I try to find the words to say so, but we’re interrupted quite suddenly when the door flings open and Madame Simon bursts in, followed closely by the baron, his wingtips shiny in the afternoon light. And at the abrupt intrusion, the baroness stands. “What on earth?”
Madame Simon gives a furious toss of her head and throws the latest copy of Au Pilori onto the table. “Your husband has been reading this filthy rag and has suggested I take an extended vacation. Is this your idea?”
The baroness looks taken aback. “Of course not.” Then she glances at her husband, unable to hide her aggravation. “But it may not be the worst idea, under the circumstances, Clara.”
I shouldn’t be here for this, I think. Whatever this is. I wonder if I can sneak out, but the baroness is blocking one path and her husband is blocking the other. There’s nothing to do but fold my hands and sit quietly as the baron’s baritone fills the room. “As I was explaining to Madame Simon, certain reports have been sent to Vichy. I was warned by the authorities, and I fear her presence at this institution just now endangers our work.”
Madame Simon removes her cat-eye glasses like she’s ready for a fight. “The decrees against Jews don’t apply to me. I have only two Jewish grandparents. What’s more, I was decorated for good service to France in the last war.”
“It’s ridiculous, of course,” says the baroness, her lips pinched. “It goes without saying you shouldn’t be put through this.”
Madame Simon isn’t mollified. “No one should be put through this. And you’re right. It goes without saying. That’s the problem. The Statut des Juifs is disgusting, and people like you should say so.”
“Then I’m saying so,” replies the baroness evenly. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t change anything. If you go away a few months, the miscreant denouncing you will find someone else to torment. You can stay in our house in Cannes in the meantime. Can’t she, darling.”
Nothing about her tone suggests that it’s a question.
“I’d rather dispense with the fiction of a vacation,” Madame Simon says, apparently unmoved by the offer. “I’ll tender my resignation, effective immediately.”
I inhale sharply.
“Clara,” the baroness pleads, reaching for her friend. “Let’s not make hasty decisions we might regret.”
Madame Simon’s voice is strained with so much emotion that an answering lump rises in my throat when she says, “I’m already filled with regrets. How can I stay when your husband would cast me aside after two decades of dedication to the Lafayette Memorial?” We all look at the baron, expecting him to deny it. When he doesn’t, Madame Simon straightens to her full height. “In light of my long service, I expect either a pension or final compensation in the amount of sixty thousand francs.”
The baroness looks heartbroken. “Of course, we can advance the money out of the accounts—”
“I’m not sure we can advance the money,” her husband interrupts, arms folded, lips thin beneath his mustache. “Certainly not all at once, and probably not until the New Year. Upon our return from America, I reviewed the accounts and found discrepancies. I have to ask, madame, have you taken money from the discretionary cash?”
If it’s possible to actually feel the blood drain from one’s face, I do. And the baroness snaps her husband’s name, plainly horrified by the accusation. “Amaury!”
Meanwhile, Madame Simon lets out a bitter laugh. “How disappointing. Someone denounces me as a Jew and your first thought is to check the cashbox?”
The baron remains impassive. “I think only that money is missing and we’re owed an explanation.”
Madame Simon jabs at the baron’s chest. “The only explanation you’re owed is this: I took the money to send to my son-in-law in Paris. You cannot begrudge me in times such as these.”
I don’t know who is more stunned by these words. All three of us—me, the baron, and the baroness—act like we’ve taken a hammer to the head. “Oh, Clara,” the baroness groans, sinking down into the sofa with her head in her hands. “What could you be thinking?”
I’m so shocked I don’t even know what the baron is saying now. Something about how, under the circumstances, they aren’t obligated to pay her anything. I’m still standing there dazed after Madame Simon has stormed out, and the baroness murmurs, “Marthe, can we pick this up another day?”