René Bordelon came to stand beside Eve, his silver-headed cane gleaming in the moonlight. He tipped his hat at the perfect angle of courtesy and carelessness. He must have foregone tonight’s look at the ledger for a walk under the summer moon.
“Herr Bordelon—”
René smiled in polite contempt, taking Eve’s arm. “You may take the matter to Kommandant Hoffman if you wish. Good night.”
He moved Eve along, and the breath that had stuck in her throat let out. “T-thank you, monsieur.”
“Not at all. I have no objection to serving Germans when they are civilized, but I enjoy putting the rude ones in their place.”
Eve tugged her arm from his hand. “I would not d-dream of delaying you further, s-sir.”
“Not at all.” He took hold of her elbow again. “You are without papers; I will see you to your door.”
He was acting the gentleman. But he wasn’t one, so what did he want? It had been two nights since their last conversation which had so unnerved Eve; her pulse thrummed, but as much as she wished to avoid her employer, she knew she couldn’t refuse. She fell into step beside him, preparing to ratchet up her stammer. If he wanted to probe her further, this was going to be the slowest conversation in history.
“You’ve had stars in your eyes all evening,” he observed. “Can you be in love, Mademoiselle Le François?”
“No, m-m-m-monsieur. I have no t-t-time for such things.” I have a kaiser to kill.
“Still, something has put a light in your eye.”
Incipient regicide. No, don’t think that. “I am g-g-grateful for all I have, monsieur.” They made the turn away from the river. Just a few more blocks—
“You are very silent,” he said. “I have met few quiet women. It makes me wonder what you are thinking. That’s curious to me. I don’t normally care what goes on in a woman’s head, because it’s usually banal. Are you banal, mademoiselle?”
“I’m very ordinary, m-m-m-monsieur.”
“I wonder.”
Do not wonder that. She should chatter the way thoughtless, witless Christine did. Bore him with inanities. “W-why do you call it L-L-Le Lethe, monsieur?” Eve asked the first thing that came to mind.
“More Baudelaire,” he answered. “‘Nothing can match the abyss of your bed, potent oblivion lingers on your lips, and Lethe flows in your kisses.’”
That was a great deal more sensuality than Eve felt comfortable introducing into this conversation. “P-p-pretty,” she murmured, speeding up her steps. Just a block more—
“Pretty? No. But potent.” His hand at her elbow held her back from rushing, his fingers so long they entirely circled her arm. “Lethe is the river of forgetfulness that runs through the underworld, so the classics tell us, and there is nothing more potent than forgetfulness. That is what a restaurant like mine offers in a time of war—an oasis of civilization where one may forget the horrors outside for a few hours. There is no horror that cannot be forgotten, mademoiselle, given the right drug for the senses. Food is one. Drink is another. The pull between a woman’s thighs is a third.”
He said it so casually, the vulgarity in his perfect toneless voice, that Eve blushed scarlet. Good, she managed to think. Marguerite would blush. Dear God, get me home!
“Are you blushing?” He tilted his head to look down at her, the silver threads at his temples glinting in the moonlight. “I wondered if you would. Your eyes don’t give much away. Windows to the soul? Not so much with you. ‘My girl has eyes, deep, profound, and immense,’” he quoted to Eve’s growing unease. “‘Their flames are thoughts of love mingled with faith, which glitter in their depths—voluptuous or chaste.’” His own eyes were unblinking as they held hers. “I have been wondering about that last part, Mademoiselle Le François. Voluptuous or chaste?” He touched a fingertip to her hot cheek. “From the blush, I would say the latter.”
“A lady does not d-d-discuss such things,” Eve managed to say.
“Don’t be bourgeois. It doesn’t suit you.”
Thank God, they had reached Eve’s door. She stepped into the deep overhang and fumbled for her key, feeling a trickle of sweat run the length of her spine under her dress. “G-good night, monsieur,” she said brightly, but he stepped into the shadow of the overhang with her, crowding her unhurriedly back against the door. She couldn’t see his face, but she smelled expensive cologne and hair oil as he bent his head. His narrow mouth brushed lightly, not over her lips but over the hollow at