The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [65]
Four thousand francs, in one-hundred notes. Half she tucked behind the dresser, the other went into the till. An order from the Comte, she told Madame, a regular payment. They were to give flowers for the War Relief Committee. A Frenchman underneath it all, he must feel sympathy for the wounded French soldiers. At this price, Madame asked, amazed. Madame, he is not that good of a Frenchman, Claire told her. For him, the price was doubled. His money is better with us than with the Germans.
Gripping the broom, Claire smiled again at the memory. Tonight she planned a special surprise for Madame. Georges had just dropped off a box by the door. Nearly like the old days, a bottle of wine, a loaf of real bread, a square of cheese.
A man passed by, head down, hands in pockets. Thinning grey hair, sharply drawn mustache. A polite bonjour as he stepped around her broom.
A flash of warm recognition and Claire grinned. “Monsieur Oberon?”
He looked puzzled. “Madame?”
“I am the woman you picked up on the road and brought to Paris almost a year and a half ago. Claire, Claire Badeau.”
A wan smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Ah, Madame Badeau.” A nod at the name change. “Of course.”
“I am so pleased to see you again. I’ve thought of you and your wife often.” He looked thinner, she thought. Worn around the eyes but well enough.
“Oh? How kind. Your speaking has greatly improved.”
“It is a constant effort. How is Madame Oberon?”
“She is well,” he said, though Claire wondered at the tone.
“And your son? Michele?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. Claire knew the answer before he formed the words.
“He was killed in the fighting. We heard last summer.”
“I am so sorry,” Claire said. Knowing words weren’t enough. She remembered the grainy photo Adele had shown her, tattered from the years. The family kneeling in the sand on the beach, a grin took up the boy Michele’s entire face. His smiling parents were draped around either shoulder like a loving blanket.
“Please, wait one moment.” She dropped the broom against the doorway and bolted inside. She pulled out a dozen roses, white for honor, light pink for sympathy, wrapped them in silver and white paper. On the way out the door, Claire passed Georges’ box.
The Oberons might have saved her life by giving her a ride to Paris. But more than that, they offered her compassion in the form of shared sandwiches, friendly though stilted conversation, a warm embrace. She tucked the roses inside the box and walked out the door out with it in her hands. “For you,” she said.
His gaze flicked over the bread loaf, the wine bottle, the flowers. “That is too much. I could not take it.”
“Monsieur, I have not forgotten your generosity that day. Please allow me to repay you and your wife. Please.” She held the box in front of her.
He reached out tentatively, his face slack, eyes moist. “Merci. Merci beaucoup. Adele will be so pleased. It has been a difficult time. Things—” He cleared his throat, forced a smile, met her eyes. “Adele would welcome your company. The house feels so empty now.”
Claire swallowed the knot in her throat. What could she offer Adele besides flowers? A smile and a kiss on his cheek, her regards to his wife, and she watched him walk away.
Across the street, the policeman who stopped Claire last December stepped from Epicerie Dupré. He caught her gaze and pointed a thick finger to his eye. Claire grabbed the broom and walked inside.
Madame Palain examined her. “Who was that gentleman, Claire?”
“An old friend.”
Jardin des Tuileries. May 16, 1943.
The sky was deep blue and the air filled with the fragrance of blooming flowers. Gnarled chestnut trees, their heavy limbs weighted with vibrant green leaves and waving wands of white flowers. Claire could feel spring down into her bones as she entered jardin des Tuileries off rue de Rivoli.
It was a season she thought would never come. It didn’t seem possible Paris had another spring in her, given the death and war boiling