The churning slowed. Stilled. Stopped. There was a far higher standard than quality.
Do good. Resist evil.
By working slowly, the laborers resisted. By throwing a wrench into the steel press, Foulon had resisted. What could Paul do?
He stared up at the motor running the overhead conveyor belt for the main assembly line, purring perfectly. If it were to stop, the whole line would shut down.
A mechanic climbed down a ladder by the motor, and Moreau approached Paul with a clipboard for his morning report.
Paul knew what he had to do. He gestured with his thumb to the motor. “Does that sound right to you?”
Moreau frowned. “Pardon?”
“I don’t like the sound it’s making.”
The mechanic cocked his head. “But that is the sound it is supposed to make.”
Paul shook his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“But monsieur, I just—”
“I don’t like the sound.” Paul fixed his gaze on the older man. “Shut it down, take it apart, and find out what’s wrong.”
Moreau gaped at the mechanic, then at Paul. “That would shut down the line for hours.”
“Days maybe,” Paul said. “Shut it down. Take it apart. Fix it.”
The two seasoned workers stared at each other a long moment. A slight nod from Moreau, and the mechanic turned to Paul. “Oui,monsieur.”
Paul marched up to his office as the machinery whined to a stop.
From now on he’d embrace the Silver Standard.
Golden evening light filled the garden behind Paul’s home, and Josie’s voice darted around, a mix of French and English as she sang to the flowers and talked to the bugs.
In Josie’s story tonight, this Feenee sang out of a horn on its head and used the horn to poke its enemies.
In his garden chair, Paul turned a page in his book on French history. For the past few weeks, he’d set it aside as a painful reminder of Lucille Girard, but tonight he’d picked it up. She could ban him from her store but not from the book he’d bought with his own money.
After Paul finished his chapter, he glanced at his watch. On Madame Coudray’s evening off, he made sure to follow his daughter’s routine. “Josie, time to go inside.”
“Okay, Daddy.” Little feet ran up to him.
Paul brushed dirt off her knees. “Okay, my little nougat, you have an hour before bedtime. Would you like me to read to you or—”
“I want to color.”
Paul now stored blank paper on a high shelf. “You know there’s a paper shortage. We need to save it for important things.”
“This is ’portant.” She slipped her hand into Paul’s. “I have a new story about Feenee and Monsieur Meow. I want to give it to the book lady. When can we go back?”
Paul opened the door from the garden to the sitting room, and light from the setting sun bounced off the panes. How could he explain to a little girl that she wasn’t welcome because of her father’s business? And why didhehave to do the explaining?
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
His daughter’s plump lips bent in confusion. Paul stood with one foot inside, one foot outside. He’d been standing there a while, hadn’t he?
