“Degrave is gone, Jean-Claude.”

“Even so, we have to try.” He paused, then said, “How much does she want now?”

“Another thousand.”

“I’m going to give it to you. She has to have it today, after lunch. It will keep her from going to the police, she won’t do that until she’s sure she’s got everything you have.”

“Jean-Claude,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

He reached under the table, took her hand and held it tight. “And when you give it to her, be casual. You know the game, you don’t mind playing it, you and she are in this together.”

They went that evening. He’d looked up the name in the telephone directory, found several de la Barres but only one in the 7th- Andre, Textes de Medecine Anciens.

A maid let them in and led them down a long hallway lined with bookcases that rose to the ceiling. In the room that served as an office it was the same. De la Barre was in his late seventies-at least that, Casson thought- bent by age into the letter c, so that he looked up at the world from beneath thick, white eyebrows. “How may I help you?” he said.

Casson was direct. He told de la Barre that Helene had to leave France, and that they had come at Degrave’s suggestion. Casson wondered if he knew who they were. Have you been told it’s a favor for a friend? De la Barre listened intently, but his face could not be read. When Casson was done, the room was very quiet. De la Barre looked at them for a full minute, making up his mind. Finally he said to Helene, “Is it urgent, madame?”

“I’m afraid it is,” she said. Briefly, she explained her situation.

He opened a drawer and studied a list of some kind, then ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t promise,” he said. “We can only send a few people, and even then…”

“I have to try,” Helene said.

“Of course,” de la Barre said gently.

Again, he consulted the drawer. “We will help you to cross into Vichy, that much is easy, and you can continue on to Nice. From there, you will have to sail to Algiers-still French territory, but you can find your way to neutral ports. The ship is Italian, the San Lorenzo, a small freighter that carries twenty or thirty passengers-it’s up to the captain. The next sailing is scheduled for a week from today, the eleventh of February, but it is always delayed. The weather turns bad, or the engines break down, or the shipping authority in Nice delays all departures for military reasons. Of course, working in a travel agency, you’re familiar with the situation.”

Helene said she was.

“And speaking of that,” de la Barre said, “I wonder if you could do me a small favor? The agency must use a great variety of forms, is that right?”

“All sorts-for steamships and railroads and hotels. Of course they’re not valid until they’re stamped by the Germans.”

“No,” de la Barre said. “Of course not.” The edge of irony in his voice was so finely cut that Casson wondered if he’d actually heard it. “Even so, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d select a few of each, whatever you have, and make a small package for us. And while you’re at it you might include some stationery.”

“With pleasure,” Helene said.

“On your train ride down to the Unoccupied Zone, someone will open the door of your compartment and say, ‘Any room in here?’ They’ll look directly at you when they ask, but you don’t have to answer. Later, go out into the corridor and give the package to that person. Don’t be furtive, simply hand it over.”

Helene agreed.

“Now what you’ll need to do at work is ask for some time off- we don’t want you to disappear suddenly. Do you have some vacation days you can take? Good. Explain the request as a family emergency. Is there any reason why travel documents into the Unoccupied Zone shouldn’t have your name on them?”

“Not that I know about.”

“Good. Before you go, give me your identity card and I’ll copy off the information. You’ll need to travel south on the Monday night train, stop by here at seven or so and we’ll give you the permit.”

Helene handed over her identity card. While de la Barre was writing, Casson walked around the room. Phrenologie. Physick. La Theorie de l’Alchimie de Jehan le Breton, in wood boards. “I should mention,” de la Barre said, “that you’ll need enough money for an extra week in Nice-not for a hotel, you’ll stay in an apartment. But sailings are at ten-day intervals, and if we can’t get you on the first one, we can try for the next.”

Afterward they went to a cafe. Helene was flushed, excited. Casson ordered Ricon.

“My God,” she said. “Monday.”

“I know,” Casson said. “We have the weekend.”

On Thursday morning he took a train to Melun and left a message for Kovar. Late that afternoon, a response was dropped off at the hotel desk-a meeting at 9:30, same place.

He went out to the Gare du Nord quarter and found the office building. On the second floor, behind a set of double doors, was the Madame Tauron School of Ballet and Modern Dance. He could just make out the measured notes of a piano as he climbed the stairs. What was that? He paused for a moment and listened. Erik Satie, Gymnopedies. He could hear the shuffling of feet and a voice that echoed in a vast room. “Yes, and yes, and three.”

The third floor was dark, and deserted. Except for Alexander Kovar, behind somebody else’s cluttered desk. “Welcome,” Kovar said. Casson was pleased to see him.

“Still at it?” Kovar said.

“Yes,” Casson said. He could hear the piano on the floor below.

Kovar took a slightly bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, carefully tore it in two, and gave Casson half. “Maybe you have a match?” he said.

Casson lit their cigarettes. “The guns are in Paris,” he said. “So I need to contact the FTP.”

“A success,” Kovar said.

“So far.”

“I’ll talk to my friend.”

“And you-you’re surviving?”

“As usual. I think, the last time I saw you, I’d just quit my job at Samaritaine. Now I’m back to my old tricks, writing for the risque weeklies.”

“Vie Parisienne?”

“Oh yes, and Le Rire. Under several pseudonyms-each one has his specialty. For example, the story of Mimi, the dance-hall girl. Adrift in the backstreets of Pigalle, innocent as a lamb, and headed full speed for debauchery.”

“But, somehow, never quite gets there.”

“No. Something always comes up. One week the frites catch fire. Next installment, a surprise visit from Uncle Ferrand.”

“Wicked Uncle Ferrand.”

“So it turns out-poor Mimi. When I get bored with that, I write ‘The Inquiring Reporter.’ I ask men with beards, ‘do you sleep with it over or under the sheet?’ Then I did one on ‘my favorite recipe for Lapin du Balcon.’ ”

“Guinea pig?”

“Yes.”

“You actually do it-go around and inquire?”

“Are you mad? Half the world is looking for me. I barely go out in the street.” He laughed. “Actually, it’s not so bad. I’ve been on the run for a long time, eventually you get used to it.”

Casson tapped out his cigarette in a saucer on the desk. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he said. “What do you think will happen here?”

“The war will go on. For a few years, anyhow, until the Americans get organized. Then, probably, civil war.”

“Here?”

“Why not? The right is finished, what with Petain and Vichy. So, after the Germans leave, the Gaullists and the communists will fight it out. For myself, I plan to be somewhere else.”

“When the war ends.”

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