No, that wasn’t all that mattered, but how could Lucie word it?
“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Girard?” A young woman approached wearing a turban in an abstract print in reds and purples and golds. “A friend recommended I read an English version ofLes Misérablesto improve my English. He asked you to set aside a copy for me.”
“Ah yes.” A message, and Lucie slipped behind the counter and into her resistance persona. Every word had to be exact. “Victor Hugo is one of my favorites.”
“My father read everything he wrote.” The résistante spoke slowly, her English stiff. But the message was perfect.
Lucie handed the volume to the girl, who couldn’t be older than twenty.
“Merci. I will buy it.”
As Lucie made the transaction, she smiled at the young lady who risked her life for the cause of freedom, far more than Lucie did. The process was designed so Lucie looked oblivious.
The résistante put the book in her bag, adjusted her turban, and said goodbye.
Although turbans were fashionable, they seemed even more popular among résistantes. It made sense. If followed, the girl could duck into an alley or store, whip off her turban, and be transformed.
“So many books on hold.” Bernadette leaned out the door and shook out her feather duster. “Hal never put books on hold. You should put them on the shelves where people can find them.”
Lucie stiffened, and she entered the sale in the ledger. “People like the new service.”
Bernadette grunted and shut the door.
The number of holds had doubled in the past week—after Germany invaded the USSR. The Soviet order for the French communists to cooperate with the Nazis had always fit them like an itchy sweater. Now they’d thrown off that sweater and flung themselves into resistance activities.
“Are you taking the books away today?” Bernadette tipped her head toward the books stacked by the door. “Didn’t you say nine thirty?”
“Yes.” Any minute now.
Although the sale had been successful, she still had hundreds of books on the upcoming version of the Otto List. In her upstairs hideaway behind the mural, she’d stored the books most likely to be sold undercover.
But her hideaway was full, and her apartment was stuffed with three women and their belongings.
Today Paul was paying for a horse-drawn carriage to take the remaining books to his house. Carrying them in a suitcase on the Métro would have taken dozens of trips, and although Paul owned a car, he didn’t have a gasoline permit—even as a collabo.
A boy of about fifteen entered, short but sturdy. “Bonjour. I am Albert. I am to take you and your books to the house of Monsieur Aubrey.”
“Thank you.” Lucie picked up an armful of books. Paul had suggested she accompany the books to ensure they weren’t stolen to be burned for fuel.
Albert gathered a stack, and even Bernadette helped. Soon all were loaded in the back of the open black carriage, probably hauled out from decades in storage.
Albert helped Lucie inside.
How exciting. She always traveled by foot or bike, with an occasional Métro ride, but never by carriage orvélo-taxi, the bicycle-driven rickshaws common on Parisian streets nowadays.
Albert clucked his tongue, and the two brown horses trotted down the road. The carriage wheels bumped over the cobblestones, and Lucie gripped the edge of the seat and laughed.
She’d just read Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudice, a title she was still allowed to sell. She felt like Elizabeth Bennet riding in an open carriage to Pemberley. Fitting. Like Lizzy, Lucie also counted on the owner of the manor not being at home. Thank goodness, Paul was at his factory.
The carriage clattered past shops and apartments with intricate wrought iron balconies. Then it turned left along the Seine.
Even as the glorious buildings of the Louvre shone in the morning light, Lucie frowned. Elizabeth Bennet thought Mr. Darcy hard-hearted and cold, but he’d been the best sort of hero, a man of quiet honor and integrity.
Paul Aubrey, on the other hand, was an enigma. He sold tothe Germans, loved making a profit, called himself an opportunist, and associated with the worst sorts.
Yet he gave freely of his time and expertise, and he was tender with his daughter, calling her all sorts of candy nicknames. And she’d seen his face in profile in church, glowing during the hymns and Scripture reading.
Only during Mr. Pendleton’s announcement yesterday did Paul’s head droop.
