Chapter 10
1155 Words
Emilie Dufort hadn’t expected Jacques to admit he was in French intelligence and did little in the transportation department as he pretended. It was a stunning revelation—more than he had ever told her during their courtship and marriage. But why tell her now? Was it prompted by war? Or did he have another reason? As she opened her store the following morning and prepared for her customers, she decided to watch him more closely. Maybe he wasn’t what she thought he was—maybe there was more.
All Things Napoleon did a brisk business during peace or war, always crowded with dedicated customers. With the Germans racing through France, some sought solace in history, reliving a time with France at its zenith, hoping those days would return. For Emilie, it offered opportunity—sellers of memorabilia far outnumbered buyers—as many parted with prized possessions, raising money with which to flee.
The book section attracted the most attention. Volumes about battles, generals and their strategies, and the mechanics of war sold well. Customers browsed through books, some resting on scattered chairs to preview a purchase. Toy soldier collections were also popular, the display dominating a large part of the store. The remaining space featured military medals, swords, uniforms, pistols—items found on the battlefield. Anything associated with the Napoleonic Wars had a home in Emilie’s store.
Emilie stood behind the counter, close to the entrance, when a woman approached with a biography of the Empress Josephine. “I’ve been anxious to read this,” she said, smiling.
“You’ll enjoy it, I’m sure,” Emilie replied as she rang the sale on the cash register, took the woman’s money, and made change. “She was a remarkable woman in a remarkable time.”
“I’ll be back, I’m sure,” the woman said. She took her purchase and went out the door.
A man behind her came forward with three military medals. “Hello, Mme. Dufort.”
Emilie’s eyes narrowed. “M. Bassett, I thought our discussion had ended.”
“It’s just begun, Mme. Dufort,” he said as he put the medals on the counter. “I collect military memorabilia. Medals, mostly, French and British.”
“No German, M. Basset?” she asked, eyeing him curiously. She wasn’t surprised he had come to her store, or that he knew she owned it. She suspected he knew much about her, which only confirmed he was who he claimed.
“No German medals today,” he replied politely. “Although I did see a Blücher biography that looked interesting.”
“Our biographies sell very well, M. Basset. Regardless of nationality.”
He nodded. “I am impressed with how well you run your business.”
“It’s my life,” she said. “I love it. There is nothing else I would rather do.”
“Except, perhaps, what your family has requested.”
She frowned. “You’re very persistent.”
“I have no choice, Mme. Dufort. And you know why. You should have been expecting me.”
Emilie leaned closer. “I was expecting someone,” she admitted. “Especially given the state of the war. But I’ve yet to determine if that is you.”
He chuckled, as if he enjoyed their game. “Maybe further discussion is warranted.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps it is.”
He glanced around the store, making sure no one was nearby. “Does your husband know you are not from France?”
She hesitated, ringing up the sale on the cash register. “My husband knows I’m from a town along the Rhine River. My family came to Paris for our wedding.”
Bassett admired the medals, pretending to be distracted. “Does he know that the town you come from is on the German side of the Rhine River?”
German“No, he does not,” she said tersely.
“Your husband probably doesn’t know that your family is active in the Nazi Party—your brother is a confidant of Hitler, your father a hero from the last war.”
“No, M. Bassett, he does not. And he doesn’t need to know. He thinks my family are farmers.”
“I assume he doesn’t know that you came to France with a purpose unrelated to managing a store.”
“He knows the store means everything to me,” she replied.
“Does he know that your initial meeting was not accidental?”
“I love my husband,” she replied, not answering.
He paused to look at customers wandering the store. “You’re German, not French. And you always will be.”
“I’ve lived in Paris for several years,” she said. “I blend in.”
“Yes, you do,” he admitted. “Your accent is barely detectable and passes for someone who lived along the border.”
“What does your accent reveal, M. Bassett. French is not your native language.”
He ignored her. “No one knows why you are really in Paris. Do they, Mme. Dufort?”
“They don’t need to know.”
“It’s time to do what’s always been expected.”
“I need to know who you are, M. Bassett, before I do anything. And until the phone lines are working again, and I can talk to my family, we have very little to say to each other.”
He was quiet, reflective. “What if the people of Paris learned who you really are?”
“I don’t think they would care.”
“I suspect you’re wrong,” he said. “Most would find your family repulsive. It would destroy your reputation as an innocent shopkeeper who loves all things French—your precious store would cease to exist.”
“People worry about their own lives, M. Bassett. Especially now. They don’t care about mine.”
He looked through the store, ensuring no one could hear. He leaned close. “You are in serious danger.”
She eyed him curiously, wondering why the conversation had so abruptly shifted. She suspected he knew more than she did. “We’re all in danger,” she replied tentatively.
“No, Mme. Dufort. You face a very different danger. One you can’t imagine. From those you would never suspect.”
She hesitated. He seemed so certain. “Enlighten me, M. Bassett.”
He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Observe this address,” he suggested. “See who comes and goes. Evenings are best.”
She looked at the address, only eight or nine blocks from her home. “Will this prove you are who you claim, M. Bassett?”
He picked up his medals and nodded politely. “It’ll prove much more than that,” he said. “I’m certain I’ll see you again, Mme. Dufort.”
- Writer
