by Lynn Sheene
Odette crossed the street and disappeared into a side alley.
Claire twisted Russell’s wedding ring she wore on her right hand. When she considered selling the fur coat early this winter, Georges told her about a pawnshop not far from here. Badeau. Claire tested the name in her mouth. Henri Badeau sacrificed his life for France.
Madame Palain couldn’t argue if Claire sold her ring to pay for marriage papers. A soldier fallen in battle, his family needed money. And she, Claire would say, needed to work over the table. Le system D. A done deal. Claire pulled the ring from her finger. A lie, not a life, but this would be her sacrifice for La Vie en Fleurs.
Claire glanced up at the theater marquee and smiled. Le Voyageur sans bagage. A traveler without luggage. Rather fitting.
Chapter 5
THE NEW BADEAU
Paris Ritz, 15 Place Vendôme. December 31, 1940.
The truck’s headlights reflected off billowing white flakes and illuminated the snowdrifts growing against the buildings. Worn tires spun and the heavy engine protested as the truck shifted down, crawling around the tight corner off rue Cambon into the guarded delivery entrance of the Hôtel Ritz. Claire watched from her perch in the passenger seat as the driver, Monsieur Bison, pulled the brake and reached for a wad of papers in his overcoat pocket, passing them to a waiting soldier in feldgrau.
The guard marked a list and waved them through a line of soldiers. Bison let out a shaky breath as he threw a tight grin to Claire. The truck crept into the hotel’s snow-blanketed courtyard. Dark twin trails left by truck tires that had already come and gone that evening traced up to the loading dock.
Claire could only afford a glance at the graceful lines of the building, the stately high windows and the slivers of golden lit rooms visible through half-closed curtains, before the engine rumbled to silence in front of the dock. She slid out the passenger door. Bison met her at the back. With the flick of a lever, the door swung open with a clang.
A dim bulb lit the center of the truck, leaving the rest in shadows. Claire quickly scanned the interior, barely able to make out the wooden crates that butted against each other. Exploding out of each crate like firecrackers were pink hellebores, dried roses, burgundy lilies and winding branches gilded in silver and gold. The porcelain and silver vase rims that jutted from the crates reflected orange in the bulb’s light. Nearly a month of preparation by Madame and Claire for tonight’s fête.
She nodded at Bison. Everything looked to be the same as when they left the shop. He returned the gesture, apparently as nervous as she was about getting the flowers to Madame Palain in perfect condition. Craning her neck, Claire peered through the swirling snowflakes at the rows of windows that faced rue Cambon and what looked to be a garden. Feeling like a thief huddled in the darkness, she shivered down to her core in the bitter cold and slapped gloved hands against her body. The sound echoed off the walls and made her jump. Bison snickered around the cigarette in his mouth.
Double doors swung open and lights shone from a bright hallway. Attendants in white jackets pushed carts past the soldiers guarding the corridor and up to the truck. While the guards watched, Bison handed out boxes from the truck bed.
Madame waited inside the Ritz, preparing for the flowers’ arrival. Claire’s job tonight was getting the flowers, fresh, unbruised and unbroken, to Madame in the hotel’s salon. A Herculean task that would have been impossible, except for the experience of Bison. With his stained overalls and cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth, he didn’t seem like Madame’s first choice. But he was good and steady, and he worked with a delicacy that belied his calloused, meaty hands.
He told Claire during the drive over this was the first job he’d had all winter. His other two trucks had been requisitioned long before; it was impossible to get permission to make deliveries at all. He hoped tonight was a sign things were going back to normal. This cannot last, he said, shaking his head as he ran his thick fingers over the steering wheel. He could not last, Claire knew he meant.
A boyish attendant pushed his cart against the truck bed and reached for a crate with one hand.
“You there, be careful, carry it like this.” Claire handed him a vase brimming with ivy, placing his hands underneath the container. “Don’t use the handles. Do you hold a woman by her wrists or her body?” She smiled as he blushed.
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. The smell of the food inside made Claire’s mouth water. An ice sculpture of two facing swans arched over a tower of champagne flutes. In the corner, an orchestra was setting up, all in tuxedos.
And the flowers. A smile crept to Claire’s lips. They were magnificent. Two of her arrangements were paired on the mantel bordering an elaborate gilded mirror. Twisted gold branches looped out from the blossoming lilies like trails of golden fireworks, the dangling crystals their fire.
“Quite an operation, isn’t it?” a low voice, smooth as bourbon, said behind her.
Claire started and turned at the sound.
He was slender, aristocratically so, in an expensive tailor-made tuxedo. His thick black hair was parted with a knife and combed behind his ears. He smiled with his teeth, taking a drag from a cigar. “Beautiful, no?” he said, in the tone of a man who knew his worth.
This was the type Claire planned on finding in Paris. Rich, important, handsome, but judging from his eyes not so passionate or principled as to entangle. Times changed. She changed. But she couldn’t help the anticipation that kindled in her stomach. She twisted toward him; her hand nonchalantly adjusted her coat to hint at what awaited inside. She nodded in approval. “Very beautiful.”
He slowly took her in with his eyes. “Can I look forward to your presence tonight?”
In spite of herself, Claire was charmed. She let a slow smile grow on her lips.
“Perhaps I could offer you a drink? Or two?” He indicated the champagne table with the tilt of his head. “Madame . . . ?”
“Badeau, Claire Badeau,” Claire extended a hand.
Madame Palain appeared at Claire’s side. “Pardon, Monsieur. Madame Badeau is required in the salon.”
“Of course.” He bowed lightly.
She grabbed Claire’s elbow and led her into the salon. Her touch was light but the grip was steel. “You didn’t return with Bison.”
“I wanted to see.”
The florist looked at Claire’s lipstick, the flower in the open collar of her coat. “Is restraint a word you are completely unfamiliar with?” She bit each word as she said it.
“Madame Palain?” a man called from across the room, arms full with a large basket.
She composed herself, smoothing the irritation from her face. She pointed toward two large silver chalices brimming with lavender lilies. “Take these to the Place Vendôme lobby on your way out. Monsieur Brun will show you where to place them.” She leaned in close. “Do not allow yourself to be alone with the Comte de Vogüé again. You could hardly have done worse.”
Claire opened her mouth to argue, but the florist was already across the room. Another cart of champagne flutes wheeled past. Claire could almost taste the golden liquid, feel the bubbles play on her tongue. She sighed and hooked an arm around each chalice. With a final wistful glance around the room, she marched into the hallway.
It was easier to dawdle in the lobby. The flowers needed to be placed perfectly, one on the front desk, the other over the mantel in the seating area. Then there was flirting with the concierge, Brun. Shaped like a loaf of bread, thin hair parted on the side and swiped across a wide forehead. He wasn’t so much to look at, but each man who passed called him by name.
Leaning over the desk, her face inches from his; she toyed with the chalice, rubbing a nonexistent smudge. “Who is Comte de Vogüé?”
A scowl flashed across Brun’s face. “Important.” He paused, staring down at the desk and squaring a stack of papers as if he stopped himself from saying more.
“What do you mean?” Claire said, covering the irritation with honey.
A long car rolled up to the Place Vendôme entrance. Bellmen on each side opened the lobby doors wide. Three couples strolled in, one after another.
“The guests. I must go.” Brun scurried around the desk.
Claire swung to face them. She thought of her report. Flirted with Comte de Vogüé, an important, perhaps dangerous and strangely charming man. She pictured Odette bent over the note, a room of agents waiting with baited breath. She laughed to herself.
A Nazi officer came first, built like a Panzer tank with a wide neck bulging over the top of his uniform. A woman in a heavy mink was pinned to his side.
It was Sylvie. Claire froze. The officer’s roving gaze flicked over Claire. She slid around the desk, bending down behind the flowers as his eyes followed her. He lit a cigarette as Sylvie spoke into his ear and adjusted her mink. They walked by; he glanced over at Claire. She turned her head, pretending to read the papers on the desk.
“Gerolf, I want to go in,” Sylvie whined, her voice like a razor scraping over tender flesh.
The warmth Claire felt now coalesced into a cold lump in her stomach. That was who the party was for. Not for aristocrats and their stylish mistresses. Not self-made socialites on the run from the States. All this cultured beauty was for Nazi officers and collaborators. People like Sylvie.
It was past time to go. Claire ducked her head as she walked from the lobby. Running her hand down the molding of the long hallway as she walked, her eyes grazed the marble floor under her feet. You will see better days, she promised. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the Ritz or Paris or herself.
Claire stepped out the double doors onto rue Cambon and welcomed the bite of the cold night air. Bison was long gone. Wrapping her coat tight around her, she scurried down the dark, empty sidewalk, plotting her course east then south, toward the shop.
The Ritz exuded the glamour Claire sought when she boarded the Yankee Clipper. Her timing was plain bad luck. But, damn, tonight she ached for this fallen city.
She shook her head to stop the thoughts. Her feet picked up speed as she cut onto the avenue that ran east, just out of sight of the Seine. Life was hard enough without worrying about the other guy. Without thinking about the big picture. She knew better.
She wrote and rewrote her report the next morning. In the end, the note was short and sweet. Sylvie and the officer, the Comte, the guards stationed by the door. Signed Evelyn. She addressed the envelope for Danielle and dropped it in the dentist’s box on her way to the Ritz. After she helped Bison reload the truck, she celebrated a day of rare sunshine with a stroll along the river.
The Seine was unlike any other river Claire had ever seen. Like every bit of nature she’d seen in Paris, it had been so molded by human hands it became a civilized thing, more formal than any structure, a living monument to the elemental. With her coat bundled tight against the cold, Claire skirted patches of snow along the brick quai and gazed up at the Eiffel Tower, looming over the boats that chugged down the Seine.
Her day stretched before her like a promise. As long as she could keep warm, she would work upstream along the quai, passing the tower then the Grand and Petit Palais. At Place de la Concorde, she would leave the river and cut through jardin des Tuileries. She was contemplating the splurge of a hot drink along the way when a man stepped out from the shadows of the pont d’léna and caught her stride.
“Grey.” Claire said it like an unpleasant but unavoidable fact.
“Claire.” His gaze rested on her a moment before he turned to scan the riverbank.
“Where’s Laurent?” Claire said.
“I am your contact. Not him.”
“That’s a shame.”
Grey closed his mouth on a reply.
They both were quiet as they looked up at the line of soldiers in front of the Eiffel Tower, their gazes on the banner draped across the tower’s façade, Deutschland Siegt an Allen Fronten. Germany victorious on all fronts. They walked steadily until they passed the tower and the last guards.
Claire looked up to find Grey staring at her, forehead wrinkled in thought.
“What? Don’t tell me a woman shouldn’t be walking alone with all these soldiers about.” She’d already heard that exact warning from Madame twice this morning.
/> A grin tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you not to do anything.”
“Really?”
“You are too obstinate. You would do it just to be difficult.” His slate eyes flashed.
Claire laughed outright, delighting in the smile that lit his rugged face. Surprisingly handsome, she decided, in a firm British way.
His smile faded. “I miss this.” With the tilt of his head, he motioned to the city around him. “I miss walks through Paris.”
Grey was a romantic? Impossible. Her face must have shown her wonder.
“Bloody hell. Why do you look so surprised? That is what Paris is for. Flânerie.”
“What does that mean?”
“Flâner. To amble. To enjoy. The pleasure in noticing all the details one wouldn’t see scurrying about.”
“My God, how French.” Claire smiled like a child. “Nous flânons.” She rolled it around her tongue. His eyes met hers. Struck by the depth of his gaze before he looked away, she was glad for the air cooling the flush on her cheeks.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both taking pleasure in the rare sun, the river, the stonework, the quiet company. They strolled past the pont des Invalides and stared over the rows of treetops to the arching ironwork and glass of the Grand Palais.
Shrill whistles turned their attention to the pont Alexandre III, ahead. German soldiers had a man pinned against the bridge’s railing over the center of the Seine. The man jerked free and flipped over the side, his arms flailing as he fell. A splash as he landed and thrashed feebly.
Soldiers charged off the bridge toward them as the man drifted past Claire’s feet. Grey pulled her from the river’s edge and pressed her backward against the far brick quai wall. He embraced her, his face tilted forward against hers in the appearance of a kiss, his back against the water. Her heart hammered, her hands gripped his broad shoulders.
“Don’t watch them. Look at me now, Claire.”