The Baker's Secret(59)

Pierre rapped on the door with his cane. “Do not shoot. I am not armed.” He listened, but could not be sure if anyone had replied. He gripped the handle. “I am coming in.”

DuFour sat in an armchair by the cold hearth. A bottle of Calvados sat empty on the table. The town clerk lifted his head, recognizing the old farmer, then raised a glass stained pink with the drink. “Here’s to the great noisy world,” he said, and tipped the last sip into his mouth.

Pierre stood evenly in the doorway, feeling strength and a long-forgotten sense of cleanness as he beheld the town clerk. “I am here because I pity you,” he said. “This bombing is the beginning, and I believe an ugly time has come.”

DuFour inspected the Calvados bottle, tilting it to confirm that it was empty. “Why is that my concern?”

“I should not have left you alone with my injured horse. You were young, and weak. I should have mastered my grief and finished Neptune myself.”

“What are you talking about? You are speaking in riddles.”

“I felt it only decent to warn you. I have seen times like these, I lived through them before you were born. Regardless of who prevails, I do not believe tomorrow will go well for you.”

DuFour sniffed. “Pish. Don’t you know who I am now? Whose favor I enjoy?”

“If you stand in the middle, both sides will be shooting at you. My advice would be for you to gather a few things, and several days’ food, and get a head start.”

DuFour set glass and bottle down on the table and folded his hands on his belly. “I am expected at the offices tomorrow. People are depending on me. The Kommandant.”

“He will be too busy trying to stay alive to notice your absence. If he is not gone already. Save yourself while you can.”

“The old ways are done, you know. The new ways are here to stay.” DuFour ran a fingertip around the mouth of the bottle. “And you are the worst kind of fool: boring, and old.”

Pierre drew himself up, tugging on his wool vest. “Think what you will of me. I have warned you. My conscience is clear.”

Outside the nightfall was complete, vague moonlight as the last of the day’s rain clouds lingered overhead. Pierre was glad he had brought his cane. He held it ahead almost as a blind man would, feeling his way around the village, across a hedgerow gap and past the crossroads. The walk to his second task took nearly an hour, though normally it would require one quarter that time. But when the eastern well came into sight, he paused to lean against it, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

What would he say here? How could he be more persuasive than he had been with the clerk? Pierre put a pinch of tobacco in his pipe bowl and struck a match on the stone of the well. In the distance, the bombing continued. The answering fire had become more intense. Pierre could not say for sure, but he thought he had seen a plane with no engine, gliding silently across a bit of cloudless sky. But that would be impossible, and he cursed his old eyes for playing tricks.

Soon the pipe was smoked and no better words had come to him. Pierre followed his cane to the barnyard door, which he eased open, its hinges making a rusty complaint. A rooster perched on a shed perked up his head, but Pierre tapped his pipe out on the boards and the bird, instead of crowing, hopped over, pecking to see whether the ashes were something to eat.

The old man heard the murmur of two women talking. Through a side window, he saw them sitting at a table, lit by a stub of candle. Mémé was carrying on while Emma mended something, a sock, while giving her grandmother half an ear.

He knocked on the door and heard chairs scraping. Emma swept the door open. “Philippe?”

“Ah, no, it’s only Pierre,” the old man answered. “Only me.”

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” She drew him inside. “You could be shot.”

“I’ll only be a moment,” he said, removing his military hat. “I wanted to warn you.”

“You are sweet, Pierre,” Emma said. “But I could be warned about everything I do all day.”

“This is different.”

“I like your hat,” she said. “I wish I could offer you something to eat or drink.”

“Emmanuelle.” Mémé brought a finger to her lips. “Listen.”

“Yes,” Pierre said. “For one moment, please. I know these sounds. I heard bombing like this in the Great War.” He took Emma’s hand. “The true battle has arrived. You must leave at once.”

Emma pulled her hand free. “With all respect, who are you to speak to me like this?”

“An old fool, as I have recently been reminded. But one who cherishes your well-being.” He saw that he still had his pipe in his hand, and he looked for a place to set it down, settling on the near windowsill. “Emmanuelle, who I have known since the afternoon of your birth. For once please put aside your pride and use your ears.” He sighed. “I am too old to leave, and my girls need me for morning milking. But you have a wagon, and I imagine some foodstuffs saved. You could get away.”

Emma would not look at him, but Pierre glanced at Mémé and she was listening. “If anyone from our poor village deserves to survive this war, it is the woman who has kept us alive.”

“That is exactly why I will not go,” Emma answered. “There are people who depend on me for more than tobacco. If I leave, they perish. I will stay until there is no one left to care for.”