charronne was seen around with Nazi officers, but no one knew if he was only negotiating business or giving them information. Fabien never did anything about this, but he never gave him the password; he was too much of a coward to even do that, afraid La Charronne would ruin the show and the partisan feeling with his business talks. No one knows where he is now, some say he’s still around Paris, others that he has travelled down to Vichy.

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Eyes were rolled at the young woman's monologue — a monologue which, in the eyes of the feisty old bat, was more of a, "No duh, genius," kind of deal. Yes, glorious Paris had lost the adjective of "glorious", and yes, her population weren't all that glorious anymore, either. Yes, as well, to the fact Victoire had been held down and beaten senseless — Blanchefleur had had plenty of those kind of moments in her history. That didn't mean the girl couldn't have carried a gun or a knife somewhere in a boot — was it really that hard for the youth of the day to think of such things? Then again, this girl lacked Blanchefleur's savvy, it seemed. She was more used to being treated like a peacock, and didn't seem to recognize when people were trying to point out she was on a bloody pity trip.

"Bien, joli — je fermerai ma bouche sur votre profession. Je vais toujours dire, probablement beaucoup à votre dépit, que vous pourriez avoir eu une façon de vous défendre. Qui doit aussi dire, Mademoiselle Victoire, vous avez été censés revenir à votre appartement si vous aviez volé le poulailler ? Vous pourriez être partis et avoir trouvé quelqu'un comme moi. Je suis sûr que vous avez des contacts, d'une manière ou d'une autre — autrement, votre visage ne serait jamais vu dans ces sortes d'endroits," Blanchefleur replied nonchalantly, giving her nails that ever-so-clichéd glance. She sighed, hands clasped together behind her back, waiting for some sort of retort — imagine the old woman's pleasant surprise, however, when she instead received praise for her work. Now that was a welcome change of pace from the conversation that had been happening! [Translation: "Of course, lovely — I shall shut my mouth on your profession. However, I shall always say, probably to your chagrin, that you could have had a way of defending yourself. And who's to say, Miss Victoire, you were being supposed come back to your apartment if you had flown the coop? You could have left and found somebody like me. I am sure that you have contacts — if you didn't, your face would never be seen in these kinds of places."]

"Bien on m'a appelé beaucoup de choses, Mademoiselle Victoire — certains je ne pense pas une femme aussi cultivée que vous-même préférerait entendre," replied Blanchefleur. "Je crois vraiment, pourtant, que le faucon a été un d'entre eux. Je peux m'avoir un morceau, Madmoiselle Victoire, mais je peux vous assurer que je suis tout à fait rusé. J'ai rendu le plus grand tortillement d'hommes par mes mots seul — la subtilité est une belle chose." [Translation: "Well I have been called many things, Mademoiselle Victoire - some I do not think a woman as cultured as yourself would prefer to hear." // "I do believe, however, that hawk has been one of them. I may have a bite to me, Madmoiselle Victoire, but I can assure you that I am quite foxy. I have made greater men squirm through my words alone — subtlety is a beautiful thing."]

Blanchefleur's face then turned serious as Victoire explained the current goings-on more and more. The entire situation sounded too similar to Blanchefleur's encounter with her little Herr Wolff puppy — he was probably using those names of his again. Such a shame to him that Blanchefleur knew his name . . . she could never forget such a sense of satisfaction as when she made the little puppy slip up. If he had been more clever, the puppy would have dropped some of his mannerisms — then again, he preferred stupid women over smart ones, and that kind of mindset had dulled his intelligence. Oh well — all the better for Blanchefleur Paget, happily to be the thorn in Herr Wolff's side, even if it annoyed her to run all over the place!

"Il semble, Mademoiselle, que vous vous occupez d'un vieux visage que je sais," said the old bat. "Les cheveux sombres, les yeux sombres, un peu sur le grand côté et un des hommes les plus arrogants jamais connus. Pas quelqu'un qui est vert derrière les oreilles devrait passer, l'un ou l'autre — il est un homme de Gestapo. Appuyez sur une sonette, par hasard ?" [Translation: "It sounds, Mademoiselle, that you are dealing with an old face I know." // "Dark hair, dark eyes, a bit on the tall side, and one of the most arrogant men ever known. Not someone who's green behind the ears should cross, either — he's a Gestapo man. Ring a bell, perchance?"]

[Victoire Beaudoin]

The facts were all there, staring at her in the face, screaming at her to open her eyes and discover the truth, they were slapping her sharply but she only turned her face sideways and refused to see; refused to know the truth, refused to stare back. She had been given the chance to discover of one Otto Wolff, a member of the Gestapo, and his easy techniques of coercion and deception, instead of the Norwegian businessman with the name of Karl Ulvestad, whose authenticity, though formerly questioned with calculating suspicion from her part, she had long since ceased to treat with scepticism on the account of growing friendship and affection. When fate offers a human being such a chance, one needs to grasp it from the hair tightly, but she merely furrowed her eyebrows and leaned her head backwards, against the cold stonewall, looking at the older woman curiously. It was there, it was always right there, but she had been beaten down, humiliated, abused, when clear thoughts and suspicious speculations ceased to awash her usually troubled mind for the time being for as long the first shock would wear away – and then she would forget it. Forget the presentation of threat as offered by this hawk of a woman. She shrugged; she was too drained, too numb from the morphine to clearly think of the possible danger in her new friend. “Non,” she said quietly; “je ne connais un tel homme.”

Of course, she knew many men who could easily fit the description of being tall, dark and arrogant – but she had not thus far been in contact, hostile or not, with any one belonging to the Gestapo. She had never been in a situation where her survival was jeopardised from such forces; certainly her papers had been examined countless of times, and she had also been sent to their Headquarters once or twice in order to verify her documentations and be questioned on a few people she was familiar with, but these had been simple procedures which had required her collaboration rather than forming an acquaintance with someone from such circles. She hated them; she hated the lot of them. “Nous devons les écraser,” she said in a low tone, not wanting to tire the skin of her previously dislocated jaw; “écrasez-les comme les postes de bois. Je veux entendre le craquement – je veux l’entendre. Est-ce que c’est vrai, que j’ai entendu? La Résistance va-t-elle saborder la flotte dans Toulon?” she then questioned her, looking at the woman with anticipation through her glinting gray eyes; even hunger could be perceptible through those black irises that so desired for revenge and retribution.

She then rested her head on her right shoulder sideways, exhausted, and yet unable to sleep, with the morphine having numbed her pain. “Parce que si c’est vrai,” she said, “je veux être une partie de cela. Je veux être là quand il arrive, l’aide dans n’importe quel la façon que je peux, mais je dois être là. Je veux voir leurs visages – leurs visages vilains, indignes – comme ils voient leurs plans échouer,” she told her hatefully, her voice becoming uncontrollably fiercer – as it usually happened when she spoke about the Nazis – at which point she had to lower it, or it would mean consequences for her jaw’s condition for the next few days. “Je veux les voir le cri dans la colère et l’angoisse, je veux les regarder comme ils courent d’avant en arrière comme les poulets fous, je veux à! Je ne me soucie pas si je meurs, je le ferai pour la France; personne d’autre ne le mérite plus qu’elle. Mais vous devez me promettre vous me prendrez avec vous. Vous devez me promettre, Hélène!” she asked of her, looking at her directly in the eyes. She did not care of the consequences; she only wished to take part in something that was not a lie; an active part for a sabotage that would indeed bear a meaning, not wishful thinking and silly ideologies as spoken by some naïve, superficial or foolish French people under the influence of alcohol and rather silly women.


♠ Translation ♠

No. I don’t know such man.

We need to crush them. Crush them like wood posts. I want to hear the crack – I want to hear it. Is it true, what I’ve been hearing? Is the Resistance going to scuttle the fleet in Toulon?

Because if that is true, I want to be a part of it. I want to be there when it happens, help in whichever way I can, but I need to be there. I want to see their faces – their ugly, unworthy faces – as they see their plans fail. I want to see them scream in anger and agony, I want to watch them as they run to and fro like mad chickens, I want to! I don’t care if I die, I’ll do it for France; no one else deserves it more than she does. But you have to promise me you’ll take me with you. You have to promise me, Hélène!

[Blanchefleur Paget]

What was this? The girl actually wanted to assist in a heist, an operation, a vital plan executed by the Resistance? Oh, this was too rich, like some fancy Belgian chocolate devoured by a high-class socialite. Blanchefleur threw her head back and laughed — ah, the folly of youth! So lost in a fountain of naïveté and ambition, they lost sight of the important things. The vital things. Things that Blanchefleur could count as important or not important — depending on how much wine was involved and how drunk she was at the time. Wine which, in fact, Blanchefleur craved at the moment, but could not have. What a bother.

"C'est ce que dit l'enfant de luxe et de la chanson, qui a sans doute pas levé le petit doigt pour battre le goudron de même une cigarette," said Blanchefleur casually. "C'est ce que dit l'enfant de luxe et de la chanson, qui a sans doute pas levé le petit doigt pour battre le goudron de même une cigarette. Ici, vous êtes, avec une mâchoire cassé et un ego encore plus éclaté, et que vous voulez venger. Vous voulez faire mal à l'aise les Allemands, n'est-ce pas ?" The old fox, hawk, drunkard — whatever the little birdy wanted to call her after that — sighed, brushing strands of hair out of her face. [Translation: "So says the child of luxury and song, who hasn't probably lifted a finger to beat the tar out of even a cigarette." // Here you are, with a busted jaw and an even more busted ego, and you want revenge. You want to make the Germans squirm, don't you?"]

"Mais voici mon point de vue, une jeune fille: vous ne pouvez pas aller aider. Vous devez savoir ce que vous faites! Vous devez savoir comment ils pensent, comment ils agissent, ce qui est leur faiblesse! Bien sûr, vous avez assez joli en vous pour faire pétiller Paris, mais c'est vous mène nulle part, évidemment. Pourquoi devrais-je confiance à un novice de m'aider? Je ne vous vois pas pratiquer l'art de botter hors Allemands partout Dragée! En fait, vous étiez l'un avec l'argent remis à elle, et avec une mâchoire douce bouffi, aussi!" [Translation: "But here's my point, girl: you can't just go and help. You have to know what you're doing! You need to know how they think, how they act, what their weakness is! Sure, you've got enough pretty in you to make Paris sparkle, but that's getting you nowhere, obviously. Why should I trust such a novice with helping me? I don't see you practising the art of kicking out Germans anywhere, sugar plum! In fact, you were the one with her money handed back to her, and with a sweet puffy jaw, too!"]