Read Nightingale for Free Online

oberst half-craned his neck again. “If you would like to wear the appropriate attire, I could make use of the reservation at Maxim’s that my aide has arranged.”
    Maxim’s . The oberst was playing for high stakes. Most Parisian tarts would have jumped at the invitation—and then jumped straight into bed afterward to pay their part of the exorbitant bill. “I’d have to go home and change properly,” Yves said, eyeing the German’s perfectly pressed uniform.
    The oberst turned smartly and moved as if to open the door for Yves, but Yves laughed the attempt off and slipped through first. “Where else do you want to go?”
    Von Starck put his peaked cap back on. “There’s the Palace, or a restaurant that would not inconvenience you with its expected level of formal dress, albeit, I have to admit, I’m not prepared . . . I don’t know which serves good food outside the establishments recommended by colleagues.”
    “If it doesn’t have to be Maxim’s . . .”
    Von Starck shook his head. “At this stage, I’d be happy just to eat something.”
    Yves peered at him, struck by the admission of human weakness. If the officer had really worked up until now, he was quite possibly running on a breath of fumes. “I know just the place.”
    He noticed that he was being herded toward a black limousine. Of course, an oberst would have a car. And a driver, because a young soldier stood next to it, a flick of his wrist indicated he had been smoking. The driver opened the car and closed the doors behind them, then slid behind the wheel.
    “What are the directions?” Von Starck asked.
    Yves gave him the address, and von Starck indicated to the driver to take them there.
    At the restaurant, barely more than a brasserie, two menus existed. One was the official, post-ration-card menu; the other was handed only to customers who knew the owner or those who could clearly afford the eye-watering expense of black-market goods. Anybody with a German officer in tow would never get to see the ration-card menu.
    “The duck stew is to die for,” Yves said when they settled at a table at the back of the restaurant. He didn’t want to be seen by too many people, and most definitely not by acquaintances that might be happening by.
    “I’ll try that, then.” Von Starck put the menu down and seemed to relax a bit—no mean feat, as stiff and correct as he was.
    When the waiter appeared, they both went with the stew along with the red house wine. Yves glanced around the tables, noticing a few opera types at the far end, but no other Germans. This place was tucked away in a side street, a bit out of the way even though the Paris Opéra was just minutes away on foot.
    Yes, while von Starck was on his own—the driver had stayed with the car—he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe it was pure confidence, or the man really didn’t expect anything bad to happen to him when he moved by himself among natives. The other soldier hadn’t been so lucky.
    “This is a charming place,” von Starck said. “Do you come here often?”
    “Less often these days. I used to meet my mother here every now and then after performances.”
    Von Starck plucked a slice of baguette from the basket between them. “I’m half curious and half anxious to ask about her.”
    “Why?”
    “The last time I asked about one of your acquaintances was embarrassing for us both.”
    Charles Gutman.
    He’s a Jew.
    “No. It’s nothing like that,” Yves spluttered, aware he was apologizing for having embarrassed the oberst. God help him. “She retired to the countryside when I was drafted. She owns a house there.”
    “You served.” Von Starck studied him over the rim of his wine glass. “I never before realized how difficult it is to talk about anything if you’re French and I’m German.”
    And your jackboots trample all over my city.
    Yves stared into his glass. “Yes, there isn’t much common ground.”
    Von Starck’s lips twitched. “‘Common ground’ is an