Page 21 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

Isabelle looked at her husband, tutted under her breath, then turned to Michel. ‘Wine? Yes? Lucien, pour him some wine. I am making dinner – just chicken, vegetables, nothing like your food in Paris. Tell me. What is it like there now, with everything?’

‘With everything?’ Michel asked.

‘Take this.’ Lucien handed Michel a glass of deep red. ‘We’ll try the white with dinner. But I want you to taste this. See how good it is compared to the café.’

Michel sipped. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Cherries? Strawberries? What do you taste?’

Michel drank again, sniffed the wine. ‘Strawberries.’

‘Very good, very good.’ Lucien sat across from him, satisfied with his guest’s palate.

‘Hush now, Lucien. Michel wants to tell me about Paris. Is it true what they say? That the Germans are everywhere now? Taking what they want, even the women and children?’ Isabelle asked, one hand on her heart.

‘No, no, Madame. Not yet – they were not there when I left. They were coming, of course, but I don’t know what they will do when they arrive.’

‘I do,’ Lucien said, and poured more of the red from a dense green bottle into Michel’s glass.

‘Ignore him. He went to war once – once! And he thinks it will be the same.’

‘It will be worse,’ Lucien said. ‘If we are to believe what has already happened, what is happening – it will be worse. They target people now; Jews, gypsies, the Poles, the educated, the dark-skinned – anyone they decide isn’t German, just like that.’ Lucien snapped his fingers.

‘I had heard—’ Michel began.

‘Quiet, now. Both of you. Lucien, get the white. Michel, eat this before we begin; you look pale.’ Isabelle placed a warm bread roll in front of Michel with a knob of crumbly cheese.

‘You’ll see,’ Lucien said, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed the last of his wine in one gulp, then stood and placed his coarse hands flat on the table. ‘You think I know nothing, but it is the opposite – I know too much.’

Isabelle took the seat that Lucien had vacated. ‘Go and find the white,’ she repeated, her voice quieter.

‘Is he right?’ she asked Michel.

‘I don’t know. I hope he isn’t.’ Michel thought of Bertrand, of Madame Odette.

‘I went to Paris twice, you know. The galleries, the cafés, the restaurants – I was in love, Michel. Tell me they will not ruin it? Will it be German now? All their names – those strange names that are harsh on the tongue. Not civilised, not good enough for Paris.’

‘I don’t think anyone would dare ruin Paris,’ Michel replied. ‘It is Paris. It will always be Paris.’

The answer calmed Isabelle, who returned to stirring pans on the stovetop and checking the roasting chicken in the oven.

‘White!’ Lucien pronounced, and sat down again, placing the bottle in the middle of the table.

Michel sipped more slowly now and watched as Lucien drank one, then two glasses.

‘Careful now, Lucien,’ Isabelle warned as she placed the hot food between them.

Michel ate as quickly as Lucien drank, wiping the chicken juice from his chin with the cream napkin that Isabelle handed him. As his stomach filled, his fork slowed, and Isabelle noticed.

‘Tell me more about yourself, Michel. Where are you going?’

‘None of our business.’ Lucien grinned at her.

Isabelle leaned back in her chair, taking a small glass of wine for herself. A contented look passed over her face that smoothed the lines on her brow. ‘Tell me more of Paris then.’

‘There is not much to tell, Madame. I worked as a horse trainer and then I had to leave. Just like most of Paris have, or will have by now, unless of course they thought they should stay…’

‘I dare say no one would choose to stay.’ Isabelle shuddered and pulled her cardigan closer to her.