Page 28 of After Paris

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ruby

Sunday, July 6, 2025

8:00 p.m.

I sat in the middle of my bed and laid out the letters Cécile had written to a man named Daniel but never mailed. I’d spent the last few days getting to know Sylvia, and though she was helping me see Cécile more in a better light, the actress still felt distant. She was a summation of others’ opinions.

Letters home were often filtered, but because she’d known she couldn’t post these, she’d been somewhat candid. There were twenty-one letters in total. Only one was from Daniel to Cécile, while the remaining twenty were written by Cécile and signed with a D . Dominique.

October 15, 1939

Dominique,

It’s good to hear you and Emile are settled in Paris. The old women of the village still grumble about your decision to leave and most likely will for the next decade, but I suspect they all long to have you back because you were such a rich source for gossip on market day. The local men insist that your move north won’t last. They say southern men are far more robust than the city males. As you may have guessed, the world outside Avignon has not changed.

The olive harvest is complete, and the pressing begins tomorrow. It’s been a good year and I hope to see a hefty profit. It might be the last one for a while. Perhaps you’ll see the olives from my farm in one of your Paris markets.

The harvest and pressing was difficult without the extra workers. Many of the young men have enlisted in the Army and marched off in their new uniforms, ready to defend France against Germany. I confess that I tried to enlist, but the local officer told me I wasn’t fit to serve. The French seem to prefer soldiers with two working legs. So now my duties are on the farm during the harvest and in the port of Marseilles the rest of the year. Unsettling to be at war again. I thought after the last great one we were finished with the killing.

Know that you are missed and if your films are shown in Avignon or Marseille, I’ll be the first in line to buy a ticket. If you should ever decide to abandon Paris and return home, I will be waiting.

Yours truly,

Daniel

Daniel’s handwriting was bold and crisp, the letter’s folded creases sharp. A man of precision. Practical. Accepting the blows life had dealt him.

If Daniel had served in World War I, he would have been in his late thirties at the time of this writing. Though he sounded solid and sure, to a young woman like Cécile yearning for an exciting life in Paris, accepting the role of a farmer’s wife could have felt like a trap.

Dominique had made a bold choice to leave a secure life in the late 1930s. Few women would have dared. In those days, those who stepped outside their traditional roles weren’t welcomed back to their old provincial communities.

I folded up Daniel’s letter and tucked it back in the envelope. The first letter from Dominique to Daniel in this stack was dated September 1940. I could only assume any letters she’d written before had been posted.

By the fall of 1940, Germany would have entered France and taken over Paris, and the country was then split between the northern occupied and southern free zones. Dominique might not have feared remaining in Paris, but she was smart enough to respect the dangers around her.

September 15, 1940

Dearest Daniel,

I’ve missed your letters. I’ve missed seeing you. I would love to show you Paris. It’s still a city of wonders, and I feel as if I’ve barely tasted its beauty. It’s quite empty now. Everyone has fled the Germans, but I gave up so much to be here, I refused to leave. Emile is in love, and she will not leave for her lover’s sake.

My first two movies were quite popular, and I’ve now been signed to make another. It should be no surprise to anyone that the Germans now control film production. I have been assured that I’ll be cast in a new comedy that begins production next month. The Germans are very fond of me. Many of the officers have asked me to escort them around the city, and I’ve discovered their company is quite enjoyable. I’ve seen the Ritz, l’opéra , and the Comédie-Francaise. As you’ve always said, I wear luck like a second skin.

Love,

D.

October 15, 1940

Dearest Daniel,

The Germans are polite and careful not to offend. Their uniforms are tailored and their vehicles shine. The soldiers parade every day, their polished boots catching the light. Civilians can’t have cameras, but the German soldiers all have one. And like all wide-eyed tourists, they delight in taking pictures.

Make no mistake, the barbarians have entered the city. They remind us often that they are the victors. Their arrogance has grown tiresome. Some French now go out of their way to confound and confuse the soldiers.

The Parisians who fled the city in June are beginning to return. Many confess that life on the road turned out to be harder than they’d imagined. And with the coasts and borders closed, there is nowhere to go.

I have hired a new costumer, who is a friend of Emile’s. This woman can make magic happen with a needle and thread. She is quiet, misses little, and hasn’t been associated with a whiff of gossip. Her French is perfect, but she’s not French. Most don’t detect the slight accent, but I’ve developed an ear for these things. I think Eastern Europe. Pity her family if they are in Warsaw.

Emile remains at the boulangerie, refusing my offers of a job on the next film. She despises the Germans and is often sneaking away to secret meetings. She never tells me where she’s gone. Once we shared everything, but the war has started to divide us.

In my heart, I believe we both want the same thing. The Dupont sisters love France. There is a reason I’m in Paris now. I feel my excellent memory and gift for languages is divinely inspired, and I can’t ignore my God-given talents.

The next film is a silly comedy, but I’ll have better roles soon. You know I get what I want.

Your love always,

D.

Given what Sylvia had said in her diary, Cécile calculated her smiles, her gestures, and her kisses. As early as 1940, she’d already decided to work against the Germans.

The more I learned about Cécile, the more I realized she was a clever and calculating woman. Anyone who thought she was a silly blond was a fool.