The marquise had a reputation for fair-mindedness, and Lucie had never heard her gossip.
Lucie swallowed her sandwich and her pride. “Do you know him? Mr. Aubrey?”
“We’re fairly well acquainted. Is he courting you?”
Courting—such a sweet, old-fashioned word. “No. He brings his daughter to my bookstore. We’ve become friends.”
“And you’re smitten with each other.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
The marquise clucked her tongue. “Friendship doesn’t produce such disconsolate looks.”
Above the cathedral’s main doorway, Jesus sat on his throne, separating the righteous from the unrighteous. “Do you know he sells trucks to the Germans? He’s a collaborator.”
“Ah, but he is wealthy. Money has a way of covering faults.”
Lucie managed a smile. “Is that what happened to you?”
“Ah no. My Pierre had not a penny. I fell in love with his title and château. He fell in love with my inheritance.” She winked.
A common occurrence in France during La Belle Époque, and Lucie smiled.
“But we were happy. So happy. If he had lived longer, I might not remember him so fondly.” Another wink.
Lucie tried to laugh.
The marquise patted Lucie’s arm with elegant fingers. “You are not the first woman to fall for a wealthy man.”
“Oh no, that’s not it. He and his money represent everything bourgeois I dislike.”
“Good little Left Bank bohemian, you are. And yet this wealthy collaborator has gotten under your skin.”
Lucie shook her head, not in disagreement, but in befuddlement. Yes, he had.
The marquise brushed a loose silver hair off her high cheekbone. “There’s something about the rogue that appeals, isn’t there?”
“That’s what I don’t understand.” Lucie hauled in a lungful of air. “I’m not attracted to his roguishness, but his goodness. I don’t understand why. He sells to the Germans and goes to receptions at the German Embassy and socializes with German officers. He isn’t even ashamed of it.”
The marquise murmured compassionately.
Lucie threw up her hands, almost losing her sandwich. “I don’t know what to think. My eyes and ears say he’s no good. But my heart says he’s good. I’ve always been able to read people. But this time I can’t. I can’t.”
“So your eyes say one thing, and your heart says another. Ah, Miss Lucille, you’re listening to the wrong voices.” A gentle smile rose. “What does the Lord say?”
“The Lord...” Her heart sank even lower, because how could the Lord want her to be involved with a collaborator? And a growing part of her did want to be involved.
“Pray, Lucille. Pray, and God will guide you. Pray, and God will change your heart in one direction or the other. And I will pray for you too, dear.”
“Thank you.” Lucie’s eyes swept up the cathedral’s intricate design and solid structure.Lord, guide me.
25
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER12, 1941
Paul hung up the phone. Bentley Young’s nurse had called to set an appointment to discuss treatment of Paul’s fictitious ulcer. That meant Bentley had to communicate a change of procedure.
Thank goodness for the French tradition of two-hour lunch breaks that gave Paul time to go to the American Hospital in Neuilly on the outskirts of Paris.
