She hammered on Antoinette's door, panting with effort. She heard a frightened voice say, "What is it?" Antoinette had been scared by the gunfire and did not want to open the door.

Breathlessly, Flick said, "Quickly, quickly!" She tried to keep her voice low. Some of the neighbors might be Nazi sympathizers.

The door did not open, but Antoinette's voice came nearer. "Who's there?"

Flick instinctively avoided speaking a name aloud. She replied, "Your nephew is wounded."

The door opened. Antoinette was a straight-backed woman of fifty wearing a cotton dress that had once been chic and was now faded but crisply pressed. She was pale with fear. "Michel!" she said. She knelt beside him. "Is it serious?"

"It hurts, but I'm not dying," Michel said through clenched teeth.

"You poor thing." She brushed his hair off his sweaty forehead with a gesture like a caress.

Flick said impatiently, "Let's get him inside."

She took Michel's arms and Antoinette lifted him by the knees. He grunted with pain. Together they carried him into the living room and put him down on a faded velvet sofa.

"Take care of him while I fetch the car," Flick said. She ran back into the street.

The gunfire was dying down. She did not have long. She raced along the street and turned two corners.

Outside a closed bakery, two vehicles were parked with their engines running: one a rusty Renault, the other a van with a faded sign on the side that had once read Blanchisserie Bisset-Bisset's Laundry. The van was borrowed from the father of Bertrand, who was able to get fuel because he washed sheets for hotels used by the Germans. The Renault had been stolen this morning in Chflons, and Michel had changed its license plates. Flick decided to take the car, leaving the van for any survivors who might get away from the carnage in the chfteau grounds.

She spoke briefly to the driver of the van. "Wait here for five minutes, then leave." She ran to the car, jumped into the passenger seat, and said, "Let's go, quickly!"