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Stephenie Meyer owns any Twilight characters that may appear in this story. The remainder is my original work. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written authorization.
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Esme approaches Café Flore the next day and is hit with an uncharacteristic attack of nerves right before she is set to walk in. So much so that she has to take a step back away from the door and circle the block once before she can try again. She casts furtive glances around herself as she approaches for the second time, although if anyone were really watching her, she doubts she would realize it.
Finally she gets angry with herself, because she has never been the sort of woman to shy away from difficult situations. Besides, how on earth can she hope to follow through with the rest of it if she can't find the courage to make this initial inquiry? After all, this is just Café Flore. She knows everyone here. They are all old friends. She is stopping in to say hello, nothing more. Why should that be any cause for concern?
One more steeling deep breath and she enters. She knows Pierre, who's standing behind the bar, lazily wiping glasses. And she knows Charlotte, the waitress, who is leaning on the bar, chatting with Pierre. The place is nearly empty. This is partly because Esme has chosen to come at three, well after the lunch rush, but before the dinner crowd. And partly it's because all the restaurants are nearly empty these days.
She walks straight back to the bar, smiling at Pierre and Charlotte.
"Esme Benoit!" Pierre smiles, looking up from the glasses. "It's been too long!" he reaches across the bar and takes Esme's gloved hand, kissing it gallantly. Esme turns to Charlotte, pulling her close and kissing her on both cheeks. "What brings you to us today, my dear?"
"I was walking by and realized how long it's been since I've seen my old friends here. I thought I'd stop for a Kir Royale and we could catch up a little."
Pierre and Charlotte smile and accept her story without question. Pierre makes a fuss over her, getting down one of the cut crystal glasses he saves for people's wedding celebrations before pouring her a Kir. Charlotte bustles around her, wiping down the counter, asking her if she'd like a bowl of nuts, or maybe olives. Esme declines it all, she just accepts her Kir and sips delicately. She asks all the expected questions, she asks about Maxim, Pierre's boss and another old friend. She asks after Pierre's mother, who she recalls is in bad health. The conversation is easy and superficial, comparing notes on who has seen who, who is in town. They skirt all mention of those who have inexplicably vanished.
Without missing a beat or changing her tone in any way, Esme says, "You know, speaking of old friends, I ran into Caius Faubourgh yesterday."
Pierre's expression never changes, but Esme thinks she notices him hesitate just a moment before responding.
"Oh? And how is Caius?"
"The same as he always is, dear man. Maybe looking a little older, just like all of us!" Esme says lightly. This is it, she thinks, it's now or never. "He's such a dear man. I have a little problem, I find myself in need of a consultation about a certain matter, and he was so helpful in suggesting just who I ought to see."
Esme stops there, lets it hang in the air. Pierre says nothing for a moment, he keeps his eyes on the bar, which suddenly requires his full attention.
"Is that so?" he finally says. "I'm glad he could help you out." And nothing else. He does not meet her eyes, he gives her no clues that any other information might be forthcoming. Although as she watches him carefully, she is sure he is refraining from saying something. She is new to all this, this subterfuge, this coded language, and she has no idea how far she can go, how explicit she can be. So she leaves off, inwardly dejected, already flipping through her friends in her mind, determining who she should speak with next.
"Well, well, my friends, I really must be going. So many things to attend to." Esme slides off the bar stool and slips her gloves back on before retrieving her bag. "It was so lovely to visit with you both. Pierre, do send my regards to your lovely mother."
He smiles at her then, awkwardly, "I'll do that, Esme. Thank you. She always did like you."
"And I adore her. Take care of yourself, Pierre, Charlotte."
Esme gives them each a smile and a tiny nod of the head before turning for the exit. She is nearly out the door when Charlotte's voice stops her.
"Esme! Your handkerchief!" Charlotte is hurrying towards her, a wrinkled little handkerchief clutched in her fist…a handkerchief that Esme is sure is not hers. But she turns and beams a flawless smile at Charlotte. When Charlotte reaches her, Esme takes the handkerchief and pulls Charlotte in close to kiss her cheek. As Charlotte's smooth, pale cheek is pressed to her own, Esme hears her frantic whisper in her ear.
"The catacombs. Go tonight after nine. Tell them I sent you."
Then Charlotte is leaning back and when Esme sees her face, there is not a single indication that anything at all had passed between them other than a grateful farewell between friends. Esme keeps her game smile in place until she is well away from Café Flore. The catacombs. Of all the vile places. Of course they would be meeting down there. Who else on earth would venture there except a bunch of desperate renegades? It seems somehow fitting; those marked for death mingling around down there with the centuries of Parisians already dead. Esme chooses not to dwell any further on the morbid overtones of this train of thought.
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She realizes almost immediately that she's worn all the wrong things. She chose her crisp brown tweed suit because it wouldn't show dirt, but the skirt is tight and narrow. As soon as she finds the tiny door at the street level, she's confronted with an endless rickety spiral staircase down into the dark and the skirt is a hindrance. Trousers would have been smarter, although Esme abhors them. She's also wearing her lovely tan suede pumps and the ground, when she finally reaches it, is nothing but packed dirt. They'll be ruined for sure.
Now that she's down here, she realizes that she's never been before. Parisian children come here, they like to scare each other with stories of ghosts and skeletons come to life. But Esme was an adult when she arrived in Paris. She knew of the catacombs, of course, and she even had a vague sense of where the entrance was, but she's never come. She was smart enough, however, to bring her tiny emergency lantern, which she needed the second she stepped off the street.
She's somewhat surprised that no one met her as she stepped off the street, or at least at the bottom of the stairs. But there is no one, no sign of life. The air is cool and musty and still and there is not a hint of light from anywhere. It is unremittingly dark in every direction and absolutely silent. She wonders if perhaps Charlotte was wrong about the night. Or if maybe the meeting was cancelled and she didn't know. Considering the circumstances, it would be hard to communicate with everyone.
Her lantern tells her that there is a long passageway straight ahead of her and with no other options, she follows it. It leads to a tiny room and another tunnel and she spies writing over the entryway. Raising her lantern to light it, Esme reads the words carved into the marble lintel mounted over the tunnel. "Arrête, c'est ici l'empire de la Mort". She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop the laughter, for it's so ridiculous and melodramatic and appropriate that she can hardly bear it. Aro would have seen the humor, she thinks briefly, before shoving aside that destructive memory.
She walks for several long minutes, only able to see the tiny arc of packed earthen tunnel picked out in the weak flicker of light. More than once she makes up her mind that this is all a colossal mistake and she's going to turn around and go back home, but each time she decides to go another fifty feet first. Then she hears it. Muffled voices far up ahead. So they are down here. She walks on, making no attempt to be quiet or douse her light. Better that they should know that she's coming than she should burst on them and surprise them down here.
"Someone's coming!"
"Shit!"
"Run out the east tunnel!"
"Too late. We'll never make it to the surface!"
The murmurs echo in the dark tunnel.
"I'm not with the Nazis!" Esme barks into the dark, to halt their frantic flight.
There is silence ahead of her and she keeps going. Light begins to grey out the tunnel around her, eventually refining itself into a subtle glow coming from an opening off the left of the tunnel ahead.
"Who are you?" The voice comes at her again, louder now that she is closer.
"Esme Benoit," she replies, uncertain if it's the right thing to do to use her real name. But she's in too deep to try to protect herself now so there's no sense in worrying about it.
There is silence again as she closes the distance. When she finally turns out of the tunnel, into the tiny, low ceilinged earthen room, she squints against the light, even though it's only one flickering kerosene lantern. She takes a moment to observe the three people she finds there as they observe her. It's a woman and two men. The woman is probably close to Esme's age, although far less smartly decked out. She's wearing a pair of baggy tan men's trousers and an oversized men's jumper. Her dark hair is scraped back off her forehead and her hands are ink-stained. She might have been attractive in the right clothes and with her hair done. There is something slightly familiar about her eyes and Esme thinks she must have been at the house on some night or other. But the woman's expression is studiously blank as she takes in Esme, so Esme keeps hers blank as well. In this new world it seems that all the old relationships are dissolved. No one knows anyone.
One of the men is slight, shorter than Esme, in a rumpled tweed suit and small wire-rimmed glasses. The other man is large, so tall he's stooping slightly in the low room. He's younger, perhaps in his mid-twenties, and sandy blond. He has the sleeves of his dirty white shirt rolled up above his elbows and his fingers are stained with ink like the woman's. The small man steps forward and his body language tells Esme that he's in charge, or at least considers himself to be.
"Who sent you here?" he barks.
Esme has spent her life teaching herself not to be afraid, to be mistress of herself in every situation. But she finds that in this moment, anxiety like she hasn't known in years floods her system. She's a confident woman, able to talk to almost anyone effortlessly, but she feels out of her depth here and completely unsure of herself. She also realizes suddenly that she can be killed simply for being where she is at this moment. She swallows hard and hopes that no one can see her attack of nerves.
"Charlotte Lafitte from Café Flore sent me."
He eyes her skeptically and says nothing. The other two are silent as well. There are papers scattered everywhere on a rickety table set up between them, and some sort of crude printing press. Ah, Esme thinks in understanding, this is where they print up those fly-by-night papers and manifestos.
It's then, while the three of them are examining her closely, that Esme notices the bones. Bones stacked everywhere, bones made into walls, walls of bones that disappear into passageways made of bones, that open into other rooms, rooms lined in bones. The bones are stacked neatly like cord wood, and decorated with more bones, leg bones making X's in the wall of bones; rows of leering skulls adorning the tops of the bone walls like some vile picket fence. She's heard about the catacombs, and has been told what's down here, but now that she's seeing it, she can't quite comprehend the scale of it, the planning, the tidy, almost artful organization of human remains. It's lurid, morbid, grotesque and utterly fascinating. Of course they picked this place. Who in their right mind would come down here alone at night? She must be mad.
She's pulled out of her shameless ogling of the bones by the voice of the small bespectacled leader. "What do you want?"
Esme takes a deep breath. She hasn't given much thought to what she will say, how she will present herself. Usually she needs no sort of rehearsal. But now that she's faced with these people, she finds herself momentarily at a loss and her nerves come back again in full force.
Finally she says, "I may have access to information that you might find useful."
"What sort of information?"
"I can't be certain. But I'm in a position to hear things. Things you might want to know."
"I know what sort of position you're in," the large blond man suddenly interjects. "I know who you are. You throw parties for the fucking Nazis. She's got the officers in her house every damned night," he says, this time to the short man.
"Yes, they do come to my house." Esme says calmly, not wanting to let his hostile attitude get to her. "That's how I hear what I hear."
"We can't trust her," the blond man says to his slight companion, "The Nazis probably sent her here."
The little man says nothing for a moment, and he doesn't acknowledge his large blond friend. "What makes you so eager to help?"
Esme just blinks at him in disbelief. What else would she do?
"What else would I do?"
"You could keep your head down and your nose clean, like everyone else in Paris," he says, eyeing her skeptically.
Esme snorts dismissively. "Once I understood…that's not really an option for me," she finally finishes tersely.
"Well, Madame Benoit, I'm sure you feel very brave coming down here, but I'm not sure if it's worth the risk so that we can pick up a few tidbits about which operas the Nazis prefer." He starts to turn away from her, dismissing her. "I'm sure you can find your way back out and I trust that you won't reveal what you've seen here?"
The blond man smirks in satisfaction, sneering dismissively at Esme as he turns back to the woman, who is glancing nervously at Esme. Esme feels her blood begin to boil, all thoughts of fear and intimidation forgotten.
"The Germans are planning a move into Egypt," Esme barks imperiously, "Do the Allies know that?"
All three faces in the room pivot to stare at her in unison. No one says anything. Finally the little man clears his throat.
"How do you know this?"
Esme gives him a bored stare. "I told you, they come to my house, they drink too much, they talk. I am willing to risk my life to tell you what they say. Now do you want to hear it or not?"
He blinks at her owlishly from behind his glasses.
"You understand how dangerous this would be, yes?"
"Believe me, I understand."
"If you are caught at this, there will be nothing we can do for you. No one will help you. You will be entirely on your own, and probably executed as a spy."
"I know all this. I'm well aware of the danger."
"And you still want to proceed?"
Esme meets his eyes for a moment. Finally she says softly, "They must be stopped, mustn't they? I have to try."
They stare at each other for another long silent moment as he makes up his mind.
"Come to the market at Place Saint Medard in two days at nine o'clock," he finally says. "Someone will find you and give you more information. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that you must say nothing of this to anyone."
"I know that. I'll be there."
Esme doesn't wait to see if there is anything else they have to say. She has the piece of information she needs. She turns on her heel and heads back down the hallway the way she came. She's certain that she doesn't draw a full breath until she is safely back in her boudoir an hour later.
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Esme shifts the woven basket to her other arm and pretends to examine the wilted carrots as if she knows what she's looking at and actually cares. Tati looked at her as if she'd lost her mind this morning when she insisted that she wanted to do the shopping. It was all Esme could do to keep her face straight and her voice level. She would have to become a much better liar if this was going to work.
She casts a surreptitious glance to the side from under her lashes, even though she has no idea what or who she's looking for. That's the point, of course. The contact, when it comes, if it comes, should be completely beneath anyone's notice. Just two people exchanging an entirely unremarkable bit of casual conversation at the market. If she can see the contact coming, then so can everyone else. So she turns her attention back to the carrots and makes a show of selecting a few.
The carrot-choosing can't be dragged out any longer, so she pays for her small handful and moves on to a busy stall selling eggs. Eggs are hard to come by and there's a crowd. The idea of eggs actually piques Esme's interest. An omelet would be divine. She should get some eggs and have Tati make her one. Now that she thinks on it, Madame Chernot, her elderly next-door neighbor, probably hasn't had eggs in months. She will get some for her as well.
She manages to make it to the front of the stall and procure the eggs, but while she's been making her purchase, a crowd has gathered behind her and she can't get back out to the street. Each time she tries to push through the jostling scrum of people, she gets rudely shoved. Just as she's about to lose her temper and start snapping, she feels a strong hand close around her elbow and hears a voice in her ear.
"Here, Madame, allow me to assist you."
She says nothing, only smiles tightly and allows the stranger to help her though the crowd. She turns her head just enough to catch a glimpse. He's dark-haired, bespectacled, mid-height, completely unremarkable.
"Thank you," she murmurs as they clear the crowd.
"It's nothing, Madame," he demurs. "Tell me, Madame, do you attend church?"
Esme blinks once and can't think of a reply to his completely ridiculous question.
"Church? Well, I…that is, not for many years…."
"Might I suggest Saint Germain l'auxerrois?"
Esme continues to stare at him, although her brain is beginning to catch up. This is it. Her contact, the next step.
"I think you'll find that it's quite peaceful and lovely there. The right hand aisle, near the back in particular, has some remarkable stained glass. Inspiring."
By now she has completely recovered herself and responds in her usual tone, smooth as silk. "Is that right? I may have to pay a visit soon. Might you be able to tell me a good time to attend? You know, when it's not too crowded?"
Finally a flicker of emotion crosses his face and the corner of his mouth twitches up. He's amused by her, by how quickly she's caught on and by how well she plays. She thinks he seems to relax just a tiny bit.
"Thursday mornings are always quiet there. Around eleven. It's a good time for…quiet contemplation."
"Thank you," Esme says smoothly, smiling at him. "What a helpful recommendation you've given me."
He nods his head slightly, "I'm delighted I could assist you, Madame."
The conversation seems at an end and he's about to turn away, but then he pauses. His eyes meet hers and there's a moment of connection, his face is tight, concerned. "Good luck to you, Madame," he says quietly.
She looks back, tries to communicate to him her resolution, her commitment to following this through, but all she can say is, "Thank you."
Then he is gone and Esme is standing alone in the center of the market, her heart pounding its way out of her chest. Thursday. Two days away.