The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [61]
“My mother was a baroness. The Baroness du Vinen. A title, but not the means. Still, I was given the best education at Sorbonne. Art, literature, culture. For the purpose of charming and marrying an important and wealthy man. I admit I was a disappointment to my mother. I married a professor of engineering. An educated man. A gentle man. But a man of simple tastes.”
Madame never spoke about herself. Claire stepped forward, enthralled.
“We lived in Paris, a small apartment across from jardin du Luxembourg, near the university, his work. After only nine months at the university, my gentle engineer was called to fight the Germans. Another soldier fighting the Great War. Months passed. I cherished his letters. But without his salary, without the university, I had nothing. And one day, I passed by this place. The suitcase in my hand was all I had left.” She stroked the petals of a peach-colored rose. “I had no experience, no references. Monsieur Russo saw something in me, I think. I became his assistant.”
“He was the owner?” Claire said.
“Yes. The preeminent florist in the arrondissement. A celebrated artist, like Renoir or Seurat. But that was the Great War. Times were not easy. Still, he believed in this place.” Madame smiled gently, her eyes gazing through the years. She tucked a slender green cherry branch behind three ruffled rose blossoms.
“My husband did not survive the war. I was devastated, of course, but no more so than many others. I gave my heart and soul to this place. When my mother died, I inherited a bit of money. Monsieur Russo was tired, his hands stiff. He sold me the shop on very lenient terms. He knew no one would care for it like I would.” Madame turned to Claire, enunciating each word. “He knew I would never let it fail. Elegance endures. It must.”
Claire gulped, wrestling with the knot in her throat. She scuffed a toe at the grit beneath the shelves—it was there—and bit her lower lip. She concentrated on the pain until the tightness in her throat relaxed.
Madame pulled her bag from under the counter. “Au revoir, mon ami.” She kissed Claire good night and glided into the evening shadows.
Claire climbed the stairs and threw open the windows to her room. She pulled the garden photo from the mirror’s edge and sat on the open windowsill, her feet resting on the balcony. She squinted at the picture in the dimness.
The dark violet sky lent the image a mystical air. The verdant beauty of the garden, the wise serenity carved on the statue’s face was like cool water on Claire’s overheated emotions. Her marriage and high society life was dead, her affair with Laurent a memory. Yet this little photo not only survived but had grown more real. A place, if only in her mind, that welcomed her like the first sun of spring.
Claire peered down at the deep blue awning below the balcony at her feet. The faded lettering of La Vie en Fleurs looked murky grey against the dying light.
Everyone saw her beauty, Claire knew. They always had. But Madame saw something more. Something worth saving. Claire felt a surge of heat in her chest. She straightened her shoulders, felt a warmth spread throughout her body.
Beauty might be a gift to our souls from the heavens. Luxury, purchased. But suddenly she understood. There was strength in elegance. Claire wouldn’t let the shop fail. And she knew, first thing in the morning, before Madame arrived, she would mop the damn floor.
Avenue Montaigne. September 26, 1941.
The midday sun felt thin, hinting at fall’s chill. The pressing heat of summer was a memory. Broken clouds stirred over the city. It would pour by nightfall.
Claire breathed deep at the scent of rain in the air as she walked slowly by the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. The façade of the theater was beautiful, pale white carved limestone. A mix of Art Deco and classical styles, a good five stories tall, judging by the windows of buildings