you. We’re ready for you. This way, please.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Richet.”
At the dining room table sat a ten-year-old girl with freckled cheeks and brilliant blond hair in long pigtails. She stood up and curtseyed to Celeste.
“All right, Sandrine, what is your math assignment for this week? Still fractions?” said Celeste, taking off her hat and sitting down next to the girl.
“Yes, Madame, but I still can’t quite add wholes and fractions.”
“You’ll see, my love, in one hour, you’ll be doing it with the snap of your fingers, like magic,” said Celeste, kissing the girl on her cheek.
When the lesson was over, Richet came back into the dining room.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help these past months. Sandrine’s old tutor simply disappeared.”
“Many, many people in Paris have disappeared,” said Celeste.
“Thank you, Madame Bernard, for my lesson,” said Sandrine with a curtsey.
“Practice those fraction exercises, and you’ll see how well you do on the next exam.”
Richet stood behind his daughter, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Sandrine, why don’t you go to the park for a while,” said Richet.
15
“Monsieur, I told you that I wouldn’t be part of this anymore.”
Manet, who was sitting on a plush red velvet sofa, smiled at Lucien, who was pacing back and forth in front of the enormous fireplace in the hunting lodge in Le Chesnay.
“All I’m asking for is a little advice.”
“Advice like that can get me killed. And you, as well.”
“Just take a look around and tell me what you think. I’m betting a man with your creative talents could think of another ingenious idea.”
Lucien knew the old man was just buttering him up, and it was working. As he gazed around the house, his eyes lit up when he saw that there were far more possibilities here than in the apartment. The building was typical of the great hunting lodges built in the seventeenth century for the nobility. Hidden in a dense forest on a piece of land probably a kilometer square, the house, with its steep slate roof and corner towers, was a good out-of-the-way place to hole up from the Gestapo. Properties like these were kept in the family, passed down through the generations. It must have at least thirty rooms, with a kitchen that was bigger than his own apartment.
Manet walked over to Lucien. Putting his hand on Lucien’s shoulder in a grandfatherly manner, he half-whispered, as though there were other people in the room.
“The two guests of this house would be quite grateful for your help—fifteen thousand francs is how grateful they’d be. And I’d be quite grateful.”
Lucien’s heartbeat raced. The first twelve thousand francs were going fast. There were just too many nice things on the black market. Cheese, eggs, butter, real wine, meat, and even chocolate were all available—for an astronomical amount of money. Most of the black market goods, Lucien discovered, came from the rural areas in northern France. The hicks out in the countryside now had the last laugh; they ate much better than city dwellers, and they sold their produce on the black market for fifty times the normal price. City people with kinfolk in the country were lucky; they were permitted to get family parcels of food through the mail. The Germans made things even worse with their plundering. The official exchange rate between the franc and the mark made them instantly rich, and soldiers descended on Paris like locusts devouring crops. First, they swallowed up luxury goods like perfume, then staples like wine and tobacco. When their tour of duty ended, German officers would board trains with dozens of suitcases filled with their booty. Yes, the fifteen thousand francs, thought Lucien, would come in very handy.
“My guests told me about a property of theirs that looks over the Côte d’Azur,” Manet said. “A wonderful place to put a house after the war. With lots of glass
“Thank you, Monsieur Richet.”
At the dining room table sat a ten-year-old girl with freckled cheeks and brilliant blond hair in long pigtails. She stood up and curtseyed to Celeste.
“All right, Sandrine, what is your math assignment for this week? Still fractions?” said Celeste, taking off her hat and sitting down next to the girl.
“Yes, Madame, but I still can’t quite add wholes and fractions.”
“You’ll see, my love, in one hour, you’ll be doing it with the snap of your fingers, like magic,” said Celeste, kissing the girl on her cheek.
When the lesson was over, Richet came back into the dining room.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help these past months. Sandrine’s old tutor simply disappeared.”
“Many, many people in Paris have disappeared,” said Celeste.
“Thank you, Madame Bernard, for my lesson,” said Sandrine with a curtsey.
“Practice those fraction exercises, and you’ll see how well you do on the next exam.”
Richet stood behind his daughter, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Sandrine, why don’t you go to the park for a while,” said Richet.
15
“Monsieur, I told you that I wouldn’t be part of this anymore.”
Manet, who was sitting on a plush red velvet sofa, smiled at Lucien, who was pacing back and forth in front of the enormous fireplace in the hunting lodge in Le Chesnay.
“All I’m asking for is a little advice.”
“Advice like that can get me killed. And you, as well.”
“Just take a look around and tell me what you think. I’m betting a man with your creative talents could think of another ingenious idea.”
Lucien knew the old man was just buttering him up, and it was working. As he gazed around the house, his eyes lit up when he saw that there were far more possibilities here than in the apartment. The building was typical of the great hunting lodges built in the seventeenth century for the nobility. Hidden in a dense forest on a piece of land probably a kilometer square, the house, with its steep slate roof and corner towers, was a good out-of-the-way place to hole up from the Gestapo. Properties like these were kept in the family, passed down through the generations. It must have at least thirty rooms, with a kitchen that was bigger than his own apartment.
Manet walked over to Lucien. Putting his hand on Lucien’s shoulder in a grandfatherly manner, he half-whispered, as though there were other people in the room.
“The two guests of this house would be quite grateful for your help—fifteen thousand francs is how grateful they’d be. And I’d be quite grateful.”
Lucien’s heartbeat raced. The first twelve thousand francs were going fast. There were just too many nice things on the black market. Cheese, eggs, butter, real wine, meat, and even chocolate were all available—for an astronomical amount of money. Most of the black market goods, Lucien discovered, came from the rural areas in northern France. The hicks out in the countryside now had the last laugh; they ate much better than city dwellers, and they sold their produce on the black market for fifty times the normal price. City people with kinfolk in the country were lucky; they were permitted to get family parcels of food through the mail. The Germans made things even worse with their plundering. The official exchange rate between the franc and the mark made them instantly rich, and soldiers descended on Paris like locusts devouring crops. First, they swallowed up luxury goods like perfume, then staples like wine and tobacco. When their tour of duty ended, German officers would board trains with dozens of suitcases filled with their booty. Yes, the fifteen thousand francs, thought Lucien, would come in very handy.
“My guests told me about a property of theirs that looks over the Côte d’Azur,” Manet said. “A wonderful place to put a house after the war. With lots of glass
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