The Nightingale

At her arrival, he looked up but didn’t stand.

Vianne didn’t know quite what to do. She wanted him to be invisible right now, tucked behind the closed door of his room, someone she could completely discount. And yet he had risked his career to help Rachel. How could she ignore that?

“Bad things are happening, Madame. Impossible things. I trained to be a soldier, to fight for my country and make my family proud. It was an honorable choice. What will be thought of us upon our return? What will be thought of me?”

She sat down beside him. “I worry about what Antoine will think of me, too. I should not have given you that list of names. I should have been more frugal with my money. I should have worked harder to keep my job. Perhaps I should have listened to Isabelle more.”

“You should not blame yourself. I’m sure your husband would agree. We men are perhaps too quick to reach for our guns.”

He turned slightly, his gaze taking in her attire.

She was dressed in her overalls and a black sweater. A black scarf covered her hair. She looked like a housewife version of a spy.

“It is dangerous for her to run,” he said.

“And to stay, apparently.”

“And there it is,” he said. “A terrible dilemma.”

“Which is more dangerous, I wonder?” Vianne asked.

She expected no answer and was surprised when he said, “Staying, I think.”

Vianne nodded.

“You should not go,” he said.

“I can’t let her go alone.”

Beck considered that. Finally he nodded. “You know the land of Monsieur Frette, where the cows are raised?”

“Oui. But—”

“There is a cattle trail behind the barn. It leads to the least manned of the checkpoints. It is a long walk, but one should make the checkpoint before curfew. If someone were wondering about that. Not that I know anyone who is.”

“My father, Julien Rossignol, lives in Paris at 57 Avenue de La Bourdonnais. If I … didn’t come home one day…”

“I would see that your daughter made it to Paris.”

He rose, taking the picture with him. “I am to bed, Madame.”

She stood beside him. “I am afraid to trust you.”

“I would be more afraid not to.”

They were closer now, ringed together by the meager light.

“Are you a good man, Herr Captain?”

“I used to think so, Madame.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do not thank me yet, Madame.”

He left her alone with the light and returned to his room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Vianne sat back down, waiting. At seven thirty, she retrieved the heavy black shawl that hung from a hook by the kitchen door.