There is a new Live Journal entry to accompany this chapter:
http://resistance-esme(dot)livejournal(dot)com/
Endless thanks to WriteOnTime, my beta, and to justaskalice for reading it first and letting me know if I'm making sense at all.
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 barely sleeps Wednesday night. It doesn't help that she didn't chase the last German officer out of her house until after two a.m.. Once she finally has quiet, she still doesn't sleep. She is certain of the course she has set herself on, so she is not terribly afraid for herself. She only hopes that the information she is able to procure will be worth the risks others will be taking to get it from her.
Thursday morning, Esme dresses carefully. It has been years since she has stepped foot in a church. She can't hope to fit in, but she hopes at least not to draw undue attention to herself. The church the gentleman mentioned at the market is nowhere near her house. It is, in fact, on the Right Bank, quite some way away. She will have to come up with a believable story as to why she's now visiting a church so far from her house when she's never stepped foot in the neighborhood one.
The church, Saint Germain l'auxerrois, is near the Louvre, and very old. Esme passes through the stone porch carved with hard-faced saints and enters the cool, dim church. She stands just inside the entrance, at the head of the nave, nervously casting her eyes around the pews. There is hardly anybody here. A few old women scattered across the pews near the front, bowed heads covered in lace shawls, withered hands wrapped in rosaries as they kneel and pray. They remind her of the old women who walked to the church every morning in her village in the Loire Valley when she was young, and she wonders absently what they pray about every day. What can possibly happen in their daily lives that requires the constant intervention of the Holy Spirit?
There is a young priest puttering around up on the altar, straightening things. There is no one else. She looks for the man from the market, but quickly realizes that he won't be the one she meets today. In fact, she'll probably never see him again. She's quite certain that none of the pious old women are supposed to be her contact, and neither is the awkward young priest. Then she remembers what the dark-haired man from the market told her. The aisle on the right. Some exceptionally fine stained glass. Perhaps she is supposed to wait there and someone will come to her.
She crosses to the right and her heels make a hollow ringing on the stone floor. One of the old women looks back over her shoulder towards Esme, and she imagines the old woman's eyes are hard and judgmental. She resists the urge to duck her head; no pious old woman will make her feel intimidated. She just moves to the side pews and chooses one at random, perhaps a dozen rows from the back of the church.
She sits midway down the pew and glances around. There is no one on this side of the church and because of the rows of columns separating the aisle from the nave, she can't see any of the old women there. There are no electric lights, of course, only a dull, filtered blue light struggling to make it through the stained-glass windows. The church has certainly seen better days. When she settled in her pew her movements disturbed a pair of pigeons who had been roosting over a window in a side altar. They fly across the church, close to the vaulted ceiling, settling on the far side. The stained glass is lovely, though, she thinks, looking around. The altar to her left has three windows, each filled with scenes from the life of Christ. She loses herself for a long time puzzling out the stories depicted, trying to figure out who is meant to be Mary and who Mary Magdalene in the scene of the crucifixion.
She's lost in the pictures, in the glowing colored shapes and their blank glass faces utterly devoid of personality, when she hears a rustle of movement behind her and to her left. She begins to turn her head to look when a whispered voice halts her.
"Don't look."
She doesn't, she keeps her head facing forward, her eyes on her lap.
"I believe you're here to talk to me," the voice comes again, not quite a whisper this time, but probably not audible to anyone sitting more than a few feet away.
"I suppose I am," Esme says softly. The urge to look, to see the face attached to the voice, is strong, but she resists. It goes against all her instincts. She always looks people fully in the face, meets their eyes with hers, when she speaks to them. It's why people connect with her so easily. She can feel unease skitter down her spine speaking to this disembodied voice.
It's a man, that's all she can tell. That, and he's English. Rather proper, too, judging from the accent, although his French is impeccable.
"What's your name?" she asks.
There is a long pause. "It's better if I don't tell you."
Esme snorts softly. "You think I would betray you? Do you not realize how much of a risk I am taking being here?"
"I don't want to know yours either," he says quickly. "It's safer for both of us that way."
"You don't know my name?"
"No, I was told only that there would be someone at this spot, at this time."
Esme is somewhat mollified by that. And he has a point. Again, she hates feeling so out of her depth. She makes a terrible spy.
"So, I understand you might have some information for me?"
"I have a great many visitors… soldiers. They talk. They say things they shouldn't."
"And you're willing to come here and tell me what you hear?"
Esme nods and fixes her eyes on a bright spot of red in a window straight ahead, towards the front of the church, to avoid looking back.
"Come every week at this time. Sit here."
"What if there's nothing to tell one week?"
"Come anyway. It's too dangerous to try to make contact. Make it a standing date."
Esme smirks in spite of herself. She simply can't resist the opportunity to flirt. It's too ingrained in her, and he's just made it too easy. "A date? What a peculiar idea you have for a date, monsieur. The pigeons roosting in the corners add such a romantic touch."
She thinks she hears him chuckle, but it's so soft she can't be sure.
"You'll come every week then?" he finally says.
"Yes, every week."
There is another long pause, charged with something new. Not the anxiety surrounding their circumstances. Something else. Esme again fights the urge to turn and look at his eyes.
"What are you reading?" he finally asks.
Esme is startled by the question and looks down at the book she's been clutching, forgotten, in her lap.
"Oh... 'Dracula'."
He clears his throat lightly behind her, "Excuse me, did you say 'Dracula'?"
"Yes, I couldn't sleep last night, so I started re-reading it."
"That's a rather peculiar choice under the circumstances, don't you think?"
Esme shrugs, "Why so?"
"Well, it's so dark and full of horror and monsters. I would think, with all the monsters you're facing in real life, that you'd want to escape all that."
Esme smiles a little at his simple view of things, the notion that any novel could take her away from the horror she's found herself mired in.
"Ah, yes, but he's such a quaint little monster, don't you think?"
"Quaint?" She can hear the bafflement in his voice.
"Yes, quaint. All the biting and blood. So silly really, compared to the evil real mortal men seem to be capable of. It's all so sublimely gothic. Dark castles and wolves at the door. No, the truly frightening things seem to be happening on the streets of Europe in broad daylight. This monster," she taps the cover of the book lightly with one gloved finger, "does not frighten me. And at the end of the day when I tire of him, I can close the book and he ceases to exist. I can't get away from the real monsters quite so easily."
"Hmm," he mumbles behind her. "I suppose I see your point."
Esme sighs lightly, and shrugs again, "Besides, it's all just about sex anyway. Those poor girls, wasting away, just needing to be good and ravaged."
She hears a strangled choking sound behind her as he tries unsuccessfully to clear his throat.
"Oh, dear. I forgot you were English. And now I've shocked you, haven't I?"
"N-no, not at all. I assure you."
Esme laughs softly. "Oh, yes I have. I see I'll have to watch myself with you, Monsieur….This really won't do. I have to call you something."
"Why? There's just the two of us here."
"But I need to call you something, even if it's only in my head. And you need to call me something. It doesn't have to have anything to do with who we really are."
He's silent behind her for a moment. "Very well, then. I shall call you Mrs. Platt."
Esme can't resist turning her head slightly towards him in astonishment, although she keeps her eyes averted. "Exactly what about me speaks of a Mrs. Platt to you?"
"Nothing, really," he sounds a bit uncomfortable, "It's just the name of a friend of my mother's. It popped into my head. It's as good as any other name."
Esme shakes her head slightly. "Very well, Mrs. Platt it is. And what should I call you?"
She casts her eyes around the church for inspiration, but ultimately decides that all the ecclesiastical references would wear on her. Her eyes fall to the book in her lap. "How about Mr. Stoker?"
She can't see his face, but she imagines that she can hear the smile in his voice, "Mr. Stoker."
"Yes, the man who tames the monsters," she murmurs.
"Well, I'm trying to, anyway. We're all trying."
They sit in silence another moment.
"I'll see you next week, then, Mrs. Platt."
"I look forward to it, Mr. Stoker."
"You should leave first. Don't acknowledge me as you go."
She nods tightly and stands to leave. She won't acknowledge him, but she has to face his direction to get out of the pew and she's desperate to get a glimpse of his face. She takes just a moment to tug one of her gloves into place and she touches her hat lightly, before she turns.
She begins to move towards the aisle and lets her eyes drop momentarily to his face, on her left. She nearly stops moving altogether. He's as handsome as a matinee idol. Really, he's almost ridiculously good-looking, with blonde hair swept off of his face in waves and high, patrician cheekbones. His lips are sensual and she feels sure she's seen their like in one of the old masters once.
But it's his eyes that rivet her. Because he's apparently unable to resist the temptation to look at her face as well and he's looked up to meet her gaze. They are blue; bright, light blue. With his blonde hair and Nordic features, he should look aloof and cold. However his eyes are anything but cold. They pin her to her spot, and they are so warm, full of concern and interest and life. She feels like he's seen into the very secret corners of her with one glance. With difficulty, she pulls her eyes away, remembering his admonition not to acknowledge his presence, and she doesn't want to do anything to endanger him. Cutting her eyes back to the end of the pew, she moves purposefully out of the aisle and into the nave. She doesn't look right or left, and she doesn't stop until she's a full block away. She finally pauses at a corner, clutching a wrought-iron fence with one hand to steady herself, overwhelmed by what she's just done, what she will continue to do, and overwhelmed by his kind blue eyes.
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It's a Saturday when he first comes. She's heard his name already, of course. He's one of the Nazi's new top men in Paris, everybody has heard of him. But she doesn't recognize him when she opens the door to find him standing on her front step in the company of another officer she knows.
Esme's first thought is that he looks like Mr. Stoker. Her second thought is that he looks nothing like Mr. Stoker. Certainly at first glance, they both have blonde hair, high cheekbones, striking Nordic features, and blue eyes. But the resemblance wears thin after just a moment. Where Mr. Stoker's eyes are intense and warm, his whole face exuding compassion and concern, this Nazi officer at her door is a handsome face in a crisp uniform and nothing more. He is smiling as she opens the door, but it does not reach his eyes. Every expression seems only painted on the surface. There is no hint of the man or the passion underneath.
He's accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Schiffer, who has visited before. Esme is quite familiar with him. He's jovial and lazy, happy to fritter away the war in Paris. He's said absolutely nothing of interest in all the nights he's come to the house.
"Madame Benoit!" Lieutenant Schiffer cries as Tati opens the door and Esme steps forward to greet them. "May I introduce to you General der Infanterie Hans Dekker? General Dekker, may I present Madame Esme Benoit?"
Esme smiles and nods her head at the new arrival.
"General Dekker has just arrived from Berlin, Esme, to head up some things here in Paris," Schiffer says.
This is where she must flatter him, Esme decides. "Of course, Lieutenant. I've heard all about General der Infanterie Dekker. I've only been wondering why you took so long to bring him to meet me."
The Lieutenant laughs a little too loudly. "I've told him all about you, Esme! I told him, there's no place else to be in Paris! You see?"
Esme smiles indulgently at him before directing her attention back to the General. His eyes have never left her and she can read clearly what she sees there. He wants her, of course. This is not much of a surprise to her. But as she steps back and ushers them into the house, as they stand in the foyer and Tati receives their coats and hats, she notes his ice blue eyes darting quickly about the room. He's making an inventory, she thinks, of every person here that he knows and with whom they are speaking. His sharp, attentive eyes make her wary. He's not stupid. A man like Lieutenant Schiffer is easy to manage. A few bland questions, a few absent smiles, and he is content, he feels sufficiently looked after and flattered.
This General Dekker will take a good deal more to manage. He notices far more. He is much more perceptive. She will have to be constantly on her guard in his presence. The though of that makes her wary, but the prize makes her eager. If she can succeed, if she can make this man relax here, if she can loosen his tongue, the secrets he might reveal could be invaluable. Such a man as this will not easily make a careless mistake, so it will take some doing. Esme hopes she's up to this challenge.
"General," she says, her voice at its smoothest, all honeyed seduction, "Can I get you a drink? Please, do tell me what you like."
His sharp, light eyes snap back to her. He does not miss the implied invitation in her tone. His eyes dance down her figure quickly before returning to her face. Esme has to swallow hard against her revulsion, keeping her smile in place and her eyes locked on his.
"Brandy," he says finally. "If you have it."
Esme inclines her head slightly, "Of course. Tati? The Armagnac for the General, please."
"You're a fortunate woman to have brandy at this time," he says. "It's hard to come by."
Esme shrugs absently. "I have so many generous friends."
"I see that," he returns. "All the officers can talk about are your parties, Madame Benoit."
"Esme, please."
His lips thin in a tiny smile. "Esme, then."
"I love to entertain," she says lightly, trying to appear every inch the shallow socialite he's already assumed her to be. "I'm simply not happy unless my house is full! And with so many delightful officers in Paris…well, we are never short of lively company here."
"I'm happy to hear it. Being stationed far from home often leaves one wishing for the comforts of a truly civilized society. If what the officers tell me is true, there is no shortage of that here."
"Yes, I think you will find Paris an exciting city, and I like to think we collect the very best of the city here."
"Indeed, it seems one can never want for something to do in Paris," the General says. His sharp eyes have yet to leave hers, and Esme is beginning to feel slightly exposed under his gaze, but she does not let her discomfort show.
"And as your officers will tell you, the heart of Paris lies here in my house. Here, you will never be bored."
He pauses and smiles at her, a tight, hard expression utterly devoid of warmth. "I am quite sure of that, Madame…Esme."
She makes herself smile warmly at his familiar use of her name before gesturing towards the parlor and asking him to join the guests already there. He offers her his arm in an odd, formal gesture. Esme slips her hand into his elbow and allows him to lead her into the parlor at his side.