He scanned the street, the automobiles and bicycles stretched along the main thoroughfare, the lights that glowed from the crowded Café, tourists and cyclists spilling out onto a patio under a striped canopy, others gathered around a stone fire pit.
He pushed through the crowd that had gathered at the entrance, the sting of warmth and the smell of food hitting as his gaze swept the café.
Kris saw the anger in the set of his jaw, the way his mouth tightened as he cut through the crowd that had gathered at the bar.
“This is Valentine Marchand.” She introduced them before he had a chance to say anything.
Valentine handed the scanned photograph back to her. “We will talk later, when it is not so busy.”
She gave him an openly interested look, then picked up her tray as the owner called out in French.
“She recognized the photograph of Micheleine Robillard,” Kris explained, as Valentine picked up an order and crossed the café to a far table.
“Albert Marchand is her grandfather.”
The fire had burned low at the stone hearth at the café. It was only just after eight in the evening but most of the guests had eaten and then either traveled on, wanting to get to the next destination before it was too late, or headed for accommodations in the village at a handful of quaint French countryside homes that owners rented out during holidays and the summer season.
Valentine had taken off her apron, laying it over the back of the chair as she joined them.
“My grandfather has told me about her, Micheleine, my grandmother's sister.” She gestured to the scanned photograph that Kris had showed her earlier.
“He has another photograph of their family taken a long time ago, with their brothers when they were all very young, before the war. Micheleine was very beautiful. She used that, the stories I've been told, when she was with the Resistance to get information from the Germans that she passed on to others.”
There was no judgment or criticism in her voice, only pride.
“She would have done anything to help the people of France. The more I learn about her from my grandfather, she seemed real, not just someone who died and was forgotten.”
“From what we've been able to find out about her, she was not forgotten,” Kris assured her.
“Oui,” Valentine nodded. “They called her Jehanne—Joan of Arc. I have heard this before.” She explained what they already knew.
“It was very difficult then, so many died.” She glanced around at the few remaining guests. “My grandfather does not like to talk about it, about what he did during the war. I think most people don't understand what it was like, or they don't want to,” she added, taking a sip of wine.
“I chose the Cross of Lorraine to honor her memory, and my grandfather.” Her expression was sad.
“He will want very much to meet you. To tell you about Micheleine.” She looked down at the photograph.
“I am very sorry about your friend,” she told Kris. “It was on all the news channels. CB Ross was very well known in France for the books she wrote. I know my grandfather will want to help any way he can.”
Until then, James had listened, occasionally glancing around the café, watching the other guests. His expression, one that Kris had seen dozens of times, was unreadable, like his thoughts, but not the warning.
“You need to know that it could be very dangerous. “
He told her about the incident in London and at the abbey. He didn't want to frighten her, but she was entitled to know the risk.
“We were to meet with a friend of Cate's, who I was hoping might be able to tell us something,” Kris explained.
“We were able to track her calls and we know that she met with him just before the accident. They worked together a long time ago, a very good friend. He lived in Paris...the Montparnasse.”
Valentine's eyes widened. “The explosion in Paris?”
Kris nodded.
“The authorities are saying it was another terrorist attack.”
Kris and James exchanged looks.
“Kris was supposed to have met with him. The explosion happened just before she got there.”
