August 28, 1939

Matthew Williams scurried through the hallways of the Louvre, his heart beating erratically in his chest, his palms clammy. For the past two days, all around him, men and women hurried to strip the beautiful, old walls of their art, removing the fragile canvases from their frames and packing them carefully into crates. The halls now looked like graveyards for art; on the floor were empty frames leaning against walls marked with white chalk X's, indicating the previous occupant of that space.

The Denon wing, the hall Matthew was currently rushing through, and the hall that was normally crowded with visitors during open hours, was eerily quiet. Even though the wing was active, workers removed the art in hushed conversation as if in reverence. It made Matthew's stomach turn. However, the new burst of sweat at the back of his neck came from a concerning message that had just been delivered.

Matthew had been called to the director's office. Jacques Jaujard, director of the National Museums and the Louvre evacuation, had been making last minute adjustments and confirmations when Matthew entered. Various assistants and curators bustled about the office, a flurry of paperwork and rapid French, and Matthew squeezed between them to reach Jaujard.

"Pardon," Matthew began. "You called, sir?"

Jaujard looked up at him. "Matthew, yes. As you know, we are preparing for departure."

Matthew did know. He'd been anxiously waiting for this moment for two days. "Yes, sir, though I don't know which convoy I'm on."

Jaujard nodded and slid a sheet of paper across his desk. It was a copy of the Lablanche convoy orders. "Since you are Duval's assistant, you will be with him and the Lablanche convoy. That is where you're assigned until further notice."

Matthew scanned the document. He'd been assistant to the curator, Laurent Duval, for two years now. It was a sad day that the Louvre needed to take this action but Matthew firmly believed that the culture and history within these walls were worth more than several of his lives. Considering where he was about to go, for only the Lord knew how long, Matthew couldn't think of anyone he'd rather spend this exile with.

"You'll be heading out at six, so take the next hour to prepare yourself," Jaujard finished.

It was already five in the morning. Matthew wondered when he last ate. He nodded to the unruffled man. "Merci, Monsieur."

"Bon courage, Monsieur Williams."

.

Château de Lablanche, three hours west of Paris, was a large, beautiful château. The white stone walls that gave it its name gleamed in the sun, the lawns that stretched from the gate to the front of the mansion were impeccably green, and bright, healthy red roses bloomed generously on bushes hugging the walls.

Matthew would have felt as giddy as a tourist visiting the centuries old château, but current circumstances kept him from seeing the elegant fortress as anything more than a hideout. Despite the twilight sun, unaware that a dark war was brewing, a cloud of anxiety and uncertainty hovered over the small caravan driving up the château's driveway – and it grew by the hour.

They'd driven through Lablanche a half hour earlier, their whole crew diverting curious eyes and townspeople's questions. Everyone wanted to know what they were transporting, what were those box-shaped things strapped to multiple trucks under tarps? Matthew was given strict orders to remain silent about their cargo.

"Voici," Matthew heard his companion, his supervisor, his colleague say. Yes, here they were. As the leader of their convoy, Laurent Duval stopped the truck, exited, and signaled to the other drivers to stop and begin unloading the cargo. Matthew took a handful of precious seconds to close his eyes where he sat. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the arduous task ahead. Then, with his mind back on track, he slid from the passenger side and joined Duval at the back where they opened the hatch of their truck.

Wooden crates, stamped only with the letters MN, Musées Nationaux, were packed tightly in the truck. With the help of Duval and other crew members, Matthew withdrew each crate and hefted them into the château's open doors. Men and women who worked at the château, footmen to gardeners, maids to cooks, helped direct traffic and stationed themselves in the château to oversee the unloading.

Matthew didn't have time to stop and take in the interior of the splendid mansion. They needed to unload the trucks as quickly as possible, send them back to Paris, and properly situate the crates in the château.

Château de Lablanche was their hideaway. It would be Matthew's new home indefinitely. He, Duval, and twenty other crew members would share residence with their precious cargo – hundreds of pieces of priceless art evacuated that day from Paris.

While military combat was inevitable with the war breaking to the east, Matthew was flung into a different war. He pledged his service to protecting world history, human achievement, and the art of cultures that would otherwise have been lost to modern humanity.

Matthew Williams, Canadian born, did not know how long they would fight for the Louvre and its art. He did not know how long the war would keep him away from his home in Paris. His mind could only handle one thing at a time, and he was focused on unloading the crates. Men and women's voices carried from inside the mansion, directing crates to the basement, the sitting rooms, or the hallways. They worked all through the night, long after the trucks had been sent back to the city; determining the best locations for certain crates and making sure each piece of art survived the trip unscathed.

Some of the maids on staff brought trays of water, bread, and cheese. Matthew had barely noticed them, or whether he accepted food or water, during that time. He worked alongside Duval, checking each crate and marking each piece's condition off on the forms. Low, tentative conversation buzzed around them in the grand salon. It was a shame that such a fine room was to be virtually unusable. The many crates littered and stacked across the room made entertaining, let alone simply sitting, there impossible. It was a shame, but Matthew knew better than to be distracted. He could easily go through each room of the château and think of what a shame it was that it couldn't be enjoyed the way it was meant to. Thinking like that would derail him.

"Matthew, have you eaten?" he suddenly heard Duval ask him through his muddled thoughts.

Matthew pushed his glasses up his nose as he glanced up at Duval. "Hmm? Oh. I think I had some bread and cheese."

"That was hours ago. Lunch will be called in a few moments. Come eat."

Lunch? Matthew jogged his brain and counted back the hours. Yes, they'd arrived in the evening the previous day. It was already noon. Matthew hadn't had more than an hour's rest at a time in three days.

Lunch was served in the dining room. A grand dining table, fifteen feet long, was more than enough room for Matthew, Duval, and the twenty other crew members to sit down to a properly prepared meal. It was also Matthew's first full meal in days.

"Enjoy a full meal while we can," one of the men said. "I should think we'll be rationed soon."

The lunch may have been simple by the château's standards, but it was plentiful by Matthew's. Three courses filled his stomach: a salad that Matthew hadn't had so fresh in ages, soup that delighted on his tongue, and a main course of smoked salmon and vinaigrette crêpes. He sipped on a small glass of white wine that succeeded in mellowing out his frazzled mind.

It was then that the table conversation transitioned from Louvre and war topics in favor of the château itself.

"Will the duke be visiting?" someone asked Duval.

Duval nodded. "I received confirmation that the duke will be arriving within the week. He's to remain here with us."

The man grumbled. "Another mouth to feed and another room to spare."

Duval slanted the man a look. "Be grateful that he lent us his château. It's one of the biggest depots Jaujard acquired. You know how important this location is."

The other man made reluctant noises of acceptance around a mouthful of food.

"Who is the duke again?" Matthew asked Duval in his own hushed tone.

"The Duc de Lablanche, Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy," Duval said.

The name caused a rise in the volume of chatter. "Sounds like a frou-frou to me," Matthew heard someone say.

"It doesn't matter what he's like," Duval said in a leveled tone. "He has graciously offered his services to the Louvre and I will not hear of ill remarks against him."

The deprecating comments had ceased for the time and Matthew felt relaxed. Duval was a friendly man, but he was also stern when he needed to be and his air of authority was never violated. Secretly, he wished he could be more like Duval. Matthew himself was so soft-spoken, and while it worked for his particular job – giving off a pleasant air while guiding tours and speaking in a tone that complemented the sanctity of the Louvre – it wasn't so useful for commanding attention and authority during times of strife. That was his brother's specialty, he thought wryly. He would remain Duval's quiet, efficient assistant.

After most everyone had finished eating, and casual conversation struck up around him, the effects of the meal filling his belly finally pulled on his eyelids. He was nodding off, and Duval noticed.

"When was the last time you slept?" he inquired lowly to Matthew.

Matthew massaged his eyes behind his glasses. "For more than an hour? The night before Jaujard made the orders."

"Mon dieu, Matthew, you'll collapse from exhaustion."

"But we've got more work to do," he replied, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

"You won't be of much use in a heap on the floor. We're taking shifts now. You and the others head upstairs. The maids will lead you to your bedroom. Sleep, and when you wake up come find me."

Matthew would have protested, but Duval's insistence and his own exhaustion conceded. Matthew and a handful of the others stood from the table and met a group of maids in the hallway.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," a petite young woman said to him. She inclined her head in a respectful bow. The girl looked barely out of her teens, younger than Matthew's twenty-three years at least, but she was quite pretty; she had a neat blonde bob and youthful green eyes. A bow was tied immaculately in her hair. "Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît. I will show you to your room."

"Merci," Matthew said and followed the girl up the foyer's center staircase.

Some of the men were to be bunked together. There were only three women on their crew so all three shared one of the larger apartments. Matthew noticed that no one followed him as his roommate.

The maid brought him to a room at the end of the hall, a door on the left, which when opened revealed a bedroom smaller than Matthew had anticipated. It might have been a nursery once upon a time. However, Matthew wasn't in a place to complain and frankly didn't care. As long as he had a mattress and a door that shut. The maid told him where he could find the toilet and washroom and provided him with towels. His suitcase was already present, sat at the foot of the luxuriously covered double bed.

"Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle," he said finally. "Comment vous appelez-vous?"

The girl looked almost shocked to be asked such a question, but righted herself quickly. "Lili, Monsieur. Ring the bell here if you need anything." She bowed her head once more and left Matthew to his peace.

He was alone. No roommate. At least for the night. Though the château was indeed large, with over a dozen guest rooms.

Matthew took one of the hand towels Lili provided and set off down the hall to the toilet and washroom. After a splash of water to his face, running cool, wet fingers through dark blond hair, he retreated to his new bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. He felt like he could fall asleep instantly there on top of the duvet. He couldn't hear a thing outside his bedroom and the quiet was missed and welcome.

The conversation over lunch floated through his semi-conscious dreams, one name standing out: the duke, Francis Bonnefoy. Matthew's dream thoughts wondered lazily about him. His colleagues had made jibes at the duke but that didn't mean they were true. He wondered what kind of man Monsieur Bonnefoy was. Was he an art lover? Simply a patriot? Perhaps he was a distinguished gentleman with nothing more to do in his old age than offer his nearly empty home in service of the Louvre.

Whatever kind of man he was, Matthew didn't care much. He thanked him for the bed and the food and promptly fell asleep.

In fact, no one bothered to wake him. No one bothered him for a whole day.

Matthew woke with a start to the sound of car horns blaring through the panes of his window. He blinked in the darkness and saw that it was night, or early morning, he didn't know which. He rubbed his eyes and slid his glasses on. The clock on the mantle showed 10:35. It was night.

Another car horn and raised shouts permeated from the outside and Matthew threw himself out of bed with a speeding pulse and raced to the window. Was it the police? Poachers?

With dread, Matthew wondered if it was the Germans. Were they already here?

"Merde," he breathed harshly and ran from the bedroom.

.

When Matthew raced down the staircase of the foyer that night, only one word was screaming through his head: Germans. They'd found them already. They were going to take the art.

He blazed past Lili making her way up the staircase, not hearing her incredulous exclamations of "Monsieur Williams!"

He charged out the double doors and spotted Duval waving his hands and shouting at a man whose silhouette was backlit by the truck's headlights. Matthew wanted to shout at Duval to stop accosting German soldiers when the sound of his bare feet skidding on the gravel alerted Duval.

He swung his head around and raised an eyebrow at Matthew.

"Is something the matter, Matthew?" he asked.

Matthew panted, severely perplexed. "W-what's going on?"

Duval sighed in exasperation. "This bâtard almost ruined priceless art," he said, indicating toward the man standing across from him, his arms crossed.

The man shifted away from the truck's headlights and Matthew saw that he was not, in fact, a German soldier. He was just a truck driver.

"And I said to you," the man spat, "that I can't control the road conditions or impediments."

This incited another heated argument between Duval, the man, and other workers huddled in front of the truck.

"Hey," Matthew began, raising his voice. Though having just woken up, combined with near-debilitating panic and his naturally soft voice, meant he had to clear his throat and repeat himself. "Hey!" The other men finally ceased arguing and looked to Matthew expectantly.

"Shut up, all of you," he said, catching his breath. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, blaring the horn like that. Now if you're done fighting like children we can get the crates into the house before we really are in danger."

The corner of Duval's lip quirked up. He then shot a glare at the truck driver. "You heard him. Unload the truck already."

The other man grumbled under his breath as the convoy team began transporting the crates.

"Matthew, are you alright?" Duval asked him off to the side.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to curl around his chin and at the back of his neck, and because of his fright stuck there in a cold sweat. "I'm fine. I only just thought the Germans had found us is all. I'm perfect."

Duval studied him amusedly for a moment before breaking into laughter and clapping him on the shoulder. "Ah, Williams. I don't mean to make fun of you," he said, noting Matthew's glare. Duval's expression sobered and in a lower tone he asked, "Really, are you doing okay? You slept for over 24 hours."

Matthew scratched the back of his head, his eyes widening in mild amazement. "Did I? Well, I really haven't slept in days."

"No worries, Matthew. We did little except check the cargo and eat. I heard you got a bedroom to yourself."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Maybe that's why I slept so long."

"Then you'll be able to take the next shift. Some of the boys are heading up to sleep."

Matthew nodded. "Of course, just tell me what I need to do."

"It's mostly keeping lookout, making sure the crates stay dry down in the basement and all that. We'll be having dinner at one, breakfast at six, then shift change at lunch."

Matthew nodded once more and began to follow Duval into the house. Duval stopped him suddenly with an amused grin on his face. "You might want to put some shoes on first."

Matthew looked down at his bare feet dusty from the gravel and laughed. "Yeah, good idea."

"Meet me in the grand salon when you're ready."

Duval headed back inside the house, moving down the hall away from the stairs. Matthew climbed up and took the chance to change his clothes and refresh himself in the washroom before heading down. He met Lili on the stairs again.

"Lili, bonsoir."

Lili looked up, as if startled by the greeting directed at her. "Bonsoir, Monsieur. Are you finding everything you need?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Have you rested yet?"

Lili nodded quickly. "I have, Monsieur, don't worry about me. I was just heading up for the night. One of the other maids can help you if you need it."

Matthew nodded. "I'm sorry to keep you. Good night."

"Bonne nuit, Monsieur."

"Please, just Matthew is fine."

Lili was about to object, out of pride and duty he was sure, but instead she gave a small smile and nodded. She resumed her climb to the servants' quarters and Matthew continued to the grand salon.

He entered to find Duval speaking with a man, a man in unidentifiable military clothing and a gun strapped to his back. Both turned their heads at Matthew's entrance. The new man looked strikingly similar to Lili, and the question was ready to fire at the tip of Matthew's tongue when Duval spoke first.

"Matthew, this is Mr. Zwingli, our head of security. He also knows the duke and has worked for him before, so he is very knowledgeable about the château. Mr. Zwingli, my assistant, Matthew Williams."

They shook hands and any questions he had for Mr. Zwingli died on his tongue with the way the man leveled a steady glare at him.

"I take security very seriously Mr. Williams," Zwingli said. "For the sake of the Louvre and the sake of Monsieur Bonnefoy. You have my trust."

Matthew swallowed and nodded. On closer inspection, Matthew was sure Zwingli and Lili were related. They had the same eyes, and the same hair. Granted, Lili's was neater and obviously styled. Zwingli's was like a messier, boyish version of hers. Perhaps he'd ask Lili. Later.

Matthew's job that night was to inspect every crate the workers brought in from the recent convoy with Duval and the others. Since the château staff had all retired for the night, it was relatively empty and quiet in the rest of the house. Matthew thought it peaceful. He was able to talk with the others about all topics, ranging from the war to sports.

"Hockey?" one of his fellow workers questioned.

Matthew laughed and said, "I played on a team in Montreal before I moved to Paris. I miss it."

"Maybe we can find a pond frozen over in the winter," the man jeered.

Matthew smirked. "You'll have a face full of puck and your pants filled with frozen pond scum."

Duval laughed. "I'm on his team."

"You play?" Matthew asked.

"Not once."

Matthew chuckled. "We'll see, then."

They worked like that into the morning. As the sun crested over the treetops, the château came alive again. The staff began bustling about, doing as much cleaning as they could around the Louvre workers.

At six, breakfast was served. Lili came to Matthew and Duval with a tray. Breakfast was a light affair: toast with strawberry preserves, a soft-boiled egg, and a glass of juice.

"Lili, can I ask a question?" Matthew said when Duval had shifted away.

"What is it?" she replied.

He bit his lip before taking the plunge. "Are you and Mr. Zwingli related?" Her eyebrows rose and Matthew hurried to add, "I'm sorry if it's personal, you don't have to answer."

Lili shook her head. "No, not at all, Monsieur. He's my older brother," she said frankly. Matthew suspected as much. "Vash helped me get this job. He knows Monsieur Bonnefoy well." She stopped. "I'm sorry, it's not my place to say more."

"I understand." Matthew gulped the last of his juice and returned his plate to her tray. "Thank you, Lili."

"You're welcome, Monsieur Mathieu."

"I told you that you could just call me Matthew."

Lili gave him an uncertain smile. "It would be disrespectful to the Château to address you so casually."

"Why? We're both working here for the time being. I'm no one special."

Again, Lili shook her head with a sigh, then a smile. "Alright, Mathieu. Remember to join the others for lunch. Good day."

Matthew gave her a smile on her way out. It was nice to have a new friend in this unfamiliar place. Hours later, Zwingli entered the room, gun strapped to his back and a handgun at his waist.

He approached Matthew and said, "Mr. Williams. A word."

Matthew stepped aside with him and felt the urge to look away from his intense glare. The power in his glare made his smaller stature no less intimidating. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

"You have been talking with Lili," he began. "I will warn you right now; she is my little sister and I'm protective of her. We will be at war any day now and the last thing she needs is to be wrapped up in it. Do not think about getting involved."

He sure got to the point fast, Matthew thought dryly. "I'm sorry, sir, if it seemed that way. Your sister is just a friend to me. I have no other intentions." Zwingli's frown never wavered. "I promise."

"Fine," he said at last. "Keep that promise."

Zwingli left the room and Matthew heard Duval chuckling behind him.

"So, Zwingli gave you the warning too?"

"Huh?" Matthew blinked.

"He's warned everyone who glances at her a little too long. Don't take it personally."

"She's really just a friend."

Duval clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him around to the crates. "Don't worry, Williams. We're all practically married to the art anyway, right?"

Matthew laughed. "Right. Can't let La Jaconde know of my escapades."

Duval gave another laugh and shook his arm. "Damn right. Speaking of which, Jaujard called earlier. He said that her current location isn't fit to keep her. We'll be getting her soon."

Matthew's jaw dropped. "Mona Lisa? Here?"

"Yes, but don't tell anyone else yet. I don't want a frenzy to reach outside ears."

"Of course."

Duval gave his shoulder one last pat and they resumed work until lunch.

Lunch was similar to the one Matthew remembered from the other day. Three simple courses, light banter, and half of the crew retired upstairs for a shift change with the men and women waking up from their night's rest. Duval told Matthew to go upstairs too, but he shook his head.

"I slept for a whole day. I'll switch at the 10:00 shift."

Duval cocked a brow and glanced down at Matthew's plate. "At least have another serving. You eat like a bird."

Matthew stuttered protests but Duval hailed a server and Matthew was faced with another slice of quiche. He could eat more, though he usually didn't. However, he didn't want to disrespect the house or the chef. After lunch was cleared the group returned to working, inspecting crates, maneuvering pieces to the best locations, and doing paperwork for the Louvre.

Something light was in the air that day and by the late afternoon the company was all in good spirits. Some of the men would say they were enjoying as much war-free time as possible, but even Matthew decided to join in once the château's wine cellar had been discovered.

Trust the duke to keep the good stuff. As the sun lowered behind the trees ringing the property, Matthew and the others laughed, danced, and sang with the assistance of aged wine. Some of the men pulled the maids into their arms, laughing, as they danced with them, though Lili wasn't in tonight's company. Perhaps that was a good thing. Zwingli simply rolled his eyes from the sidelines. The few women in their crew danced with Matthew in turns. They were colleagues, and Matthew enjoyed the little fête.

The late night shift change descended and Duval sobered himself enough to announce it. He himself staggered up the stairs to bed and Matthew followed soon after.

He could still hear the laughter and gaiety from downstairs. The upstairs hallways were more dimly lit which only made Matthew sleepier. He made it to the end of the hall and stumbled over the corner of the rug, and into the bedroom on the right. The door had looked the same.

His heavily buzzed brain didn't pick out the fact that this bedroom was greatly larger than his own. He didn't notice that the canopy bed could have fit six men comfortably, he didn't notice the settee and armchairs in front of the grand fireplace, and he didn't notice the doors leading to a private bathroom and dressing room.

Matthew clumsily stripped down to his underwear and flopped onto the most luxurious bed he'd ever lain on. He managed to get his glasses onto the side table before the alcohol threw him into deep sleep.

.

A slight headache woke him in the morning. Hazy sunlight slipped through the cracks of his eyes and Matthew rolled away from the window with a groan.

Everything happened too fast for Matthew's hung over brain.

Through blurry vision, an odd, human shaped outline caught his eye. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked up at what was certainly a person. The person was standing over Matthew.

"Merde!" Matthew shrieked and threw himself back. His legs were tragically tangled in the silky sheets and he rolled back and off the edge of the bed. He landed on his hip and shoulder and ground out, "Fils de pute!"

"Excusez-moi?"

Matthew froze, a cold sweat breaking on his skin. He stopped to take stock of where he was. This wasn't his assigned bedroom. What happened the night before? He stumbled down the hallway and… took the door to the right. He didn't know what was in this room at the time – he figured it was another bedroom. But this bedroom was ten times as nice as his little room. That must mean…

Matthew slowly peeked over the edge of the bed. A man stood at the other side, where Matthew had woken up. He wore an immaculate, dark suit, his hands clasped behind his back. His chin was raised confidently and his blue eyes questioned Matthew. Shoulder length blond hair was tied loosely back with a sky blue ribbon and it gleamed bright and golden.

Matthew stood slowly. "Um… bonjour, Monsieur."

"Bonjour," the man said slowly, cautiously.

Matthew wished for merciful death once he realized two things: the first being that, even in his slightly unfocused vision, the man was beautiful; and the second…

I just swore like a degenerate in front of the man who may or may not be the duke.

Hello, friends! I'm back with another historical piece, this time about a subject I found extremely interesting when I read about it. The Louvre evacuation was an immense procedure and part of the war that I had never even considered before. I opened with a cameo from the real-life figure, Jacques Jaujard, director of the National Museums of France during the war, and I appreciate you bearing with me and the extent of research I am able to put into this.

Hope you lovelies enjoy!