The Queen of Spades

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Country: Paris, France
Current Time: 8:20 pm
Weather Conditions: Cold and windy

In the cold, rain, and sleet
They together would meet
To play.
Lord, forgive them their sin:
Gambling, late to win
They’d stay.
They won and they lost,
And put down the cost
In chalk.
So on cold autumn days
They wasted no time
In talk.

“Monsieur De Beauvoir, si vous trichez je dirai à votre femme que vous m’avez envoyé des fleurs et une carte d’amour pour la Saint-Valentin!” Victoire Beaudoin told the middle-aged man sitting directly opposite her in the round table in her clear, deep and sensual voice and wearing a pleasant smile across her scarlet lips as the rest of the men laughed heartily. The man, once Sergeant in the First World War and presently awarded the Ordre National de la Légion d’Honneur in the grade of Grand Officier for his excellent military conduct delivered, chuckled at her defiantly as he was aware of the truth of her words; his name was Claude De Beauvoir and he had several years ago adopted the habit of gambling away the money he had earned through his military acknowledgements, much to his wife’s displeasure. They were playing cards in the house of Charles Vallaury, who had upon his good days been a Lieutenant General, and half an hour away from where the young woman lodged her cold garret (which she would hardly reveal to these men). The long winter night passed indiscernibly; it was after seven in the evening when they sat down to supper, with the winners enjoying their food, as opposed to the others who were simply sat absent-mindedly with empty plates before them, although the poulet sauté aux herbes de Provence had been most excellent. Then, however, champagne appeared, the conversation grew more vigorous, and everyone participated in it.

“Comment avez-vous fait, Claude?” Charles Vallaury asked his companion with an interested smirk on his face, but the other man appeared not to share or appreciate the jovial tone.

“Perte, comme d’habitude!” he said brusquely, and Vallaury laughed with a bark.

“Claude, Claude, je vous ai dit de ne pas bluffer! Quatre d’une sorte quand nous avons à peine commencé!” Vallaury said in his lively tone, and the others laughed heartily once more. The man by the name Claude scowled at this.

“Je déclarais toujours que Monsieur a aimé choisir les blessures d’un animal blessé!” Claude De Beauvoir excused himself, not wishing to allow his good friend to pleasantly humiliate him in front of such distinguished company. He had been especially disappointed at himself for making that daring move, but he was recently addicted to the game and needed yet to be further enamoured with the art of lies and deception.

“Surtout quand cet animal est un malotru obstiné!” Charles Vallaury spoke, and they laughed once more. Victoire merely smiled while looking at her cards, and so did Claude, remaining composed and unaffected by the friendly impertinence.

“Ah, Monsieur, je suggère que vous regardez vos cartes, comme c’est votre tour de perdre,” he stated.

“Non, mon ami. Je vous élèverai à cinq cents francs!”

“Le bâtard!”

And then they laughed again. Such was the atmosphere in the hall; twelve people were sat around a circular table upon their chairs built in true Louis XIV fashion in a room exquisitely decorated in classic elegance, carpeted wholesomely in pale carmine and adorned with heavy linen curtains in the colour of apricots, bronze ribbons dancing along their curves, assorted with bronze gimps, braids and loop fringes, scarlet key tassels and golden tie backs, as well as embracing large pieces of furniture carved with acanthus leaves and with a beautiful golden harp standing tall and imposing near the curtains draped across the French windows, several metres in the near distance of an equally imposing violoncello, while a black and well-polished piano stood at the other end of the room, the room altogether bearing an overpowering effect of being heavy, pompous and heroic with its abounding symmetrical form, great volume and opulence, and masculinity in appearance, as inspired by the Flemish, Italian and Spanish Baroque.

Victoire loved the game; she was obsessed with the fact it was a game not necessarily of luck but beautiful lies and deception. You were not playing the cards, you were playing the player opposite you, and she had since a long time now mastered the art of manipulation and exploitation, made easier by her enticing beauty and charming manners that could distract the men’s attention away from their cards and into the fine lines of her curvaceous lips or the rich bosom of her scarlet dress. Her raven black hair fell down the pale skin of her shoulders gracefully in elegant curls, while the dress embraced her feminine curves diligently with the result of making her appear as the high-society dame she was rather than a simple belle, her steely blue and cunningly calculating eyes looking at the men surrounding her with a hefty smirk etched in the corner of her lips, and she might have adorned her refined facial features with a taunting leer.

“Monsieur Baptiste, c’est votre tour,” she spoke in a slow and composed tone, looking at the younger man standing opposite her. He immediately turned to look at her, and cleared his throat instinctively.

“Ah, mais Mademoiselle Beaudoin est un expert sur les cartes, Monsieur Baptiste – je vous suggère être prudent quand vous jouez avec elle,” Charles Vallaury told the dark-haired young man, and it was easily perceivable how fond Vaullary was of the woman. “Elle a gagné pour deux ronds maintenant, je me sens toujours contraint à l’inviter simplement pour les buts d’amusement et des visages d’hommes regardants incapables de m’opposer à être vaincu par une telle entité,” he complimented her, and slightly bowed his head at her direction. She merely smiled. “Évidemment, cela humecte nos espoirs, gentilshommes, mais nous devons lui faire honneur. Eh bien, Zacques, permettez-nous de voir votre main!”

Monsieur Baptiste was intently staring at her with a hungry expression in his eyes. Instead of finding this impertinent, she only encouraged it, for it would unquestionably win her the round. “J’ai peur je ne pourrais avoir aucune autodiscipline autour de Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Baptiste said quietly, all the while looking at her as though he wished to visually express the double meaning of his words, and she only smiled at him; he was one of those young chaps of society who believed they were confident enough to air their political and social views to other members of society and as such leave a rather positive impression. “Je l’élèverai à mille francs.”

Victoire’s smile slightly widened, as she took her cards but did not look at them. She had him where she wanted to.

“Beautiful,” she said softly in elegant English, and the game began.



♠ Translation ♠


Monsieur De Beauvoir, if you are cheating I shall tell your wife you sent me flowers and a love card for Valentine’s Day!

How have you been doing?

Losing, as usual.

Claude, Claude, I told you not to bluff! Four of a kind when we only just began!

I have always stated Monsieur liked to pick the wounds of an injured animal!

Especially when that animal is an obstinate oaf!

Ah, Monsieur, I suggest you look at your cards, as it is your turn to lose.

No, my friend; I shall raise you to five hundred francs!

The bastard!

Monsieur Baptiste, it is your turn.

Ah, but Miss Beaudoin is an expert on cards, Monsieur Baptiste - I suggest you be careful when you play with her. She has been winning for two rounds now, I always feel compelled to invite her simply for the purposes of entertainment and watching men's faces unable to resist being defeated by such an entity. Of course, this dampens our hopes, gentlemen, but we must do her justice. Come, Zacques, let us see your hand!

I'm afraid I could have no self-control around Mademoiselle. I shall raise her to one thousand francs.

Beautiful.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

Robert had never been in Paris, let alone France before. Everything was so different from Japan in every way. No burning houses, no crying mothers over their dead or dying children, just a very painless and pleasurable area. The reason why he was here was because his CO had made a complaint about him and had him reassigned to France. The complaint was that he, Took his men on a suicide mission that resulted in one man's death. This mission could have been avoided if the Corporal had taken a wiser approach to the enemy. The 'suicide' mission, as the CO said, was nothing more than a strategic force of strength, so thought Robert. He didn't mind beng away from all of the chaos in Japan. Although, sometimes he almost missed it.

Boredom was now going through Robert as he was sitting in his small barracks area. So he decided to go do something. He asked a few other of the men if they wanted to come, but they all said no and made up some bad excuse. Oh well. All the more excitement of being alone. Thought Robert to himself sarcastically. He grabbed his G.I. coat and put his service cap on.

He started walking the streets when he came to a small house. It looked warm and somewhat inviting, so Robert decided to knock on the door. He walked up to the step and almost as soon as he knocked it was opened. As soon as he walked in he was hit by instant warmth and the sound of laughter. He could see a few civilians drinking at a table that was a bit taller than the others and quite a group playing a game of cards. It looked interesting enough, but Robert had no intention of gambling all of his possessions away. Instead he took a seat at the closest seat and waited for someone to tell him what this place was.

[Charles Norris]

“What happened to you, Chuck? Was it that long ago that you were fighting for your life in the skies above Britain? What has turned you into such a foppish dandy?”[/i] To answer his internal question, Flight Lieutenant Charles Norris imagined his old regulation RAF insignia, two light blue bands over two wider black bands, reflected in the small mirror he was using to help trim his beard to a short, regular length. He could still easily remember back then, when he was a hotshot young pilot, and he had to shave whenever his cheeks and chin were masked by a 5 o’clock shadow, until he had been promoted high enough that his superiors either believed his excuse that his face blanket helped with the chill of flying, or they had just stopped caring. They could never understand why Charles wore the beard. It was a link to his past; to his father and their farm. Every time his brought his hand up to his chin as he thought back to those simpler times, his light brown facial hair became his own symbol of America, his personal field of amber waves of grain.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” F/Lt Norris brushed the front of his uniform into the sink before turning around and facing the source of the voice. This gave the man who had popped his head into the barrack’s washroom door an eyeful of his superior’s uniform, from the shined shoes to the silver bars on his olive drab collar. “Yes. This is the uniform befitting a Captain of the United States Army Air Corps.” Charles answered as Trudeau entered. Lt. Dalton Trudeau, one of the controllers for the airfield, wore a simple tan trench coat and carried in Norris’s ‘bomber jacket,’ while in the other hand, a small folded sheet of paper. This letter was their invitation from a retired French Lieutenant General, personally inviting Captain Norris to a dinner with light entertainment so that the certain grateful citizens of Paris could meet various members of their liberating armies. And, because the Lieutenant convinced Charles to go, Chuck allowed him to come with.

“W…” Trudeau started to comment on his commander’s fashion sense, but then caught the Flight Lieutenant’s cold hard gaze, telling him without words that the bearded man standing before him already didn’t want to go meet a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys, and any sass out of his subordinate would end the night right there. Trudeau quickly changed the subject and handed over Charles’ flight jacket, “You better put this on, it’s quite chilly outside. And at least we got you out of that old Flight Lieutenant garb eh, and into something made in America.” Dalton smiled, revealing a set of perfect teeth.

“As long as my forms are continued to be marked ‘Flight Lieutenant Norris’ I will still consider myself as such.” Charles started their well worn argument, “Speaking of which, we really should have postponed this dinner, I have a lot of paperwork to do.”
Trudeau frowned, “You always have paperwork to do. I would have thought you have enjoyed getting a break. When was the last you stepped foot out of the hanger?” Norris ignored him and started slipping an arm into the stiff leather jacket. But glancing over his shoulder caused him to suddenly stop what he was doing and take off the heavy coat. “What have you done with all my insignia, Dalt? And the wool collar?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I put them all carefully in a box that’s now under your bed,” Chuck folded his arms and glared at him, silently asking why, and Trudeau quickly explained himself, “Like I was going to say, the invitation asked us to dress inconspicuously. I suppose since Paris spent four odd years in the grips of Nazi terror, they are probably still frightened by uniforms.”

That answer was adequate for Charles, and he once again started to put on his leather jacket. “So, you’re saying I shouldn’t bring my .45?”

--

The men were silent on the trip from the airfield into the city, as evening slowly turned to night. Charles opened his mouth for the first in 30 minutes after they left the studebaker and started walking towards the residence they would be spending the evening. “Hear that?’ Charles asked, and the two officers stopped and Dalton strained to hear anything out of the ordinary city noises. “Air raid siren, maybe 20 miles away. I should be with my men, who knows what havoc the Germans are causing.”

“Stop worrying, it’s probably all in your head.” Trudeau tried to relieve Charles as he tugged on his arm to continue walking, “Besides, I haven’t realized the squadron been issued with night fighters yet. We are already here, you’re not going to get out of it. So stop acting like a child, sir, and let’s show these Frenchies that Americans aren’t all cowboys and gangsters, and know how to have a good clean, classy time.” And that was the end of that.

After entering the lavish home, they were quite rudely greeted by a large Frenchman with a handlebar mustache. At first, the Americans had no idea what he was complaining about in his native tongue, but once they showed that were United States servicemen, he quickly switched to English, and graciously shown them into the main hall. There, as he waltzed over to a group playing cards to whisper into one of the men’s ears, Trudeau and Norris stood in the corner, openingly amazed at the old fashioned brilliance of the room.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

By the time the servant had fetched the American guests, Victoire had won the round of poker against Monsieur Baptiste, who seemed pleasantly taken by surprise at his ‘unlucky’ hand, nevertheless admitting defeat with a courteous bow of his head and a warm smile, possibly thinking he could meet her after dinner and propose lunch for the afternoon the following day, one which she would at any rate have to turn down. She did not bear any interest whatsoever in people of society such as him, fancy young men with all their etiquettes and desires of being lovers rather than patriots, but instead brave soldiers who sacrificed their lives for their beloved homeland. “Ah, magnifique! Magnifique!” Charles Vallaury applauded, and laughed heartily, certainly pleased and palpably entertained. “Nous pouvons célébrer un autre le rond bien joué avec Choucroute délicieux garnie!” At that moment, the servant clad in black livery as was appropriate approached Charles Vallaury, and Victoire being next to him she was able to hear him whisper to his master, “Monsieur, j’ai été informé que deux de nos invités ont été retardés en raison des attributions militaires. Pourtant, trois Messieurs sont arrivés.” Vallaury nodded his head curtly. “Messieurs,” he said, turning to the gentlemen around the table, “nos bons invités et libérateurs bienveillants sont arrivés.”

The Allies had managed to make a small victory against the German forces that day, in Lourdes, near the Spanish border; several parts of the town had been bombed by the Luftwaffe, and without the immediate intervention of the RAF there would have been more victims to add in an endless list of casualties. These occasions in the year of 1942 were so rare that they brought the smallest hope upon the hearts of the public, and as such, veteran of war, Charles Vallaury, had resolved to host a small gathering to celebrate this event, inviting only a select few from the Allied forces as he wished not to arouse suspicion should the Germans sniff a past-curfew party taking place right under their noses. Victoire turned to look at the gentlemen; one of them stood several feet away from the other two, which gave her the understanding that he was not amongst their division. He was naturally well-built, was bearded, and appeared to be rather thoughtful in their presence, particularly as though he almost felt slightly uncomfortable. The other man was plain, and standing two inches behind his superior, the taller and well-known Flight Lieutenant, with the red hair and beard and the one of the clearest blue eyes she had ever seen in her life, somehow his rogue physique and tough exterior complimenting the black suit he was wearing in a rather charming manner.

The servant announced them properly in his dull monotone. “Monsieur Anderson, Monsieur Norris et Monsieur Trudeau.” The servant proceeded to gesture at the guests to come further into the room, as Charles Vallaury stood up to formally greet them, whereas Victoire stood at her position, contrary to what the rest of the French men did, who also fancied to take a good glimpse at their fascinating ‘liberators’, ever so grateful of their great assistance during these hard times. The young woman openly stared at the auburn man with a curious interest visibly glinting in her calculating eyes; she had of course heard of the Flight Lieutenant and his admiring feats, and the fact he had been a part of the forces warring against the Nazi occupation only served to entice her.

She stood, allowing her scarlet dress to fall gracefully on the floor, and walked towards the men. “Monsieur Norris,” she greeted the man, just as the servant shortly returned to announce dinner had been served. She spoke with an English accent, with a slight French pronunciation etching at the end of each word, enough to give her speech and manner an elegant tone and classify her as a woman of society. “I wanted to personally congratulate you on your victory. Allow me to say that your courage and military command is inspiring for the French people – in more than one ways,” she said in her deep and firm voice, and then graced him with a smile, as the rest of the men walked past them towards the door that led into the dining room. She turned around and looked at Corporal Anderson, smiling at him, lips not parting however, and then gave him her hand. “Shall we?” she told him, and then they walked with arms linked towards the dining room, not before Victoire cast a last fleeting look sideways at the Flight Lieutenant with an alluring and simultaneously furtive and calculating glance.

The dining room was just as pompous and heavily decorated as the living room; a sown white tablecloth with various patterns was laid upon the large oak-wooden table, adorned with china set of plates and silver cutlery. The servant gestured at each guest to take a seat, and Victoire was conveniently placed between Corporal Anderson and Flight Lieutenant Norris, with Trudeau sitting on his superior’s right and Charles Vallaury at the head of the table. “Messieurs,” he addressed them, “I have two words for you - Choucroute garnie!” The French men laughed. “The Germans claim it is their own recipe, but we French know it is recipe originating from Alsace, which as history tells us, always belonged to our beloved nation. As a symbolism, we may hope in victories not only in Lourdes but in all of France! Our gratitude, gentlemen, cannot be explained with words but actions! Therefore, let us drink!” he spoke the English with an awfully French accent, and then raised his glass, the servant hurrying to fill all of their glasses with a 1925 Château Lafite. Victoire raised her own glass, once filled, and slightly bowed her head towards the American soldiers. “Gentlemen,” she spoke, and sipped from it.


♠ Translation ♠

Ah, splendid! Splendid! We may celebrate another well-played round with with a delicious Choucroute garnie!

Sir, I was informed that two of our guests have been delayed due to military assignments. However, three gentlemen have arrived.

Gentlemen, our good guests and benevolent liberators have arrived.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

This was all starting to get a little awkward, so Robert felt. He felt extremely underdressed and extremely...unkempt. When he saw the door open he was somewhat relieved at what he saw. Two obvious Americans. Anybody could tell the difference between a Frenchman and an American. Even Robert could. He watched the two men step in and saw the slightly taller man was a Flight Lieutenant and the man behind him was also a Lieutenant. The sense of relief faded as soon as it had come because he saw their ranks. He thought for a second. Hey, I'm here now, why not have a good time?

The man who had answered the door for he and the Lieutenants walked over to him and started talking. Robert could barely make out some of the words, but knew the man wanted Robert to come with him. He and the Lieutenants walked until they were right next to the table where the gambling was taking place. A few men walked over to the three men. One a very young rich looking man who had a posh sounding French accent when he spoke. He went to the two Lieutenants and shook their hands and sung their praises. He said nothing when he went to Robert. He just looked at him and held out his hand. Personally Robert could care less about this man. He saw the man to be somewhat of a coward since he was obviously in no type of resistance, but he felt that he needed to at least show a small amount of respect for the man. So Robert grasped the man's hand firmly and peered into his eyes. He could tell they wouldn't get along very well.

The next few men weren't as bad. They all just seemed like a bunch of washed up old men who drank too much and couldn't let go of the past. After all of the men were done shaking hands a quite beautiful young woman walked over and said something to the Flight Lietenant in a quited voice so Robert couldn't hear. She then turned to him and held out her hand. "Shall we? She said in a sound of voice Robert had never heard from for a while. It was a woman's voice. He took her hand and held it softly and walked to where the dining hall was. He was impressed to see the food. One of the made a big announcement about what they were about to eat. Saying it originated in Alsace. Robert was pleased to see the food. He thought it looked delicious. Thereafter a man came around and poured a shot of some type of liqour for everyone at the table. One of the men who had introduced himself as Charles Vallaury stood up and made a toast to Robert and the two Lieutenants that he now knew were Flight Lieutenant Norris and Lieutenant Trudeau. He had heard their names as they were introducing themselves to the few civilian Frenchmen. Robert had no idea what to expect except the fact that these men were definately well-known due to how the civilian men talked so highly of them while they were being introduced. Robert felt very displaced, but picked up the shot. Bottom's up.

[Charles Norris]

While Norris and Trudeau waited for the Frenchman to announce their presence, they removed their coats, revealing their uniforms. Instantly it seemed like everyone in the room was staring at them, trying to learn as much about the men as they could from those exotic uniforms they wore. Charles quickly began to feel uncomfortable, for he never liked being the center of attention, although he usually was.

Though this time, Charles, and Dalton, would be sharing the ‘limelight’ with another American when the dull servant called them all over to the card table. “That’s our host, Charles Vallaury” Trudeau informed his superior about the distinguished gentleman who was the first to stand up and greet the three olive drab men. Norris had no idea where he could have gotten that information, but still, quickly prepared to give as much respect as possible to a man who once honorably defended his homeland, while now allowed it to be overrun with the same enemy.

But, as Charles the American stuck out his right hand to shake with Charles the Frenchman, he noticed a young woman sitting behind the latter’s left shoulder, and lost all concentration. As Vallaury greeted him in the traditional French manner, the Flight Lieutenant could only focus on her red dress, flowing as it did down her curves like a silk river as she stood up. Like an assembly line, as Vallaury moved to Trudeau, the dark haired woman greeted Chuck, in an elegant voice with only a small touch of a French accent. “Monsieur Norris,”

“Ma’am” Charles replied, adding a slight, rough, veteran-of-1,000-battles overtone to his normal American accent that he last used to swoon English “birds” off their feet, back when he was a lowly Pilot Officer in the RAF. He never thought he could use the old Norris charm again since he made CO.

“I wanted to personally congratulate you on your victory.” The woman continued, “Allow me to say that your courage and military command is inspiring for the French people – in more than our ways,” Charles‘s beard beamed at the lady‘s gratitude, the first smile in a long time. But his face lost that foreign emotion in the same instant when she slinked over to the Army man and linked arms with him to walk together into the dining room. Confused, Chuck could only stand there and watch them follow the rest of the dinner guests, but before they entered the dining room completely, the perplexing woman turned around and gave Norris a look that only confused him more. “So, that’s how it’s gonna be,” he quickly muttered to himself, and Trudeau understood,
“I don’t remember seeing this mission on tonight’s roster.” Dalton joked, as they entered the dining room.

Once again, as he entered the 1st Lieutenant marveled at the elegance of the room, but Charles didn’t notice, he had other things on his mind. Although, as they took their seats near the head of the table, Norris did pause to think about how many Germans had sat in the very location in the past few of years. But he knew that wasn’t the war he would be fighting tonight, and as he listened to the small toast that their host certainly wouldn’t give to those German visitors, Charles reverted back to his training and focused on nothing but his nearest target. It was difficult in how they were seated, but a pilot had nothing if he didn’t have perpetual vision. And in the few seconds between when the servant poured a dark ruby liquid into the Americans’ glasses and Vallaury raised his, Charles attempted to gain as much recon as possible; from the hills and crevices in the terrain, to the potential resistance he many encounter from the opposite flank.

“Gentlemen,” the woman bowed to the foreign soldiers as everyone raised their glasses. “Ma’am” Chuck again replied before taking a large sip from the glass with the French, and instantly wishing he hadn’t. The pungent liquid coated his throat as it worked it’s way down, and afterwards left his mouth dry with it’s strong aftertaste. But Trudeau seemed to enjoy it as he swirled it around the glass and stood up, “Ah, Château Lafite, a leader among leaders! If I may,” he turned to the head of the table for approval. “You may not yet see how deliverance will come, or when it will come, but nothing is more certain then that every trace of Hitler’s infecting and corroding fingers shall be purged and blasted from the surface of the Earth. Lift up your hearts! All with come right, out of the depths of sorrow and of sacrifice. We will be born again, the glory of mankind, all nations bound and free. And, as you say, Vive la France! May our humble homeland,” he laid his free hand on Charles’s shoulder as he finished, “forever be the on the forefront of freedom and liberty!”

Again everyone took a sip from their glasses, and Charles then expertly kept himself composed for the entire minute it took for the aftertaste to fade away. He then turned back to lady to his right. “Well, ma’am, you have the pleasure of knowing our names, may I have the same courtesy?”

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire smiled at Monsieur Trudeau and raised her glass along with the others. “Vive la France!” she toasted, and then once everyone sipped from their wine, she elegantly stood up from her seat and looked at everyone around the room. “Gentlemen,” she addressed them, “I wish to make a toast myself, if Monsieur Vallaury would allow,” she continued in her elegant English accent, turning to look at the host with a charming smile, and he bowed his head deeply to her, nothing but admiration visible in his weary old eyes once he opened them to stare at her. “To the gentlemen that have so graciously accepted Monsieur Vallaury’s invitation in spending some time with us when we know how uptight your military schedules are,” she said, looking at the American soldiers. “I am personally grateful to all our American friends who have jeopardised their lives in fighting for our country. I shall never forget you, and nor will France. People talk of liberation, but I think it regards self-respect more. What decent man would ever tolerate watchig a country like France being burned to ashes and have her culture extinguished? You do not simply need to liberate France. France is not just a nation. France is a great nation. She has inspired greatness in people and graced us with such fierce pride and high expectations as to see her slowly crumble under the enemy’s barbarism breaks our hearts. Some people may ask what is so special about France, and why she must be set as a priority to those who want to free her. I do not wish to enter an idiot’s mind, gentlemen, for I know all of us sitting in this room are aware why she is of importance – and I believe you have no doubts in the mission assigned concerning our beloved country. But if I were to respond to that idiot, I would certainly enlighten them with a simple act. I would show him our women. And then, gentlemen, the unbeliever would believe. If you don’t it for the country, gentlemen, do it for the French women,” she concluded with a smile and half a laugh, a speech that was immediately met with a round of laughter and a burst of applause from the men around the room. “For the women!” they toasted with a roar, and then drank from their glasses.

Monsieur Trudeau had spoken such beautiful words, she believed, that she already felt affectionate towards him despite the fact she did not even know him. Men who loved her country meant that they loved her, for she was a part of her country. And she loved it when they loved her, and so she loved them back. She turned her head around to look at Monsieur Norris once he addressed her in his charmingly drawl of a voice. He spoke in a smooth manner and despite his American accent there was something strangely charming about it, perhaps the foreign touch it brought, or the cumulative effect once combined with his charming posture at any rate. “My name, Monsieur?” she said, and smiled at him. “You are a part of that name. For you are fighting for France, and her victory will be as much ours as it will be yours,” she told him in a slow timbre, the fine lines of her red lips moving along with each word she uttered, almost hypnotically, at which point Charles Vallaury had to offer his own opinion on the matter, having closely observed whom Victoire was talking to and making certain he defended her whenever she needed (or needed not) be defended, believing she would think of him more in that way. He was, of course, married and bore grandchildren.

“Victoire, darling, do not torture the man unnecessarily,” he spoke with his awful English accent, and then chuckled stupidly, drinking more wine. Then someone next to him nudged him, and he turned his attention away from them.

Victoire looked back at Charles Norris with a furtive, matter-of-fact smile on her lips. The servant began to serve Choucroute garnie to the guests, the room instantly filled with the delicious aroma of the pickled cabbage, smoked ham hocks and sausages with potatoes of the Alsatian cuisine. A tinkling of plates, glasses and forks echoed around the dining room, now overwhelmed by animated conversation and the jeering sounds of men laughing at their own jokes.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

The words sounded so elegant and well thoughtout. Robert was entranced by both of the speaches back to back. They were the most intelligent speeches he had heard for a while. When they were both done with the toasts Robert smiled and took another small sip. A man next to him nudged his arm and said in an almost undeciferable accent, "Do you think you will win this war American?" Robert was not offended by this question for he had thought about it himself for quite some time now. "Sir, I'm no expert on wars but, I believe if we keep up the hard work...we'll be at Hitler's front door in no time." Robert said with a smirk on his face. "I hope so. So what is your position in the Army?" Robert could tell the answers wouldn't stop until the man found something else to entertain himself. That's when the food came out. The smell of cabbage filled the room. It smelled delicious. He saw on the serving plates cabbage, smoked ham hocks and sausages with potatoes. Everything looked great. Then the woman in the red dress caught his eye once more. He looked at her and gave her a smile that touched only the side of his face. "Vive la France." He said softly under his breathe.

[Charles Norris]

((Sorry about that, it’s the holidays)

“Victory Darwin, do not torch the man needlessly.” laughed their host. Or at least that’s what Fl/Lt Norris thought he said, English was obviously not his first language, and probably not his second, either. Nonetheless, the meaning was clear, this wouldn’t be a milk run. The woman, now known to Charles as Victory Darwin, once again smiled at the Flight Lieutenant, silently telling him that she made her move, and like a game of checkers, it was Chuck’s turn again.

But before Norris could use a line about a victory in France, the strong smell of cabbage and ham heralded the serving of the meal. When the servant placed his portion in front of him, Charles was surprised to find out that Choucroute garnie was in fact just sauerkraut, pork, sausage, and potatoes. Taking his fork in his left hand, his right used the knife to cut small slices of each ingredient before the utensils switched hands and the fork allowed his mouth to taste what his nose was already enjoying, but what he eyes were enjoying was still out of reach.

For Charles, the meal itself was much better then the pungent wine. The smooth flavor of the salted pork and potatoes properly contrasted the harsher flavor of the seasoned sausage and pickled cabbage. As the first bite followed the path down his throat, he was reminded of home. In both farms he spent his youth in, Texas and then Pennsylvania, pork and potatoes was a common occurrence on the Norris kitchen table, and sauerkraut and sausage were not strangers either. But it was never, not even on Christmas, nearly as fancy or so extraordinarily prepared as tonight. But then that was one of the reasons he joined the Canadian Air Force, to see and experience exotic locations, and their residents. Like Miss Darwin.

And although his attention had been momentarily diverted to the food, when Trudeau loudly whispered to him as his superior prepared his 5th bite, “Doesn’t this beats SPAM back at the base?” Chuck jumped, in his quiet way, at another attempt to strike up a conversation with Victory.

“Yeah it sure is,” Charles started to respond to Dalton, but then shifted his tone to let Vicky in as well, “I can see why the Germans would want to steal it. I’ll have to make sure that when we get a foothold in France and start flying sorties from here, someone around the airbase could make a meal as good as this. Better yet, I’ll make sure we’ll get that airfield we snuck in on. Have this quality of crusine, whenever we’re grounded. But before Dalt and I start thinking about fancy dinners every night, my boys will have to repeat Lourdes, many times over. We’ll seize Victory, and keep it safe and secure in our grasp.” Charles almost whispered this last sentence, directing it and a warm, curious smile to Miss Darwin only as Trudeau distracted the men by requesting that Vallaury’s chef be congratulated on such a fine meal. Even though he was no longer a pilot, he was still an excellent wingman.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

By the time the grandfather clock across the room had showed the time to be nearly nine in the evening, crusted rib roast dredged in an assortment of herbs and a touch of garlic had been served to the selective group around the table, more red wine poured down the glasses of the guests, those superb liberators, the servant circulating the room every so often in close supervision, going back to forth from the kitchen to the dining room to bring the freshly cooked dishes, his reflexes intact should his services be required or should any American ‘friend’ wish him to be of any assistance. As such the evening carried on, with a good round of chatter, excellent food, and several bottles of vintage wine. Victoire was only tasting the wine-poached salmon with black truffles, enjoying the savoury taste the black pepper and arrowroot left in her mouth, when she overheard Monsieur Norris and Monsieur Trudeau speak of the cuisine offered back in their quarters, at which she merely smirked, not without a touch of perceptible yet delicate irony etched across her red lips, believing of course that the elegance and superiority of French cuisine, as delightfully rejoiced by those within the circles of high society, could not under any circumstances be compared to the food samples offered in the military base. At that point, of course, she caught the Flight Lieutenant’s subtle innuendo, that careful and pleasing whisper, and turned her face slightly sideways to steal a glance at him at the exact moment he turned over to give her a warm smile, for which she was interpretive enough to register a touch of curiosity, as shown by the momentary glint in his clear blue eyes. The silent communication sufficed, as Victoire turned her attention towards Monsieur Anderson this time. Men were like children; each wanted a woman’s attention - or like dominant animals, and each would proudly fight for it.

“Monsieur Anderson,” she addressed him, “may I suggest you try some Coq au Vin?” she proposed, taking an empty plate and reaching out her hand to service him with the rooster; the servant had caught sight of this and instantly moved forwards to perform this service as was expected of him and not of a lady, but she raised a finger at him to indicate he need not act as such, thus he went back to his previous position, looking slightly bemused and uncertain, perhaps even envious. Victoire cut the meat smartly and placed the chops upon the plate in a classy manner, arranging the vegetables, pearl onions and mushrooms around the meat, then turning over to offer the dish to Anderson, placing it next to his current plate. “It is my pleasure,” she said in her deep and affectionate voice, gracing him with a warm smile before he could thank her. “So, Monsieur, may I inquire as to the position you hold in the army? I have heard your name spoken by several women in my district. Apparently, they greatly admire the courage you showed in battle when you risked your life trying to save that poor boy’s life – Morel, if I remember correctly? Or were these merely rumours?” she provoked him, and smiled, as she took a sip from her glass. Out of the two possibilities she believed men to be, the child or the animal, she regarded him as the child.

Meanwhile, Charles Vallaury had shown great interest to the Flight Lieutenant, Charles Norris, or “Chuck”, as the American friends fancied calling him in that affectionate term (a nickname which, should it ever be pronounced by Vallaury, would cause a certain amount of noise pollution). The reason was the soldier’s fame in France, particularly after the victory in Lourdes but his popularity amongst the nation had risen once the ginger-haired man had been sent to defend the country against the sworn enemies, those occupant cannibals, the wretched Germans. In the minds of the French, Charles Norris was a symbol of their rightful freedom, an icon of bravery and bravado, a charmingly handsome and fascinating man who had won the hearts of so many French women simply by looking at his pictures. Young girls would place his photograph underneath their beds and during school they would pass it on to their best friends, and share stories in secret of how each would end up married to the famous Flight Lieutenant, giggling foolishly and stealing covert but meaningful glances at one another during class. It was dangerous for anyone, so much more a young girl, to be caught in possession of picture of one belonging to the ‘enemies’, as considered by the power of occupation, however in some school in Lyon a female teacher in a secondary school had found a dashing black-and-white picture of Charles Norris, dressed in his pilot uniform, inside her student’s notebook, and had merely winked at her … Such were the less glamorous trivia that circulated the man in this country, but delightfully substantial nonetheless. A country completely enamoured with him, with the Germans on the opposite direction glaring at him with fierce detestation and rage.

“Monsieur Norris, vat a shame you zould ‘ave miss’d zee gwreat cabarets of zee Parizhian night!” the old man exclaimed with a laugh, and raised his glass of wine in the Lieutenant’s name. It was a fact, after all, that Hitler had proceeded in shutting down all cabarets and jazz places in Paris upon occupation, which had thus sent jazz underground, something Victoire was quite familiar with, considering this new style of location had significantly altered her life. “Zee dictateur haz robbed uz ‘ot-blooded lovers of dzees delight but let uz ‘ope you zhall not be bored by our Frwench weemen, euh? Je crois qe oui! Non, Monsieur, non such weemen in Amergwica, non!” he chuckled, stole a covert and furtive glance at Victoire, who was speaking to the Corporal (but whose ears absorbed everything happening around the room) and then tilted his head back, not without raising his glass once more at the Lieutenant, and drank from the expensive wine, his puffed cheeks growing red as his grey moustache touched the glass’s rim. Claude de Beauvoir was also stealing glances at her whenever he could, despite the age taking a toll on him. Old men, married or not, liked to surround themselves with young, pretty women; they made them feel younger, healthier, and more handsome, as though their lives were only just beginning instead of ending abruptly. And, after all, was there any man who could not appreciate the beauty of youth?

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

The warmth was enticing Robert, making him drowsy and thoughtless as he gazed into the flame. Thoughts shot into his head. The thoughts of war, of death. Everything from his brothers in arms dying at the hands of the enemy to the enemy dying at his own hands. He was snapped out of his thoughts when he heard a beautiful and kind voice. “Monsieur Anderson,” she said calmly, “may I suggest you try some Coq au Vin?” Before he was able to answer she already had his plate in her hand and started dishing the poultry onto his dish. He hadn't been used to the amazing food in which he recieved so he accepted without a second guess. "Thank ya ma'am." He replied in his somewhat clumsy southern accent. “It is my pleasure,” she said in her usual warm and kind tone of voice following with the same type of smile. Robert smiled back. This smile felt very foreign to him. He couldn't remember the last time he smiled.

“So, Monsieur, may I inquire as to the position you hold in the army? I have heard your name spoken by several women in my district. Apparently, they greatly admire the courage you showed in battle when you risked your life trying to save that poor boy’s life – Morel, if I remember correctly? Or were these merely rumours?” The woman seemed to tease Robert with her endless enticements and smiles. Robert thought about the question for a second. "Well, ma'am I'm a Corporal. He paused again, thinking of what he should say. "I ain't one to say who's right or wrong but, when someone wants to see a hero, they see one and if they don't, they don't." Now that Robert said it he felt it sounded somewhat stupid, but it was already said. No way he could take it back now.

Though Robert feeling somewhat foolish now asked a question that he had been wanting to ask for a little while due to the enticing music playing softly in the background. He put down his fork and knife took the linen napkin off of his leg, "Excuse me, ma'am. May I have this dance?" he asked with a hoping smile on his face.

[Charles Norris]

There was flirting, and playing hard to get, but then there was being rude. And unless the stress of commanding his own company caused Charles to lose some of his charms, Victory was very much the last one. But Fl/Lt. Norris wasn’t the abrasive kind of person who forced themselves upon other people. If Ms. Darwin was more interested in the Infantry NCO, pushing himself on her wouldn’t do anyone any good.

“Monsieur Norris, vat a shame you zould ‘ave miss’d zee gwreat cabarets of zee Parizhian night!” Charles took a moment to stare at the old Frenchman, and think about what was just directed at him, enough was understood to reply in his quick, clear manner, “Yes, it’s quite the shame there had to be a war on to let us see your majestic city. I would have really liked to see it without a blackout. What about you, Dalt?”

Chuck knew Trudeau was always good when he needed to shift the conversation off of himself, and the 1st Lieutenant did not disappoint, “Ah yes, in darkness it is no Ville-Lumière, is it? Personally, I had always wanted to see Europe, especially Paris, after college, but like most people the war changed my plans. My ancestors hail from France, as a matter of fact. Almost 200 years ago the Trudeaus came over with Lafayette to fight in the American Revolution, and they never went back to their homeland.” As Dalton told Vallaury, and the other French gentlemen the Trudeau tale that started in the French province of Haute-Loire, Charles paid little attention to the stories he heard plenty of times before during the long waits between when patrols left and then returned to their airfield. Instead his comment made him think about what his life would have been had there never been a war. He certainly wouldn’t be in France, without the Army he’d still be a poor barnstormer crop dusting farms.

“Just think about it Chuck,” the Flight Lieutenant started listening again once Trudeau brought him back into the conversation, “one day, when this is all behind us, we’ll come back here as liberating heroes, I’ll explore my ancestral home, you can explore the beautiful French countryside as you do. Then the Lt. General here can show us how La Ville-Lumière is meant to be experienced, see the unrepressed beauty of the city, taste it’s pure fruits, almost smell the freedom in the air, and especially hear the smooth, easy music of those cabarets.”

“Well” Dalton did have a thing for the dramatic, “How has the occupation effected these cabarets I hear so much of, Vallaury? Germans aren‘t one to appreciate fine things like this.” said Charles, feigning interest.

“Zee dictateur haz robbed uz ‘ot-blooded lovers of dzees delight but let uz ‘ope you zhall not be bored by our Frwench weemen, euh? Je crois qe oui! Non, Monsieur, non such weemen in Amergwica, non!”

“Well, I’m not one to judge.” Chuck replied as Victory and the Corporal stood up and slinked over to an open area of the room where they could dance to the light jazz that drifted through the room. Charles continued, “I haven’t seen an American girl in more then two years. And Victory is the first French woman I have ever met, and I haven't known her enough to be able to decide.”

Again, Chuck was grateful that Trudeau started talking, “Personally, I would also be a terrible judge when it comes to American and French girls, since I have already found my one and only.” Dalton showed the gold ring on his finger and began telling the almost made for the silver screen story about how he fell in love with the English nurse who treated him for mild injuries after a nasty dogfight during the Battle of Britain. Chuck had heard this story many times as well, and when Dalton was on the part where they quickly got married by the Captain of the ship that was taking him back to America for more complete recovery, Fl/Lt. Norris stood up. He already knew how it ended, he stowed away on a cargo ship to return to her open arms and the war that brought them together.

After pushing in his chair, Chuck strolled over to the dancing couple. "Excuse me," he slowly said to Anderson and Darwin, "It's always good to have a physical activity after a large meal, may I cut in?"

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire liked Robert Anderson’s take on heroism, his lack of prideful arrogance upon his position and the accomplishment he had made in terms of saving an innocent child’s life. He certainly did not seem to be amongst those soldiers whose insufferable egotism sufficed to impel a whole neighbourhood out of their wits and patience. She merely smiled, and as he requested they dance she did nothing else but take his hand and walk with him to the room’s open area, while the servant hesitated not in playing a slow jazz tune on the gramophone upon seeing their depart from the dinner table. Charles Vallaury turned his glance at them for a second, and then returned his attention to the American liberators, with keen interest listening to Dalton Trudeau’s very fascinating description of his ancestry; he clapped his hands at some point and barked, “Bravo!” before he indulged himself in some Coq au Vin. Anderson and Victoire danced slowly, but the woman was more interested at the new turn of the conversation from the table, in a rather subtle manner overhearing what was spoken by whom, all the while looking warmly at the Corporal and offering him her seemingly undivided attention, for she far from wished to offend him. She caught her name – or what seemed to be an amusing misinterpretation of it – being uttered by Charles Norris, and she could not help but smile. The Corporal would think it was for him, and indeed to any outsider it would have appeared as such, but the source of that amused smile that naturally rose on her lips came from another source. Charles Vallaury did not realize the erroneous impression of her name, for he conceived it to be the American pronunciation, knowing (ironically enough) in what dreadful fashion the Americans pronounced the French language. Vallaury continued listening to Trudeau with more interest and fascination, eager as he was at being narrated such delightful romantic stories, and so absorbed was he in such a narration as incapacitated him of observing Norris rising from his seat and approaching the dancing partners.

Victoire immediately turned around as she heard the Flight Lieutenant’s smooth voice, and came face to face with him, amused, but certainly not disappointed. “You may,” she told him, an expression in her facial features suggesting she enjoyed his interruption. “Thank you, Monsieur, I enjoyed your dance,” she warmly told the Corporal and gave him her hand to kiss, after which, upon Anderson’s return to the table, she turned around and faced Charles Norris. He was indeed a handsome man, with a strong built and a demeanour with the capability of ensuring every woman he would protect her from all the evils of the world. She placed her right hand on top of his shoulder while her left interlocked with the fingers of his own left hand, coming closer to the point where she could smell his ginger hair, or feel his strong ribs, and though she was not in any danger, she felt protected. She felt safe. To him her previous display of mild indifference might have been rude, but she often liked being rude; it was her own way of testing men, and observing their reactions, glancing at their limits and whether she could overstretch them. She was not by nature a silly and feeble little woman, nor was she going to show men such weakness of character as throw herself at them; she frowned upon such pitiful creatures. She intended to show him her independence, while at the same time knowing exactly when to show her interest and when to show her claws. Right at the moment of their hands meeting, the servant changed the tune to the infamous tango sound of ‘Por Una Cabeza’, composed by the unforgettable Carlos Cardel.

They began dancing, and she looked at him with a meaningful glint of her eyes. “Do you always get what you want, Monsieur Norris?” she asked him in a low voice, an amused smirk etched across her lips, and yet her tone was fierce and proud, as though to indicate she was not going to be one of those easy women who would happily fall all over him for just a single glance from him. She was mildly surprised, however, that he was a man who knew how to dance, considering how he was a soldier in this war rather than a spectacle of high society, though obviously used to such fancy parties, considering his fame and popularity. Meanwhile, back at the dinner table Vallaury’s attention was turned away from Trudeau’s wild narration once it ended, to his good friend.

“Charles,” Claude de Bouvoir caught his old friend’s attention, speaking in a low tone and lowering his head as he spoke at his side, while Dalton Trudeau was busy speaking to another French man of his first battle, “j’ai pris la liberté d’inviter une connaissance mienne, son nom est Karl Ulvestad.

“Effectivement, mon ami?” Charles Vallaury asked with interest, likewise lowering his head and listening with concentration.

“Il est un homme d’affaires de la Norvège, je j’ai rencontré il y a plusieurs jours à une des réunions de Berangier, il a semblé tout à fait un homme intéressant qui pourrait s’avérer de l’assistance devrait nous l’exiger,” Claude explained. “J’ai cru que vous voudriez le rencontrer. Je l’ai invité pour le dîner, auquel il a répondu qu’il n’avait aucun loisir de temps pour les dîners de gala sophistiqués. Je crois qu’il devrait être sur sa voie comme nous parlons.”

“Je très voudrais rencontrer cet homme étrange,” Vallaury responded, slightly furrowing his eyebrows. “Mais Claude, comment diable a-t-il voyagé de la Norvège à la France, ou a-t-il vécu ici pendant longtemps?”

“Je suis malheureusement pas bien documenté dans le fond de l’homme, mais on m’a dit qu’il est excellent au commerce et tout à fait sûr dans ces questions. J’espérais qu’il pourrait me tirer d’embarras avec mes prêts, ces Nazis m’ont conduit insensé avec leurs demandes de remboursement, mais Monsieur Ulvestad a dit qu’il y a une façon de calmer de telles demandes.”

“Est il quelqu’un nos amis Rouges s’appelleraient un cochon capitaliste?” Vallaury asked in a tone of sheer sarcasm as he referred to the Russians; he detested their lot for all their communist ideals, initial betrayal through their alliance with Hitler, and what he considered to be hideous okroshka.

“Dépend de que cochon nous parlons de, Charles.”

“Le plus gros, Claude. Le cochon le plus gros, couvert de sueur, bedonnant qui mange des carcasses gâtées et des sauvages leurs propres jeunes. C’est la sorte de cochon dont je parle.”

Claude frowned. “Alors je ne pense pas ainsi, Charles. Il a semblé un peu plus cultivé que cela,” he said, slightly annoyed. “Je peux garantir pour son goût excellent dans le vin.”

“Château Lafite?”

“Mouton Rothschild.”

“Morne.”

Victoire danced with Charles Norris, for the first time during that evening not keeping her ears and eyes open to her surroundings as to remain vigilant on everything taking place and being said, her attention whole-heartedly offered to the Flight Lieutenant who had so cunningly interrupted her previous dance on the excuse of digestion. She then smiled as he turned her around and brought her face to face with him, leaning in closer and whispering in his ear, “By the way, Monsieur, the name is Victoire.”

At that point, however, the servant walked in and announced in a grave tone, “Monsieur Karl Ulvestad.”



♠ Translation ♠


Charles, I have taken the liberty of inviting an acquaintance of mine, his name is Karl Ulvestad.

Indeed, my friend?

He is a businessman from Norway, I met him several days ago at one of Berangier’s meetings, he seemed quite an interesting man who could prove of assistance should we require it. I thought you would like to meet him. I invited him for dinner, to which he replied he had no leisure of time for fancy dinner parties. I believe he should be on his way as we speak.

I would very much like to meet this strange man. But Claude, how on earth did he travel from Norway to France, or has he been living here for long?

I’m sadly not knowledgeable in the man’s background, but I was told he is excellent at commerce and perfectly reliable in these matters. I was hoping he could help me out with my loans, those Nazis have been driving me insane with their repayment demands, but Monsieur Ulvestad said there is a way to calm down such demands.

Is he someone our Red friends would call a capitalist pig?

Depends on what sort of a pig we are talking about, Charles.

The fattest, Claude. The fattest, sweaty, pot-bellied swine who eats rotten carcasses and savages their own young. That’s the sort of pig I’m talking about.

Then I don’t think so, Charles. He seemed a little more cultivated than that. I may vouch for his excellent taste in wine.

Château Lafite?

Mouton Rothschild.

Dismal.

[Cpl. Robert Anderson]

Robert started feeling slightly awkward being this close to a female. He hadn't been this close since...since highschool. He was so used to either being alone or in a small group of other men where the feeling or urge to be with anyone else slowly diminished and was no more. The only thing that really kept him going was the thought of living to take the life of another Werner or Tojo. Just the sheer wanting to kill those who opposed him.

He looked at the woman he was dancing with and looked into her eyes. He felt his heart beat a bit faster and he took a clumsy step off-setting the whole tempo of movement. Before he could say any apologies he was interrupted by the recognizable Flight Leiutenant. The beautiful woman disengaged and held her hand out. Robert took it in his grasp and kissed it lightly, "Merci, Mademoiselle."

He went back to his seat to listen to the man next to him ramble on the way drunk men do. He listened intently until he had a kind of sick feeling to his stomach, the exact feeling he had before his squad was ambushed by a group of Kamikazes in Japan. "Excuse me, sir. I'm gonna go take a smoke. the man looked at him in surprise and patted him on the back. Robert walked to the front door untucked his pant legs so they went over his Marine style boots. He also picked up his coat and turned it inside out and put it on. He stepped outside and walked across the street and took a seat on a bench just next to a small house, under it's roof. The thing was, Robert didn't smoke.

[Otto Wolff]

France certainly wasn't a country Otto Wolff would have found himself enjoying much so far, but he had to admit that Paris, at least, held a certain old-world appeal to it. He would have not said it out loud, of course, and when discussing France and her people, would have most likely been one to bash them. Granted, there were some things he could appreciate about the French, mostly related to literature and music, but it was not quite enough to make him appreciate the country. This sudden and unsolicited appreciation for Paris made him feel almost irritated, as if he would not even secretly allow himself to hold such an opinion. But then again, at least he was now back among some degree of civilization instead of skulking around the French countryside catching those wretched partisans. It had made him feel as if he was reduced to merely doing someone else's dirty work, tracking and chasing out simple peasants who had become too bold and unruly. The accommodations in the countryside were not exactly luxurious either and he always accompanied by the distinct feeling that partisans were currently keeping him in the sights of their rifles, ready to take him out when the proper opportunity presented itself.

Oh no, Paris was so much better after all that running around in the French countryside. At least he was back among the civilization now and his current residence was much more comfortable than anything he had previously been forced to call accommodation during his time in France. He admitted that he was used to certain amount of luxury, even during these harsh times of war. His father had been nothing short of a genius when it had come to making money, although the times of depression had reduced the man's meticulously accumulated wealth severely. After his father's death, Otto had taken over the estates owned by the family and when the National Socialist party had grown in power, the Jews had been forced to sell their properties to Germans at ridiculous prices. Otto had seen the opportunity and seized it much like many others who had the assets to do so. Now he was making enough money to live quite luxuriously back in Germany and he wasn't working because of the pay anymore, he already had more than enough money to make it comfortably through his entire retirement.

When Otto had been assigned to snake his way to the good graces of the French resistance fighters working from Paris, he had been offered quite a comfortable apartment in the middle of Paris to work from. Otto had merely looked at the place once and told his contacts to do better. Now he had settled into living in a vast apartment situated in the somewhat wealthier part of Paris and he actually quite enjoyed living in the area. He was not left wanting any amenities of a comfortable life and Otto had rationalized his expensive demands by saying that if he was supposed to be a wealthy, esteemed businessman from Norway, he should damn well look like one, too.

He found his current role quite amusing, maybe just because he realized that none of his fake identities had ever strayed too far from the actual truth. He knew quite well that he wasn't such a gifted actor and he kept his role mostly due to not trying to overdo anything. He still acted much in the same Otto Wolff would, yet under a fake name and different ideals. It was very easy to keep up the charade that way, he hardly had to concentrate on acting. All he had to do was to fake scorn for the Germans and Hitler and to place his questions very carefully to prevent drawing any suspicions towards himself. Everything else was just Otto being himself - it was ridiculously simple that way.

The tall man slowed down his pace to regard the building and it's number to make sure that he har arrived at the right place. The man stood silent in front of a building for a while, mentally preparing himself for the evening to come. He knew that were his identity compromised, he would be making his way out of France in a wooden box. But Otto, of course, was far more clever than that and intuitive enough to know if he was truly in any amount of danger. The people inside the apartment had no inkling of Otto's true identity and he was going to make sure that things stayed that way. He had already earned some amount of trust among certain people affiliated with the resistance and even though he realized that he would still have to watch his words and actions carefully, he had all the confidence in his abilities to steer clear of trouble. Giving himself a few more seconds of settling into the proper mindset fit for the upcoming discussion, Otto tugged at the lapel of his long coat and entered the residence.

Upon reaching the hallway, he was immediately greeted by a mustached French servant requesting to hear his name, naturally posing the question in French. Otto eyed the man with slight disdain, pretending as if he was actually offended by his question. How many guests were they actually expecting to arrive at this late hour, anyway? "Karl Ulvestad," Otto pronounced his name very slowly after the servant's face had already started turning red from irritation. The mustached servant bowed stiffly and helped Otto with his coat, hanging it among various coats belonging to the other guests. Otto was then lead through the lavishly decorated apartment and the servant announced his arrival, pronouncing the Norwegian name in a manner Otto found somewhat humorous. These Frenchmen with their silly accents, they never failed to amuse him.

The tall man stopped in the doorway to eye the occupants of the room carefully and he stood in his place, poker-backed and proud, holding his chin up ever so slightly in a gesture of authority. His dark hair was neatly slicked back and the way his deep-set eyes were hidden under the shadows of his brows made him appear somewhat imposing. Otto was wearing a charcoal suit and he had chosen to wear the suit jacket open to reveal an expensive black waistcoat decorated with grey stripes. A black necktie and a white dress shirt completed the carefully composed attire. The chain of his gold pocket watch was dangling from the pocket of the vest, as if to further emphasize the man's wealth and standing. Overall Karl Ulvestad looked like a wealthy and important man, certainly not lacking in self-importance. Grabbing the edge of his suit jacket with his other hand, the man let his eyes pass over each of the guests before fixing his gaze on one of the man currently sitting at the table. Otto allowed an almost benevolent smile to him in a gesture of recognition. Feeling like a crafty old shark among a pool of fish, Otto moved towards monsieur Claude de Bouvoir and his entourage, secretly feeling quite relieved of the fact that he had denied his invitation to join for the dinner itself. The shorter and sweeter he could make this, the better.