Chapter Eight
The next morning, the desire to be alone did not ease. Rather than drive the Firmins from the hotel room, Christine went out.
What would become of her now? Her life ended when she left Erik in Paris. That note had merely been the coup de grace.
I should have stayed with him. I should have let them killed me, too. I was a corward.
"Christine?"
She glanced up and saw Raoul beside her. He tipped his hat, offering her his arm.
"Were you going somewhere?"
"No, Raoul. I just wanted to walk...to get out of that terrible little room for an hour or two."
"May I walk with you. There are so many refugees here now, Marseilles is not so safe."
"You are not a refugee, then?"
He shook his head and paused to allow a tired looking woman carrying a crying infant pass them on the narrow, old street.
"No. I am here on business. My uncle got me a post with the Foreign Office."
They strolled in silence fora time. From a small cafe, she heard the sound of piano. The garish, rattling tune jabbed ruthlessly into her heart.
Raoul saw her distress and guessed that the music reminded her of something...of someone.
"Christine, I am so sorry. About your friend..."
A strong, salt-laced breeze tugged at her hat. She reached up to secure it as she interrupted his condolences.
"Eril was more than my friend. Raoul, he was my life...my soul. He vanished the day the Germans took Paris."
He took her hand.
"I am sorry, Christine. Truly sorry. And I know you probably don't want to hear this...not from me...and not now. But I've often thought about you. Often wondered how you were."
She did not answer him, hardly felt him take her hand.
And they walked on.