A Very Private Journal
Spy.

I've sat and looked at that word for a good many minutes now and I simply cannot summon up anything to say about it. On the one hand, it may make my troubles with the Germans disappear to some degree. Perhaps it will afford me a bit of breathing room where none is otherwise given. However on the other, Herr Hertz is a dog and I did not like the way that he looked at me. I shudder to think of taking money from that corpse-like hand and loathe the idea of him thinking I am in any way grateful for the favors that trading information may win me. Though I have no great and special love for France and the people in it, I live here and I seek only a comfortable life. As best I can make it.

I should have headed my accountant when he left for England last year. He told me London had much more promise than Paris but for all my darknesses, I couldn't leave you, City of Light. Fool, me. Now I am stuck here with dwindling funds and insufferable asses such as Hertz. Not to mention no maid to pour my bath or make my tea. Whether I spy or not I am soon going to have to go to La Passant simply because I need to work!

Last night I dreamed of my grandmother as she rocked in her rocking chair. It was so dazzlingly white, the chair, the nightgown she wore and the curtain as it blew in the wind. Francoise was so different from me and even mother. Her gift was so light that I always expected her to lift off of the floor and drift away from us forever. In the end, she did but not the way that I expected. She usually doesn't speak to me in dreams, being far too interested in her own thoughts. Last night she looked right at me and whispered that I ought to simply crawl out from under Hertz's bed and stab him in the throat. I didn't have the heart to explain to my simple, child-like grandmother that antics like those would only lead to more trouble with the Germans.

I woke feeling annoyed and unrested. Not an unusual feeling when dealing with my grandmother.