Devil Woman

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Country: Paris, France
Area/Setting: Underground pub
Current Time: 23:35
Weather Conditions: Cold due to the previous drizzle.

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleam’d upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

No stars were knitted upon the dark, surprisingly halcyon and velvety firmament that May’s evening in 1942, as the city of lights was consumed by what seemed to be eternal darkness, an eventuality springing from the Germans’ measures against potential Allied air raids. Small, undistinguishing raindrops started falling down onto the slippery roads, as the chilly mist drifted between the trees and the bushes, embracing steel and concrete, but soon quitted their descent onto earth as though in sudden regret. The crescent moon once made a short appearance, traversed gradually across the grim sky, but then languidly sneaked behind the hills, where the fresh night’s dew had been already augmented by the trees’ moisture. The tendrils of moonlight dancing beneath the surface of the smoothly rippling Seine sent patches of silver light beneath those calm yet ominous waters, which upon the moon’s gloomy absconding devoured only impenetrable darkness. A bluebird stood on the bench of a tree, hooting in a miserable tune, and a black emasculated cat hid behind an old and almost pillaged Cadillac once two German soldiers marched across the rue de Vaugirard, the thudding of their heavy boots echoing around the area with a menacing force.

During these times of hunger and despair, the rampant food, petrol and labour shortages combined with malnutrition – hailing from a miserable situation France found herself upon having come to terms with the armistice pre-conditions, of which a significant demand regarded the payment of the occupational army – produced an aura of desertion and neglect around the most prominent houses belonging to the elite circles, now abandoned to their own fates as they stood tall and proud with their imposing gates and the blossoming orchards, with no one to tend to but the passing nightingales, and thus soon they would come to perish. Such desertion came from the wretched fact that the elite families were either prosecuted, facing execution at their anti-regime activities, or quite simply enough, resolving to continue their jolly good lives elsewhere. In the less blessed homes, of course, the poor families had to face hungry children whimpering in the corner’s shadows, their frozen hands touching their bloody feet in an attempt to warm them up, cold winters combined with severe coal shortages, and food rations incapable of supplying the whole family appropriately. Old dilapidated brick houses found in the streets of Montmartre with their windows blind in the darkness struck as creepy and dismal, as quietude prevailed upon the district during times of late night curfew, broken only by sudden angry sounds from stray, skeletal dogs rummaging the bins for any sample of rotten bones or Swedish turnips.

The atmosphere was more suitable underground during the late hours, around which time the Parisian force of Resistance would gather in a makeshift pub which always changed locations and passwords to prevent the Germans from shutting them down also, usually in not greatly civilized methods. Since Hitler’s forces had violated upon the French land and occupied the neighbouring territory, the Führer had proceeded to shut down all cabarets, thus sending jazz underground; it was a dangerous business to engage oneself with, visiting those illegal pubs and associating yourself with members of the Resistance, and there was certainly a requirement of trustworthiness to be taken into account whenever someone spoke of the password and the location to someone else, but careful organization was a leisure at such times which the French could sadly not afford. However, thus creating an absolute contrast to the dead streets overhead, in some pub underground the Avenue de Verdun (selected on purpose due to the name’s symbolism) the French were laughing and enjoying their night, knowing they would have to return to their busy schedules tomorrow, but voluntarily indulging themselves in forgetting for these meagre few hours the labour of hardship. The pub was consumed by a round of loud noises, glasses of beer or wine thudding against the wooden tables, animated conversation between groups of soldiers with regard to their latest accomplishments for the Resistance, clouds of smoke from the countless cigarettes, others laughing bitterly, or gambling – there were Resistance fighters, one or two prostitutes, but also several plebeians, homeless scoundrels and a young boy sitting in the very corner, looking simultaneously perplexed, fascinated and terrified.

The mournful piano melodies danced around the room for several minutes until she came upon the stage, tall and imposing, with a serious expression carved upon her refined facial features, the fine lines of her violent-red curvaceous lips unsmiling, the curtain of raven black hair gracefully falling down the pale white skin of her shoulders like waves of an oil field, while the dark black dress with the blue lace and satin – a remainder of the past, dating back to the days prior to the outbreak of war and the loss of everything she had – lovingly embraced her feminine curves diligently in a way to classify her as a dame once part of the elite social circles, with those steely-gray, ice-blue and subtly calculating eyes staring at the crowd surrounding her with a hefty smirk masterfully concealed in the corner of her lips. “Depuis quelque temps l’on fredonne, dans mon quartier, une chanson, la musique en est monotone et les paroles sans façon,” she sang in an undertone, her lips opening slightly as her voice encircled the pub; a silken voice, sultry and emotional, low but firm, deep and crystal-clear, with a slightly guttural feeling on the edge, giving meaning to words that would otherwise remain dead and vacant, like the mutilated corpses of soldiers being savagely thrown into the river. She slowly walked closer to the crowd, which had at this point turned to look at her, transfixed, thus ending every source of noise in a now ostensibly airless room, and approached the pianist. “Ce n’est qu’une chanson dus rues dont on ne connaît pas l’auteur. Depuis que je l’ai entendue, elle chante et danse dans mon cœur.”

The French loved Edith Piaf, and Victoire’s more fierce rendition of “Je N’en Connais Pas la Fin” served to awaken even those demons who dared sleep during such times of a national call to liberate their beloved country from the monster which had seized savage control, in the young woman’s view. The bittersweet ironies of life, little she did she know how this song would grow to reflect on her life, for if she only thought living in the dreadful time of occupied France was going to be the story of her life, she was indeed mistaken. In nature she looked to be an aristocrat despite her wretched poverty, an emperor in a world of scathed souls and vermin, a beautiful but prickly rose amidst innumerable thorns, and still a human being that was born to die. Her marble shoulders, the darkness of her piercing eyes, the paleness of that handsome face, the cold and delicate thin fingers, the inescapability. There was deliberate attention, restricted arrogance and masterfully concealed intentions encasing her often childlike demeanour. “Oh, mon amour, a toi toujours,” she sang, her motions light and free, as she pointed with her hand towards the audience, signifying how they were all hers, everyone was hers, every single French man who fought for her country was, and every child that wished to die a valiant soldier was hers, and all the songs they would write would be for her, and their dying words would be about her; “dans tes grands yeux, rien que nous deux.”

She could wear a crown of thorns, and pretend to be king of the world. Not a queen, but a real king, for men had every power a being could possess. She could raise her hand and pretend giving orders to minions existing only in her unhinged mind, and participate in battles that served no other purpose but further boost her egotism and personal esteem. The crowd was her minion, and seducing them had been her own battle, making them enamoured with her beloved art, obsessed with her light dancing and desperate for the fierce tones of her voice; that had been her only accomplishment, her own pathetic little war, to which she had come out victorious. She liked that feeling; she liked being admired, doted upon and cherished, looking down upon the victims of her dominance, for it made her feel superior. She was a king with a crown of thorns, rising from the golden intricate seat that was in truth a simple, rickety old chair, and moving next to non-existent minions that were only a wooden old table, a painted but broken porcelain, and some shredded carmine curtains, and walked to the crowd. Her thorns shone in the dim red light, thorns which pierced her forehead, the blood oozing down her eyes, but the blood was not blood in truth; it was a stream of guilt, and isolation. And they were not real thorns, they were the inner devils ravaging her sensitive soul.

For performing gave her life, the will to carry on despite the hardship, and although during the day she were a simple girl like every other, smoking her cigarettes and laying on her couch with ennui, looking at the painting facing opposite her, hang upon the wall, and yet another remainder of her past life – in the evening she was a young passionate woman who above all wished to assist the French on gaining back their glorious land; nothing else was on her mind, but liberation. Lovers came and went like winters followed summer, and friends passed by like the morning bluebird on her window, for nothing remained the same. “Avec des mots naïfs et tendres, elle raconte un grand amour, mais il m’a bien semblé comprendre que la femme souffrait un jour,” she continued, approaching a man sitting on the front of the stage, whom she personally knew, for they had been classmates together in the University of Paris, in the same course, now both having been forced to abandon their studies due to the occupation and the shutting down of the University. However, there was rarely any rehearsal whatsoever; that was another leisure they could not afford, and thus compromised with the impulsiveness and vigour of their talents and spirit in a makeshift underground pub to entertain the French people. “Si l’amant fut méchant pour elle, je veux en ignorer la fin et, pour que ma chanson soit belle, je me contente du refrain.”

Then, suddenly, her University friend and oftentimes companion, Alphonse, finished his drink and placed the glass on the wooden table with a loud thud, as strapping men often liked to do in an arrogant display of strength, stood up and jumped on stage, grabbing her from the waist and leading her to a tango, as the pianist with a smile immediately began playing ‘La Cumparsita’, the little parade of endless miseries … She allowed him the lead and played the part of the woman who was the reason for the man’s countless heartaches, as every tango’s story liked to portray, in reality allowing him the illusion of him taking the lead and being the one to dominate, when a wily smirk crawling across her lips as she moved with him in this sensual and aggressive dance of dominance was very subtle evidence of her true opinion on who dominated who. He antagonistically turned her around briskly and she rested her elegant neck upon his shoulder, her pale white hands looping around his neck, while his right hand rested underneath her rich bosom which heaved with a short breath, the other travelling alongside her curves as her eyelids sunk into dizzying stupor, her lips half-open, half-closed, leaving a slight gap in between, through which a single breath was slowly inhaled. She could feel his nostrils flaring with lust, and his hold of her firm and demanding, and knew that he meant it. She had known since their University days how he felt towards her, but had feigned ignorance. But to her this moment was a mere act; she allowed him the illusion that, perhaps, it was not. For to her, illusions were beautiful to live by, and sometimes were the only reason one survived through the hardship of a grim day. These men, however, bored her – a tragedy of the time. They had once fascinated her with their zealous and possessive dance, but she now appreciated a dance with passionate and at the same time considerate men instead of those who merely wished to use her as a receptacle of their strength and bestow upon her their sheer arrogance and egotism.

“Je me demande, se trouve présent n’importe quoi de la France que vous ne pouvez pas cultiver pour aimer? Nous sommes un pays si glorieux même les allemands ne pouvaient pas s’opposer à nous. Non, nous ne vous surveillons pas vraiment les cochons Nazis! Le Français est les gens vraiment hospitaliers – et ils aiment des coups de porc bourrés de leur ciboulette!” she spoke in a sultry singing voice to the audience, which laughed, as Alphonse turned her around; she placed her hand on his shoulder, as the dance required, and continued with their movements. Then, she noticed Gaubert coming from behind her, another French partisan she was familiar with, and who wished to proclaim her as his property himself. It was, indeed, a mere double act to entertain and aesthetically satisfy the French people, but for these two men, they wished to convey some messages through this form of art. How often did she have to tolerate such childish behaviour! Men were like dogs, or little children that needed attention. She felt another pair of strong hands grasping her back, and the audience applauded with this new and exciting turn of events. Such trivialities (which Victoire knew they were only trivialities) served to bring some passing delight, a temporary joy to the tortured French people.

“Les allemands étaient toujours envieux de nos voies, notre culture, notre cuisine fabuleuse,” she continued, staring at the crowd with a meaningful glint of her eyes, as the three people now on stage danced, two of which attempted through physically aggressive moves to take possession of her, and she in the middle only secretly laughed at both of them, inside the corners of her unhinged mind. “Était cela pas Nietzsche lui-même qui nous a glorifiés, qui avons regardé en bas sur la course allemande et qui a osé parler de notre supériorité? C’est nos voies françaises, les Messieurs! Vous préféreriez la cuisine française, vous préféreriez les femmes françaises, vous préféreriez la littérature passionnée française, vous préféreriez même acquérir la syphilis d’un homme français qu’un chien Nazi – parce qu’un français vaut deux fois le problème et quatre fois moins puantes!” The audience cheered, laughed, whistled and applauded, and her voice was no more the low, sultry tone, but a fierce and guttural cry of triumph as she spoke, “Et les hommes français les plus braves sont à Paris! Vive Marianne!”

And with that, as the crowd raised their glasses and cried the words along with her, she shoved both men away from her in an artistic, smooth but simultaneously cruel manner, as though she were an actress in a real theatre rather than a makeshift pub underground, and finished with her song, as the pianist returned to the previous melody in a quick depth of vibrato, “Ils s’aimeront toute la vie, pour bien s’aimer, ce n’est pas long. Que cette histoire est donc jolie, qu’elle est donc belle, ma chanson. Il en est de plus poétiques, je le sais bien, oui, mais voilà, pour moi, c’est la plus magnifique, car ma chanson ne finit pas.” Who claimed a showgirl’s profession was not demanding? She walked down the stage and across the tables, as a sudden rush of animated conversation consumed the pub once more with the end of her act; there were tinkling sounds, more drinks being served, boisterous voices, chairs being dragged off to other tables, lighters flicked on, and absolute chaos from which she desired to escape. Approaching the bar table, she nodded at Pierre Girard, the bar man, who smirked. “Une cigarette, Pierre.”


♠ Translation ♠

Song:
Since some time they chant in my quarter, a song, music is monotonous there and words unceremonious. It is only a song owed by the streets by the author of which they do not know. Since I heard it, she sings and dances in my heart.
Oh my love, yours forever, in your wide eyes, only us two.
With words naive and tender, it tells a great love. But he seemed to understand me well, that woman suffered a day. If the lover was malicious to her, I want to ignore the end and so my song is beautiful. I'm just the chorus.
They love each other a lifetime. It's not very long to love. This story is so beautiful and so is my song. It is more poetic, I know it well, yes, because to me it is magnificent. Because my song will never end.

I wonder, is there anything about France you may not grow to love? We are such a glorious country even the Germans could not resist us. No, we really do not mind you Nazi pigs! The French are really hospitable people – and they love their chive stuffed pork chops! The Germans were always envious of our ways, our culture, our fabulous cuisine. Was it not Nietzsche himself who glorified us, who looked down upon the German race and who dared speak of our superiority? It is our French ways, gentlemen! You would prefer the French cuisine, you would prefer the French women, you would prefer the French passionate literature, you would even prefer acquiring syphilis from a French man than a Nazi dog – because a French is twice worth the trouble and four times less smelly! And the bravest French men are in Paris! Vive Marianne!

A cigarette, Pierre.

[Otto Wolff]

The streets of Paris had been suppressed into a controlled and fearful silence, but in the murky underground pub life was being lived to the fullest by the locals. The world was at war and the Germans reigned over Paris with an iron fist, but the spirited people of France refused to bow their heads at their occupiers. German soldiers patrolled the streets constantly and almost all aspects of the local lives were closely controlled by the occupying forces. The once lively cabarets and night clubs now stood quiet; they had been deemed as offering far too attractive opportunities for meetings of the resistance and anti-German movements. Of course, in the Führer's mind they were also polluting the heads of the citizens with primitive music and various rambunctious activities, including gambling and prostitution, things severely frowned upon by the standards of the German Reich. The Germans had prohibited such places completely and the French had complied to the order... at least ostensibly. Secret bars existed in multiple locations all over Paris and they were kept well-hidden from the Germans using various complex and careful means of security. The clubs moved around often and those who wished to enter them had to know the ever-changing passwords. Some of the cabarets were still occasionally raided by the Germans, but this did not seem to discourage the French the slightest. Here they were, having the time of their lives, not appearing the least bit worried that a group of SS-soldiers might burst into the club at any given moment. C'est la vie, a Frenchman would just say. If it happened, then it happened, but now was the time for celebrating and forgetting about such worries, even if it was for this one night. There was time for worrying later.

The sounds of hearty laughter, rapid discussion, soft music and glasses clinking seemed distant and muffled to Otto Wolff, he hardly paid much attention to his surroundings. The dark-haired man was sitting alone in a small table, his deep-set eyes hidden in the shadows of his brows and his lips pressed into a thin, hard line. The tall, broad-shouldered man was wearing an expensive charcoal suit and his black hair had been slicked back neatly, making him look more suitable for a business meeting than a boisterous night out in a secret underground bar. The man had very angular features and slightly crooked nose, no doubt the man had broken it at some point of his life. All this, accompanied by the man's dark expression, hardly made him look very forthcoming. The French were too occupied by their own drinks and stories to pay the stern man much mind. They all had earned their way in through meticulous security measures and if someone wanted to sit alone and brood, that was hardly anyone else's business. The merciless war had broken many hearts, homes and friendships and not every Frenchman could find much joy in their hearts these days. It might have been that this particular man was just drowning his sorrows in alcohol, it would not have been a strange sight, really.

Otto Wolff had dark thoughts running through his mind, indeed, but they had little to do with the war. He knew that he should have been listening to discussions, remembering faces, observing the people around him, but instead his fingers curled tightly around the small glass of cognac. He could feel the intricate decorations carved into the smooth glass pushing into his skin. The bronze liquid inside the glass seemed all too inviting; it was taunting him, teasing him. How many weeks had he spent feverishly resisting the siren call of this apparently harmless substance before he had finally managed to block his mind from succumbing to it's enticing song? He did not wish to go back to those times and he tried to shake the thoughts off, but they clung to his mind stubbornly. Images from the past flashed through his mind and he could only stare ahead blankly as the painful memories continued mocking him. He could vividly remember his own father lazily sprawled on the sofa, drool running down his chin as he barked angry, drunken words at Otto. Then the vision changed, now it was one of Otto's own alcohol-ridden moments as he towered over Johann, raising his hand to strike at his small son, no more than eight years old. And suddenly there was Ilsa, his former wife, bravely standing up to his husband and not even flinching when Otto's hand slapped her viciously on the cheek.

Guilt hung heavily over Otto and he shuddered slightly, as if he could physically shrug the shameful memories off. Why was he digging himself into a hole? There was no reason to start dwelling in the past, he was a different man now, a better person. He was loyal, hardworking, professional and most important of all, in complete control of himself. He would not let neither his temper or the alcohol take the better of him, not ever again. Giving the full glass a nasty scowl, Otto directed his burning self-hatred at the drink. He was not here to feel sorry for himself, he was here to do a job, to serve his country and that was what he should have been focusing on. Little did these French fools now that a Gestapo officer had managed to snake his way into their midst. They thought they were so safe here, almost untouchable among their own countrymen, boasting and dancing like the drunken fools they were. He felt like a wolf in the middle of flock of sheep, disguising himself, making himself appear innocent and hiding his sharp canines as he kindly smiled at his prey to make them feel more at ease.

These thoughts made the man feel slightly better and he released a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment, clearing his head. Focus, Otto. Sheep as the French may be, he could not hope to battle the entire flock on his own were his true identity discovered. The man forced himself to relax and loosen his grip of the glass, although he still made no gesture to even taste the fine cognac. He liked it better when the drink was there and he knew he did not have to drink it, that he could resist the temptation. It made Otto feel more assured of the fact that he was in control of his actions and it calmed down his nerves somewhat. He decided that he would stay here and monitor the situation for half an hour more and then he would be off, he did not want to be among the last ones to leave.

There was a hush in the crowd which Otto did not register properly at first, but as he raised his head, it was quite easy to see that everyone's attention was now suddenly dedicated to something quite interesting. Otto followed their gazes and blinked when his eyes fell upon the slim, pale lady with raven-black hair, the first words of the French song already finding their way languidly out from between her red lips. The crowd was hushed in anticipation, observing her every movement, listening to her each word. The soft and smooth voice of the woman seemed to captivate the audience completely and Otto did not even realize that he had been left staring at the bewitching woman with many others, his mouth agape. He knew this woman! Otto had met Victoire Beaudoin in a small meeting in a private apartment quite by chance and Otto had found the young woman quite captivating. Not only was she pleasing to the eye, but she had also seemed quite educated and intelligent, something Otto rarely observed in women. The German women were not expected to be highly educated and the only function they were encouraged into was being an obedient wife and having as many children as possible. Maybe that was just the reason why she seemed so interesting to him, she was different from what Otto was used to, breaking the norms, almost forbidden in some way. What she was doing here, singing to these sad plebs, Otto could not say. He still could not help himself from staring at the woman, the drink now completely forgotten.

It was clear that Otto was not the only man in the room mesmerized by the female singer, as one of the men next to the stage suddenly jumped up from his seat, sweeping Victoire into a dance. It was quite a passionate tango and it made the audience gasp with anticipation, the women wishing to be in her place, the men picturing themselves as the dashing hero who would steal the raven-haired woman's heart away in the intimate dance. Another man soon joined in, trying to claim the woman as his own, but Victoire did not seem to feel bothered by this at all. The audience applauded vigorously and Victoire moved at the stage with surprising ease and familiarity, as if the whole scene had been decided on beforehand and she was merely acting it out. She took the moment to address the crowd, her voice strong and unwavering, her words passionate and proud. Victoire spoke of France and her people and mocked the Germans, comparing them to pigs and dogs, words which made Otto almost smirk with amusement. The French were so quick to speak of such things when they thought the Germans could not hear them, Otto had heard his share of such opinions when dealing with the resistance. Her vigorous speech made the French cheer and yell, ending with everyone raising their drinks at the singer in appreciation.

Having left the crowd in a high and spirited mood, Victoire shrugged away the two men competing over her as if they were nothing but a mere nuisance, stepping off the stage and heading towards the bar table, the guests returning back to their drinks and games. Otto tilted his head and his dark eyes narrowed as he watched the slim woman in her graciously cut gown making her way past the various tables. Well, talking to her would really be mostly just Otto doing his job, now wouldn't it? She might have deeper connections to the resistance and Otto did not want to look much too suspicious, sitting in the table on his own all the evening. The man kept his gaze fixed on the woman as he got up from his seat, gulping his cognac down in one swift motion. Otto was already walking towards the bar table before Victoire had even reached it and he as he walked, he took his time admiring the woman's figure. He had always had an eye for the ladies and rarely missed the opportunity to admire such beauty when it walked his way. There was no harm in mixing just a little bit of personal amusement with work, not if you made sure to still remain as professional as always.

“Une cigarette, Pierre," the woman asked in her low voice and Otto's hand went to the breast pocket of his jacket when he was still approaching the woman. The man pulled out a silver case of cigarettes, one which he had actually inherited from his own father. It was decorated with intricate runes and an ancient decoration depicting a curious eight-legged horse rearing up, two ravens hovering over it. Usually Otto did not carry it with him, but it fit in well with his made-up identity of one Karl Klemens Ulvestad, a Norwegian businessman, skilled in currency exchange and various matters of importing and exporting trade goods. The tall, dark-eyed man stepped next to Victoire, keeping a respectful distance, but also making sure that the woman would notice him. His thumb moved in to open the cigarette case and he extended the case towards the pale-skinned woman before Pierre had time to comply to Victoire's request. "Mademoiselle Beaudoin. S'il vous plaît, permettez-moi," the man said, his voice dark and low, almost dangerously smooth and pleasant. His French carried a curious accent, not commonly heard, it would have been quite impossible to pinpoint it to any specific country. "Vous avez certainement captivé l'audience là. Je n'étais pas conscient vous êtes un tel chanteur doué."


Translations:

"Mademoiselle Beaudoin. S'il vous plaît, permettez-moi."
"Mademoiselle Beaudoin. Please, allow me."

"Vous avez certainement captivé l'audience là. Je n'étais pas conscient vous êtes un tel chanteur doué."
"You certainly captivated the audience there. I was not aware you are such a talented singer."

[Victoire Beaudoin]

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Victoire, as it often happens with terribly perceptible human beings, sensed someone moving from the side once she made her way towards the bar, but before she could turn her head over the shoulder and register the mysterious source, the tall, dark-haired man had without delay appeared by her side, offering her a cigarette from an intricately carved case that instantly caught her attention for a split of a second. She adored beautiful objects, objects radiating luxury and magnificence, and glowing in uniqueness; she loved them because her relationship with them was so considerably less problematic and unhealthy than those she experienced with humans – she could slowly touch them, and trace her pale fingers along their golden surface, protect them from corrosion that would ultimately pierce through their hearts made of rock, metal and diamonds, and place them upon the sheath of the marble fireplace so that everyone would be able to admire them as much as she did. Her eyes only glanced at the cigarette case for several moments, before she turned to look at the man with a curious expression written through her refined facial features; she remained silent for one second, calculating, pondering, and thinking, until a small smile journeyed across the corner of her lips. She had recognized the man, certainly, but was momentarily amazed by his very presence within the underground pub. Despite his professed neutrality in the war, she found it pleasantly uncharacteristic that a foreigner would gain knowledge as to the pub’s location and password, let alone be allowed within the Parisian underground without facing the outrage of the partisans; dangers of conspiracy and treason always lurked during such grim times.

She took a cigarette from his case, and lit it. The pianist began to play the melody of ‘C’est un Monsieur Très Distingué’ and the atmosphere inside the pub resumed to what it had been prior to the woman’s act, if only with an additional source of animation and liveliness. An amusing assortment of complaints rose in the air from those who were viciously losing in cards, animalistic sounds of greed from those who were drinking excessively, disturbingly mellifluous voices from those heavily painted women sneakily crawling behind the soldiers during their card game in an attempt to seduce them into a world of debauchery and eternal caprice, and irritated barks from the partisans who were gnashing their teeth over political discussions that seemed to bear no end or purport. Such distractions, however, were impossible to drive Victoire’s attention away from that mysterious man in his long, black coat, who always seemed to appear out of thin air in the most peculiar fashion, always when least expected, as though he were a serpent slowly creeping along in secret and waiting for the perfect moment when to strike the innocent victim. This, however, was not the worst type of human being. There were the wolves who disguised themselves as lambs, allowed time to elapse throughout which they honed and nourished false sentiments of compassion, deceitful illusions of protection and bitter, ill-fated aspersions of a welcoming identity which they never possessed to begin with. They slept within their herds, they lived amongst their lands, they allowed them to feel secure and ate the same food as them – but when the moon rises in the wide blue firmament, and when the moon is round and full, the black fur begins to grow, and their long claws reveal themselves as they tear the ground, when those innocent eyes turn red with a vicious desire to kill, eyes and mouth that are always dry and thirsty, with their long and narrow ears, a mongrel mind, a ruthless heart, a hunter’s raw and animalistic force of nature. The only question was, which of the two was he?

And now, he spoke of her in such enticing terms – in a smooth, gravely charming tone and a deep voice which pierced through her entire length and silenced her for a few moments, as her steel-gray eyes looked at him calculatingly. She should have realized back then which of the two types he was; she should have known by his very first words. And yet she purposefully allowed his fascinating words to engulf her, boost her narcissism and pay an ode to her self-satisfaction. She was nonetheless rather self-conscious about her abilities, perfectly aware of the fact she was not an extraordinary singer, absolutely not one whose voice would be connected to generations and generations of people throughout the twentieth century, to be spoken of after her death and turned into a national symbol. She was no Édith Piaf. She was, after all, a mere showgirl, who sang partisan songs, danced to entertain, and spoke words of courage to a nation which had collapsed under the ruler’s brutal reign of power and dominance. Who knew of Victoire Beaudoin other than the partisans and the resistance movement? Those who were once familiar with her elite family and the respect such a social status inspired were now too poor, too ill-fated, too hungry or too indifferent to recognize her. They had forgotten about her, just as they had forgotten their previous lives, now forced to gulp down their pride and accept their agony as a daily need. She would wear the eccentric dresses and costumes for the show, she could be as artistically extravagant as she desired, but at the end of the day when she returned to the small, cold garret she lodged in Montmartre, she would be one with the rest of the poor, ill-fated and indifferent French; heaving a weary sigh, she would throw herself on the couch and smoke a cigarette, absent-mindedly looking at the Cezanne painting hang on the wall, her profligacy of nature and complexity of character contradicting the simplicity of her soul.

Only a few moments passed between the man’s offer of a cigarette and her response. She smoked, feeling the fume burning down her throat and piercing through her lungs, all the while staring at him through slightly narrowed eyes as she was thinking, within seconds silently blowing out the smoke from her lips, which before dissolving into the surrounding atmosphere danced around her in small circles, giving her a narcotic essence. “Je n’étais pas conscient vous étiez si dangereux pour persuader n’importe quel homme français du fait de vous confier le mot de passe et notre endroit,” she said in her deep, wary voice, the elbow of the hand holding the cigarette resting on the bar’s edge. “Seulement les partisans français ont une telle connaissance et violer cette discrétion …” she told him, and then a smile – a cautious smile showing amused interest – appeared once more across her violent red lips, the previous having lived for only one moment’s worth upon the surprise of his presence. “Est que vrai?” she asked him in a low tone, almost a whisper. “Est-ce que vous êtes si bons aux gens charmants, Monsieur?” Her curious smile widened, and her lips eventually parted, as her eyes glinted, allowing the last word to slightly drag, in subtle request of his name. “Que d’autres talents secrets avez-vous? Vous me les révélerez, comme je suis de façon pardonnable curieux.”


♠ Translation ♠

I was not aware you were so dangerous as to persuade any French man of confiding to you the password and our location. Only the French partisans have such knowledge, and to violate this discretion … Is that true? Are you so good at charming people, Monsieur?

What other secret talents do you have? You shall reveal them to me, as I am pardonably curious.

[Otto Wolff]

The very first thing Victoire seemed to notice was the silver cigarette case and the woman surveyed at it for a few fleeting moments before raising the gaze of her grey eyes to regard Otto himself. There was a hint of surprise in the woman's expression - quite understandably she might not have expected to see the Norwegian businessman in a place such as this. These secret pubs had a very carefully selected and exclusive clientele and Karl Ulvestad was a very fresh name in the circles, not even part of the Resistance itself. It was obvious that the man was risking much by entering such a place, but this seemed to bother him very little. He appeared as cool and collected as always and bowed his head slightly as a gentlemanly greeting after he had Victoire's full attention. There was a curious old-fashioned way to the tall man's every gesture and when he spoke, his voice was politely low and pleasant. He seemed just like the kind of man who usually regarded the youth of today completely void of proper manners and who would openly express distaste for any breach in proper etiquette. As a careful smile found it's way on Victoire's painted lips, the man replied accordingly, although his smile was much more short-lived and did not quite reach his eyes. It just seemed to be a part of the man's nature and he most likely did not mean to appear impolite - it was merely part of his normal mannerisms.

Then Victoire spoke, her voice pleasantly deep and silky to Otto's ears. She commented on how she was not aware that the Norwegian was such a dangerous man, going on to express her surprise on how Karl Ulvestad had found his way to such a carefully guarded and restricted place such as the underground pub. There was a certain slyness, playfulness to the way she asked if Karl was really as gifted at charming people as it seemed and the dark-haired man tilted his chin down as he watched Victoire. She was an intelligent woman and from her eyes Otto could tell that she had her doubts when it came to Otto's fabricated identity. He already had realized that he would have to be careful around this one, but didn't such a thing just make life all the more exciting...? Did not the snake charmer's thrilling performance rely purely on the chance of everything going horribly wrong? Did the bullfighter not relish the very moment when he just barely dodged the charging animal, knowing well that it's vicious horns could lethally pierce his side? Otto did, in fact, enjoy the knowledge that he was playing a dangerous game, that he was in a shady underground pub filled with people who would have him killed if they knew his true identity. It made him feel alive, knowing that he had only his wit to rely on. Maybe for that same reason Otto was drawn to this dark-haired woman - she was an enticing opponent, quick-witted and observant. Only this time, Otto was not quite sure which one was the snake and which one the snake charmer.

A crooked smile played on the man's lips, but then Otto slowly spoke, as if savouring each word of his curiously accented French. "Dangereux ? Oh, je n'utiliserais pas un tel mot pour me décrire du tout, la chère Mademoiselle. Le moment dangereux seul dont on pourrait être témoin avec moi est celui où je suis forcé à commencer mon matin sans une tasse de café frais," the man answered as he picked up a cigarette from the decorated case, casually tapping it on the case's lid a few times. "Un ami français m'a dit ... et ceux-ci sont ses mots exacts; 'Karl, vous devez absolument quitter vos livres de compte de moisi pendant quelque temps, allez voient Paris, voient comment nous les Parisiens s'amusent, détendent et s'amusent.' Et apparemment, c'était son idée du fait de l'accomplir - que, je dois louer, mis à la porte pour être tout à fait un soir plaisant enfin. Bien que pourquoi il a cru que je dois apprécier un peu d'amusement et relaxation, je ne puisse pas simplement répéter," Otto arched his eyebrows quizzically, taking a clearly self-conscious jab at his own grimness. The man placed the cigarette case back in his breast pocket, taking out a silver lighter, most likely decorated much in the same fashion as the case was.

The man slowly lit his cigarette and regarded Victoire with his deep-set eyes again. The woman was toying with him, although Otto could sense a sincere curiousness to her question as she inquired what other secret talents the man might have, beside his obvious skill for charming people - he had, after all, managed to snake his way inside the underground pub. "Mes talents secrets, chère Mademoiselle?" Otto asked, his voice low and slightly husky to match the way how the woman lowered her own voice, nearly into a whisper. Comment pouvons-nous accepter un autre pour garder notre secret... si nous avons été incapables de nous le conserver nous-mêmes?" the man asked, a lazy smile playing on his lips for a while as he slowly tasted his cigarette, breathing out a cloud of smoke.

"En plus si je devais dire vous tous de mes secrets, je ne serais pas réduit à l'état d'être un homme affreusement ennuyeux et à ce titre, à peine de valeur le temps et l'attention d'une jeune femme intelligente comme vous, Mademoiselle Beaudoin?" the man pointed out, his dark eyes fixed on the singer, as if he was trying to figure the woman as he was speaking. "Mais comme j'ai dit, l'histoire de comment je me suis retrouvé à cet endroit particulier est pas tout à fait aussi excitant comme on pourrait espérer, je m'excuse vraiment. Je m'intéresse à plus d'audition comment vous êtes devenus pour être un speaker si passionné? Vous avez certainement capturé la vigueur et l'humeur des gens français, il était tout à fait simple de voir que vos mots ont allumé une flamme dans leurs coeurs."

The man continued smoking his cigarette, his eyes narrowing slowly as a small, crooked smile appeared on his lips. "Un grand speaker peut accomplir beaucoup. C'est une honte que vous pouvez seulement exprimer vos pensées ici, sous les rues de Paris. Mais évidemment, étaient un pour parler de tels mots audacieux dehors dans l'ouvert, que la personne se trouverait bientôt ... ou lui-même l'exprimant de derniers mots devant une escouade de tir allemande plutôt. Vous n'êtes pas inquiétés de votre propre sécurité, Madamoiselle Beaudoin ? Pas seulement vos mots, mais le fait que vous êtes ici - les rues sont à peine sûres. Et vous me dites que je dois être dangereux," the man shook his head, as if reprimanding the woman, although sharp ears could easily spot the wry, sarcastic humour coating the man's words.


Translations:

"Dangereux? Oh, je n'utiliserais pas un tel mot pour me décrire du tout, la chère Mademoiselle..."
"Dangerous? Oh, I would not use such a word to describe myself at all, dear miss. The only dangerous moment one might witness with me is one where I am forced to start my morning without a cup of fresh coffee."

"Un ami français m'a dit ... et ceux-ci sont ses mots exacts..."
"A French friend told me... and these are his exact words; 'Karl, you absolutely must leave your musty account books for a while, go see Paris, see how us Parisians have a good time, relax and enjoy yourself.' And apparently, this was his idea of accomplishing that - which, I must commend, turned out to be quite a pleasant evening after all. Although why he thought that I need to enjoy some fun and relaxation, I simply cannot tell."

"Mes talents secrets, chère Mademoiselle...?"
'My secret talents, dear miss? How can we accept another to keep our secret.. if we have been unable to keep it ourselves?'

"En plus si je devais dire vous tous de mes secrets..."
"Besides, if I were to tell you all of my secrets, would I not be reduced to the state of being a dreadfully boring man and as such, hardly worth the time and attention of an intelligent young woman such as yourself, miss Beaudoin?"

"Mais comme j'ai dit, l'histoire de comment je me suis retrouvé à cet endroit particulier est pas tout à fait aussi excitant comme on pourrait espérer..."
"But as I said, the story of how I ended up in this particular place is not quite as exciting as one might hope, I do apologize. I'm more interested in hearing how you became to be such a passionate speaker? You certainly captured the vigour and temper of the French people, it was quite plain to see that your words lit a flame within their hearts."

"Un grand speaker peut accomplir beaucoup..."
"A great speaker can accomplish much. It is a shame that you can only express your thoughts here, under the streets of Paris. But of course, were one to speak such bold words out in the open, that person would soon find herself... or himself expressing last words in front of a German firing squad instead. Are you not worried of your own safety, miss Beaudoin? Not only your words, but the fact that you are here - the streets are hardly safe. And you tell me that I must be dangerous."

[Victoire Beaudoin]

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

‘A Perfect Woman’, William Wordsworth

Calculating eyes of steel-gray and icy-blue watched him circumspectly, with a glint of curiosity and something etched across her face to suggest sheer interest towards this strange and mysterious man whom she already knew to be intelligent enough to perfectly read her mind at times – but could he read her soul? She had not, indeed, expected him to be of such a cunning disposition as to ascertain access to such closely connected and illegally established underground forces as the Resistance was, and the truth lied on the fact she had been quite peculiarly surprised to meet him in such a place. Perhaps even secretly astounded, admiring such profound aptitude, though for the time being she was going to conceal such admiration. There was something different about him which she could not quite define; perhaps the foreign to her quality of his Scandinavian appearance and demeanour enticed her, perhaps it was the difference of his manners and character which was unfamiliar to the French, and though despite her travels around Europe while accompanying her father, once an ambassador, to several dispatches had familiarized her with foreign civilizations, cultures and people, normative rules did not seem to apply to him whatsoever for some reason she could not quite decipher so early upon the naissance of their acquaintance. This precise undeterminable quality of his had caused her to think thoroughly, moments on end, once the meeting at Charles Vallaury’s apartment had come to a close and she had returned to her lodging in Montmartre, throwing herself on the couch, and smoking, carefully going over the events of that same night, and often smiling at the recollection of his almost awfully proficient and yet refreshingly fascinating ways of mind-reading during that game of poker. To see him here now, at the very place she was working, a Norwegian businessman with no motive but for entertainment, which was a rather bleak and unconvincing reason altogether – it was irregular, suspicious, arbitrary. But most of all, it was oddly beguiling. He was unpredictable, and thus dangerous.

“Le penchant est, vraiment, une force dangereuse d’habitude,” she told him as the initial attempt at jest from his part was only ever enhanced by the crooked smile crawling heftily in the corner of his thin lips as he spoke; “et encore si irrésistiblement au-delà de son contrôle, c’est presque fascinant.” She uttered the last word in a subtle way of directing the last adjective at himself, instead of the former noun she made use of; one of the inspirational aspects of being acquainted to someone like this mystifying man was not being expected to make clear one’s motives, thoughts or ideas, for he already knew, and he certainly understood. He did not, however, directly address her subtle request of his name, but instead insisted on being called ‘Karl’. Victoire slightly narrowed her eyes, as an amused smile appeared on her lips. “C’est vrai! Et j’ai cru que l’invention de ce nom était un de vos trucs intelligents dans la non révélation de votre vraie identité à Claude de Bouvoir. Il ne doit pas être fidèle avec n’importe quoi, pas les cartes, pas les femmes et certainement pas le commerce. Je ne vous blâmerais pas.” She looked at him curiously, closely and carefully, smoking her cigarette, her eyes slightly narrowing as they pierced unto his own blue, perhaps wishing to penetrate through those black irises which concealed the secrets of his very existence, as a cloud of fume surrounded them quickly, as though to separate them from the rest of the plebeians. “Karl Ulvestad,” she pronounced his name slowly in her French accent, thinking. “Il ne correspond pas tout à fait à votre aspect,” she said, “mais c’est bien – à personne parents faisaient jamais les choix justes dans de certains aspects.” And she smiled, but through the confidence of such a gesture, he could, having as well come not from a particularly blissful childhood, observe the bitterness concealed behind that smile.

“Mais oui,” she continued in response to his comment, although the thought of the irregularity in terms of name and appearance comparatively lingered in the depths of her mind; “un étranger se perd toujours à Paris, c’est vrai. Il semble que notre ville possède ses propres façons mystérieuses de calmer même les esprits les plus dérangés, même si seulement un moment.” She observed the way in which he referred to himself – obviously as a quite serious human being who rarely engaged himself to trivialities, light occasions or even events which remotely touched the borders of impulsiveness; he seemed to be such an organized man, cautious, guarding, and authoritative as any expectations of him acceding to acts of entertainment appeared rather far-fetched at best, ridiculous at worse. She noticed the slight change – adaptation, perhaps – of his new posture according to her own gestures, and looked at him with interest; a chameleon, indeed, who could adapt easily to what was demanded of each time. He had an appealing perspective, and one which she certainly adopted herself – and yet curiosity was at times too overwhelming to simply ignore. “Je vous assure, Monsieur, je ne vous dirais jamais de vos secrets, mais les garderais avec moi comme s’ils étaient les miens,” she told him in the same low tone, slightly leaning towards him as though they were engaged in a conversation of the darkest matter, or a political conspiracy. “Quelquefois la seule personne à qui nous devons nous cacher est notre propre moi,” she told him, the insight of her words crystal clear, as her eyes glinted strangely, an expression almost of soft hunger visible through her facial features, and she wondered – craved to know – whether he understood she was speaking from experience. She spoke not for the moments to pass, this interesting turn of the discussion leaving her quite impatient as to his response. Once more he proved to be rational and wise, and she cold not help but wonder on what made him lose such composure.

She did not immediately respond to his next words, but slowly smoked from her cigarette, all the while looking at him, almost with unblinking fashion, drowned in the fume and the dim lights, the noises from other people completely devoured into what seemed to have been another world, situated only a few feet away from them. The lights cast shadows on some parts of her figure, maintaining a lingering mystery which had to be unveiled, brightening her crystal eyes while the darkness around her served more as a narcotic quality to further enhance her features. She remained silent for numerous moments to come, until her delicate fingers pulled the cigarette from her lips, as she gently blew the smoke into the surrounding atmosphere. “Monsieur, vous apparaissez de l’air fin et disparaissez dans la vitesse d’une ombre, toujours à l’endroit juste, au temps juste, en possédant assez de confiance et supériorité de manière pour vous calmer même l’être humain le plus odieux avec un pur coup d’oeil. Vous parlez seulement si nécessaire et vos mots sont soigneusement calculés; même on pense auparavant à vos pas, je suis certain, judicieusement vérifier une élégance de conduite et d’autorité masculine, comme la convenance à quelqu’un de votre course. Quand vous parlez, vos mots ont une résonance aigre semblable à ce d’un python, pendant que charismatique capable de distinguer même les plus subtils de dessins dans la personnalité d’autre, en créant des hypothèses quand il n’y a aucune évidence et déchiffrant des motifs secrets quand aucune émotion n’est révélée – ce qui à moi est la perfection de suprématie humaine. Je ne pouvais jamais trouver une telle personne au loin ennuyeuse,” she assured him, and leaned forwards to whisper, “Je ne pouvais jamais trouver une telle personne au loin ennuyeuse. On peut vous donner chaque confiance de mon attention indivisée aussi longtemps que vous ne trahissez pas de telles manières.”

She did believe he was the serpent and not the wolf; her mind did not think of the possibility of him wearing an identity foreign to him, a skin he could be uncomfortable in but which he felt was necessary for the noble purpose of deception – the skin of an innocent lamb; but that he was a slowly crawling serpent, hefty and insidious, waiting for the right moment to strike. She smiled. Foolish girl. “Le coeur de chaque homme français a mal pour son pays, Monsieur. Visitez-vous et voir à que la situation morne nous avons été réduits; occupé par les forces qui sont nos ennemis jurés, notre fierté dans le monde entier tremblée et avec notre pays chéri souffrant de la pauvreté, la destruction et le désespoir, quelqu’un qui parle des mots de valeur doit à coup sûr toucher leurs âmes sensibles, patriotes. Le patriotisme, Monsieur, n’est pas un fléau de société. Le nationalisme social est un fléau de société et doit être reconstitué – qui est la raison de perturbation de notre paix et la perte de centaines de vies innocentes.”

And then she frowned. “Bien sûr vous ne suggéreriez pas que j’ai bougé de Paris?” she asked him cautiously, slightly narrowing her eyes, the smile in her corner of her lips vanishing on the spot, as she leaned backwards to her original position, almost defensively. “D’autres peuvent trahir la France et l’abandonner, mais je ne me permettrai jamais une telle lâcheté. Son amour est prouvé par l’épreuve et pas par les intérêts, Monsieur – et j’aime la France; je suis né dans son sol et dans son sol je mourrai. Aucun allemand ne me forcera autrement et bien sûr pas la perspective de mort. Se trouve présent n’importe quoi de plus mauvais dans la vie qu’une telle humiliation et une perte de dignité personnelle?” she told him, her eyes alight with a passionate glare, her words becoming fiercer word by word, as her face hardened. Indeed, she was unpredictable, and her mood variations a most peculiar thing; one moment she was a mysterious and fascinating creature that spoke in riddles and careless whispers, while the next moment she could be go through a fit of rage or, in this case, maintain her defensive walls of her soul high, not allowing him entrance to her spiritual world, lest he should harm her. She watched all these women, men, and children fleeing France, abandoning her to her wretched fate, and that she would never resort to; she loved France with all her heart, which for an orphan was the only thing to turn to. France to her had been the mother she had never had, the father who would love her and speak to her affectionately instead of always complain on her uselessness of manner and foolishness of heart. And she, in turn, loved France and was possessive over her like a small child which was grasping at her mother’s feet, not wanting to leave her while being sent to the kindergarten for the first day.

Slowly, however, she allowed the walls to crack, letting him in once again. A hefty smile appeared on her lips, and her eyes glinted. “Mais si je devrais effectivement en être inquiété, je ne devrais pas être le seul – les déviations de la norme ne sont pas apparemment facilement acceptées par la société … même pour un païen,” she said slowly, whispering the last words as though they were the utmost secret that needed to be concealed from the world, or there would be consequences, her smile widened, it became crooked, meaningful and knowing – and then, without any warning, and a mere, “Pardonnez-mois,” she stretched out her hand and touched his front pocket, her delicate fingers slipping inside, finding what they had sought out, as she did not break eye contact with him, not wishing to show him any form of weakness or loss of dominance. The touch was momentary, and direct as to her wishes; not spending a second longer than required as to obtain what she desired, and yet not too quick as to make him forget it.

She took the cigarette case in her hands, and moved closer to him, walking next to him instead of standing in front of him. Her thin, pale fingers traced along the exquisitely carved shapes of the case, moving from the man’s face to the eight-legged horse with which he was mentally bound with a valknut. “Il était brillant. Une figure brave de guerre et de bataille et encore un poète sage, un prophète intelligent, un homme de …” she spoke softly, and turned sideways to look at his eyes, “… victoire,” she whispered. She remained silent for some seconds, her face unsmiling but her eyes glinting, not breaking the eye contact, instead her ice-gray eyes piercing through his own dark, murky blue determinedly – until she returned her glance back to the cigarette case, her fingers tracing along the two ravens flying overhead.

“Et bien que par la mort de Dieux il soit tué, comme le soleil tourne noir et de terre enfonce la mer, comme on fait tournoyer les étoiles en feu en bas du ciel, féroce cultive la vapeur et la flamme nourrissant vie jusqu’à ce que le feu saute haut du ciel lui-même – le loup ne survivra pas à la colère du fils et au désire de la vengeance et la terre monte de nouveau tout le vert des signes de nouveau, la chute de cataractes et les mouches d’aigle, les tables d’or mettront le milieu de l’herbe dans la beauté merveilleuse, de nouveau. Il qui sait comment les couper? lisez-les, tachez-les? prouvez-les? évoquez-les? marquez-les? qui sait comment leur envoyer – qui quand le besoin il doit abriter son navire sur l’inondation, le vent il calme, les signes cela smoothes et met la mer pour dormir; et si les spectres pénibles montent les chevrons en haut, il peut les faire se promener en erreur, incapable de trouver leurs formes, incapables de trouver leurs maisons.” She looked back at him, and there was something behind her glinting eyes, as a smile rose in her lips, looking at him daringly, openly, with narrowed eyes, like a dangerous siren, like a thirteenth goddess of the Olympus which had been given birth by Zeus for the sole purpose of filling this man’s life with more meaning and dangerous fascination.

“Oui,” she said in her clear, deep voice, “je ne devrais pas être le seul inquiété.”




♠ Translation ♠

Addiction is, indeed, a dangerous force of habit, and yet so irresistibly beyond one’s control, it’s almost fascinating.

Indeed! And I thought the invention of that name was one of your clever tricks in not revealing your true identity to Claude de Bouvoir. He is not to be trusted with anything, not cards, not women, and certainly not commerce. I would not blame you. Karl Ulvestad. It does not quite match your appearance, but that is all right – no one’s parents ever made the right choices in certain aspects.

But yes, a foreigner always loses oneself in Paris, it’s true. It seems our city possesses its own mysterious ways of calming even the most troubled minds, even if only for a moment.

I assure you, Monsieur, I would never tell you of your secrets but keep them with me as though they were mine. Sometimes the only person we need to hide from is our own self.

Monsieur, you appear out of thin air and disappear in the swiftness of a shadow, always at the right place, at the right time, possessing enough confidence and superiority of manner as to quiet down even the most obnoxious human being with a mere glance. You speak only when necessary, and your words are carefully calculated; even your steps, I’m certain, are previously thought of wisely to ascertain an elegance of conduct and masculine authority, as befitting someone of your race. When you speak, your words have a biting resonance similar to that of a python, while charismatically able to distinguish even the subtlest of patterns in the other’s personality, creating assumptions when there is no evidence and deciphering ulterior motives when no emotions are revealed – that to me is perfection of human supremacy. I could never find such a person remotely boring. You may be given every confidence of my undivided attention so long as you do not betray such manners.

Every French man’s heart aches for his country, Monsieur. Look around you and see to what dismal situation we have been reduced; occupied by forces which are our sworn enemies, our pride internationally shaken, and with our beloved country suffering from poverty, destruction and despair, anyone who speaks words of valour is bound to touch their sensitive, patriotic souls. Patriotism, Monsieur, is not a scourge of society. Social nationalism is a scourge of society, and must be replenished – that is the reason of disruption of our peace, and the loss of hundreds of innocent lives.

Certainly you would not suggest I moved out of Paris? Others may betray France and abandon her, but I shall never allow myself such cowardice. One’s love is proved through hardship and not through welfare, Monsieur – and I love France; I was born in her soil, and in her soil I shall die. No German will force me otherwise, and certainly not the prospect of death. Is there anything worse in life than such humiliation and loss of self-respect?

But if I should indeed be worried about this, I should not be the only one – deviations from the norm are apparently not easily accepted by society … even for a pagan.

Forgive me.

He was brilliant. A valiant figure of war, and battle, and yet a wise poet, a keen prophet, a man of … victory.

And though by the doom of gods he is slain, as the sun turns black and earth sinks in the sea, as the stars aflame down from heaven are whirled, fierce grows the steam and the life-feeding flame until the fire leaps high about heaven itself – the wolf will not survive the son’s wrath and lust for revenge, and the earth anew rises all green from the waves again, the cataracts fall and the eagle flies, the golden tables shall stand mid the grass in wondrous beauty, once again. He who knows how to cut them,
read them, stain them,
prove them,
evoke them,
score them,
who knows how to send them – who when need he has to shelter his ship on the flood, the wind it calms, the waves it smoothes and puts the sea to sleep; and should troublesome ghosts ride the rafters aloft, he can make them wander astray, unable to find their forms, unable to find their homes.

Yes, I should not be the only one worried.