Meanwhile, while Paige was taking her extra cooking class, Tess, Annette, and I decided we’d return to Île de la Cité. Annette really wanted to go back to Notre Dame so she could see a gargoyle up close and personal, and Tess said that if the weather cooperated, Sainte Chapelle and its exquisite stained glass was a must.
“Doesn’t anyone want to go on the catacombs tour with me?” Becca asked, with a pout.
“I don’t think so.” I wrinkled my nose. “Skeletons aren’t exactly my thing.”
“Mine either,” Annette said. “Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic, so that wouldn’t be a good mix.”
“Count me out,” Tess said. “I choose stained glass and light over dark tunnels and piles of stacked skulls and bones.”
“I’ll go,” Kailyn offered.
“Serious?” Our heads swiveled as one to the girliest girl in our group.
“Why are you so surprised? I’d like to see where Jean Valjean rescued Marius.”
“Wrong place,” Becca said. “That was the sewers of Paris; these are the catacombs.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Depth and smell.”
That night while Tess and I were marveling anew at the tower’s dazzling light show from our window before turning in, there was a soft knock on our door.
I opened it to Becca, who thrust a paper bag at me.
“Hey, I found this today at one of those green bookstalls along the Seine and thought you might like it as a souvenir, especially since I messed up your other copy.”
I opened the bag and pulled out a beautiful paperback edition of Les Misérables.
In French.
25
A faith is a necessity to man. Woe to him who believes nothing.
Les Misérables
Needing a little alone time, I got up early the next morning, slipped on my black pants, heaviest sweater, coat, and scarf and rode the tiny elevator down to the lobby.
“Bonjour.” I gave a smile and a quick nod to Arnaud at the front desk as I headed for the door.
I made my way to the pâtisserie, where I ogled the racks of tantalizing pastry in the glass display case. Millefeuilles mingled with macarons and meringues while cream puffs stood sentinel next to éclairs and a host of other delectable delights whose names I didn’t know.
So many pastries, so not enough room in my stomach.
Finally, using my rudimentary French, I settled on an amande, a day-old croissant split down the center with a healthy dose of almond paste in the middle and powdered sugar on top. I also bought two éclairs au chocolat, in case Tess and I found ourselves in the mood for a late-night snack.
Not for the first time was I grateful to my aunt for upgrading us to a room with a view — and a small refrigerator.
“Merci,” I said to the clerk as she handed me my sweet-tooth bounty wrapped carefully in white paper and taped shut with a steepled effect.
Even a to-go container was an art form in Paris.
Walking briskly to keep the cold at bay, I set off for my early morning rendezvous.
One of the food trailers at the foot of the monument was just opening, so I ordered chocolat chaud. I stared, mesmerized, at the pot of melted dark chocolate that was calling my name. The vendor poured some of the rich chocolate from the pot into a to-go cup, added hot milk, and presented it to me with a flourish.
I sat on a bench in Parc du Champ-de-Mars sipping hot chocolate and munching my flaky croissant as I paid my daily respects to my fair iron lady. It was nice to have la Tour Eiffel all to myself for a change.
Well, not completely to myself.
At another bench a little farther down, an elderly man wearing an overcoat and black cap — not a beret — sat engrossed in his copy of Le Monde.
And two Mademoiselles — shop girls, perhaps? — who looked nineteen or twenty at the most, strode by with their arms linked, chattering softly in their black miniskirts, tights, high heels, and fitted jackets, with the ubiquitous scarves at their necks — one saffron, one cobalt.
A college student – looking guy in jeans and a thick chocolate brown sweater with a striped wool scarf wrapped around his neck and brushing against his scraggly goatee, gave the girls an appreciative glance as he bicycled by — perhaps on his way to the Sorbonne?
I always liked making up stories about the people that I people watch.
And people watching in Paris ranked right up there with seeing all the famous monuments.
Like the trim, fortyish, silvery blonde in a snug, expensive-looking black wool coat and black stiletto boots, with a scarlet scarf — probably cashmere — knotted stylishly at her throat, whose heels crunched the pea gravel beneath her feet in a hurry, as if she might be late to work.
She passed beneath the lacy ironwork tower without even glancing up once.
Now I knew she had to be on her way to work, clearly to some high-powered, high-stress job, if the tense set of her jaw and the lines around her mouth were any indication. Perhaps she was an editor at a high-end Paris fashion magazine, and she was on her way right now to fire some lowly assistant who’d gotten her morning café au lait order wrong one too many times.
Or maybe she was a buyer at one of the chichi designer stores that Paige and Annette had visited yesterday.
Or a curator at one of Paris’s many museums.
More likely she was simply a well-dressed banker or accountant.
Happy not to have a high-stress job, but even happier still not to be at work at all, I continued munching on my croissant and enjoying the intoxicating view and the magical lure of the City of Lights.
Paris was like a drug. And I was addicted.
The city stirred my senses, opened my heart, and expanded my soul.
While I enjoyed my early morning solitude, my thoughts turned to Becca.
After she’d given me the lovely and unexpected book gift, I’d discussed my concerns about my roommate’s precarious financial state with Tess.
“But how could she come to Paris without enough money?” Tess said. “She’s the one who suggested the trip in the first place and said we’d have a year to save up for it.”
“Becca’s not really good at saving. Or with money in general for that matter.” I thought of the couple of bounced rent checks she’d given me in the past.
But that was then. And this was now.
We put our heads together and agreed that I should find a discreet way to talk to Becca away from the rest of the group to see if I could discover just how bad things were. And figure out ways we could help.
“It would be better coming from you since you’re closer to her age,” Tess said. “Especially since she and I seem to butt heads so easily.”
“That’s just because you tell it like it is.”
Tess chuckled. “With two teenage sons, you kind of have to.”
I was a little concerned that Becca and I might butt heads too. I thought back to the time I had confronted her about her messy bathroom and dirty dishes. Conflict is not one of my favorite things. Would I be able to do it again, or would I lose my nerve?
“Bonjour,” I said to Tess as I returned to our room of toile, divesting myself of my coat and scarf.
“Bonjour yourself.” She popped her head out of the bathroom, where she was applying lipstick. “And where have you been with your cheeks all flushed and your eyes sparkling? Is there something you want to tell Aunt Tess?”
“Only that I’ve fallen head over heels in love.”
“What?”
I stuck the éclairs in the fridge then plopped down on the far side of the bed and laced my hands behind my head as I stared at my tower in the distance.
“J’adore Paris.”
A few minutes later I rode the elevator back down to the lobby and headed to Becca and Paige’s room. In front of their door, I took a deep breath and knocked.
Paige opened the door with a sunny smile. “Bonjour, mon amie. Comment allez-vous? ”
“Très bien, merci
. Et vous? ”
“Bien. Très bien.”
“Can I talk to Becca?” I asked, having used up most of the French I knew.
“Sorry. You just missed her. She and Kailyn left about five minutes ago.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll just talk to her at breakfast then.”
“’Fraid not. She and Kailyn weren’t hungry and decided to skip breakfast this morning. They wanted to do some more exploring of the city before they went to the catacombs and said they’d catch up with us in the lobby tonight before dinner.”
A little relieved, I decided to head upstairs again and read until my two companions for the day were dressed and ready.
“How long ago was it that you were last here, Annette?” I asked as she, Tess, and I rode the Metro an hour later on our way to Île de la Cité.
“Thirty . . . no, actually, it will be thirty-one years this summer. I was stationed in Germany with the Air Force at the time. My roommate Donna and I decided to come over for a three-day weekend in the summer. And we had a blast! Paris in the seventies when disco was king was quite a kick.”
“I’ll say.” Tess’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “I came in the seventies my first time too. I was eighteen and fresh out of high school. My best friend Lana and I had saved up to spend the summer backpacking around Europe before we went to college in the fall. And we loved Paris so much we stayed a whole month.”
“I wish I’d had the nerve to do something adventurous like that,” I said. “Instead, I spent my last summer before college working in a bank. Very exciting.”
Tess chuckled. “I remember that bank job. It was pretty borin — Hey!” Her head swiveled to Annette. “Wait a minute. I just realized that thirty-one years ago, I was eighteen.”
“Very good,” Annette said. “Eighteen plus thirty-one equals forty-nine. So you’re a year younger than me. Don’t rub it in.”
“No. You don’t understand. Don’t you see? You said you came to Paris thirty-one years ago for a three-day weekend in the summer. Well, thirty-one years ago, I spent a month in Paris. In the summer.”
“Get out!”
“We could have passed each other on the street, or in the Louvre, or at a sidewalk café,” Tess said.
“What month were you here?”
“July.”
“That’s when I was here too! And I remember it was hotter than blazes. We came for the Fourth of July weekend.”
“Oh. We didn’t get here until the middle of July.”
“Ships in the night,” Annette said.
“Did you go to that famous three-story discotheque that was really hot at the time?”
“Did we ever. And we stuck out like sore thumbs in our sweet all-American, girl-next-door sundresses. The women all had glitter on their faces and wore black leggings with long white T-shirts knotted at the hip.”
“I remember it well.” Tess slid her a wicked look. “I had one of those T-shirts knotted at the hip — only over jeans.”
“Well, weren’t you the queen of the fashion scene. Wait’ll I tell Kailyn.”
I pretended to lightly snore.
“Are we boring you with our trip down Memory Lane?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You okay, Annette?” I stopped at the top of the spiral staircase and called down to her. “You’re almost there. Just another dozen steps or so.”
“Fine,” she gasped out. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”
“Atta girl,” Tess said from a few steps beneath her. “That’s the spirit.”
When Annette finally reached the top, she struggled out of her heavy coat, red-faced, sweating, and puffing. “I sure hope these gargoyles are worth it.”
They were.
So was the view of Paris and the Seine.
“Spectacular.” Annette clicked away with her digital camera once she caught her breath. “You know, some of these gargoyles are pretty ugly. But they’re so ugly, they’re almost cute.”
That wasn’t exactly the word I’d have used to describe the frightening stone creatures. But they definitely left an impression.
After we left Notre Dame, Tess decided we needed a reward for making that long trek up the tower. “I’m going to introduce you to the best ice cream you’ve ever had,” she promised.
“Ice cream in January?” Annette said. “What about a nice cup of tea in one of those salons du thés instead?”
“Later. But for now, onward to the most amazing ice cream and sorbets ever. Trust me. You’re going to love it. And the lines shouldn’t be too long either, not this time of year. In spring and summer they’re absolutely insane — they stretch all the way around the block.”
“Ooh, I read about this in my Paris research.” I flipped through my notes in my small travel journal as we walked to Île Saint-Louis. “It’s called Berthillon, right?”
“That’s the place.” Tess kissed her fingers. “And I recommend the prune armagnac.”
“Prune ice cream?” Annette wrinkled her nose. “I’ve had garlic ice cream at the Gilroy Garlic Festival, but it was pretty awful.”
“I can imagine it would be,” Tess said. “But armagnac is completely different. It’s sweet and flavorful. C’est magnifique. The pear sorbet and wild strawberry sorbet are also wonderful. And marron glace, chestnut . . .”
“Don’t they have plain chocolate?” Annette asked.
“Oh, they have chocolate. And it’s anything but plain.”
Except we weren’t going to be able to put Tess’s assertion to the test.
We stood as a trio in front of the closed and shuttered shop with the fancy Bs beside the doors. Tess slapped her hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe I forgot they were closed on Tuesdays.”
“Tant pis,” I said, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not the end of the world.”
“Chloe, you’re getting very good at the language,” Annette said. “Before we leave, you’ll be fluent.”
I snorted. Softly. We were in Paris after all. During our exchange, Tess had stood there with her brow furrowed in thought. All at once her face lit up. “You’re right. It’s not the end of the world. We’ll just have to enjoy some Berthillon at one of the restaurants in the area instead. There’s a nice little café at the western end of Île Saint-Louis that carries it.”
She looked up at the sky, where the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. “But now we must hurry to SainteChapelle while the sun is shining.”
Tess shepherded us back in the direction of Notre Dame so we could see her beloved chapel a few blocks away. “I know this is probably sacrilege,” she said as we hurried along, “but I prefer Sainte-Chapelle over Notre Dame. Notre Dame’s a bit too big and gloomy for me. But Sainte-Chapelle is this brilliant little jewel tucked away within the walls of the Palais de Justice. Louis IX had it built to house the crown of thorns that Jesus wore.”
I stopped cold.
“Are you telling me we’re going to get to see the crown of thorns that was on Jesus’s head when he was crucified?”
“No,” Tess said gently. “It’s now kept in the Notre Dame treasury and shown only on Fridays during Lent. And it’s not for sure that the relic is the real thing, but King Louis certainly thought so. He paid an enormous sum of money for it and then had Sainte-Chapelle created as a chapel that would be worthy of the sacred crown that had touched the skin of the Messiah.”
“I can’t wait to see it,” Annette said. “I read somewhere that in medieval times, stained glass was like a book for the believers who couldn’t read.”
“That’s right. Detailed scenes from the Bible were painstakingly crafted in glass to help teach the Bible stories to the illiterate faithful.” Tess released a reverent sigh. “Just wait until you see the stained glass. It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
She was right. Although, when we first entered the small stone church, I thought, This is it? What’s the big deal?
Then she led us up
a tiny spiral staircase to the main level, or upper chapel.
Annette and I gasped.
Walls of nearly solid glass held up the vaulted roof in the narrow room.
“It’s like being surrounded by a curtain of stained glass,” I whispered as myriad shades of sapphire, ruby, emerald, and topaz streamed in from every direction, illuminating the chapel.
“Exquisite,” Annette breathed. “The others will be sorry they missed this.”
I wasn’t thinking about the others. I sank into one of the benches along the wall and stared silently at the glorious, jewel-colored windows telling the story of creation to redemption to Apocalypse. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and as I gazed upon the vivid glass biblical pictures, I thought of the faithful who centuries before me had read in this very room without the benefit of words. And I thought of how much I cherished the written word.
Sometimes even words need a little accompaniment though.
I slowly reached in my pocket and pulled out my iPod.
Tess had told us there were often public concerts in this upper chapel — church services had stopped years ago — but today there was no concert, and I needed music.
And not just any music.
Discreetly I found the selection I wanted, stuck in my ear buds, and hit play.
Charlotte Church’s pure, exquisite soprano filled my head as she sang “The Prayer.” And moments later Josh Groban joined in. Singing in Italian, his glorious rich voice was a perfect counterpart to hers.
I stared at the stained glass windows, letting the music and the sheer majesty of my Creator wash over me in that holy place.
And as the voices soared, my soul soared right along with them as I added my prayer to theirs in the same place where kings worshiped centuries ago.
Guide me with your grace, oh Lord. Fill me with your light.
26
When good Americans die, they go to Paris.
Daring Chloe Page 24