“The Paris Protocols, oui?”
Pride flashed in his eyes. “A brilliant piece of diplomacy. Now the Germans respect us. They allow us to defend our empire abroad from the British and the so-called Free French under that traitor Charles de Gaulle.”
Paul made a scoffing noise. “Nothing but a brand-new brigadier general, and he calls himself the leader of France.”
“As if anyone could replace Marshal Pétain, the true leader of France.”
“Indeed.” On his second day as prime minister, Pétain hadled France into an undignified surrender, and now he led a government in Vichy that danced to Germany’s tune.
Rousselot swallowed a significant portion of his drink. “The nerve of de Gaulle, sending troops to help the British invade Syria. That’s French territory!”
From what Paul could sift from the censored newspapers, the Allies only invaded Syria because Pétain allowed the Luftwaffe to use Syrian airfields to bomb British bases in Iraq. One mess after another. “Never mind, Rousselot. The true France will prevail.”
“Yes, she shall. And you”—Rousselot clinked his glass to Paul’s—“you tell your Roosevelt to stay out of Europe’s business.”
Paul steadied the man’s wobbling shoulder. “You overestimate my influence, my friend.”
With a laugh, Rousselot left, and he hailed another waiter.
Paul joined Schiller and the couple—the owner of a fascist newspaper and his wife—and he dove into the conversation about music.
Let Schiller see Paul as congenial. Then when Schiller heard engine parts in Aubrey trucks wore out quickly—due to a corrosive agent added to the lubricant—Schiller wouldn’t suspect a thing.
Paul laughed at Schiller’s joke. The commissioner didn’t seem wise to the German army’s conversion and use of Paul’s trucks. Last week Paul had told Schiller he’d received complaints about the gazogène generators bouncing loose, so Paul had the generators welded firmly to the body of the truck.
Schiller had been pleased. He wouldn’t be when the Wehrmacht realized removing the generators would cause major structural damage.
So Paul laughed at jokes and praised Schiller’s taste in music and made references to Harvard to recall their shared alma mater.
As if they were friends. Allies.
When they were anything but.
17
SATURDAY, JUNE14, 1941
Saint-Yves clasped Lucie’s hand. “Merci, mademoiselle. It was a beautiful evening.”
She smiled at the poet who refused to use either a first name or punctuation. “Thank you for making it so.”
Several of his fans bustled him away to pepper him with questions.
Green Leaf Books glowed in electric light and buzzed with conversation after Saint-Yves’s reading of Walt Whitman’s poetry.
In the corner, Lt. Emil Wattenberg browsed books. He wore a civilian suit and hadn’t spoken, thank goodness. A single one of his accented words would ruin the evening.
Why had he come? Because he loved poetry? Or to spy on the clientele?
In the past week, several resistance messages had been exchanged each day, one right under Wattenberg’s nose, which had been thrilling. Renard changed the code phrases the next day.
Marie-Claude and Véronique came over and kissed Lucie’s cheeks.
“A rousing success,ma chére,” Véronique said. “Saint-Yves’s reading was inspired.”
Marie-Claude adjusted her enormous hat over her black curls and wrinkled her nose. “I still can’t believe you charged admission. You’re turning into a typical bourgeois American.”
Lucie bristled inside but gave her an innocent smile. “So the next time I go to the ballet, it’ll be free?”
