Vichy looked like what it had always been—a resort town. And the people he’d seen on the streets as they were driven from the train station to the hotel-turned-government-building had the air of holiday goers.
Wrong, all of it.
Behind him, Grigoryan stepped out of the car and clapped a hand to his shoulder, folding the newspaper he’d been reading and tossing it back to the seat. “Well, that was good news for a change.”
Marcel lifted his brows—a bit of good news before they went in would be welcome.
“A general made a rather daring escape from the prison he’d been held in and made his way home. Giraud—did you know him?”
“No,” Marcel said. “But I didn’t rub elbows with many higher-ups. I was just the rabble in the military.”
Grigoryan gave him a grin. “Not here, though. Here, you’re the one sought out.” He motioned toward the hotel. “Come, let us go in and see where this meeting is to be held.”
Marcel nodded, because what else was he to do? His gaze scanned everyone they passed, and only when they stepped into Hôtel du Parc and his heart sank did he realize he’d been hoping for a glimpse of Zelie.
Idiot.She’d promised to find him once he got here, yes, but not the very minute. She’d be busy doing her job—and leaving him to do his. That was what he needed to focus on now.
If he screwed up this interview, all their careful work in Paris would be useless.
Grigoryan led the way to the front desk with the ease of a man well accustomed to striding into expensive hotels and demanding the best rooms. Or in this case, information.“Bonjour,”he boomed as he neared. “Areg Grigoryan and Marcel Laurent to see the marshal and his cabinet about the youth orchestra.”
The man behind the desk looked like little more than a youth himself. He jumped to his feet, eyes bright. “Monsieur Laurent, what an honor to meet you! I’m a big fan. My family saw you perform here three years ago.”
Well, at least it was easy to remember to smile. Only in certain circles was he recognized, and generally only by the most avid of music appreciators. Which meant they had something in common. He stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Always a pleasure to meet another music lover. Do you play an instrument? Or sing?”
The boy—he couldn’t be more than twenty, could he?—drew in a breath that puffed out his chest as he reached to pump Marcel’s hand with exuberance. “Not compared to you,monsieur, but I’ve been playing the piano since I was four. Just for fun, mind you. I’m no concert pianist.”
“The venue doesn’t matter,mon ami. Only the love of the music.” He halted the vigorous hand pumping with a clasp of his other hand over their joined ones. “What’s your name?”
“René Faye,monsieur.”
He repeated the name three times silently, smiling. “Well, René, if I’m blessed enough to get to participate in this new youth orchestra I’m here to discuss, I hope to see you again—either in an audition or in the audience at one of our concerts.”
The lad beamed. “I do hope to audition,monsieur. Thank you. I believe they’re waiting for you in the tearoom, right down that corridor.”
“Well played,” Grigoryan muttered as they walked away. “That’s René Nicholy’s nephew, you know. Named after him and everything.”
Marcel’s gaze snapped to his friend. “The head of Durand Editions?” He knew the music publisher had long been passionate about initiatives for the young, but he hadn’t realized the man had a nephew. Then again, he didn’t know him well. They’d only met a few times, when Marcel had recorded pieces that Durand handled.
Grigoryan chuckled. “You didn’t know? I suppose you’re always that kind to young fans.”
Well... yes. It hadn’t beenthatlong ago that hewasa young fan. He knew how far a bit of kindness and encouragement could go. “Is Monsieur Nicholy perchance on this committee we’re meeting?”
“It’s likely. This orchestra will be an offshoot of his Jeunesse Musicales de France, so you would answer to him.”
Marcel nodded at the mention of the Young Musicians of France. “Then let’s be glad it’s my habit to be kind to young fans.” He paused out of sight of the open doors they were clearly headed to and took a moment to check his collar and tie and make sure his shirt was still tucked into his trousers after the hours traveling.
“You look fine,” Grigoryan assured him, clapping a hand to his back. “And you are used to performing, yes? This is simply a concert with your words instead of your fingers.”
Words weren’t his preferred method of impressing people he needed to impress. But he straightened his spine and nodded, imagining the feel of Zelie’s hand against his arm, or better still, her fingers woven through his.
Funny how dear a friend she’d become in six short days. Even funnier how the thought of disappointing her was a punch in the gut like the ones he’d caught all too often when breaking up a row between the triplets.
She believed he could do this. And even if she wasn’t here, this wasn’t a solo performance. Grigoryan was at his side, yes, but even more importantly, the Lord strode with him. He’d spent much of the train ride in prayer, giving this coming meeting to the one who held it all in his hand. Only if it was his will did Marcel want the opportunity. If it wasn’t, he would find some other way to help the Allies. And if it was, then nothing could hinder it.
He nodded and followed Grigoryan into the room.
It might be called a tearoom, but it was twice the size of the restaurant he’d found Gabriel and Anne in, with a whole wall of windows that kept the space as bright and airy as that bistro was smoky and dark. Yet in the whole room, only one table was occupied—a large one, though, with six people around it and two empty chairs.
