Chapter Two #3
“The maquis?” Marcel’s brows furrowed again. He knew the word, of course—it simply meant “underbrush.” But he had a feeling Grigoryan wasn’t accusing him of being an arborist.
The man smirked again. “The name given to those who have grown disillusioned with Vichy and taken to the bush to fight against Germany however they can. The unoccupied zone has become quite a hotbed of this so-called rebel activity.”
Ah. Marcel let a smile tug at his lips. That sounded like exactly the sort of thing his hotheaded cousins would become part of. And from the sound of it, Grigoryan knew it. “My cousins?”
“Leaders of several cells. And your brother has been recruited to help stranded Allied airmen escape into Spain.”
Pride for them all swelled so fast in his chest he thought he might explode. He’d known his family would still be fighting, somehow, wherever they were. “And me? It sounds as though you think I can help somehow too—though you ought to know that despite signing up, combat isn’t my forte.”
“Ah, but you have exactly the skills we need. Although . . .” Grigoryan glanced around, calculation clicking through his eyes. “The details will wait until we’re safely home.”
Much as curiosity had pushed away some of his fatigue, Marcel found he didn’t mind the respite. His mind was swirling with the bits of information his companion had given him.
Another metro ride, and then Grigoryan led him into a part of Paris he’d rarely had cause to visit, populated by the richest of the rich. When they turned onto Avenue Foch, it was all he could do not to gape at the sprawling mansions, the blooming gardens . . .
The swastikas bedecking house after proud house.
Grigoryan’s jaw clenched when he followed the direction of Marcel’s gaze. “Ah, yes. You see who many of my new neighbors are, after my Jewish friends were forced to flee and abandon their homes.”
Marcel looked at his companion with a new level of respect. “And you’re doing what you’re doing, right under their noses?”
That smile, full of mischief and determination, could have been worn by one of his fearless cousins. “Where better? They’d never dream anyone would be so bold. Come.” He led the way to the front of a particularly beautiful home, the door of which opened before they even reached it.
A servant dressed in formal tails greeted them with a bow.
“Good afternoon, messieurs.” The dapper man’s gaze looked like decorum, but Marcel saw cleverness beneath it as he sized him up and then focused on his master.
“It seems we have a new maid, monsieur. She has taken up residence in room six. You asked to be informed when the position was filled.”
Grigoryan’s eyes lit so brightly that Marcel had no choice but to think the words were code for something else. “Ah! What perfect timing. Where is she, Beaufort?”
“In the drawing room, monsieur.”
“Perfect, perfect.” After handing the manservant his hat and overcoat, Grigoryan sped down the hallway, motioning Marcel to follow.
“I couldn’t have planned this better. I’d thought I’d have to get a coded message to her somehow and arrange a meeting for the two of you in the unoccupied zone, after I’d gotten you into Vichy’s good graces. ”
One would have thought Marcel had already used up his quota of confused frowns today, but another elbowed its way forth. “I beg your pardon?” Why would he want Marcel to be in the good graces of the puppet government? And to leave Paris for Free France?
Before Grigoryan could answer, they stepped into an elegantly appointed room, whose sole occupant was most assuredly not a maid.
She wore an expensive dress, had dark brown hair perfectly waved and pinned back, and stood with the sort of bearing that high society seemed to breed into their daughters along with posh accents.
When she turned, it felt as though the air were sucked from the room.
She was, without question, the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on.
The sort that would make men fumble over themselves any time she cast those ice-blue eyes on them.
The sort who would be so used to such reactions that she’d be tired of them.
She scarcely spared him a glance, which made him determine then and there not to be fazed by the face.
He’d rubbed elbows with his fair share of beauties—actresses, singers, artists’ models—and he’d learned to see the facade as just that.
He could appreciate it as he would a painting on a wall and then move on to figuring out who they were beneath it.
“Zelie.” Grigoryan greeted her with a kiss on each cheek and a wide smile. “I’ve brought you a present.”
She was intelligent, he could see that in the way she took in their host, looked beyond him to Marcel, calculation in her eyes. “Have you?”
Grigoryan turned to include Marcel in his smile. “Oh, I have indeed. The agent you’ve been looking to acquire in the arts sector.”
Agent?
Marcel sank to a seat on whatever was nearest—an end table, unfortunately—and stared. What exactly had he gotten himself into by following this man blindly through Paris?