It glittered. The walls, ceiling, chairs, drapes, chandeliers, wall sconces—all shone white with lavish amounts of gilding. Four floor-to-ceiling murals portrayed women representing the seasons.
About a hundred ladies in couture gowns and men in uniforms and tuxedos filled the salon. All had come to greet Göring. The head of the Luftwaffe was on his way to Vichy to meet with Marshal Philippe Pétain, head of the French State.
Tonight, Paul hoped to smooth tensions, deflect suspicions of sabotage, and douse rumors.
Schiller nabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Paul. “Having a friend with me also keeps away the pretty little ingenues.”
Paul smiled and lifted his glass to Schiller. He did admire how the colonel stayed faithful to his wife in Germany.
“Quite a collection of ingenues and notables,” Paul said as they made their way deeper in. French movie star Arletty held court in the center of the room, hanging on the arm of an officer in Luftwaffe blue. Not far from her stood blonde beauty Danielle Darrieux with a crowd of movie fans.
Laughter rose from near the mural of summer, centered on actor and playwright Sacha Guitry.
Two men in tuxedos passed, and Schiller nodded to them. “Two of France’s most famous writers, Robert Brasillach and Pierre Drieu la Rochelle.”
Infamous was more like it. Brasillach was the editor of the fascist paperJe suis partout, and Drieu la Rochelle had turned the esteemed literary magazineNouvelle Revue Françaiseinto a fascist rag Lucie would never carry in Green Leaf Books.
A soiree like this made it look as if every notable in Francesupported Germany, but Paul knew a great number opposed them. Only no one knew their names. No one threw them a party.
A dark-haired man in his thirties approached, a man with an intense and sculpted face, and he greeted Schiller with an accent Paul couldn’t place.
Schiller turned to Paul. “Maître Lifar, I’d like to introduce Paul Aubrey, owner of Aubrey Automobiles. Monsieur Aubrey, this is Serge Lifar, director of the Paris Opéra Ballet.”
Serge Lifar also had the imaginary string stretching his posture, and Lucie’s name tipped Paul’s tongue. However, although mutual acquaintances aided conversation, mentioning her name here would be dangerous.
Paul bowed his head. “Bonsoir, maître. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My former wife and I enjoyed many of your performances—Giselle,Coppélia, Oriane et la prince d’amour.”
Lifar smiled. “I enjoy meeting a champion of the dance. But have you not attended recently?”
“I regret not. My wife passed away a year and a half ago. I’ve only recently returned to society.”
“You must attend.” Lifar reached inside his tuxedo jacket. “If you are free tomorrow, I have tickets forLe Lac des cygnes. I insist you have one, Monsieur Aubrey, and you, Colonel Schiller.”
Swan Lake.Turning him down would be rude, so Paul accepted. “Will the ticket serve as a pass to be out after curfew, like the reception invitation tonight?”
“But of course.”
Schiller nodded. “The police won’t bother people in autos or carriages. The curfew is meant to keep the rabble off the streets.”
“Indeed.” Paul tucked the ticket into his pocket. A rash of resistance bombings and attacks in the past few weeks had led the Germans to change the curfew to six o’clock in the evening. This forced Paul to close the factory at five so his workers couldget home safely. Ironically, by shortening factory hours, the Germans aided Paul’s sabotage.
A plump German officer in his sixties approached. “Pardon me, Herr Lifar, but my friend is eager to meet you.”
The men said goodbye, and Lifar departed.
“Would you like my ticket?” Schiller asked in a low voice. “I do not understand the French fascination with ballet.”
Paul hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around the ticket. “I have an acquaintance who might be interested.”
Dare he? Dare he meet Lucie in public? If he could find a way to protect her and still spend time with her ... His blood warmed and raced at the idea.
Schiller’s light blue eyes took in the scenery, and he sipped champagne. “Roosevelt seems determined to go to war with Japan.”
“Or vice versa.” Paul raised half a smile. “Roosevelt offered Japan a reasonable proposal.”
Schiller drew back his square jaw. “Reasonable? Japan offered to withdraw from Indochina, but the president insists they withdraw from China too. Let them be.”
“China might object to that.” He gave a friendly smirk and took a fake sip. “Tell me, if the US and Japan go to war, will Germany declare war as well? You are bound by the Tripartite Pact.”
