Cady said to Madame Martin: “You seem to have great influence over Jean-Paul.”
“He owes me a favor,” she replied.
“Must have been quite the favor.”
Jean-Paul joined them, and he and Madame Martin traded glances but said nothing. Cady had been teasing, but realized—too late—that it sounded like she was snooping into something that was clearly none of her business. These two had gone out of their way to help her. That was more than enough.
As they walked toward the rue de Rivoli, Cady noticed an engraved stone on the side of a building and to break the silence, she said: “I’ve seen several of those around the city. What are they about?”
The plaque read:
GEORGES BAILLY
ETUDIANTENPHARMACIE
ÂGEDE24ANS
ESTMORTHEROÏQUEMENTPOURLAFRANCE
LE25AOÙT1944LALIBERATIONDEPARIS
“Some of the fighters in the Résistance took to the streets in a sort of guerrilla warfare, as the Nazis were starting to lose control,” Madame Martin answered. “Many of them were killed in the battle to liberate Paris. Their families put bouquets of flowers where they fell, and left little handwritten signs. After the war, many were given official recognition.”
“Poor Georges Bailly,” Cady said. “Only twenty-four and going up against Nazis.”
“Many of the soldiers were much younger than that,” said Jean-Paul. “Just teenagers. And there were children as young as twelve and thirteen working with the Résistance.”
“It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it?” said Cady. She often felt as though she had survived a war as a child, but Parisian children had survived an actual war. More than once.
As soon as they sat down at a table in the café, Madame Martin popped back up, exclaiming: “Oh! I forgot I need to make a phone call. I’ll be back.”
Cady watched as the woman left the restaurant. With a sense of relief, she switched back to English. “I think you’re right; yourtanteis trying to get us together. I just can’t imagine why.”
The waiter arrived, and they placed their orders. Then Jean-Paul leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He tilted his head, as though assessing her.
“You do not seem typical.”
“In what way?”
“You have no guiles.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Is that not the right word? When you are without... guiles?”
“You mean guileless.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Are Americans typically full of guile?”
“I’m not speaking of Americans. I am speaking of women. You are not a typical woman.”
She let out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t realize therewassuch thing as a ‘typical’ woman.”
He frowned, as though confused.
“Jean-Paul, I am very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. You have gone out of your way to help a stranger, but I really don’t need a French treatise on who I am, or who I should be, because I’m a woman.”
