He began to clean up his files—this actually made him feel better, so he made some meaningless telephone calls to settle meaningless problems. Soon it was time for lunch; he went to the bank for cash, then returned and took Mireille to the Alsatian brasserie on the corner, slipping black-market ration stamps to the waiter, ordering the grandest choucroute on the menu. Bernard, he thought, you used to eat this with me even though you hated it. Warm sauerkraut, garlic sausage, it made him feel better, and he silently apologized to Langlade because it did.
He flirted with Mireille all through lunch. How it used to be when they were young. Going out dancing in the open pavilions in the early days of spring, falling in love, secret affairs, stolen hours. The bones in the backs of her hands sharply evident, Mireille worked vigorously with knife and fork, delicately removing the rind from a thick slice of bacon as she talked about growing up in a provincial city. “Of course in those days,” she said, “men didn’t leave their wives.”
It was still light when he got home. Trudged up the stairs, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. Standing at the threshold, he smelled cigarette smoke and froze. It is now, he thought. Inside, a board creaked, somebody moving toward the door.
“Well, come in.” Citrine.
He put his hand on his heart. “My God, you scared me.” He closed the door, put his arms around her, and hung on tight, inhaling her deeply, like a dog making sure of somebody from a long time ago. Gauloises and a long train ride on her breath, along with the licorice drop she’d eaten to hide it, very good soap, her skin that always smelled as though she’d been in the sun, some kind of clove and vanilla perfume she’d discovered—the cheaper the better, the way Citrine saw it.
“It’s all right I came?” she said. She could feel his head nod yes. “I thought, oh, he’s alone long enough. I’ll just go up there and throw the schoolgirls out—probably he’s tired of them by now.”
He walked her down the hall and back into the living room. They sat close together on the couch. “How did you get in?”
“Your concierge. She will not stand in the way of true love. Especially when it’s movie actresses. Also, she knew me from before. Also, I bribed her.”
“That’s all it took?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
He kissed her, just a little. She was wearing a tight brown sweater, chocolate, with her yellow scarf tied to one side. A pair of very expensive nylon stockings caught the early evening light.
“I don’t care if you’re mad,” she said.
“I’m not mad.”
She studied him a moment. “Tired,” she said. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t even look in the mirror.”
“A long time by the sea, I think.”
“Yes.”
“Under the palm trees.”
“Yes. With you.”
She lay on her side on the couch and he did the same—there was just room. “Do you want to make love right away?” she said.
“No. I want to lie here. Later, we can.”
The evening came, birds sang on the roof across the street, the sky darkening to the deep Parisian blue. She took the stockings off and put them carefully aside. He could just see her in the living-room dusk as she put one foot at a time on a chair and rolled each stocking down.
She headed back to the couch, he held up his hand.
“Yes?”
“Why stop?”
“What?”
He smiled.
“You can’t mean—” Her “puzzled” look was very good; heavy lips apart, head canted a little to one side. “Well,” she said. She understood now, but was it the right thing? She reached around behind her for the button on the waistband of her skirt. “This?”
“Yes.”
The telephone rang. It startled him—nobody called at night. It rang again.
“They’ll go away,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, but he sat upright on the couch. Answer the phone. On the third ring he stood up.
She didn’t like it.
“I have to,” he said.
He walked into his bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Casson!”
Mathieu screamed. “Get out! Get out!” The connection was broken.
“Citrine.”
She ran into the bedroom.
“We have to leave.”
She disappeared into the living room, swept up coat, valise, handbag. Stockings in hand, she forced her feet into her shoes. Casson went to the balcony, opened the doors, looked out. Two black Citroëns were just turning into the rue Chardin. He slammed the doors, ran back into the living room. “Right now,” he said.
They ran out the door, then down the stairs, sliding on the marble steps. Citrine slipped, cried out, almost fell as they flew around the mid-floor landing, but Casson managed to pull her upright. What were they doing? They had no chance, none at all, of beating the Citroëns to the street door. They reached the fourth floor, he pulled Citrine after him, down to the end of the hallway, a pair of massive doors. There was a buzzer in a little brass plate, but Casson swung his arm back and pounded his fist against the wood. Eight, nine, ten times. The door was thrown open, the baroness stood there, wide-eyed with fright, hand pressed between her breasts. “Monsieur!” she said.
Casson was out of breath. “Please,” he said. “Will you hide her?”
The baroness stared at him, then at Citrine. Slowly, the surprise and shock on her face turned to indignation. “Yes,” she said, her elegant voice cold with anger. “Yes, of course. How could you think I would not?” She took Citrine by the hand and gently drew her into the apartment.
As the door swung closed, Citrine stepped toward him, their eyes met. She had time to say “Jean-Claude?” That was all.
Casson did try, tried as hard as he could. Raced down four flights of stairs, footsteps echoing off the walls. When he reached the street, the men in raincoats were just climbing out of their cars. They shouted as he started to run, were on him almost immediately. The first one grabbed the back of his shirt, which ripped as he fought to pull free. He punched the man in the forehead and hurt his hand. Then somebody leaped on top of him and, with a yell of triumph, barred a thick forearm across his throat. Casson started to choke. Then, a cautionary bark in harsh German, and the arm relaxed. The man who seemed to be in charge was apparently irritated by public brawling. A word from him, they let Casson go. He stood there, rubbing his throat, trying to swallow. The man in charge never took his hands out of the pockets of his belted raincoat. A sudden kick swept Casson’s feet from under him and he fell on his back in the street. From there, he could see people looking out their windows.
24 June, midnight.
Midnight, more or less—they’d taken his watch. But from the cell in the basement of the rue des Saussaies he could hear the trains in the Métro, and he knew the last one ran around one in the morning.
He was in the basement of the old Interior Ministry—he’d had no idea they had cells down here, but this one had been in use for a long time. It was hard to read the graffiti on the walls, the only light came from a bulb in a wire cage on the ceiling of the corridor, but much of it was carved or scratched into the plaster, and by tracing with his finger he could read it—the earliest entry 16 October, 1902, Tassot. And who was Tassot, and what had he done, in the autumn of 1902? Well, who was Casson, and what had he done, in the spring of 1941?