Red Lights, Dark Nights

[chanaud]

OOC: Once again, this is for Miltone. If you would like to join this WWII story, the Liberation of Paris, please PM either one of us. Meanwhile, we hope you enjoy it!

“But, you promised!” Marielle cried out, her hands fisting the lapels of his wool jacket.

“I promised nothing, silly thing.” He said sternly, pushing her back.

“Yes, you have! That’s why I haven’t been charging you for these visits…all these years.”

Smack!

Marielle’s weightless body hurled backwards and fell in a careless pile. He stood tall and erect over her, unaffected by her body wracking with loud sobs. Her tangled red hair obscured the tears streaming down her thin face.

“Get up whore!”

“Noooo.” Her shriek echoed in the tiny room and through his racing veins. With one swift move, he kicked her. She released a howl followed by louder sobs.

“Heeeelppp…”

Shuffled feet were heard outside, but no one dared to come in. The General knew it. Marielle knew it. This was a common scene in the Red Light District. The Germans Nazis had control of Paris since 1940, and everyone including tourists knew that interference would only bring a deathly fate towards them. And besides, everyone on Pigalle Street knew Marielle was the General’s mistress and had been for many years. Due to him, Marielle had the luxury of setting up business in the prime location on the infamous Pigalle Street.

The general leaned over and picked her up like a rag doll. He tossed her effortlessly onto the bed.

“Look at me.”

He commanded. With trembling lips, her brown eyes met his, releasing another set of fresh tears.

“I can’t take you, a whore to Germany. We don’t need your kind in our country. We’ve fought this war long and hard to banish the likes of you from polluting our country, and infesting our families.”

Her sobbing stopped. Slowly, very slowly, the life in her eyes died and turned vacant before him. Marielle’s dead eyes watched his face redden with each guttural words, the veins in his neck pulsated maniacally as he screamed at her.

“Do you hear me? You’re a whore! A whore! You’re good for one thing…”

She knew what was coming next. Her hollow eyes looked down to see him waving his cock in her face. The blood in his neck matched his engorged cock, and each time he shouted, he continued to grow harder.

He grabbed a fistful of hair, jerking her head back. With his cock in one hand, the General mapped shimmering X’s of precum on her face. She moaned in pained, exciting him further.

“Take it whore, take it all..”

And she did. She did what she had learned to do ever since she was a waif of a child. It was the means towards survival.

Less than a minute later, the General collapsed, spent. He pushed her backwards on the bed and zipped up his uniformed trousers. At the door, he stopped to glance back at her. Neither said a word. The silence hung heavily over them. He broke the spell. His voice was soft, caring, almost loving.

“Why are you always so difficult? Why can’t you just be a good whore like the others?”

When no response came, he left quickly.

Marielle stared at the ceiling. Her mind was as blank as her face. Her sad eyes was the only answer to her emotions.

When Marielle finally came to, she stood up slowly and walked across the small room to the open sink. After repeated cold splashes to her face, she dared to look in the mirror. There it was, the repeated gift after many visits. Her finger followed the red mark along her left cheekbone . She can see a faint blue tint forming already. This is worse than the others, she thought. She covered it the best she could with the rare pancake makeup, a gift from the General.

When she was finished, she posed from every angle. The bruise was barely noticeable.

She walked to the window, pulled the thick, black curtains apart, and opened the window allowing Pigalle Street to drift into her room. Few glances turned her way. Marielle smiled brightly. No one would have any idea what occurred just a half hour ago. No one. Except for the few that stopped to look into her eyes..

She slumped back effortlessly on the black wing chair. One perfect long limb hung over the chair’s armrest and dangled carelessly on the window sill. The hem of her red dress lifted revealing a good part of bare skin, and an outline of perfect thighs leading to heaven. Marielle pulled a dark cigarette from a box that the General had left behind, and held it between her lips. It dangled loosely, waiting for someone to offer a light.

This was her pose. This was what brought the customers in. Marielle Badeau was open for business…

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

He closed his eyes and pictured the note that he had read only once and then burned.

Monsieur LaVielle on Rue de Pigalle

Paul had walked up and down the street twice and did not find Monsieur LaVielle. Maybe there was something else on the note that his contact had passed to him that he hadn’t seen, some further clue that would lead him to his new contact. Le Résistance had spirited him from the dense fog on the coast along roadways and rivers, through fields and train yards to Paris. He was to make contact with the Monsieur who would fit him into a preordained group. One of a trusted sworn few, he carried the keys to liberation. To the Americans he was Paul Edwards, OSS; to the British he was The Shadow; to the Free French he was Le Polisson, The Rascal; to the denizens of the Paris Underground, he was Le Salut, salvation; to himself, he was lost, wandering up and down a street he had only seen in blurry photos and briefed on … well, briefly.

He paused at the corner and struck up a smoke to calm his nerves. Unless he found Monsieur LaVielle, he had no place to go and would be counted among the many others that had gone into France never to be heard from again. Every friendly face was potentially one who could turn him into the Gestapo, for the eyes of the eyes of the Reich’s secret police, he was only a short step above the Gypsies and whores and worthy only of being shot on sight as a spy.

Slowly he began to move along the Rue. Nothing was as he had been told. There were markets open and restaurants serving up fresh bread. And the gray suited Germans were everywhere, their complacent laughter aggravating to the bone of any man with French blood in his veins. Passing a sidewalk café, he paused to savor the aroma of soufflé tarragon. But his search would take him all afternoon and evening if necessary.

Then he saw her, all long legs and pale skin and red hair a shade he had never seen before, draped in a red satin dress that had a sweet invitation written all over it. He knew at first glance what she was and the cigarette dangling from her painted lips only added to the allure. But it was more than that which appealed to him. It was something in her eyes, the way she looked down at him, right through him. He pulled his vareuse around himself, took a drag on his smoke, and tried to look inconspicuous. But he was also desperate and if the woman in the window could see it so would the men in the long black coats who could be turning the corner any moment. With his zippo burning in his hand, he walked casually toward her. She leaned out the window, her unlit cigarette dangling conspicuously.

“Mam’selle? You need a light?” he asked in his most practiced Parisian dialect.

She leaned toward him holding the cigarette tightly between her painted lips. Paul fumbled to strike his lighter, but she rested her hand upon his as the flame sparked, drew the heat up and inhaled deeply. His eyes could not resist combing over the trim pale body that lay beneath the red satin. This was no ordinary courtesan.

“So what brings you to my flat on this fine afternoon?” she asked. “Surely something that can explain the … ahm, sweat on your forehead, no?”

Paul looked at her closely, wondering whether she might know Monsieur LaVielle. If anyone did, she would.

“I need your help in finding someone,” he started to say.

“But if you are not looking for me, I cannot help you,” she said, cutting him off.

“All right then,” he said quickly. “I am looking for you, Mam’sellle.”

She waved him around through the front door to her room. Paul took a deep breath, thankful to be off the street and out of sight. He wondered if this would be taking an unnecessary chance. What if she were a collaborator? At this point he was ready to take that chance. He knocked and she answered, pulling him into her room. Up close, she was young, too young in his eyes for this business, but something in her eyes gave him comfort. Was this just some sort of trick or illusion? As her door swung shut he hoped to find the answer.

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

With her hips extending out exaggeratedly, Marielle stood poised against the front door, and observed the stranger from behind. Even with his back to her, she can see his jittery eyes scan the room nervously, as if he was expecting someone to jump out from every corner. Unlike others, Marielle was curious of this stranger. Though he spoke French like a native, there was something in his mannerism that told her a different story.

A brief second later, he turned to her and smiled in appreciation of the scene displayed before him.

“Would Monsieur like to have a seat?”

Her hand swept gracefully across the thick air indicating to a chair reserved for guests. The stranger nodded and sat. His eyes closed instantly, welcoming the luxury of soft cushion wrapped in raw silk.

Her poise remained broken only by intermittent drags, allowing most of the cigarette to waste, which was unusual for times demanding strict rations. Only when finished, Marielle broke her stance. She turned to the window, and closed the black drapes. The room darkened instantly and glowed again with Marielle sitting across him next to a copper lamp.

“How can I be of service to you?” Marielle asked.

“Like I’ve indicated before, I am looking for someone, a friend.”

“And what do I receive in exchange for leading you to a long, lost friend.”

“I apologize, I am a poor man, I have nothing but this watch, a family heirloom given by my late father.”

Curiously, she glanced down at his watch. Even from the distance, she can tell it was made of gold. It would make a fine gift for the General.

“And in exchange all you want is directions to your friend, yes?”

“Oui, Mam’selle. He had invited me to his home. Unfortunately, along the way, I was robbed by bandits, papers included.”

“Your watch for directions to your friend, yes?” She repeated.

“My watch for directions and your company….”

“Ahhh…” Marielle smiled.

“to his home.” The stranger finished.

Marielle frowned instantly, then shrugged. She had received stranger requests before. At least this transaction was simple and quick, and a valuable gift to present to the General to make up for earlier.

“Why don’t you tell me the name of your friend?”

“Monsieur LaVielle.” The stranger announced slowly.

Marielle’s face fell into an immediate frown. She stood up immediately.

“Ahhh…Monsieur, I’m afraid there is no such name here at the Rue.”

“Are you positive?” The stranger jumped up, his voice rose in desperation

“No need to shout, Monsieur. I have been here for a long time, and I know everyone. There is no such person at the Rue.”

He sank back down into the chair. His eyes stared heavily past her and into thin air. Only the sound of occassional traffic could be heard. When he finally looked up at her, his face seemed to have aged ten years.

Marielle sat slowly. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason why you’re looking for this Monsieur LaVielle.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

Pulling out another cigarette and lighting it nervously but quickly, Paul looked this woman over. Her fragile beauty struck him, the way she stood so provocatively, the sensuous timbre of her voice; no wonder she had taken on this profession, yet such a waste that so many faceless men who cared for little more than their own momentary pleasure should have her on a daily basis. In another world, in another life, she might have been the vivacious daughter of an aristocrat, a Parisian fashion model, or an actress in the cinema. But as sympathetic as he may have been to her travails, he couldn’t risk revealing himself to a … to a wh … to her. Who knew how many dirty German boots had trampled over this plush carpet since May 1940?

Paul rose from the chair and approached her, his cigarette still burning. He was glad he had traded his packs of Dunhill’s for Gauloises. There was something cool in the way she regarded him, perhaps because he had not come for what she normally provided. Why wouldn’t she know Monsieur LaVielle, unless …

“I need to see Monsieur LaVielle because, as I told you, I lost my papers and I have heard that he knows people who can replace them,” Paul said. He raised his hand to her face and watched her blink and flinch for just the briefest moment. But he let his hand fall gently upon her cheek, such a soft and tender cheek it was despite the heavy makeup. His hand eased down to cradle her jaw as he moved closer to her, their faces very close together. “Monsieur LaVielle is known to everyone on the Rue Pigalle. For all I know, he has rumpled the sheets of your bed more than once.” Paul crushed his cigarette out.

“I don’t know of a Monsieur LaVielle,” she said with an air of defiance. “Certainly no man of that name has ever been in this room.”

Paul held her face tenderly but firmly, looking over the large eyes, the pert upturned nose, the full painted lips, the high rounded cheekbones, and the swirling shroud of red hair that covered her thin eyebrows. But there was a steely toughness in her eyes and he immediately realized that brute force would do little to help. Her lips were appealing and he leaned toward her bringing his mouth to brush lightly upon hers.

“My watch for your company to the home of Monsieur LaVielle,” he whispered to her, their breath washing over each other. He kissed her again, this time wetter and deeper with more lips and tongue. He heard a slight whimper trickle from her throat and felt her hand move around his waist pulling her body toward him. When he felt her hand reach down into his pants pocket, he broke off the kiss roughly and pushed her away. He looked at her with his sky-blue eyes full of contempt. “I see that I have come to the wrong place.”

“I told you that I know not of a Monsieur LaVielle,” she said, her head held high.

Paul approached her again on his way to the door, their eyes locked up in a wrestling match of will. He could see that she knew the man for whom he was looking. He held up the watch to her face, letting the gold casing glitter in the dim lamp light. When she reached her slender fingers up to touch it, he snapped it away. When she looked down at his hand, he saw a mark on her face and took her face into his hand again, turning her so that he could see the bruise more clearly. He ran the fingers of his other hand over the darkened mark on her pretty cheek. She winced when he touched it. What kind of pitiful excuse for a man would have done this to her? He had a pretty good idea and began to think that was the reason she claimed not to know Monsieur LaVielle.

“A woman who will let a man do this to her, and yet will not help her countryman restore his papers …” Paul shook his head and pushed her away gently. “There are other whores on Rue Pigalle who would gladly trade more than a mere address for my watch.” He reached for the door handle and wrenched it open.

“Wait!” she called out.

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

He stopped mid step and turned slowly towards her. The look on his face was of disinterest. The ball was in her court, she had better make it interesting or he’s out the door.

“Perhaps if I inquire around, perhaps I may have an answer for you, Monsieur?” She asked, her greedy eyes were glued to the watch. He could imagine her salivating.

“Perhaps.”

“And whom may I say is inquiring for this Monsieur LaVielle?”

This time she stood up, her red dress fell loosely over thin body, and erect nipples. And with one foot directly in front of the other, her hips sashayed towards him.

One thick eyebrow arched to the sky, while two blue moons glowed in appreciation. She was putting on a show for him, and he knew it.

“You may say an Edgar LePaul is inquiring for Monsieur LaVielle, that is if you fine him.”

“Will Monsieur LaVielle be familiar with an Edgar LePaul?”

“No Mam’selle, like I’ve informed you before, I was robbed of my papers and need it replaced immediately. I shall return tonight at midnight. Perhaps you find a moment of your busy schedule to inquire about?”

Mr. LePaul answered, a snicker played with his lips. He tipped his hat and turned towards the door.

“Wait, Mr. LePaul.”

He turned politely, his face set in boredom.

“I have one question, Monsieur LePaul. If you have no money like you say. And your watch is your last valuable piece, which will be in my position if I can locate this Monsieur LaVielle , then how will you pay for your papers? You can’t possibly expect him to work for charity during these hard times, no?”

She smiled coyly. Something didn’t add up with this Monsieur Le Paul. There was something about his boldness, the way he kissed her that seemed more than a poor, lost soul. While most men were nervous in her presence, he seemed too comfortable, too self-assured. He’s handled women like her. She was sure of it. And yet in the beginning, when she first laid eyes on him, he seemed jittery, desperate, and cautious. Marielle believed in trusting her first instinct. It had never failed her before.

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

The girl thrust her hip out to the side and rested her hand on it. Her other hand dangled casually down in front. A strap of her dress—no more than a thin silk slip at best—had fallen down off her shoulder. She stood proudly and unflinching as Paul stepped back into the room and approached her. He raised his hand up, his fingers brushing over her belly and her breast until they hooked around the strap and reset it upon her shoulder. Her large blue eyes shifted from the gold watch on his wrist and came to center on his face.

“You find Monsieur LaVielle and tell him that Edgar LePaul is looking for him,” Paul told her in a strong quiet and clear voice. “The payment he receives for providing the papers is a matter of concern only between him and me, do you agree?”

His hand remained on her shoulder for several moments, fondling her soft warm flesh. She had such delicate skin, clear and soft. Paul could see that she was eyeing his lips and her own were quivering. He leaned toward her and kissed her again, unafraid of the warnings he had been given in London and elsewhere about kissing French whores. The way she responded, returning his kiss ardently, almost desperately, told him that she would find Monsieur LaVielle, if she indeed did not already know him. Her hand slipped up over his back and her fingers grazed over the hair on the back of his neck.

“Midnight, uhn?” he grunted. With that he turned and left her room without looking back, his heart beating rapidly, his palms sweating profusely, but his mind leaping ahead past the afternoon and evening. When he got down to the street he reached inside his vareuse for the open pack of Gauloises and found them missing. Shit! She was good, he thought. He patted himself down and found that his small bankroll was still in his pants pocket and that she hadn’t found the other pack of Gauloises.

Paul needed a smoke. He needed something to eat. It was early, but he needed something to drink as well. He walked to the end of Rue Pigalle and turned up along Rue de Clichy away from La Trinite, and soon found a booth in a small quiet brasserie that looked as if the owner had prospered by not asking too many questions as long as the Vichy francs were crisp. He kept his head down but his eye on the door.

He looked at the gold watch and slipped it off his wrist. What could there be about it that peaked the girl’s interest so keenly? For a quick exchange at the nearest pawnbroker? That seemed too obvious. Perhaps as a gift to a benefactor? That might make more sense. What did he care anyway, since once he was in touch with Monsieur LaVielle, he would probably find himself far from Rue Pigalle?

He wondered vaguely about the pretty girl selling herself on the rue when without the war she might have been modeling haute couture on Rue de Longchamps. Then here he was a long way from his home in New Orleans, taking on yet another identity, when all he had ever wanted was to be a journalist. A lot of good that year of foreign studies spent in Paris before the war had done for him. And here he was in a quarter he had never visited nor knew existed. The cold thin sandwich and the vin blanc would tide him over for now. But what of the girl? Was he a fool to trust her to help him find LaVielle?

 

[chanaud]

Marelle Badeau

As soon as the door closed behind Edgar LePaul, Marielle sat on her bed. She pulled out a Gaulouise and ran it under her nose. A smile widened as the sweet scent tickled her nostrils. Marielle’s heartbeat quickened. This has the potential of being a fruitful transaction. She could feel it in her veins. And she must act quickly before something happens to him.

Marielle’s strolled across the tiny room to a dark walnut desk with skinny legs. She opened the drawer making the legs wobble a balancing act and pulled out a single sheet of paper. After scribbling a few words on the bottom corner of the paper, she tore it off and folded it into a minuscule square. Then she opened her dark curtains, and hung out the open window into the lazy sidewalk.

“Ansel….Ansel…come here quickly. I have an errand for you.”

A young lad with ash blonde hair wearing an oversized brown jacket and shoes taped across the toes came running across the narrow avenue.

“Oui Marielle..”

His eyes were round and bloodshot set in deep sockets from lack of nourishment. Yet he had a smile on his face, grateful for any errand that comes his way.

“Is it for the Kap’tain?”

“How many times have I told you to never ask questions, Ansel.” Marielle scolded him, her hand swiped across the air aiming for his head. “Take this to Renard at once, and wait for his response.”

“Are you preparing another special dinner for the Kap’tain, Marielle?”

Marielle smiled warmly at the young boy. “Oui Ansel. Now run quickly and don’t let anyone see this. It’s a surprise for the Captain.” She insisted as she pressed the paper and a coin in Ansel’s cold hands.

“Right away. Merci!” He called out as he was halfway down the block.

Marielle lit another cigarette and sat back down in her chair. Her body held the same position as before when she met Edgar, but her eyes were lost in thought. So lost in thought, she didn’t see a gentleman stop at her window or the Captain stopping Ansel in the street.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

The sun had descended into evening and Paul found himself back on the street. He walked slowly, exploring the quarter, looking for a face, a name, anything that might help make sense of his situation. Eventually he turned back onto Rue Pigalle, this time walking slowly and deliberately, looking in the window of each shop. He paused at the boucherie and watched as the old man inside finished putting what few cuts he had into the meat locker, removed his white linen tablier, and slipped into an overcoat. Before the old man switched off the light, their eyes met and the old man froze. Then the light was extinguished and Paul saw a shadow move toward the front door. He took a step back when the butcher opened the door. The tinkling bell obscured the sound of the laughing German soldiers approaching behind him and he backed right into their path.

“Sie täuschen!” said the one who ran into him, the ash from his dark German cigarette having fallen onto his immaculate gray uniform.

While the butcher stood silently in the shadows of his shop door, Paul tried to brush the ashes from the Lieutenant’s smock, but the German sneered at him and pushed him away.

“Idiot!” said the other, a captain. “Look out where you’re going.”

Paul looked down and away wishing to avoid a second look. The officer’s French was impeccable but with a condescending haughty tone of voice.

“Je suis désolé,” Paul said humbly, trying to affect a bow and backing away. “Sorry, so sorry.”

The officers laughed him off and moved on. Paul turned back toward the butcher but the old man had gone the other way, a black shadow fading quickly into the dusk settling on Rue Pigalle. Paul took a couple of steps in that direction.

“Attente!” called out the Captain. “Wait!”

Paul froze as he felt a firm hand land on his shoulder.

“Are you the new apprentice?” the tall Arian officer asked curtly.

“Oui, mon Capitaine!” Paul said hesitantly, turning slowly, slumping over in an attempt to look non-threatening.

“I thought you were shorter,” the Captain said looking at him closely.

Paul shrugged weakly.

“Whatever,” said the Captain with a dismissing wave of his hand. “Just tell Renard that the last roast of lamb he sent to my maison was superb! I don’t know where or how he got it, but the General was most pleased.”

“I will tell him, mon Capitaine,” Paul replied with a sheepish bow. “Merci … merci beaucoup!”

The Captain smiled, turned crisply on his heel and rejoined his Lieutenant. They shared a laugh, probably at Paul’s expense, and then moved further along the rue. Paul exhaled slowly. Jésus doux! At least he hadn’t broken a sweat. But he couldn’t afford another brush like that and would have to be even more careful.

He waited in the shadow of the butcher shop then crossed the street. He moved slowly, carefully along the rue, trading one shadow for the next until he found himself across the street from the flat of Mam’selle Badeau. The heavy black drapes were draw closed, but the dim glow of a lamp could be seen and the muffled sound of laughter echoed across the street. Mam’selle is obviously entertaining tonight, he thought. But even a whore has to eat. He struck up a cigarette and waited. He had little more than an hour until midnight, so he found a comfortable place to sit and wait.

As the minutes passed the laughter from Mam’selle Badeau’s apartment grew louder and more raucous. All right, so it wasn’t laughter, but the image of the pretty young woman plying her trade held no appeal to Paul. He lit up another Gauloises and drew in the smoke deeply. Exhaling, he noticed that the night air had grown quiet. For several minutes he enjoyed the relative silence, punctuated only by the footsteps and voice of occasional passersby. Then he heard a familiar voice and looked up. It was the Captain and his friend stepping down from Mam’selle’s building. The Captain turned around and called out loudly toward her window.

“Je vous verrai demain, mon petit chat,” he said in a wild laughing voice.

The heavy curtain was pulled open just a bit. “Seulement si vous apportez votre grand ami encore,” the Mam’selle shouted back, her voice sounding bright and happy.

He called her his little pussycat, how ridiculous! And his big friend, eh? Paul didn’t want to think about the possible meanings that had. The Captain translated for his Lieutenant and they stepped down to the street and walked away. Paul leaned back in the shadows against the building and thought over again his decision. How could he have been such a fool to think of trusting a … a … a whore?! If he was going to go, it was not going to be during Springtime in Paris. He took one last drag on his cigarette, let it fall to the pavement and crushed it with his foot. He thought of walking away, finding a warm place to spend the night, then try another tack tomorrow.

Then he glanced toward Mam’selle Badeau’s apartment. The drapes were draw closed and the lamp was still lit. He saw no one else on the street and crossed it quickly. All he needed was an address and he would be gone. He flew up the steps and knocked crisply on her door. He knocked again. It swung open and she beckoned him inside.

“Tous les jeunes hommes reviennent me voir,” she laughed, her body swaying and reeling backward. She was drunk.

“I may be young, but I did not come to see you,” Paul replied in a low cautious voice, taking the door from her hand and closing it quickly. “I don’t have much time. Did you find Monsieur LaVielle?”

There was a knock at the door. Paul turned anxiously and the girl laughed.

 

[chanaud]

Marelle Badeau

“If you continue to jump at every shadow, you will find yourself North on the Russian front.” She laughed at his wide eyes.

“Sit, sit. I shall see who it is.” Marielle beckoned to a chair as she staggered to the door, and opened it widely.

“Ahhh… you are such a beast! You are back for Marielle again, yes?.” She cooed to the tall uniformed guest, while her arms snaked around his neck and kissed his soundly.

The Captain pushed Marielle off him and laughed raucously. “I’ve no time, I’ve forgotten my attaché.”

Then the Captain stiffened. Marielle looked back at what the Captain was glaring at. Edgar was backed against the wall, his round eyes white with fear.

“Aahhh…” Marielle sobered immediately, her long fingers played with the brass buttons on his wool jacket. And with a soft sultry voice, she asked. “Rolf, would you like to watch?”

“No!” The Captain roared, his hands pushed her back forcefully. Edgar ran forward to prevent Marielle from falling backwards.

“I didn’t realize a butcher's apprentice can afford a whore’s fee..” The Captain sharp voice stated curtly.

“Well how do you think I can afford the choicest cuts of meats for you, Rolf? Do you think I have enough francs to pay for it myself, with the money you give me?”

The Captain icy blue eyes continued to stare down Edgar, as his mind reeled at the explanation given. After a long solid minute, the Captain’s lips curled upwards. His eyes remained hard as steel.

“Perhaps, I shall watch the next time.”

“Why not now? Your petit chat loves it when you watch…”

The Captain cupped Marielle’s pretty face and kissed her deeply and passionately while keeping both eyes on Edgar and watching his reaction. Marielle stood on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss forcing Edgar to witness the passionately play before him. Despite himself, he felt his body twitch. It’s been a long time since he’s had a woman.

When the Captain released her, Marielle slumped on his chest. The Captain stepped back away from her and picked up his attaché. “Enjoy her. I will be expecting a full leg of lamb this Sunday.”

The Captain opened the door and stopped. With one deft move, the Captain faced them with a Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!”

After Marielle and Edgar saluted back perfectly, the Captain nodded, picked up his attaché and walked out into the street.

“Mon dieu!” Edgar cursed softly, the sweat shone brightly in the low glow of the copper lamp.

Marielle walked over to an open sink, lifted her dress and started washing between her legs with a thin washrag.

“You are early. I said to come at midnight.” Marielle stated matter-of-factly.

Edgar couldn’t help glancing down, and found himself hardening again at the glimpse of dark shadows forming a perfect V.

“Oui, Je demande pardon, Mam’sielle. Have you contacted Monsieur LeVielle?”

“I’ve inquired around. Like I’ve told you earlier, there is no such person here at the Rue.” Marielle stopped washing herself and walked towards him. Her round eyes held onto his, demanding a response.

“Perhaps he goes by another name?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps if you throw the watch on my bed, I can tell you if he does.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

Throw my watch on the bed? Paul thought. Throw my watch on the bed! Suddenly his pocket felt very heavy. Should he give her the watch, he would never see it again nor would he ever meet LaVielle. She knew something and she was trying to play with him. He grabbed the watch chain and walked over beside her. She tossed the washrag into the sink with a splash and let her dress fall back to her thighs. Her eyes looked at him with a glazed smiling expression. Pulling the timepiece from his pocket, he raised his hand near to her cheek, watching as her eyes glanced quickly at the glimmer of the bright gold case.

“Why do you want this so much? Is it for your bouche boyfriend?” Paul spat out. His anger was lost on her. What could he expect from one who would sell herself to such a cochon?

“But monsieur LePaul, would you not think it was for my grandfather?” she laughed drunkenly. “He has always wanted one all his life.”

Paul slipped the watch back inside his pocket and took her face in his hand, crushing his lips against hers. They were soft and wet and open, inviting his tongue to enter. And it did … forcefully … moving against hers with a sudden riled passion. His other hand rose to her other cheek and he pressed forward against her, feeling her body squirm. When they neared the bed, he tossed her back onto it, quickly climbing on after her. She laughed madly as his body forced its way between her long pale legs. His hands raked at the flimsy silk dress, ripping it from her body, baring her to his wild kisses and firm caresses.

“Does La Bouche take the time to do this?” Paul called out kissing and nipping at her hard pointed nipples while his hand probed through the downy fur of her sex. She laughed again but arched her back against him.

It had been so long since the nursing student he had met back in London and his Cajun passions were roiled. He felt her body respond to his fingers forcing themselves up inside her sopping wet cunt while his thumb rubbed hard against the tight little nub above. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the pillows.

He knelt between her legs and pulled open his trousers. His cock had grown thick and hard quickly and stood out long and straight from his body. Falling back to the bed, he waved the head up and down the length of her sodden sex. What that fucking German had taken, he would retake now, he would reclaim it for his God, his Country, his Flag …

And just as the head pressed against her wetness, he withdrew it and climbed away from her. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, running his hands through his dark curly hair. And if I do this, to a poor drunken whore, I am no better than La Bouche, he thought. Paul rose from the bed and looked back at her, the long lithe frame, the perfectly rounded breasts and sharp nipples, the supple appealing curves, the deep blue eyes now flickering open.

“Que?” she asked, trying to push herself up from the disheveled bedcovers. “Quel est mauvais?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he replied. He picked up her torn dress from where he had thrown it on the floor and handed it to her.

“Look what you have done!” she exclaimed as she held the red silk against her naked body. “You can’t get silk like this in Paris for any price!”

“Here,” he said, pulling out some cheap francs and tossing it on the bed. “Maybe you can get your boyfriend to buy you something the next time he goes to Berlin.”

“But you said you had no money …” she said reaching for the money.

“This is wrong … I’m leaving,” he said, doing up his trousers and moving toward the door. As his hand turned the doorknob and opened the door, the face of the butcher loomed in the doorway. The old man looked into the room at Marielle still sprawled naked on the bed with her torn dress and a handful of Vichy francs, then at Paul standing at the door with a desperate disconsolate face.

“Sacre bleu!” said the old man, pushing into the room and quickly pulling the door closed behind him. “Marielle?” the old man whispered.

“LaVielle?” whispered Paul.

“LePaul?” whispered the old man.

“Edwards,” Paul said.

“Renard,” the old man replied.

The men shook hands, then embraced, exchanging kisses on both cheeks. Marielle fell back onto her bed and laughed madly.

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

Renard walked over to a door, opened it and pulled out a long yellow worn robe. He handed it to Marielle with averted eyes and ordered, “Put this on. I so wish you would be careful, bebe.”

Marielle’s laugh died immediately, her face crumbled ready for tears, her voice soft like a child’s, “Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself. You missed the Captain by a few seconds.”

Renard’s big bearlike hand cupped her chin and turned her face side to side for inspection. He stopped and fingered the heavily masked bruise making her wince in pain.

“I wish you wouldn’t do this. I can find you employment as a housemaid, a less dangerous position.”

“I’ve told you many times before, this is my only chance to leave the Rue. Soon, I shall have enough to leave this place. Soon, I promise.”

Paul stood back and watched the strange transaction. This woman, this so called prostitute who was so greedy and brazen before, who readily opened her sex just a few minutes ago; who beds Nazi officers obviously had a strange relationship with what the Allies had depicted as the most trustworthy connection at the Rue. Perhaps, he is another one of her faithful clients, Paul thought. Poor, poor soul. He’s obviously in love with her.

Marielle stood fully robed, walked over to the open sink and washed her face. When she faced the two men, the drunkenness faded, she seemed years younger.

Satisfied, Renard turned to Paul Edwards. “It will take a few days to get a full set of papers for you. Meanwhile since the Captain thinks you’re my apprentice, you can stay with me and work at the shop. It will actually make a good cover until we get you on the road again.”

“Do you think I’ll be safe? Things seem to be chaotic here.” Paul questioned.

Renard nodded in agreement. “Only if you lie low and stay near the shop. When we start moving, the worse it’ll get here. They are starting to cart people out by trainloads even ones with proper papers. And you will have to thank the Captain for that.”

Renard spat out the last part, his eyes shot out to Marielle. Her large round eyes dropped instantly, her fingers played with the sash on her robe, her face glowed a bright pink in embarrassment.

“We do what we have to do to survive, no?” Marielle stated more than asked.

Renard and Paul ignored her and turned to each other again. They huddled together and spoke in careful planned whispers. Marielle sank into a chair and crossed her legs, her face stared blankly to the floor, her mind deep in thought.

After some time, the men broke apart. Renard walked over to Marielle and kissed her cheek, breaking Marielle from her reverie. “We are leaving now. Promise you’ll be more careful, bebe.”

“Yes, papa, I promise.” She answered as she kissed him back.

Grateful to be forgiven, Marielle stood up and sauntered towards Paul. “It’s been a pleasure, Monsieur Edwards. I hope we meet again. And remember, the Captain is expecting a full leg of lamb on Sunday. Please make sure it’s ready by 10.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

“It will be ready, Mam’selle,” he replied, not knowing how he would bring that to be.

Renard glowered at him as they slipped along the Rue back to the old man’s flat, speaking in hushed tones. “And you promised her Capitain another leg of lamb?”

“What was I to say, we had to make it look like …”

“Ah, pas l'ennui pour me dire votre histoire!” the old man growled. “Just be careful of the Capitan. Although he may not look like it, he is a very dangerous man.”

“I will.”

“And you must be mindful of Marielle,” he said. “She is a very spirited young woman, and very willful … just like her mother.”

“As for what you first saw back there, just so you know, nothing happened,” Paul said, almost apologetically.

“What happened is not my concern,” said the old man. “She is still young and needs someone to watch out for her, even if she will not do it herself. She will not let me do it.”

Renard took Paul up to his flat over his shop and made room for him to sleep on the divan porte. For the next few days, he showed the younger man enough of his business that even the Germans and the sharp eyes of their spies would not become suspicious. Since Paul had grown up in the restaurant his family had run for many years in the French Quartier back home, he had little trouble adjusting.

Since the evenings were becoming warmer he liked to stroll the Rue after dark, taking in the spring air. He often found himself near the window of Marielle, but always from the other side of the street. Sometimes she would be leaning out the window calling to friends or children or potential customers. Other times the drapes might be drawn. He liked to watch particularly when she was sitting on the ledge smoking one of the dark cigarettes given her by the Capitain. Paul was intrigued by her, growing sweet on the sound of her laugh and the languid way she held the cigarette to her lips.

On Sunday, the old man had gone to Mass and left Paul behind to tend the shop for the hour or two that it took for their customers to pick up what they had reserved for their afternoon dinners. It was nearly one and Paul was almost ready to close when the doorbell tinkled and Marielle came in. Paul looked up to see she was dressed in a soft shade of blue that matched her eyes. Had he not known her already, he might have taken her as an institutrise from the local grammar school.

“Peux-je vous aider?” he asked formally.

She sauntered into the shop, browsing along the sparsely filled cases, slowly slipping off her white gloves. She tossed her head back when she reached the counter where he stood. The twitch of her smile disarmed him.

“I believe you have a special package for me,” she said. “I decided on picking it up to save you the trouble later on.”

“Yes, all set and wrapped,” Paul said, turning toward the cooler. “We let it marinade over night.”

“By that you mean my father?” she asked.

“By that I mean me,” he answered, setting the brown package on the counter. She laughed and looked as if she were going to say something, but Paul continued. “I do know how to cook. My family has a restaurant back home.”

“And just where would that be?”

“Far away.”

Paul tied a small wooden handle to the package so that it would be easier for her to carry.

“Why have you not come by to see me?” she asked.

“I think it’s best that I not. Once I have my papers, I will probably be gone.”

“That is all the more reason,” she said. Her fingers brushed his as she took hold of the handle from him. “Merci, Monsieur Edwards.”

“Bon appétit,” he called out as she turned and moved toward the door. From the sway of her hips, it was obvious that Marielle wasn’t wearing anything underneath the light blue fabric of her dress, bringing a deep sigh from his mouth. “Attente!” he called out. She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “Wait. Perhaps I can help you with that. Carry it for you … help you roast it …”

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

“Ooo, Merci, Monsieur Edwards!” Marielle exclaimed as she spun around. Paul couldn’t help watching her skirt swirl like a cloud of blue cotton candy.

Paul knew she was feigning surprise. The wink that Marielle gave him when she handed him the package confirmed it. When he reached out for the package, their fingers tangled, a bolt of electricity ran through them, surprising both. They stood close, uncomfortably close, Paul in a daze, Marielle flashing back to his bold, deep kiss. Her breasts seemed magnified, heavier from what he remembered. They seemed to be enticing, beckoning, daring Paul to make the first move as they took on a life of its own, heaving before his eyes. A long second later, Paul blinked his eyes, the moment had passed. It was too late, Marielle had turned towards the door, leaving the only option but to open it for her. Too intent in controlling his emotions, Paul didn’t notice Marielle’s flushed delicate skin, and the twinkle in her eyes.

Like an old married couple, they walked slowly, matching every step along the sidewalk Marielle chatted gregariously about the various shops they have passed and its history while Paul listened quietly and nodded a few times in attentiveness. The street was sparse. Most shops were closed. Even the professionals like herself idled away from their open windows not bothering to lure any clients. When the sidewalk narrowed, their bodies brushed against each other. Marielle didn’t seem to mind. She just smiled demurely at him while Paul was forced to mumble polite apologies.

When they reached her shop, Marielle forged ahead and up a winding metal staircase to her living quarters. Paul followed close behind. So close, Marielle can feel his warm breath through her thin rayon dress, fogging her bare skin. He was mesmerized by the way her derriere swung. Back and forth. Back and forth. Growing bolder with every step. By the time they reached the top landing, Paul was completely hypnotized. The amusement in her eyes told him she knew it and was enjoying every moment of it.

Marielle’s tiny apartment was nothing like the downstairs room. It was cozy, full of antiques, and ivory lace. Paul was taken back at the change of scenery. This was different from the Marielle he knew from downstairs. And yet, surprisingly, it seemed to fit her. She was like a chameleon, changing its colors in each environment. Just like himself.

“Shall we baste the lamb, yes?” Marielle’s head cocked questioningly, her cotton candy blue eyes bore into his as if she could read his thoughts.

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

“Oui, Mam’selle,” he replied, still feeling affected by something he didn’t quite understand. It was as if he had been taken to a completely different world with a completely different girl.

He had watched her struggle to light the oven then sweetly acquiesce as he took the precious match from her hand and got the blue flame to light. Then he watched her assemble the roasting pan upside down, only to flash her blue eyes at him and let him reassemble the pot and place the lamb inside.

This was not the earthy whore he had met downstairs. Was it the dress? Was it her? Was it the growing warmth of this Sunday afternoon in Paris?

When Marielle struggled with assembling the thick rubber bulb on the end of the glass basting tube, Paul placed his hands over hers and helped. Both pairs of eyes looked up.

“Basting is very important, Mam’selle,” Paul said softly. “It keeps things moist and tender while they heat up.”

“And we like things moist and tender, no?” she said, her fingers curling together with his around the glass cylinder.

Their shoulders were touching and as he looked down, the swell of her breasts seemed to surge up against his chest. Paul glanced back up at her incredible blue eyes that seemed to be penetrating him, something he could not let happen. He let his hand fall away and picked up the wrapping and made certain that the marinade was added to the pot. He picked up a bottle of Chardonnay and looked it over.

“This would certainly help. May I?” he asked.

“D’accord,” she replied.

“So how often do you cook dinner for your German boyfriend?” he asked as he splashed a little wine over the meat.

“One thing you should know about that matter, is that he is merely a customer,” she said confidently. “Perhaps his method of payment is often not … ermm, traditional, mais il n'est pas mon amant. It works well since I can find out little things that Papa needs to know. Besides, what would it matter to you if I were attached to him in some way?”

“Nothing. Just that you seem to deserve more in this world.”

“You are so full of ideals,” she laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were American?”

Paul placed the cover on the lamb and slid it into the oven. He stood tall and glanced over at her again, lifting his hand to her chin, turning her face toward him fully. There were things that he wanted to say that he could not, words that would have no meaning once he was gone from this quarter and Rue de Pigalle was a lost memory.

Now standing in the light of the afternoon sun, Marielle’s dress had become translucent, and Paul was very aware of her breathing and the rise and fall of her body underneath. He leaned toward her and kissed her, a light, brushing kiss that pressed forward. Lips parted, tongues wrestled, bodies crushed together, arms enwrapped, hands explored. Breath became exhausted.

 

[chanaud]

Marelle Badeau

Low, deep moans and sounds of wet kissing reverberated in the small kitchen. Time stood still for the two. After what seemed like an eternity, Paul twisted his lips off hers leaving Marielle fighting for breath. His hands rose up her arched spine and across the underside of her luscious, heaving breasts. His wet lips continued to move down, kissing, licking, leaving a wet foggy trail down the long, creamy slope of Marielle’s neck and into the valley of her breasts. Marielle moaned aloud, her outstretched fingers cradling the back of his soft hair, her pelvis grinding frantically against his sex, invoking low moans of his own.

Paul pressed Marielle against the hard sink leaving her trapped. The pain against her backside went unnoticeable as his mouth covered her breasts. His mouth left dark wet spots through the thin material, while his hands roamed up her thin stocking legs, lifting her hems fully exposing her sex framed with black silk garter belt.

Paul stood back reveling in the sight. His cock throbbed against his pants, begging for some release. Marielle was ready and ripe for him. Her blushed lips were swollen from kissing; one blue sleeve hung carelessly exposing creamy, white skin, the top moon of her right breast, and a dark wet shadow of a nipple. A patch of wetness on her mound gleamed in the sunlight. Oh yesss…she was ready. Her eyes clouded with lust told him so.

She smiled suggestively at him. With one deft move, she managed to pull him to her, crushing his lips with hers. Her nimble fingers fumbled with his zipper, “Dépêcher se plaire,” her breathless whisper fogged his ear. “The Captain should be here soon.”

Paul stiffened and twisted away leaving Marielle stunned.

“Quel est mauvais?” She asked, still quivering with desire.

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

“Rien n'a tort, Mam’selle,” he replied. “Nothing.”

“If I didn’t know better, Monsieur Edwards, I’d say that you were jealous of Le Capitain,” she teased moving to him, her hand snaking around to find the opening of his trousers, her fingers finding their way to the warm thickness that lied within.

“How could I be jealous of … of … of him!”

“Monsieur … Paul,” Marielle said, her warm slender expert fingers curling around his growing manhood. “What I do with him and his fellow officers, I do for business … nothing more. I want to survive and prosper … and I will however I can.” She pulled his cock from his trousers, relieving the pressure and bringing a gasp from his mouth. “What I want from you … what I need from you … is pleasure. C'est une telle mauvaise chose à chercher le plaisir?”

“One must be careful where one looks for pleasure,” Paul said. He wanted to pull away from her, but as she pressed her body up against his back, her soft warm breath and sweet voice invited him to stay close, and her hand was bringing him a pleasure he had been missing for so long.

“Look at me, Paul,” she implored. “Look into my eyes.”

Paul turned around slowly and faced Marielle. Her face was upturned toward his, her light blue eyes large and moist and luminous, her dress still pulled askew, her hand still upon him.

“Cherche la femme avec les beaux yeux,” he said vacantly.

“Que?”

“My grandfather always used to say that,” he said lifting his hand to her chin. “Look for the woman with the beautiful eyes.”

“And?”

“You have beautiful eyes,” he smiled. “Très beau.”

And they looked up at him glistening as they caught the afternoon sun. His fingers fanned out across her cheek, gripping her in a way, guiding her to him. He could say nothing more to her, for he couldn’t know that what went in her ears wouldn’t come out her lips to the Capitain … even if she was the daughter of LaVielle. The only way he could tell her anything was by doing something … something that she wanted, something that he wanted too.

Paul brought his hand down from her face, gliding over her neck and chest, pulling her light dress away from her shoulders, revealing more of her creamy dreamy skin, the dark tips of her breasts. As he did so, they moved, dancing really, back toward the couch. Her hand never left him until her dress was on the floor, his body was stripped naked, and she had guided him to the place where they would both find pleasure in the bright afternoon sunlight and soft cool shadows on Rue De Pigalle.

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

They lay satiated, the mid afternoon light filtered in, spotlighted the couple panting, trying to catch their breaths, barely able to say a word. No words were needed as they both turned to each other, and smiled.

“Mon Dieu! Marielle exclaimed as she leapt.

“Wha?” Panicked, Paul jumped up, too.

“The Capitain. He’s coming now, hate!” She insisted, throwing his clothes at him. “In the kitchen!”

Marielle gathered her blue dress, and ran to a room in the back.

Rap, Rap! Rap, Rap!

“Coooominggggg…”

Marielle emerged from the back bedroom, flushed, and bright-eyed. She glanced to the kitchen, and met Paul’s eyes. His face ashen, he looked nervous. He turned quickly and turned to the matters of dinner.

“Rolf, chéri!”

“Heil, Hitler!” The boots clicked loudly with the salute.

“Heil, Hitler!” She saluted back at him, thrusting her body out provocatively.

“Eu mon petit chat, I have missed you so.” He growled, pressing his body to hers. She laughed like a woman, encouraging him. A metal pan fell to the floor, disrupting them.

“What is he doing here?” Captain Rolf demanded, clenching her hard.

“Qui? Oh, that is Papa’s apprentice, he’s come to help prepare dinner. You always complain my cooking causes indigestion, so I thought I would surprise you with a real dinner, by a professional chef. Do you not like my surprise?” Marielle asked, her bottom lip pouted, while her fingers played with his buttons.

“Ah, my little minet, you are full of surprises!” The Captain swooped her up, and swung her about, making Marielle scream with delight. Then he tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her effortlessly to the bedroom.

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

The sound of Marielle’s laughter as the German carried her off rang in Paul’s ears. He caught himself banging the pots harder to drown out each moan and cry that ensued. C'est seulement des affaires, only business for her, rien plus. Why should he care? He couldn’t be falling for her. She was only a whore, the finest in all of Paris perhaps, a beautiful girl, yes, with a body sculpted by the gods and ice blue eyes that would haunt him forever, but une prostituée just the same.

He tried not to think of her naked body writhing and trembling beneath his, the scent of her sex, plump and wet with arousal, the sound of her voice crying his name as she clung to him desperately, or the feel of her teeth nipping the flesh of his shoulder. And he could not allow himself to think of Marielle being with the Capitaine; he had heard of the depravity the Germans foisted onto their conquered peoples. Who knew what disgusting things that pig—le cochon—was forcing upon her?

There was nothing that Paul could do except noisily prepare the dinner, which he did begrudgingly only as a way of covering his presence. Then a thought struck him and he smiled. His idea sprang up from deep within his Cajun roots. Marinated leg of lamb, young boiled potatoes, and steamed fresh greens; they all needed a sauce.

He rummaged through her icebox and cupboards and found what he needed. Aged hot red peppers, the sweetest sharpest cutting of the greenest onion, more than ample garlic. Marielle had little else for seasonings, but of what he found Paul selected only the sharpest. Nothing sweet.

His grand-père would be proud of the red sauce he soon had simmering on the stove. A single taste brought beads of sweat to his forehead. Indigestion did Le Capitaine suffer? Paul smiled.

He worked through the rest of the dinner, now able to pay little mind to the noises coming from the bedroom. He even went to the extent of setting the table, finding the white linen cloth and setting out Marielle’s modest china and silver with a pair of wine goblets. There was a bottle of a nondescript German white— quel la surprise—and something that looked like a rosé, so he put them on ice.

Paul even managed to set out a pair of candles and was just lighting them when he realized that the noises from the bedroom had quieted down. There was just a low mumbling sound, no laughing, certainly not the sweet nothings like that which had spilled forth from his mouth an hour before.

What was it she had said? Ceci je fais pour moi, this I do for me. Now that her ‘business’ was finished, the bedroom door swung open and the Le Capitaine stumbled out. His tunic unbuttoned and—mon Dieu—his trousers still open and looking damp around the edges. Le Cochon didn’t even take down his pants. He clambered over to Paul and clapped him on the back.

“So what have we here that smells so good?” Le Capitaine asked. The German took up the saucier spoon and sampled the sauce. He grunted loudly.

“It is a new recipe, Capitaine,” Paul said eagerly, glancing at the table setting. The lamb was carved, the vegetables were set out, and the bread warmed and begging for butter. “Tunisian cooking is all the rage you know.”

“D’accord,” the Capitaine spat out, as if he even knew the difference between Tunisia and New Orleans. As the taste of the sauce settled in, the eyes of the Capitaine widened greatly. “Too bad that I never had a chance to visit, thanks to the British and Americans.”

“Some wine, mon Capitaine?” Paul asked, pouring a glass and handing it to him.

“Merci,” he replied, knocking down the entire glass at once.

Marielle swept into the room, wearing a lovely gown that seemed almost translucent. Paul tried hard not to look as the Capitaine took her into his arms.

“Ah, mon petit chat,” the German hummed. “Come taste what your Papa’s apprentice has conjured up.”

Marielle took a taste and her eyebrows immediately shot up. She flashed a look of consternation at Paul that was fortunately missed by the Capitaine. Paul shrugged his shoulders modestly and winked at her.

“Now that my work here is done,” Paul said removing his apron and easing toward the door. “I beg you my leave.”

While the Capitaine sat at the table and proceeded to tuck his napkin into the collar of his undershirt, Marielle went to let Paul out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered quickly. “You can’t leave me here alone … like this … with him.”

“Oh, Mademoiselle, it is my pleasure to bring the tastes of the Mediterranean to your table,” Paul remarked loudly. “Apprécier votre diner, s'il vous plait.” He could see the fire in her icy blue eyes, even though she had not taken more than the slightest taste of his special dinner.

He had only stepped down to the street when he heard the voice of the Capitaine shouting from Marielle’s apartment, “Eau! L'Eau froide, maintenant!”

 

[chanaud]

Marielle Badeau

“I am coming, Rolf!” She sung back as she walked the handsome Paul walk with a lift in his stride. He turned back towards her apartment, and winked boldly. A warm glow filled her, as Marielle smiled and waved back, elated he cared enough to look back at her.

“Eau! Eau! Mariii…” The Captain called out, his voice parched.

“Mon Dieu, Marielle fetch this, Marielle fetch that.” She muttered under her breath.

But when she saw the Captain tugging desperately at his shirt collar, his long neck underneath was red and swollen, and his face and lips pale and colorless. She ran.

“Rolf! Rolf! What’s wrong?”

“Aackkk..” He managed, his voice hoarse.

“Are you ok?” She pulled his collar away from his hands, and unbuttoned his shirt. His flesh under the shirt scalded her, forcing her to jump back. Marielle ran to the sink, and filled a glass with water. She brought it to his quivering lips. “Boire, le chéri, boire lentement.”

Her voice cooed softly, as her hand stroked his hair back, and away from his face. Slowly his breathing returned. Marielle kissed his damp forehead lovingly.

“Vous avez essayé de me tuer..” He stood up, and faced her. A thick, purple vein was protruding out of his forehead and beating madly.

“Rolf, I was just trying to help!” She exclaimed, wide eyes brimming with tears.

“Help??!! You and that bâtard tried to kill me!”

“Noooooo!”

Slap! Her frail body flew against the sink.

“Noooo, Rolf! You are mistaken.”

“Are you fucking that batard? Did you allow him to touch you?”

“Rolf, no! He just came to help me, prepare dinner for you.”

“Whore couchant!!”

“Je jure, Rolf. Nous n'avons pas fait l'amour. He did not touch me at all.” She screamed out desperately.

A fist wearing a ring, bearing the Nazi swastika insignia flared out and caught her cheek, forcing her thin body to whirl around and crumble to the linoleum floor. Marielle grabbed his ankles and held desperately. Crying and pleading, she started to kiss his bare feet. Capitan Rolf’s foot shook her off, and kicked, aiming for whatever made contact - her legs, arms, stomach, and ribcage.

“S'il vous plaît me croire. Je ne couche pas. Il n'est pas mon amant.”

She crawled to the far corner, and crouched. With her hands covering her matted hair, she buried her face in her knees, trying to protect herself from the beast. Her body heaved and wracked with tears.

Rolf sat in a chair, lit a fat cigar, and watched her silently. His face remained stoic, his eyes blank as he puffed. Her cries died slowly. Her body slowed to stillness. Still her face remained buried.

“You say he’s not your lover.” His voice was perfectly calm.

“I swear he’s not my lover.” Her face still buried, her voice muffled.

“Prove it.” He demanded. Marielle lifted her head in surprise.

“Comment prouve-t-j'une telle chose?”

The Captain’s lips curled upwards, his eyes slanted with pure evilness. “You will lead him to his death.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

It was Mercredi, the middle of the week, in the afternoon when next he saw Marielle. Paul had been carefully avoiding her end of Rue de Pigalle. In fact, he had promised himself that he would not see her again, that his life and his mission would be better placed if he never saw her again. LaVielle, the butcher, had gone to meet the counterfeiter earlier that afternoon to obtain the papers that Paul needed before he could move on to the next stage.

Paul was waiting for the old man’s return, cleaning up the shop when the bell on the door tinkled. Since most of the customers visited early in the day to pick over what little rations were available, he was surprised, doubly so when he looked up to see that pair of icy blue eyes framed by the gorgeous red hair. Instantly feeling a tightness in his heart, Paul turned back to his sweeping. He half expected to hear her call out cheerfully to him, joke with him about what she had to do to get served, and swing or sway her body as she leaned over the counter. But he heard none of that and looked at her again. Her face was flushed and her eyes were reddened. The darkness of an old bruise grazed her cheekbone.

“Peux-je vous aider, mademoiselle?” he asked.

“Paul, I need to talk to you … I have something to tell you,” she said moving boldly behind the counter.

“And what is so important?”

“Je … Je ne peux pas vous dire tout,” Marielle began, “But it’s no longer safe for you to remain in Paris.” She glanced furtively out the front window and pulled him toward the back room.

“I know that,” he replied, feeling her warm hand grip his arm tightly. “You father has gone to get my papers and with them I’ll be able to …”

“No, it’s not that,” she said, placing both hands on his shoulders and squaring herself to him. “Rolf … Le Capitaine was not pleased by your cooking … papers or no, it is not safe for you here any longer.”

“And what is he going to do to avenge his heartburn?” Paul asked comically.

“Paul … listen to me,” she pleaded. “You must leave. Now.”

“Ha! What’s he going to do?” Paul laughed, brushing away her hands. “Have me killed because I put too many red peppers in his dinner? Ha!”

“It’s not just that,” Marielle replied, her sunken reddened eyes growing misty. “It’s more about you and me.”

“What? You and me?” Paul said. “There is no you and me. What happened the other day … everything that’s happened between us has no meaning with this war going on. I’m a …” He caught himself short before he said more. “I have something very special, very important to do in the next month … in the next several months. I can’t let the affections of a whore distract me from what I need to do.”

Paul was ready to turn away, but then he saw her shoulders quake and her tears begin to fall, he brought his hand to her cheek and wiped the rivulet away.

“Did he … did he do this?” Paul asked, rubbing his fingers over the discoloration on her cheek. “Le cochon! Le cochon pourri sale!”

She nodded. Paul put his other arm around her and drew her body toward him.

“Perhaps, it is you who is not safe in Paris, ma fleur douce,” he whispered, feeling her body melt into his, their lips soon pressing firmly together. “You deserve more than a man who would raise his hand to you like this … vous méritez beaucoup plus que ceci, ma fleur douce.”

He kissed her cheeks, drawing away the tears that had fallen. Marielle’s hands ran up over his chest and behind his neck as she kissed him wildly. Paul grasped the lean curves of her ass and boosted her onto the freshly scrubbed counter, his fingers raking at the hem of her dress, raising it above her stockings as her legs rose up around him.

He fumbled at the buttons of his pants almost popping them loose to free up his throbbing manhood. His mouth found her neck and plunged deeply between the firm moons of her breasts. Just as Paul pressed the head of his thick cock against the warm damp inviting opening of her sex, the door at the back of the shop swung open, and La Vielle breezed in. For a moment the two froze, then Paul backed away and turned his back toward the door, struggling to stuff his rigid member back inside his pants, while Marielle slipped from the counter and hurriedly re-arranged her dress.

“I have them,” LaVielle called out buoyantly. “J'ai vos papiers, Monsieur LePaul.” As he moved around the corner and saw Marielle and Paul together, he stopped. “Marielle,” he said looking from one face glistening with sweat to the other. “How unexpected.” LaVielle withdrew a packet from his coat pocket and handed it to Paul. “You should find every thing in there,” the old man said. “Enough to get you to where you need to go.”

Paul opened the packet and looked them over. Printed on the correct paper only obtainable from Germany with the correct stamps and seals, these papers were like his freedom, the next step that would take him far from Rue de Pigalle.

“Bon chance,” LaVielle said, embracing the young man. “You are free to stay here for as long as you wish.”

“Merci,” Paul answered, clapping the old man on the back.

LaVielle moved off to the front of the shop leaving Marielle with Paul.

“Quand … when do you leave?” Marielle asked.

“Soon. Tonight, perhaps.”

“Oh,” Marielle said, turning away from him.

There were things Paul wanted to tell her but could not, things about himself and about his mission, things about his concern for her, especially once the war was over. He stepped up to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. Leaning forward he placed a kiss on the nape of her neck. “Ma fleur douce,” he whispered. Then he turned and walked up the stairs to his room scarcely more than a bed and a modest dresser. He had gathered little in the days since he had arrived, an extra change of clothes mostly. As he went to stuff them into a small valise, he heard light footsteps on the stairs. He turned toward the door. “Marielle?”

 

[chanaud]

“Non, it is I, Levielle.” The butcher’s thin face appeared out of the dark, followed by his response.

“Ahh..Monsieur, Levielle. I’m packing my things…” Paul responded in relief.

“Are you in love with her?”

The question stunned Paul. He froze. His struggle hung heavily in the air. When Paul finally looked up at the old man, the tormented fervor in his eyes was all the old man needed to continue.

“You must take her with you, save her from him.”

The incredulous look on Paul’s face sped his speech. “I’ve seen how you look at her, and how she looks at you. I’ve never seen her look at a man as she does with you, she loves you…..”

Paul opened his mouth in protest. Lavielle raised his hand to stop him. “I’m not such an old man that I don’t notice such things. I know I’m placing a burden on your shoulders by asking this of you. And I’ve never asked anyone this before, so please don’t think I make a habit of sending her off with each passing sailor. I know my Marielle. Underneath her poised charm is a child begging to be loved. Unfortunately, she went about it the wrong way. She thinks the cochon is her ticket out of here, to a better life. She doesn’t realize he’ll never take her. He’ll kill her first.”

Levielle threw something down on the bed. Paul glanced down. Marielle’s bright blue eyes on a set of papers, familiar to his were smiling up at him. Surrounding it were thick piles of notes. Morey money than Paul have seen in a long while.

LeVille turned to leave. Then he stopped at the doorway. Without turning back, he spoke softly. “It’s all I have. If it’s not enough, I understand.”

 

[Miltone]

Paul Edwards

“I don’t need your money, LaVielle … it will soon be worthless trust me,” Paul replied. “But the greater question is whether she will go with me. You know better than I that she is headstrong.”

“You must make her go with you,” LaVielle pleaded. “You will think of something. She will not be safe here. She needs someone like you to look out for her.”

“But LaVielle, you don’t know my mission and the danger that lies ahead …”

“And I don’t want to know,” LaVielle said, grasping Paul by the shoulders. “All I know is that you are fighting for La Cause and better that she die with you for her country than at the hands of a German cochon.”

Paul could see the desperation in the old man’s eyes and felt it doubly so in his tight grip. It would be hard enough to link up with La Résistance and carry out his mission alone much less with Marielle in tow. And yet LaVielle’s words had struck him deeply; he did love her and maybe just maybe Marielle loved him.

“All right, I’ll ask her,” Paul said.

“Non. You tell her … and you tell her that I have sent my blessing with you.”

“I will.”

“Bon! Bon!” said LaVielle. “Now you must go … and take the money. You may need it now. If your plan works out these Vichy francs won’t be worth the cheap Nazi paper they’re printed on.”

Paul grabbed his valise and placed his hand on the old man’s shoulders.

“I will take care of her, LaVielle,” Paul said his voice never wavering. “And bring her back safely to you when the war is over.”

The old man’s harsh face warmed into a smile. He nodded and stepped aside, showing Paul to the door.

“Bon chance!” LaVielle said. “Prendre le bon soin de ma petite fille!”

“D’accord,” Paul replied and he was gone.

As April had turned to May, so had the weather warmed bringing a lighter feel to the air. Yet despite the sunny skies, there was still a gloom hanging over Paris. To avoid being seen, Paul went along the alleyway until he reached her building. Slipping in through the back entrance, he cautiously made his way along the hall. The scratchy sounds of a radio broadcast could be heard. When he found her flat he tried the door and found it open. Stepping inside silently, Paul called out her name, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Marielle! Marielle!” Hearing nothing in return, he stood motionless and heard her footsteps coming from the downstairs parlor. She was mumbling something under her breath when he spoke up again. “Marielle!”

“Que?” she called out then froze when she saw Paul standing at the top of the stairway. “Que faites-vous ici? Etes-vous fou?”

“I’ve come for you and I’m not crazy,” Paul said reaching for her hand as she stepped up beside him.

“The Capitain could arrive here any minute,” she exclaimed softly. “If he finds you here he will kill you … he will kill us both!”

“That is why you must leave with me,” Paul said. “Your days in Paris are few if you don’t come with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she said with a laugh. “Now leave. Take your forged papers and go.”

“Not without you,” Paul said, pulling the extra set of papers from the pocket of his jacket. “Your father gave me these.”

“My father?” she said, taking hold of the papers and looking them over. “But he … you … me?”

“You must come with me, Marielle,” Paul insisted, wishing that the long deep look in his dark blue eyes could convince her. “I cannot tell you everything, but in another month or two when the Allies come, your safety net will be gone and you will be left at the mercy of the mob.”

“The Allies?” Marielle laughed. “Rolf told me that they are hopelessly bogged down in Italy and will never make it north of Rome.”

“He is wrong,” Paul asserted. He looked at her ice blue eyes and weighed his words. He had no choice but to tell her something, something that might convince her to come with him. “In a month’s time the Allies will have landed in France. In perhaps two months Paris will be in their hands and votre ami Allemand will be long gone.”

“He won’t leave me,” she insisted.

“He won’t leave you?” Paul said, his fingers moving over her cheek where the faint red scar marred her soft clear skin. “The man who would do this, would leave you in an instant. And once he is gone, the Free French will have no part of collaborateurs.” Paul reached out to her taking her pretty face in his hands. “It will not be easy, but you will be safe. I promise! You must come with me … now!” He leaned forward pulling her toward his inviting kiss.