Page 13

Looking—but not staring, not like Hugo meant.

No, the professor was studying her from behind his glasses as if trying to sort out what a girl like her, who lived in a flat on Boulevard Arago, was doing on the Champs-élysées, on the arm of a man old enough to be her father who was dressed far more sharply than she was, when she ought to be at home searching for her mother’s missing books.

She was debating whether to lift her chin and send him a challenging look or turn away as if she hadn’t recognized him.

Before she could decide, the man seated next to him—this one was an oberstleutnant if she was seeing his insignia clearly through the glass—leaned over, his eyes on her too.

He said something that no doubt matched his leer.

The professor blushed— blushed! —and made some reply, moving his gaze back to his plate.

Hugo tugged her forward, across the street.

Maman had taught her how to sashay to catch anyone’s eye—a lesson of laughter and playful scolding and many wobbles on the heeled pumps she’d never worn until that day.

A lesson she did not put to use now. No, she kept her spine stiff and straight, her stride brisk and efficient, hips as still as possible.

She wasn’t above using her looks when it suited her, but she wanted to avoid the Nazis’ attention, not capture it.

“Several of those men have been into the shop,” Hugo said after a few minutes of silence, as they took the stairs down to the Métro.

“One or two seem like good enough men. Others?” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

“Stay clear of that one who leaned over when he noticed the other staring, I’d say. He struck me as a grasper.”

Her brows lifted, even as she breathed a sigh of relief at the cooler air of the underground. “Grasper?”

“The kind who is eager to become more than he once was. Eager for the symbols to prove his status. The kind who thinks a fancy watch—or a pretty mistress—will convince the world that he is somebody worth knowing.”

“Ah. I know that kind.” She glanced over her shoulder, even though she could see the older officer only in memory. He certainly hadn’t abandoned his dinner to find her. “I’ve no use for them.”

Hugo chuckled. “Clever girl, as I suspected.”

They bought their tickets and gained the platform just in time to catch the train. Running again, yes, but far from full these days. They had their pick of seats and settled in without any bumps or pardonnez-moi s.

Hugo settled into his with the ease of a man who took this exact train every night and knew it as well as he did the pavement outside his shop.

And he studied her in that way she’d noted on their first introduction—like Oncle Georges did.

Like he saw far more than the tailored blouse, the simple skirt, the hat positioned with care over the curls that didn’t want to stay contained in their chignon in the day’s humidity.

She tucked an escapee back into place beneath a pin and lifted her brows. “What is it you see, monsieur ?”

“Moreau, by the way. Hugo Moreau.” He repositioned his fedora a bit so he could lean back. “My wife and I have been praying for you every day, you know. She has dedicated a decade of her rosary to you each morning.”

Corinne’s lips parted, but it took her a long moment to find words. Even then, all she could manage was “Why?” She’d met this man only once, briefly. She was surprised he’d even told his wife of her, much less that they’d remembered her in their daily prayers.

Hugo chuckled. “My grand-mère always said that like-souls know each other. Perhaps it is strange for you to think of being a like-soul to an old man like me...but it is not odd for me. When I heard you chide that other man in the shop that day, I knew. I knew you were a like-soul. I told Babette that I had a feeling our paths had crossed for a purpose. So we have prayed. That they would cross again when it was the Lord’s timing. That he would show us the purpose.”

A tickle moved up her spine. Like a chill but...not. Pleasant instead of startling. Like the first touch of snow, glazing the world in crystal and diamond.

She hadn’t given much thought to Hugo since that first meeting—she’d been too busy thinking about her own problems, her goals, her job now that Hitler had his swastika flying from the top of the Eiffel Tower.

What a fool she was. How arrogant. How selfish. Her hand moved up to the Miraculous Medal, its cerulean-blue promise too forgotten despite the fact that she put it on anew every day, took it off every evening.

It was supposed to remind her to pray. To seek knowledge beyond her own. It was supposed to be a call for grace, given to those who called upon the Lord and his sacred heart, poured out in love for them.

Clever, Hugo had called her. But she wasn’t. Not when she’d forgotten the most important thing. “You shame me, monsieur —in the best possible way. I ought to have been praying for you too.”

He didn’t look offended at realizing she hadn’t been. He just chuckled and let his eyes slide shut after what had probably been a long and hectic week. “The young have the luxury of forgetting such things.”

“Not now, we don’t.” And she was no doe-eyed ingenue, no matter what the curls made people think. She knew better. Maman had taught her better. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

The ride was short—only two stops—and then they were disembarking and reemerging into the long golden light. Corinne followed Hugo down the street, around the corner, and to a row of tidy townhouses that promised an interior a good deal bigger than the cramped flat she and Maman shared.

Their windows were still blacked out, much like her own. No longer in fear of a Nazi bombardment—but perhaps in hope of a British one. A strange sort of hope, that.

“Babette!” Hugo called the moment he had the door open. The smell of roasting meat wafted out, making Corinne’s stomach go tight. “You’ll never guess who I’ve brought home for dinner!”

“Who?” The voice sounded too young to be Babette’s, and the young woman that appeared from a hallway was most assuredly Hugo’s daughter, not his wife.

She looked familiar. The sort of vague familiarity that usually meant Corinne had seen her about the university without ever having been introduced—her name certainly wasn’t familiar.

Liana must have been thinking the same thing, given the thoughtful narrowing of her eyes and purse of her lips. “Have we met? At university, perhaps?”

“Not officially, but you do look familiar.” Corinne held out a hand. “Corinne Bastien.”

“Bastien!” Liana took her hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Her eyes had lit up. “Are you related to Professor Yvonne Bastien?”

She couldn’t have stopped the smile had she wanted to, any more than she could stop the pang of missing her. “My mother.”

Liana squealed. “She’s my favorite professor! Or was before she abandoned us for her sabbatical.” Laughing, Liana pulled her inside, motioning to the tree for her hat and purse. “Papa, however did you meet my literature professor’s daughter?”

“Providence, clearly.” Hugo put his fedora in its place on the tree and waylaid his daughter for a kiss on the cheek. “She is the girl I valiantly rescued from the panzers a few weeks ago.”

Liana’s eyes widened. “No.”

“Oui.” Corinne shrugged, her lips settling into a comfortable smile that she’d had no reason to wear this last month. “I’d have been flattened if he hadn’t intervened.”

“Hardly. But you may have been forced to act for their cameras or risk their wrath, and we can’t have that.” He stepped around them, toward what must be the kitchen, since it’s where the smells were coming from. “Babette?”

“Coming!” An older version of Liana emerged a moment later, an apron tied into place over her neat blue dress, a tea towel in her hands.

Given her expression, she’d heard the exchange—at least the last part—and she held out a welcoming hand.

“Corinne! How good to meet you. A true answer to our petitions.”

A knot of humility lodged in her throat.

She’d hoped to make a difference in this war, yes.

To do good things—things she was equipped to do.

She’d hoped to use her connections to keep information flowing to the true France in exile in England.

But she’d never imagined being the answer to anyone’s prayers like this, when they had no reason to pray for her.

She had to swallow before she could manage to say, “It’s so good to meet you, Madame Moreau. ”

She waved that away. “Oh, call me Babette, please. And welcome. I’ve just got everything on the table—let me set another place, and we’ll be ready to eat.”

The meal was delicious, but even more nourishing was the companionship.

Corinne hadn’t really conversed with anyone but Oncle Georges since the invasion, when all her friends and students fled Paris.

She’d exchanged words and pleasantries here and there, but always there was a wall in place, it seemed. On her part, if not everyone else’s.

She had no idea who among the Parisians had resigned themselves to the decisions being made in Vichy, and who had this constant burning coal in their chest as she did. Who so wanted life to go back to “normal” that they would welcome their occupiers, and who would work to undermine them.

A note had come round today from an acquaintance at a magazine, asking if she’d write an article about flourishing under the new regime, and she could only stare at it, fury and sorrow and an endless sense of helplessness churning out as hot tears.

Flourish? Were they to flourish under the Nazis?

She had opinions on how to do so, opinions that would talk about flowers blooming in desolate cracks, about faith growing under persecution, about light finding ways to break through the darkness.

But that wasn’t the kind of article the editor was asking for. The kind that his new Nazi supervisors would approve.