“He'll get back to us.”
“When does the cyber café down the street open?”
He looked up, then glanced at his watch. “It's one of those all-night places. Innis's sort of place.”
She nodded. Under any other circumstances she would have objected to hacking into cell phone accounts. These weren't other circumstances.
“I can be ready in ten minutes.”
The cyber café sold everything from wide-screens to the latest I-phone and everything in between, a French version of the Internet Café, with a coffee bar.
She spent the morning searching for information about Vilette Moreau. She finally found the reference to the magazine article Diana Jodion had showed them, then another link on a person search.
“Gerard was the name in the article. That's the reason I couldn't find anything! Moreau was her stage name.”
“Probably the name of a husband who was passing through at the time,” James commented, leaning over her shoulder.
She ignored the comment and read the information that came up on the next screen. “Born in 1923 or 1925 according to different accounts, married four times. She made several art films before the war.” She looked up and caught the expression on his face.
“She would only have been sixteen, maybe seventeen years old when the war started, depending on the birth date.”
“Art films?” He made one of those typically Scottish sounds at the back of his throat.
“Who would have guessed, looking at the photograph of that sweet little old lady?”
She continued reading. “After the war, she resumed her film career and starred in several well-known French films, including a production on the life of Joan of Arc.”
There was that sound again as he looked over her shoulder. “Adult films to martyrdom, quite a repertoire.”
“She made several more films through the 1950's,” she read. “She retired in 1965, after playing the mother of a well-known French actress in her first film.”
Kris recognized the well-known French actress from the blonde hair and that famous pout. There was a newspaper clipping from a French newspaper about the film.
“Apparently they didn't get along,” she continued. The newspaper clipping showed Vilette Moreau with a handful of blonde hair and a furious expression. The article was in French.
“You speak French?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder.
“Enough to get me around the country on summer break when I came over the first time during college—'How much does it cost? Where is the train station? Where is the bathroom?’ That sort of thing.”
“Or, get into trouble,” he commented. “Let me guess, spoilt girl on her own for the first time, staying in hostels, everything stuffed into a backpack. No one telling you what to do or warning you about curfews, or Frenchmen. And they wouldn't have been able to resist the long hair.” Or those eyes, he thought.
“Go to hell,” she told him good-naturedly. “I worked my ass off four summers in a row and saved every dime so that I could make that trip.” And Mark had thrown in the extra few hundred dollars she needed, she thought, remembering. Not to mention that smile he gave her at the time, and a wink.
“Don't tell Dad. It'll be our secret.”
That was right before 9/11. Four years later she stood with her father when the military transport touched down, wanting to run away, to be anywhere else as that flag-draped coffin was slowly carried off, wanting to scream through the anger and tears, at the same time holding it all in. Still holding it all in.
“Here's the interview for the article Diana mentioned, during the restoration at the abbey. Vilette recalled seeing the tapestryas a child. According to the article it was exactly as her great-grandmother had described it.”
“I was fascinated about the story of my ancestor, Isa Raveneau, who made the tapestry, and the story that the tapestry told. Of course, it was not surprising that I was part of the French partisans during the war, and then later played the role of Joan of Arc. I was meant to play that role.”
“Among other less noteworthy acting credits,” James pointed out. “All those art films.”
“It is all there in the tapestry,” Kris continued reading the quote from the article. “The secret Isa Raveneau promised to keep.”
She scanned the rest of the article. When it was written, Vilette Moreau lived with her son and his wife.
“At the time the article was written, she lived in the village of Giverny in a house she purchased after the war.”
