kind to you, Mister Tree. That is one of the few things the change cannot alter.” Abruptly he crossed the room and opened the door. “I trust you will give me an hour of your time later this evening. Roger should be back by then, and then you will have a chance to…”
“Has he gone for food?” James demanded, not wanting to admit he was famished.
“Something like that,” le Comte answered, then stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.
The Bugatti pulled into the court behind the stables and in a moment, Roger had turned off the foglights and the ignition. He motioned to the woman beside him, saying, “I will get your bag, Madame, and then assist you.”
“Thank you,” the woman answered distantly. She was not French, though she spoke the language well. Her clothes, which were excellent quality, hung on her shapelessly, and the heavy circles under her eyes and the hollows at her throat showed that she had recently suffered more than the usual privations of war. Automatically she put her hand to her forehead, as if to still an ache there.
“Are you all right, Madame?” Roger asked as he opened the passenger door for her. In his left hand he held a single worn leather valise.
“I will be in a short time,” she responded, unable to smile, but knowing that good manners required something of the sort from her.
Roger offered her his arm. “You need not fee! compelled, Madame. If, on reflection, the matter we discussed is distasteful to you, tell me at once, and I…” He turned in relief as he saw Saint-Germain approaching through the night.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” Saint-Germain said, with an inquiring lift to his brows.
“I had an unexpected opportunity,” was the answer. “Just as well, too, because there are Resistance fighters gathering further down the mountain, and they do not take kindly to travelers.”
“I see,” Saint-Germain responded.
“A number of them wished to… detain Madame Kunst, hearing her speak… and…” Roger chose his words carefully.
“I am Austrian,” the woman announced, a bit too loudly. “I
am
. I fled.” Without warning, she started to cry with the hopelessness of an abandoned child. “They took my mother and my father and shot them,” she said through her tears. “And then they killed my uncle and his three children. They wanted me, but I was shopping. A neighbor warned me. It wasn’t enough that Gunther died for defending his friends, oh, no.”
Saint-Germain motioned Roger aside, then held out his small, beautiful hand to Madame Kunst. “Come inside, Madame Kunst. There is a fire and food.”
She sat passively while her tears stopped, then obediently took his hand, and for the first time looked into Saint-Germain’s penetrating eyes. “Danke, Mein Herr.”
“It would be wiser to say ‘merci,’ here,” Saint-Germain reminded her kindly. “My experience with the Resistance in this area says they are not very forgiving.”
“Yes. I was stupid,” she said as she got out of the Bugatti and allowed Saint-Germain to close the door. In an effort to recapture her poise, she said, “Your manservant made a request of me as he brought me here.”
Roger and Saint-Germain exchanged quick glances, and Saint-Germain hesitated before saying, “You must understand, this is not precisely the situation I had anticipated. Did my manservant explain the situation to you clearly? I do not want to ask you to do anything you think you would not wish to do.”
She shrugged, shaking her head once or twice. “It doesn’t matter to me. Or it does, but it makes no sense.”
“How do you mean?” Saint-Germain had seen this lethargic shock many times in the past, but long familiarity did not make it easier to bear. He would have to make other arrangements for James, he thought: this woman clearly needed quiet and time to restore herself. She had had more than enough impositions on her.
“It’s all so…” She sighed
“Has he gone for food?” James demanded, not wanting to admit he was famished.
“Something like that,” le Comte answered, then stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.
The Bugatti pulled into the court behind the stables and in a moment, Roger had turned off the foglights and the ignition. He motioned to the woman beside him, saying, “I will get your bag, Madame, and then assist you.”
“Thank you,” the woman answered distantly. She was not French, though she spoke the language well. Her clothes, which were excellent quality, hung on her shapelessly, and the heavy circles under her eyes and the hollows at her throat showed that she had recently suffered more than the usual privations of war. Automatically she put her hand to her forehead, as if to still an ache there.
“Are you all right, Madame?” Roger asked as he opened the passenger door for her. In his left hand he held a single worn leather valise.
“I will be in a short time,” she responded, unable to smile, but knowing that good manners required something of the sort from her.
Roger offered her his arm. “You need not fee! compelled, Madame. If, on reflection, the matter we discussed is distasteful to you, tell me at once, and I…” He turned in relief as he saw Saint-Germain approaching through the night.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” Saint-Germain said, with an inquiring lift to his brows.
“I had an unexpected opportunity,” was the answer. “Just as well, too, because there are Resistance fighters gathering further down the mountain, and they do not take kindly to travelers.”
“I see,” Saint-Germain responded.
“A number of them wished to… detain Madame Kunst, hearing her speak… and…” Roger chose his words carefully.
“I am Austrian,” the woman announced, a bit too loudly. “I
am
. I fled.” Without warning, she started to cry with the hopelessness of an abandoned child. “They took my mother and my father and shot them,” she said through her tears. “And then they killed my uncle and his three children. They wanted me, but I was shopping. A neighbor warned me. It wasn’t enough that Gunther died for defending his friends, oh, no.”
Saint-Germain motioned Roger aside, then held out his small, beautiful hand to Madame Kunst. “Come inside, Madame Kunst. There is a fire and food.”
She sat passively while her tears stopped, then obediently took his hand, and for the first time looked into Saint-Germain’s penetrating eyes. “Danke, Mein Herr.”
“It would be wiser to say ‘merci,’ here,” Saint-Germain reminded her kindly. “My experience with the Resistance in this area says they are not very forgiving.”
“Yes. I was stupid,” she said as she got out of the Bugatti and allowed Saint-Germain to close the door. In an effort to recapture her poise, she said, “Your manservant made a request of me as he brought me here.”
Roger and Saint-Germain exchanged quick glances, and Saint-Germain hesitated before saying, “You must understand, this is not precisely the situation I had anticipated. Did my manservant explain the situation to you clearly? I do not want to ask you to do anything you think you would not wish to do.”
She shrugged, shaking her head once or twice. “It doesn’t matter to me. Or it does, but it makes no sense.”
“How do you mean?” Saint-Germain had seen this lethargic shock many times in the past, but long familiarity did not make it easier to bear. He would have to make other arrangements for James, he thought: this woman clearly needed quiet and time to restore herself. She had had more than enough impositions on her.
“It’s all so…” She sighed
Similar Books
