God Speed the Night by Dorothy Salisbury Davis, Jerome Ross Page A

should not have baited her. She gave an arrogant little shrug of her shoulders. “It is a pity, but you have made us far too respectable for that.”
    Everyone laughed and Rene touched his glass to Maman’s. She threw down the Armagnac in one swallow like medicine. While Moissac grew more and more morose, Maman grew garrulous and sentimental. She ridiculed her neighbors on the hill who would not scratch themselves in daylight. What, she wanted to know, had happened to Madame Lebel? Surely she would have known if she had died.
    Madame Lebel was living on the farm now with her oldest son. Madame’s daughter was married to Divenet, the plumber.
    “That old man?” Maman blurted out, and then realizing the gaucheness of it herself, amended, “Ah well, they will not send him to a labor camp, eh?”
    Moissac wished to God he had left her home.
    The door opened and a young man entered, a stranger to all of them. He moved toward the bar like a man about to question Gaucher’s license. He was tall, and while the grey-blue eyes rested on no one, Moissac had the feeling he had measured everyone in the room the moment he stepped into the bistro. Gestapo? It was Moissac’s first thought, and he did not like being discovered by them in Au Bon Coin , pacification program or not. The whole atmosphere now reinforced his suspicion that Gaucher’s was a meeting place for the Resistance. The man nodded to Maman, passing, and murmured, “ Bonsoir , madame.”
    Maman twisted around in her chair and stared at the man’s back, her mouth open, her tongue playing over the cracked lips as it sometimes did when she was about to speak but not quite sure of the words.
    May she never find them, Moissac thought. “Come, maman,” he said and got to his feet. “It is past our bedtime. Come.”
    She looked at him in sudden fury.
    “We are going now!” he commanded, and she submitted.
    “You will come and visit me in my studio,” René said soothingly and held her chair. “I will take your picture.”
    Moissac called out, “I will take care of this, Gaucher.”
    “It is my pleasure, Monsieur le Préfet .”
    Rene went as far as the door with them. The stranger did not look round, his back as stiff as armor.
    Marc was badly shaken when he realized that he had walked into the prefect of police. It had been ordeal enough for him to confront again so many faces turned his way, and with the chance always that among them was the recognizing stranger.
    “Yes, monsieur?” the barman said.
    “Is it possible to have coffee, monsieur?”
    “What passes for coffee in this country is possible, yes.”
    He could scarcely have gotten a more hostile answer. Then the little man who had gone to the door with the policeman and his mother came up and said, “The real question, monsieur, is: can you drink what passes for coffee in this country?”
    Marc tried to smile, but he felt the effort. The white-haired man said, “Come, monsieur, have an Armagnac on the prefect of police.”
    The barman said, “When Moissac pays, then you can drink, René.”
    But Marc went to the table and sat down. “I will pay, monsieur.”
    René poured for Marc and himself, using the glasses that were already on the table. He watched Marc’s hand as he reached for the glass. Marc willed himself to hold it steady. The little man’s eyes followed the glass to his lips, and his expression saddened. He lifted his own glass. “Your health, monsieur,” he said, but with a great weariness in his voice.
    The barman brought a white mug with a brew as black as tar in it.
    Marc thanked him and said, “I am looking for Monsieur Lapin.”
    Marc had the feeling that there was no one in the room who did not already know that, but the barman said, “I never heard of such a person.” He went to the windows and closed the blinds. He fixed the night lock on the door. “It is closing time, messieurs, madame.” He shook the crumbs from a couple of tablecloths while he waited, and put the