The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [45]
Claire supervised as Bison passed out more boxes. She tried to ignore the soldiers in the doorway, the way their eyes roamed over her like searchlights. A flash at the edge of her vision distracted her. She glanced up and noticed the pedestrians, bundled against the cold, hurrying along rue Cambon’s sidewalk. She watched the broad back of a man in a long wool coat stride away. The gleam of a sculpted jaw reflected the streetlight as he turned the corner, a quick glance to the side. She squinted into the darkness, her mind on the pedestrian’s angled face. It brought to mind the Englishman. Was he watching her?
“Mon dieu!” Bison cursed.
A vase of lilies laced with tiny faceted crystals tipped off the back of the truck. Claire leapt backward and caught it with one hand. She straightened and set the vase onto the waiting cart.
“Faites attention,” she scolded the attendant.
He put his cigarette back in his mouth and pushed the cart with both hands toward the hotel door.
“It will come out of your salary. Not mine,” she said to his back.
Her gaze returned to the street. One of the German soldiers, a driver, loitered there now, hands in his pockets. He stared back at her. Claire hurried behind the truck.
A long hour passed. Hard gazes from the soldiers, countless more cart trips by the attendants, Claire nervously watching over each detail, and Bison finally reached the front of the empty truck bed.
He climbed down and swung the door shut. “Did you need a ride to the shop?”
Claire looked down at her grey wool coat, her mind on the dress beneath. Dark green, long tapered sleeves, buttoned up to her neck and ending in pleats well below the knee. Warm, pleasant and a kindness from Madame, but nothing compared to the cream-colored silk gown hanging in the back of the closet in her bedroom. Still, she felt the pull as if she were iron dust tugging toward a magnet. Surely she was dressed enough to take a peek inside. This was New Year’s at the Paris Ritz. “No, thank you, Monsieur.” Claire bit her lip to hold back the grin. “I will walk.”
Bison lit a crumpled rolled cigarette. “You won’t make it before curfew. I have authorization to be on the streets.” His forehead wrinkled and he glanced toward the building as if he could see Madame Palain inside. Claire knew the florist expected him to take her home.
“You are so kind, Monsieur. I will be fine. We will be back to break down at six o’clock in the morning. You will be here, no?” She turned and went inside before he could think of another argument.
Passing the soldiers, Claire marched through the long hall toward the main lobby and the salon. Feeling a bit more like herself, she smoothed the curl over her brow, ran the stub of lipstick over her mouth and tucked a flower in her coat lapel. Her hands brushed the old wool of her coat and she thought wistfully of her sable hanging in her closet. This party could once have been hers.
The hall opened into an entryway. The opposite side was lined with open doors. An army of people in white jackets bustled inside. Perfect, she decided with a grin. No one would notice her just taking a look. Besides, she needed to have something to write Odette about tomorrow. What could be said about loading docks?
Claire peered inside the doorway and caught her breath at the sight. Salon Louis XIV. Madame had told her it was modeled after a château at Versailles. It truly was a testament to the Sun King. Pale butter walls, every surface embellished. Giant crystal chandeliers snowed light onto a long dining table set with silver and crystal.
Madame Palain held court in the army of bustling white jackets. She was the queen here, commanding with words and a wave. “These lilies, there, on this pedestal under the painting. Don’t bruise the petals. Do you want them to turn brown?”
Carts heavy with stacked silver trays were wheeled past.