The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [112]
She felt Grey’s arms around her. She couldn’t help that either.
Von Richter didn’t come that night. A major operation, Schneider told her when he called. Claire spent the night staring at the dark outline of buildings and the street below. A major operation against who, she wondered. She woke the next morning with a churning stomach. Throwing off her blankets, she dressed and left the hotel.
On the watch for Odette, Claire took a long walk that ended at parc Monceau. A heavy-set man in a long coat trailed her the whole distance. He moved like a bull, confident, his attention focused ahead, and tossed a half-smoked cigarette onto the ground without a thought. Only Gestapo would waste precious tobacco that way. She threw bread crumbs to the birds and went back to her room to brood.
Schneider knocked on her door that afternoon. Averting his eyes from her thin silk robe, he spoke. “The Sturmbannführer will take you to the opera tonight. He asked if there was anything you needed.”
Claire could feel the disdain radiating from the lieutenant. She let her robe slip open an inch. “Please give the Sturmbannführer my thanks. I require a new opera dress. And hat. And gloves.”
The afternoon was spent on les Champs. Schneider bought the dress, midnight blue with a nipped waist and a thin deep vee with gathers over the breast. A matching hat tipped forward on her forehead, topped with a silver feather. She decided against gloves but required a fur stole.
If von Richter was going to make her wait, he should know he would pay.
Schneider doled out the money, but his eyes burned. Claire slid her hand down his arm and smiled as he picked up the wrapped boxes. He walked two paces in front of her back to the hotel.
That evening, a driver dropped von Richter and Claire in front of the Opéra Garnier next to a wooden pole bristling with German signs. Von Richter took her arm, cutting through the crowd toward the theater entrance.
He examined the women hanging on to milling officers, then glanced down at Claire’s dress. “You did well today.”
“All for you.” She ran her fingers over the diamonds. “Consider it a gift for you to unwrap.”
They passed beneath stone arches and entered the foyer. An usher led them up a glittering marble staircase. Claire stared as they stepped into a box overlooking the auditorium. They were on the second level; there was one more above to the high-domed ceiling. The walls were covered in gold, the stage impossibly far away.
“You like it?” von Richter said as they settled into red velvet seats in the front.
“It’s spectacular.” The awe in her voice was real.
He touched the diamonds nestled between her breasts and let his fingers slide down to her thighs. “Tell me this is why you came to Paris.”
The smile froze on her face. She would have come here with Grey. She’d have worn a flower in her dress lapel, something simple and refined, chosen by Madame Palain. It felt as though the world had split in two. The Paris she dreamed of. And what was. She pressed against von Richter. “This is why I came to Paris.”
The seats filled in around them, then the floor below. German men in uniforms and business suits. The suits weren’t less dangerous, just more discreet. Some of the women were French, judging by their look. A few sturdier women, their expressions all business, Claire pegged to be German.
The room dimmed, lit only by a giant chandelier hanging from a painted dome and a circle of glowing lights. A burst of sound, with the trill of violins crashing over a low rolling bass. The curtain rose, revealing the dark timbers of a building, a woman tending the fire burning inside. A warrior limped in and began to sing in German to the woman.
“What is happening?” Claire asked von Richter.
He turned from his survey of the crowd and ran his hand over her thigh. “Siegmund. Kinky fellow. Full of brotherly love.”
At intermission, they joined the crowd from the upper boxes in the Grand Foyer, a long hall with glossy marble floors, painted ceilings and heavy chandeliers.
“Sturmbannführer von Richter,” a voice called