Chapter Fifteen #2
Ten minutes later, they were all back in the Renault, saying their farewells to the Garniers and wishing them a happy Christmas.
Marcel considered going back to the farmhouse for the night, but it was only seven o’clock.
They could get back to Marseille at a decent-enough hour, and then he could catch the morning train to Paris.
Elise’s sniffles started as soon as they were on the road. “Maman . . . Grand-maman. Are they all right?”
“Grand-maman is all right.” Marcel and Gustave had gathered what information they could before Marcel had all but kidnapped his mother to come to Cannes with him, and they’d learned that Lizette was in jail along with the Alliance members who had been scooped up that night.
He hadn’t asked his cousin what had happened between him and Emile after Marcel left—Gustave’s split knuckles said it hadn’t been pretty. But Gus had grunted something about Emile and Marie hightailing it out of Marseille, so he had to assume the fight hadn’t been too bad.
Was that relief he felt? Or something far less noble? He’d yet to take the time to sort it out.
“Then why didn’t she come home?” Elise sounded on the brink of hysteria.
His mother leaned over the seat, hand outstretched. “She couldn’t, mon chou. But she’ll come to you as soon as she can. And your maman too. You’ll be staying with me until they do. And I have such plans for us for the holidays!”
The thought of Christmas with a stranger should have been distressing, but Mère worked her magic, and Elise soon calmed with promises of cookies and presents that “of course we can share with your maman when she joins us.”
Soon after that, Elise had fallen asleep, her head pillowed in her brother’s lap. Once her breathing had gone deep and even, Blaise spoke up.
“What really happened?”
Marcel had been waiting for it. He met the boy’s gaze in the rearview mirror as much as the darkness allowed.
He knew Zelie had confided the truth to Blaise, so how could he give him anything less?
“There was a raid on the villa. Everyone there was arrested, including your grandmother. Your mother was in Marseille at the time, but she rushed back to try to help. She wasn’t arrested, but I don’t know where she is.
I have to assume she found Henri or another friend and is trying to get to safety somewhere, so she can contact us. ”
“She . . . she wasn’t killed? Like her boss?”
Marcel glanced over at his mother. She’d known, of course, that her sons were involved in some sort of Resistance work—there was no fooling Mathilde Laurent about anything, much less something important.
He’d updated her on all the pertinent information on their drive here, including Navarre’s arrest and recent execution.
Mère sent him an encouraging look.
“Not like him. I have to think if she’d been killed, they would have been touting it as another Vichy victory. The fact that I’ve heard nothing is actually good news. It means she’s lying low.” If only he could remember that moment to moment.
“Good.” Blaise was silent for a moment, and Marcel thought perhaps he would try to sleep too. But then his voice came again, low and tight. “How did it happen? How did they find out? Did she make a mistake?”
“No. It . . . someone betrayed us.” Marcel’s fingers went tight on the wheel.
He didn’t want to speak the truth, certainly didn’t want to admit it to Zelie’s son.
But he wouldn’t withhold this from the boy.
If he did and Blaise found out later—which he would—he’d never trust Marcel again.
So he swallowed, prayed his tongue would form the horrible syllables one more time. “It was one of my cousins. Emile.”
“What?” Blaise’s question wasn’t loud, but it was no less filled with horror for its lack of volume. “No. I met him—he was a freedom fighter!”
“That’s what we all believed. Until I heard him myself, turning on us. The father of the woman he wanted to marry is in the police, you see. Wouldn’t give his blessing until Emile switched sides.”
“So he betrayed his family? His friends? My mother?” Beyond outrage now, Blaise sounded near tears.
Understandable. “I will not defend what he did. But in his mind, it was not as horrible as it feels to us. He didn’t include our family on his list, and he sent the gendarmes to the villa when your mother wasn’t supposed to be there.
He had no idea your grandmother had arrived.
That is no excuse, and I’m not trying to make it one.
Especially because he did name your maman.
He knew she’d have to flee France, disappear.
He made a selfish choice, and we are all paying the price. ”
The boy’s breath went ragged. “I hate him. I know I shouldn’t, but—but I do.”
“I’ll be honest, Blaise. I don’t know how to forgive him either.” Marcel steeled himself, expecting a chiding look from his mother, who had always taught him to forgive, to value the bonds of family above all.
She only reached over, set her hand on his arm, and gave it an encouraging squeeze.
Silence settled for one beat, two, three. A rest that held for a full bar, then a second.
Then an indrawn breath from the back seat, an exhale. “What do we do now?”
Mère turned a bit in her seat to face Blaise. “You and your sister will stay with me and my husband until we hear from your mother or your grandmother is released. I know it will not be what you wanted or expected of your holiday, but we’ll make the best of it. We’ll pray every day for them.”
“Will I go back to school in January?”
Would it be safe to do so? Marcel had no idea. “I don’t know, mon ami. We’ll find a way to talk to your grandmother, at least, before then, so she can advise us.”
“And you’ll be nearby?”
Blaise hadn’t seemed to consider him anything but a passing acquaintance in October—unlike his sister, who had declared him her new best friend when he gave her piano lessons.
But he was currently the most familiar face, so Marcel could understand the need to keep him near.
“As much as possible. I need to travel to Paris for the weekend tomorrow, with my youth orchestra, but I’ll be back on Sunday.
And that’s the last we’ll travel until after the holidays. ”
“All right.” The cushion squeaked as Blaise shifted. “I’ll do whatever we have to. Maman explained it all to me—how they’d use us against her. We can’t let that happen. No matter what. Maman is too important.”
Marcel could only nod. And struggle to accept what Zelie’s own son could declare so easily.