Never thought to elaborate on this but if Lucille is speaking to a french person like her father or her friends, she is speaking in french. She only speaks English with English speaking characters like Tommy and Dawson.
Lucille
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Lucille woke, rather abruptly, to harsh footsteps outside of her door. They grew louder and louder as she forced herself to liven up and shuffle up from where she lay. The fact that the steps were loud and rhythmic made her nervous, they weren't that of her father.
The steps stopped outside her door and Lucille held her breath. It was the German, she knew it was. From beneath the door, she could see a thick shadow of a person who was clearly beside her door. The outline flickered lightly as the person shuffled and Lucille could hear the man's deep breathing. She could also hear the slow turning of metal. Was that the doorknob?
Quickly, she shuffled out of bed, making her movements loud as she moved to the vanity beneath the window, sitting down with a thump and opening the adjacent drawer with a squeak. She watched as the shadow hastened away, footsteps reaching her ears again, this time quieter.
With the lurking soldier gone, Lucille let out a frustrated sigh, her hands reaching to rub over her tired face. The clock in her bedside table read half past six in the morning, an hour earlier than she had hoped to rise and get ready for the long day that was surely ahead. The sunlight, however, had already started to pour through her laced curtains, a tell time of spring that easily brought a smile to her face.
But as a brush was brought to comb lightly through her long hair, Lucille frowned again at the thought of the soldier. Had he intended to enter her room? Or perhaps, after all, it had been her father and she had been too oblivious these past days to have noticed the condition of his leg. But even so, her father himself had no business interrupting her, so she ruled it out as unlikely.
She finished pinning her hair back at the front and powdered her cheeks, before getting dressed, skipping downstairs. Her father sat at the kitchen table. The German was no where in sight.
"Where are you off to this morning?" Her father asked, and Lucille almost chocked on the water that she had been drinking.
The tone of voice that Maron had used was lighter than usual, a kinder question rather than one of disapproval. He sat with his paper, a french one somehow, though after a few moments she realised that it was an old one, which had been kept for cleaning before the war had even been a possibility.
"I'm going to the village this morning before this weeks good picks are taken. I don't wish for another week of eggs and cheese." She said, as she manoeuvred around the table, picking the last bun from the bread bin on the counter.
