"Louder," Claude said again.

"Really," Mathilde said, pulling at her pearl choker.

Rene du Rocher echoed his wife weakly, reflecting her gesture with a tug at his little moustache. "Really…really, my dear man, this is really-"

"No one’s talking to you," Claude said savagely.

"Well…well, I was only-"

"Don’t encourage him," Mathilde said under her breath in German, her face stiff. "Ignore him. He doesn’t know any better, the-"

"Speak French!" Claude shouted suddenly enough to make the three of them jump. "You’re in France. Don’t give me any of that damned Boche! Ik-bik-blik-bluk!"

"Who in hell are you to say that to anyone, you collaborationist bastard?" The speaker was one of the three people on the other side of the table, a square, big-boned woman of fifty in a functional tweed suit. She had observed quietly until that moment, then leaped to her feet and shouted, her husky voice strained with emotion.

Claude turned on her. "Don’t you ever say that to me!"

The woman was on the edge of angry tears, but her voice held steady. "I just said it." She lifted a trembling chin. "Do you want to hear it again? Collaborationist bastard!"

"And-and what do you know about it, Sophie?" Claude shouted. "You were a baby; you don’t know anything. Why don’t you go back to America where you belong, where everything is so wonderful? You and your-your cowboy husband."

He was losing his momentum. Jules, who had been sitting rigidly, sank inconspicuously back, flowing into the crevices of his soft chair like melting butter, as if he thought he might escape Claude’s notice altogether.

Claude stared menacingly around the room, as if to ward off attack, and leveled a stubby finger at the woman. "You know how much worse it would have been around here if I hadn’t gone along with the Boches? Sure, all the heroes were running around the hills singing songs with the Maquis, but I was the one kissing Nazi asses and saving lives. If not for me-"