The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [40]
Dupré pulled from a bag a bottle of Château Mireille Bordeaux and a box of cigars. He faced Claire with a frown. “You stupid girl, take off Madame Austerlitz’s coat before you ruin it. You were to get it mended, not wear it. She will have you blistered.” He turned to the officer. “My neighbor’s employee is not too hard to look at, but worthless. We have a delivery for Madame Austerlitz, wife of Kommandant Austerlitz, but I find I have brought more than was ordered. It would be inconvenient for me to go back to the shop. I am late because of this woman’s laziness. Perhaps you could help?”
The policeman nodded to his partner, who grabbed the offering and pushed Dupré back with the other hand. He made a show of reading Épicerie Dupré printed on Georges’ apron pocket, then glared at Claire. “I don’t like you.” He tapped a thick finger next to his eye. “I will be watching.” He turned on his heel and the men walked away.
“Remove that stupid coat and carry something.” Dupré took a bag from her hands and hurried down the sidewalk.
Georges paused as he passed Claire. “Come on!”
Claire tore the coat off, stuffed it in a bag and followed. Another block and they turned onto rue Balzac. Claire waited in front of a courtly four-story building while Georges and Dupré went inside. Shivering, she stared up at the white-shuttered windows and tried to calm her heartbeat. A moment later, the door opened and the men returned, empty-handed.
The jerk of Dupré’s head brought Claire in line behind them. They walked single file down a narrow side street, until they spilled onto rue du Colisée. Dupré shook his head at Claire when she turned toward the flower shop and started to pull the keys from her pocket.
“Not yet. Come with us first.” Dupré said.
She glanced longingly back at her balcony above the flower shop as she followed Dupré inside Épicerie Dupré. He told Georges to mind the register and led her to a small room in back.
His office was austere. A plank bench. A wooden chair with a worn cushion behind a small desk. A small framed photo of a smiling woman and dark-haired baby hung on the wall over his desk. Dupré motioned toward the bench. He stared at Claire over his glasses, his lips a compressed line.
“Merci, Monsieur, for your help.” Claire perched on the bench and forced a smile on a face that was still numb.
“No!” His thin face twisted into a deep scowl. He turned to pace the small office. “No thanks for me. Madame Palain has said you show great promise. Thank her.”
Claire wasn’t sure how to respond. It was one of the nicest things she’d ever heard, but he delivered it like an accusation.
“She has put trust in you. If you were to betray that by bringing attention to her, that would be—” Dupré snapped his mouth shut.
Claire began to protest, but the argument died, unspoken. She fingered the coat on her lap.
“I know you have a problem,” he said. “I would suggest you either fix it or be gone when that flic comes looking for you.”
“Problem? I—” Claire jerked upright. How the hell did he know her papers were not good?
“I know Georges sneaks food to you. Food that you cannot buy without a ration card. I am not stupid. It is Madame’s kindness to allow you to work.” A woman’s voice rose outside. The rumble of a man’s voice joined her. Customers. Dupré sighed and stood. “Fix your problem. Or go.”
Claire locked the shop door behind her and climbed the stairs on wooden legs. Her room, the tiny bed with iron railings, the dresser with chipped paint. The clouded mirror and the photo of her garden tucked in the corner. She had nearly lost it all. She still could.
Claire shoved the sable in her closet. Taking a deep breath, she faced the window. Across the street, the grocer considered her a worm. And, for the sake of Madame Palain, had saved her life. Over the rooftops, the Eiffel Tower stood in the distance, sunlight peeping through dark grey lattice. The beauty was astounding; it tugged at her heart.
Claire heard the shop door click open.
“Bonjour, Claire,” Madame called up the stairs. “I have designs for the Ritz.”
A slip