The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  She fell into his fierce gaze. His dark eyes swallowed her, flecks of blue swam in the slate depths. Soldiers thundered by, jackboots ringing on the bricks. From the edge of her vision, she watched one man pause and finger his pistol as he examined Grey’s back. A shout near the river, and he turned and jogged away.

  The soldiers gestured and cursed at the man struggling in the current’s center. Shots rang out. Splashes erupted around him. He jerked and was still.

  “He’s dead,” Claire breathed. The suddenness of it stunned her.

  Grey slipped his arm around her waist. “Come on.” He hurried them back the direction they had come.

  She sank into his side, sick from what she’d seen, grateful for the strength that kept her upright. Out of sight of the bridge, he sat her on a bench facing the river.

  He slid next to her and leaned close. “You alright?”

  Claire glanced down and realized she was clenching his hand. She let go and gave him a small smile. “I’m fine.”

  He stared at the water. “Tell me about the Comte de Vogüé. Describe him.”

  “I don’t know much. I honestly don’t. Late thirties, dark hair, impeccably dressed.” She paused. She wasn’t going to say charming. Not now. “Who is he, Grey?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. But he is important, you were right about that.”

  “And dangerous?”

  “Likely.”

  “You didn’t ask me about Sylvie. Or the Nazi she was with.” Claire’s mind was working, desperate to move past the shots, past Grey’s eyes. “You are using her.”

  “She doesn’t know what Laurent does, what we do, against the Occupation. Her Nazi Kapitän requisitions SS equipment and supplies. She boasts more than she should to Laurent.”

  “Pillow talk?” Claire said.

  The barest of a grim smile. “She has no idea what a patriot she really is.”

  Claire shivered. There was no flâner in Paris, not these days. She looked back at the Seine. It churned slowly along as it had for centuries. “I need to get back to the shop.”

  Bison was wrong—nothing returned to normal. Although winter gave way to spring, which stretched into summer, there were no parties dripping with flowers, no large deliveries to be made. Just a little trip to Hôtel George V or Hôtel Emeraude or another nearby place to drop off a bouquet in the lobby, maybe flirt a bit. The goal was to keep going, to keep La Vie en Fleurs alive.

  For Claire, even under the Occupation, Paris was like a university that summer. There were bouquets of zinnias, nasturtiums, marigolds, poppies, sweet peas and roses to create. Oh, the roses. Clusters of all colors, shapes and petals, but her favorite were the curvaceous shell-pink “Pierre de Ronsard” roses. She bundled them in a silver vase on her dresser, next to the photo of the garden.

  From Odette, Claire learned the Nazis had one hell of a dress code. Each group had different caps. The collar patch signified rank and branch, whether Waffen-SS, Kriegsmarine or Luftwaffe. Shoulder straps showed rank, sometimes the unit and specialist. Then there were chevrons, badges, arm shields. The Waffen-SS, Luftwaffe, Heer and Kriegsmarine had different styles of eagles. Even the cuffs had to be examined; the smallest insignia could reveal the presence of an elite unit or special command.

  Claire dutifully reported the uniforms she saw at each hotel in notes dropped at the dentist. More and more, her reports were interesting enough for Grey to meet her on her walks about the city. A few questions about her report, who she saw, if they were coming or going or staying put. How he knew where to find her, she never understood.

  Still, as the days of summer stretched languidly, Claire found herself wearing her best dress, arranging her hat just so and listening for his footsteps behind her. A curt nod when he stepped in stride at her side, a short word about the day or the location, but his slate eyes glinted warmly.

  They spoke of flowers and parks as they walked, shoulders touching, along the Champs-Elysées, traced their way through tombs at Cimetière de Montmartre, and meandered through the fountains and greenery of the jardin des Tuileries. They did their best to stay away from the roving patrols of feldgrau and the units of goose-stepping young fascists of the Garde Français. They did what the rest of the Parisians did: felt the sun’s warmth on their skin, shared a lingering glance, savored another’s soft touch through thin summer fabric. And tried to remember how it felt to be alive.

  Chapter 6

  THE WARNING

  52, rue du Colisée, Paris. August 16, 1941.

  Claire fell asleep with Madame’s art book again. A painting of Venus, the goddess sat half-naked on a low seat in front of a temple, primped by the Graces for Adonis’ seduction. Two Graces styled her hair; a third brought a net sewn with pearls. A cherub held her mirror while another fastened her sandal.

  She dreamed the painting in flowers. The Fantin-Latour rose, with its soft blush pink petals, portrayed Venus herself. Trailing green Queue-de-Renard amaranthus were her robes. A gossamer web of pearls draped over the entire arrangement, displayed against a blue wall. The flowers replaced the Parisian artwork carted off to Berlin or hidden in dark corners. She woke smiling.

  At Madame Palain’s instruction, Claire pushed pails of asters and dahlias, all that remained, into one corner of the back room. On hands and knees, first a bucket of sudsy water and a brush, then rubbing with a soft cloth, Claire spent the morning polishing the stone floor. The floor shined. And Claire ached. Yesterday it was the walls. Tomorrow, she imagined Madame would want the countertops polished. By next week, if things didn’t change, she would be out on the street cobbles with a toothbrush in hand.

  Business had dried up. No celebrations for the parents, no little posies to lighten up a room. As the summer heat drained into fall, all the customers remaining were the occasional German soldier buying for his Parisian girl. Madame did not approve and charged them outrageously. What did they care? They printed up more Occupation money.

  Claire was lining up the flower tins against the wall when the phone rang. She ran to the counter, Madame close behind. Claire forced herself to wait for the end of the second ring before she picked up.

  “Allô?” Claire said. Not bored exactly, not rude. Just a touch inconvenienced by a call interrupting a very busy day. She examined her worn nails.

  “Madame Badeau?”

  Claire paused. “Yes.”

  “Of the flower shop?”

  “Yes. You have an order?”

  “I am calling for Comte Jean-Luc de Vogüé.”

  Claire swallowed. “The Comte?”

  Madame frowned and reached for the phone.

  “The Comte met you at the Ritz. It was on New Year’s Eve. He found your flowers quite captivating that night.”

  With a stiff arm outstretched, Claire kept Madame away from the phone.

  “Madame Badeau? Are you available to take an order? In person?”

  Claire smiled at Madame. “Of course. Is the Comte planning a fête?” She nearly purred into the phone.

  There was a pause. “Yes. For the winter. Are you available tonight?”

  “I can reschedule my plans.”

  “Good. Eight o’clock, then. At the Ritz. Use the rue Cambon entrance.”

  Claire set the phone in the cradle and hugged Madame. “A party!” She smiled into the florist’s disapproving frown. “It will be beautiful. I’ll insist on roses, countless roses, all fresh flowers. We will hire Bison to deliver.”

  “I do not like you talking with the Comte.”

  Claire sighed. “How is he any worse than your hoteliers working for the Nazis?”

  “The hoteliers have no choice. They only want to survive. The Comte chose his path for other reasons. One hears things. Why did he ask for you?”

  Claire stretched her aching back. “He asked for me because I flirted with him. You hear things. I hear an orchestra and the pop of champagne bottles. I hear francs.”

  Madame folded her arms in front of her. “You are impossible.” She
gazed about the room, her forehead crumpled in thought. “Tell him no matter how small the event, he must show the French good taste and outshine the vulgar Boche. Also, tell him he must pay up front with francs, not those reichsmarks.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Claire hurried into the back room. Inventory had dwindled and the room was nearly empty. Shears and pliers lined the wall, above rows of stacked vases and empty flower pails. Still they had options. She could see it now, the theme would be Venus, and her flowers would take the place of the unseen art. She had passed strings of glass pearls on display at Le Bon Marché on the Left Bank.

  Of course, the flowers would be très cher, very expensive, for the Comte. The city was full of aristocrats like Laurent, pleased that their ancestors managed to keep their heads through the Revolution. The des Vogüés, however, also retained their money, and the Comte appeared to be doing well through this reordering, cozied up to the Germans in the Ritz. He would be quite able to make a significant contribution to La Vie en Fleurs.

  Eight o’clock meant dinner and that meant dressing. Claire bolted up the stairs. She pulled the blue dress she had bought with her first paycheck out of the closet. It was a year old now but still quite presentable. For the price of a posy, a cobbler had reheeled her shoes with rubber from old bike tires. They squeaked a bit when she walked but looked acceptable.

  She examined her reflection in the mirror. All it would take was a bath and a set. A small smile. Finally, a reason to dress. The last had been Laurent’s party so long ago. Warmth sparked in her stomach as she felt again Grey’s stare that night as she walked away. She pulled her special notepad from behind the dresser and jotted a note. She had time to deliver this to the dentist then get ready.

  That evening, Claire threaded her way through fashionable couples along rue de Rivoli. Sharp winds smelled of rain. Black clouds waded through the darkening blue skies. A man in a long raincoat sat on a park bench, newspaper tucked under his arm. He appraised her as she walked toward him, adjusted his silk tie, raised an eyebrow. A polite question, asked with his eyes. Perhaps?

  Claire hid a smile. He was handsome, very French. Moneyed, by the shine of his shoes, the cut of his suit. She tilted her head to the side, the hint of a shrug, as she walked by. An equally polite refusal.

  What would Grey make of that? Another Parisian experience to be savored on a walk? Or would his proper English jaw clench? She knew if he got the message, he would find her amidst the plants in the jardins des Champs-Elysées.

  The garden unfolded on her right. She turned in and walked toward the large two-tiered fountain and pool where children used to float toy wooden sailboats. No children were there this evening, just a few scattered loners, taking the last few enjoyable minutes before curfew and their dreary nights. Not for her, not tonight.

  She heard footsteps coming from the path through the trees. Claire slowed. The way Grey always found her on her walks, she’d turn and he would be there, hands in his pockets, coat collar turned up against the chill. He wouldn’t even say hello, just start in conversation, something about the gardens or the day, his voice serious, dark eyes warm.

  Claire turned, smiling.

  It was Laurent. “You look breathtaking.”

  She frowned. “Hello.”

  He matched her stride, hands in his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth. “You are surprised to see me. You don’t think I am a patriot like the others?

  Claire shrugged, surprised at the depth her spirits had fallen. She hid her disappointment behind a doubtful expression.

  “I do more than you know,” Laurent said as if she had replied. He caught her arm, pulled her to a stop. “Don’t be mad with me, ma chérie. You must know by now why Sophie came that day. It isn’t because I wanted her there. I wanted you there.”

  Claire looked over at him, wondering at his wounded tone.

  His eyes were intent; he pulled the cigarette from his mouth so he could lean in close to her face. “Don’t you remember New York? You are who I wanted.”

  She allowed him to pull her off the path onto a secluded bench overlooking the pool and the parterre gardens beyond. He sat facing her, one hand resting on her arm, almost protectively, almost possessively. She stared at his hand until he pulled it away. Even if he was the one who vouched for her with Odette, a long two years had passed since the New York he remembered. “Where is Grey . . . or Odette?”

  “Odette is busy. There are important things happening, Claire. Grey is, what can I say—gone.”

  Claire sat up straight. “Gone?”

  He shrugged, a small frown as though he were disappointed but what could he do? “He left.”

  “Where?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Tell me, Laurent.”

  He studied her, his eyes inscrutable, then looked away and sighed. Finally he spoke as if it pained him. “He went back to England.”

  “He what?”

  “He had commitments. A woman and a child. A daughter. Grey is a steadfast sort of creature. A responsible man. They are getting hammered right now in London, the bombings.” He shrugged then mimicked a lecturing Grey in his clipped French. “ ‘We all have duties, Laurent.’ ”

  Claire looked away from Laurent toward the trees. She felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her. She kept her expression calm, chewed her lip. “I see.”

  Two policemen walked by. They eyed the pair on the bench but said nothing.

  She stared at the pool, took a deep breath but didn’t speak. Her insides ached. A mistress and child back in London.

  “He’s right. We all have our responsibilities. I have never forgotten you came to Paris for me.” Laurent stroked her arm. “I know you, Claire. You’re not made for work.”

  Claire’s throat clamped down until it ached. She thought she’d seen something in Grey’s eyes, the way he cocked his head and almost smiled when they walked together through the city. Like he wasn’t just looking at her—he saw her. Had she only been lonely?

  And now he was gone and Laurent was offering, what? Did the Comte’s interest suddenly stir his competitive spirit? A surge of anger choked her. “Just advise me about the Comte.”

  Laurent scowled and started to say more. Finally, he nodded. “We investigated him after you first wrote. The Comte de Vogüé is a mystery. It seems as though he has always kept his dealings below the surface. The Ritz is the only occupied hotel the Nazis allow civilians to reside. They keep them on the rue Cambon side, but the Comte must be very important to the Nazis’ military or business in order to stay at the Ritz. It could be very helpful for us if you made a good impression on him. I know you can do that. And then listen and look. Do as Odette taught you. We will await a report in the usual place.”

  Claire forced herself to listen. It felt as if her insides spilled out onto the stone below. She shivered, suddenly chilled. The bells from a cathedral chimed eight times. “I need to go.” She began to walk toward the Ritz, toward dinner and whatever else she might find.

  Laurent called after her. “Claire, not too good of an impression, eh?”

  The soldiers on each side of the Ritz’s back entrance off 38, rue Cambon said nothing as she passed beneath the small awning and through the double doors. She stood straight, head up, feeling strangely vulnerable without arms full of flowers. It was the back entrance, only Nazis rated the Ritz’s front entrance on Place Vendôme, but still, it was the Ritz. Inside the long hallway, she passed a pair of doors on the left and right, and heard the murmur of voices, the smell of tobacco. Glancing inside the dimly lit bars, she saw a mix of men in uniforms and in fine suits, women in evening dresses. How hard would it be, she wondered, to get an invitation to the bar?

  Moments after she introduced herself at the rue Cambon concierge desk, a suited man led her to the elevator. A hook nose on a thin face, he wore a lapel pin with the crest and crown logo of the Ritz. He introduced himself as Monsieur LeFevre with an expression that implied he’d seen better. He eyed her as the elev
ator ascended.

  Claire kept her gaze on the gold elevator buttons, her posture straight. Apparently she wasn’t the first woman the Comte had to dinner in his room. The doors opened on the fourth floor and, heart pounding, Claire walked through a group of Nazi officers dressed up for a night out. Claire ignored their stares and followed the man down a long corridor. He stopped in front of a room, perfunctorily knocked twice and pulled a key from his pocket.

  “Voilà.” He opened the door with a flourish.

  Claire followed him inside. The wood-paneled room was richly detailed, pale blue velvet upholstered sofa and matching armchairs. The walls and rugs were a tasteful grey blue. A small table and two chairs faced a tall window. Nothing personal, nothing of interest.

  He pointed toward the sofa. “Comte de Vogüé has been detained on business. He will join you shortly.” He nodded a curt good-bye and exited.

  Claire walked over to the window. The sun was setting and the sky violet. Over shadowed rooftops, the gilded figures atop the Opéra glowed faint pink. Scattered pairs of headlights delineated rue Cambon, black outlines of thrashing tree limbs bent against the tugging winds.

  Claire watched a couple cross the narrow street below. She frowned. So Grey had a family back home. Why the hell did she care? He never promised anything.

  The couple on the street kissed beneath a blued-out lamppost and separated ways. Claire smoothed her dress over her curves and ran a hand through her hair. So Grey was gone. She was at the Ritz about to rendezvous with a handsome French aristocrat. This was why she’d come to Paris in the first place. It was hard enough to stay alive these days. How gauche to fall victim to a schoolgirl crush and risk getting shot over it.

  Low voices sounded in the hall. The door clicked shut behind her. The Comte’s figure reflected in the window pane.

  “My apologies, Madame Badeau, for keeping you waiting.”

  Claire glanced over at the champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket beside the table. She arranged a devilish smile and twisted to face him, her hips cocked, chest out and one leg forward. “I am sure, Comte”—she extended her hand—“you have many important things to attend to.”