Flaneur ✅💋

16. Décision Snap

April 20, 1942

It was nearing the time Nicolas had specified for her to be ready. She did one last turn in the mirror to admire her reflection. There was no entourage of stylists to fawn over her this time. No professionals dabbing coral on her cheeks and shimmer over her lids. She'd refused the colonel's offer, and opted instead to privately enjoy what could well be her last night in Paris. The thought crossed her mind briefly that it could be her last night alive as well, but she quickly shook it away. It was always a risk in her line of work. Always. It made no difference, and if it did truly bother her she told herself she should have never signed on.

Smiling solemnly to herself she smoothed down the front of her gown just as the doorbell echoed throughout the mansion. If she was going to die, she was going to die in red satin that clung to her body like a formfitting glove. A crimson cascade of fabric. It was her color. A sweetheart neckline complimented her prominent bust in a way that would demand attention. She had painted her lips red, the poison clinging to her heart shaped mouth dangerously. She swallowed the pill that kept her from undergoing its toxic effects, but she had to be careful.

Genevieve clicked her tall black heels down the staircase and opened the front door expecting to see the colonel standing there with flowers or some other sort of gift. Instead, she was somewhat taken aback to see a man in a charcoal suit waiting on her porch. "Bonjour," she said skeptically. "May I help you?"

The man cocked his head to the side curiously, not responding right away. She opened her mouth to ask again, but he beat her to it. "I am here to escort you to Colonel Nicolas Roemheld's private residence. My name is Hans." That explained it. He was German. Likely he hadn't understood a word she had said in French.

She offered a compassionate countenance to show him that she understood his lack of knowledge with her language. "I see. I was expecting the colonel himself. Forgive me, for being rude." She dipped her head lowly.

"He had some business that required his immediate attention, but he promises he will meet you at his home promptly," the German assured her as he opened the door to the backseat. Genevieve nodded, opting for a quiet ride rather than conversation.

It wasn't a long ride by any means, which explained how the colonel made trips to visit her so often. He lived just outside of the city lights, on the opposite side of the hill. If she had a fire burning in her stove, he would have easily been able to see the plumes of smoke rising up. The thought unnerved her. She hadn't smuggled any Jews since the Nazis began searching her home, but still. She didn't like how close he had been all this time. It felt intrusive, nerve wracking.

Hans pulled alongside the curb in front of a tall townhouse nestled in a row of homes, each looking less appealing than the first. The townhouse that Hans walked her to the door of, however, was pristine. The robin's egg paint wasn't peeling like the others. On the contrary, it appeared to have recently been touched up when put in comparison with the shambles of faded periwinkle homes with weather worn windows and doors. The front door on the townhouse had been painted a blinding white without a smidgen of dirt on it. It was exactly what she would have expected the home he commandeered to look like. Clean and orderly. No time or tolerance for anything less.

Hans opened the door, without knocking, and lead her inside to the lounge room. "Colonel Roemheld will be with you shortly," he said, stepping back and sliding the doors shut.

Genevieve looked around the room. It was quaint, moreover charmingly minimal for someone as extravagant as the colonel, but it suited him nonetheless. A single bookshelf was pressed against the back wall. The spines all facing her with French titles. She sucked in a breath, realizing none of them belonged to him and wondering what poor soul had to die so he could prop his feet up on the sandy beige ottoman in front of the fireplace. She let her fingers dance over the books, finding familiar titles, and a few she filed within her memory to read should she ever get the opportunity to feel the tranquil sensation of a new book in her hands again.