Chapter Five #2
Marcel shortened this one too, muttering instructions on where to pick up. She marveled at how he once more created his own bridge to lead them seamlessly from one section to another.
She didn’t have time to marvel long. The ending was one of the most challenging parts of the song, but she hit the note without trouble, let her voice slide down to the final one, and followed Marcel’s nod on when to cut off, perfectly in time with Gabriel.
Marcel quickly played the last notes, and the room erupted.
She laughed at the whistles and applause and turned away from the crowd, back to the two musicians.
Gabriel was edging his way around Marcel, slapping him on the back as he went, gaze focused on her.
He pulled her in the moment he reached her, kissing her on each cheek.
“Brava, mademoiselle! Are you married? If not, I claim you for my own. Let’s run away together. ”
Marcel laughed and stood, elbowing his friend out of the way.
The rest of the room all turned back to their plates and cups, dozens of conversations springing up, providing them a nice bubble of privacy.
“Zelie, this reprobate is another who would have been your classmate had you accepted the offer to attend the conservatory—and my best friend, Gabriel Proust. Gabriel, this is my friend, Zelie Bellerose.”
“A name as lovely as its holder.” He’d taken her hand and lifted it now to his lips. Then he dropped the flirtation, brows drawing together. “Bellerose—why does that sound familiar?”
“Her late husband was my commanding officer,” Marcel said.
Gabriel gave her fingers a squeeze, apology on his face even before he said, “I’m so sorry, madame. Forgive my jesting.”
She gave him a smile she hoped put him at ease. “Quite all right. A bit of flattery now and then is just what the doctor ordered. Though I must say, when Marcel began playing, you looked ready to revolt.”
Marcel laughed again and slung a companionable arm around Gabriel’s shoulders. “This one likes to come to out-of-the-way places where no one knows him as an opera star. He doesn’t much appreciate being put on the spot . . . so of course, I love to do just that, when I can.”
“Let the common man enjoy your talent once in a while, he always says.” Gabriel folded his arms across his chest, but he grinned. “This one is always giving impromptu concerts in random cafés and bistros. Anywhere with a piano.”
“Really?” Her gaze moved to Marcel. “What a wonderful thing to do.”
Gabriel grunted and rolled his eyes. “Well, I am glad enough to see you again that I won’t retaliate this time.
Especially since you brought such a talented soprano with you.
” He sent a wink toward Zelie, though he otherwise kept his attention on Marcel.
“When did you get back to Paris? And how did you two meet—and for that matter, what’s this about would-be classmates at the conservatory? ”
“Last week, through Grigoryan, and exactly what it sounds like—she was accepted the same year we were, but married Bellerose instead. As for the question you didn’t ask, about why I’ve sought you out .
. .” Marcel scanned the room and nodded toward a booth in the back corner.
“Will your date mind if we steal you away for a few minutes?”
“It’s only Anne. She won’t mind.”
The name meant nothing to Zelie, but it must have to Marcel. His eyes lit. “In that case, bring her with you.”
While Gabriel went back to his table, Zelie followed Marcel toward the booth, scanning the surroundings and gauging the levels of conversation. If they kept their voices low, they ought to be able to go unheard.
Marcel motioned for her to slide in first, which she appreciated.
The spot beside the wall would afford her extra privacy, and she always did most of the talking.
Marcel would make the introductions, giving enough information for her to understand why he’d selected these particular friends and acquaintances for her to meet, and then she’d take over.
Thus far, all of his friends had agreed to join Alliance. He would make a fine leader, she’d grown more certain of that each day.
Marcel settled beside her, leaning close. “It’s an answer to prayer that Anne is here with him. She was on my list for tomorrow.”
She would have asked why, but Gabriel and the woman who’d drawn his attention to Marcel joined them, Anne pausing to kiss Marcel’s cheeks in greeting.
As she then slid into the booth across from them, she beamed at him.
“I’m so relieved to see you, Marcel. I’ve been praying for you every day, as I promised I would. ”
“Thank you for that.” He sounded so sincere as he said it, as if he valued those prayers above all else. As if he actually believed they worked.
Anne smiled and tucked a blonde lock behind her ear. She was pretty, in a fresh-faced, innocent sort of way. Zelie would have categorized the look she gave Marcel as “interested,” but she was here with Gabriel . . . though he’d described her as “only Anne.”
But then, when Anne shifted her attention to Zelie, her smile neither flickered nor dimmed. She held out a hand across the table. “Anne Proust. Gabe’s sister.”
Well, that explained the “only.” Zelie reached out to shake. “So lovely to meet you. Are you a musician as well?”
“Oh, juste ciel, no.” Anne laughed and waved a hand.
“I’m in fashion. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and my brother couldn’t cut a straight line with a ruler.
But we each appreciate beauty in our own ways.
” She bumped his shoulder with obvious affection but kept her gaze on Zelie.
“But your voice! Brilliant. I haven’t heard you at the Opera before, have I? ”
“Oh. No.” Zelie shook her head. “I’d considered a career in music, but then I met Jacques and decided to marry him before he went off to Morocco without me. I’ve always been one to chase adventure.”
“Zelie Bellerose,” Marcel said for her, since she’d forgotten.
“Her late husband was my commanding officer. But it’s her work with another officer I wanted to talk to you both about.
” He leaned over the table, pitched his voice low.
“They have connections to the Allies—who are eager for any and all information we can pass along about our mutual enemy. Zelie is trying to get eyes and ears in every industry across France—at the moment, we’re building out contacts in the arts sectors. ”
Gabriel’s brows lifted. Anne’s eyes went wide.
Marcel nodded. “Gabriel, I assume you’re still invited absolutely everywhere. Is it safe to say the company at those events has shifted a bit in the last year?”
Gabriel watched him closely but nodded. “In some distressing ways. I’ve stopped accepting many of those invitations.”
“Could you start again?” Zelie asked. “Without it seeming suspicious? Officers in social settings often let information drop like treasure.”
His dark eyes shifted to her. He considered. Nodded again. “They still come, and I do attend enough to keep from offending patrons. I can accept more again.”
“I’m only a seamstress, no one special yet,” Anne said, leaning toward Zelie. “But my boss was invited to Berlin.” The way she stressed the word said that “invitation” hadn’t been optional. “She’s asked me to consider going with her. I was going to refuse, but I could accept.”
Gabriel chided, “Anne,” even as Zelie reached out to cover her hand and give it a squeeze, smiling. “Would you? Information from the heart of Germany would be invaluable. I will supply you both with questionnaires letting you know what sorts of things to keep your eyes and ears out for.”
“And you’d give them to me whenever I’m back in Paris, or send them with traveling friends to somewhere I’ll be,” Marcel said. “I have an interview in Vichy next week, to head up a youth orchestra that would travel all over France.”
Gabriel frowned again. “You’re not returning to our orchestra? You would rather work with a bunch of adolescents?”
“I would rather do more than entertain.” Marcel’s voice, though still quiet, took on a cutting edge. “I would rather not look out at the audience and see more Nazi uniforms than anything in the crowd.”
Gabriel tensed. “Is it wrong to make a living? To keep doing the only thing I know how to do, because the audience has changed?”
“No. I’m not judging you, Gabriel. Only myself. After nearly a year in a POW camp, I can’t . . . I can’t go back to my life, when they stole so much of it from me. I can’t pretend all is well.”
Zelie watched them both closely. The hard lines in Marcel’s face, the softening in Gabriel’s.
Marcel must have noted it too, given his exhale. He glanced her way. “Zelie has provided me with a way to use my talents to make a difference. I want to offer both of you the same chance. Do what you love, what you know, what you’re good at. And use it to help France.”
“It isn’t without risk,” Zelie put in quietly. “You’d be in possession of questionnaires that could land you in trouble. It isn’t the most dangerous position, but I don’t want you to be unaware.”
“I’m in,” Anne said with a nod.
Her brother’s lips quirked. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
A waitress approached, so Zelie quickly changed the subject to popular songs.
They placed their orders, ate, and chatted more about easy things.
At eight thirty, the place began to clear out so everyone could get home before curfew.
The four of them followed the flow outside but paused on the street.
“Thank you,” Zelie said, holding each of their gazes.
Anne grinned. Her brother inclined his head. “I have a weakness for sopranos,” he said, voice flirtatious again. “Especially sopranos with . . . surprising range.” He winked, then pulled Marcel in for a one-armed embrace. “Stay safe, mon frère.”
“I’ve come to believe there’s no such thing as safe. But stay . . . true.” Marcel patted his friend’s back, kissed Anne’s cheeks, and then offered his arm to Zelie. “We’ll be in touch, mes amis.”