The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [25]
“The service you offer is a reminder of civilization in these dark days. You do not see and hear what I do in this place.”
Claire unwrapped the arrangements as he spoke, each a study of a few cheery blooms adorned with dried flowers, shining polished twigs and ribbons. All showcased a different color: pink, white, crimson and gold. “Voilà. What do you think, Monsieur?”
His eyes brightened and a small smile skittered across his face. He hurried around the desk to inspect each one, his face inches from the blooms. “Ah, exquisite. Very elegant.” He straightened; momentary pleasure animated his pudgy cheeks. “Madame Palain has outdone herself. Such liveliness, such joy. I will need a dozen more.”
Claire smiled with pride.
He caught her expression. “Was it you? Did you make these?”
Warmth crept up her neck. These were the first important arrangements Claire created alone. Her own design. She nodded.
“You have a talent, Madame. A real talent. To create beauty to share in times such as this. It is a gift.”
The thing of it was—the damned thing—Claire knew he was right. She’d realized it her first week at La Vie en Fleurs. It wasn’t just that each flower’s beauty was amplified in her compositions; it wasn’t only that architectural forms built themselves under her hands. Under Madame’s tutelage in the little flower shop, Claire somehow become inspired—driven. The labor was a challenge, the product ephemeral. But this simple art had become her barricade against the growing darkness.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Of all the flattery laid on her over the years, this odd little man touched her. “Oh, please, Monsieur, your praise is too much.”
Leluc blushed and busied himself with unlocking a metal box on his desk. He popped the lid open and counted out bills. With the smallest grin, he added several more to the pile. “For your talent.”
“Merci.” She kissed his cheek and slipped the money into her coat pocket, smiling as he escorted her out the back entrance.
The empty cart bounced behind Claire as she nearly skipped along the alley behind the hotel. She squeezed the francs in her pocket. Her mouth watered. Without proper identification, she couldn’t get a ration card. Without a card, she couldn’t legally buy food. Georges was sweet and slipped her what he could from the store. Madame Palain brought breakfast and sometimes dinner too, but Claire knew Madame was making a great sacrifice. She doubted either ate much when they weren’t sharing a meal. They both had lost more weight than they could spare, and the worst of winter lay ahead. This would buy food for them both. A demi-kilo of black-market butter. A chicken, perhaps. If she had enough, potatoes. She would need cooking fuel, as well.
She paused, a careful glance on avenue Montaigne. No cars, no sweeps, but a line had formed in front of the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées for an early show. An afternoon’s warm diversion for a lucky few. Claire turned onto the sidewalk, adding up the dinner’s costs in her head for an evening’s diversion for herself and Madame.
The strong whiff of chocolate and warm pastries stopped her in her tracks. A café, Claire saw as she turned, displaying dessert in a large window. She paused next to the doorway, letting her gaze wander over the tables inside while she knocked the icy muck off her shoes. There were white tablecloths, real china. Rows of pastries, fruit. Judging by the location, maybe even real coffee. It was warmer next to the door; a couple of men bundled in worn coats leaned against the wall nearby, pilfering the faint heat. Claire riffled the bills in her pocket.
Just inside the café’s doorway, an elderly Frenchman tugged a heavy wool coat over bent shoulders. He noted Claire’s desiring expression through the window and glanced down at the chocolates. A small smile, then he pursed thin lips and shook his head, as if such sweets were too decadent, not to be tasted. He pulled on a thick fur hat, tipped it at Claire and reached a frail hand for a cane.
In the window’s reflection, Claire watched a party