He’d stopped it just outside the station, in a row of similar black cars. He threw open the back door and bowed again. She smiled as she allowed him to hand her inside, and he jumped in front and started the engine.
“We have a beautiful day, yes?” he said over his shoulder. “Yesterday was
la pluie,
the rain, but today it is the sun. I have you at Musée Rodin in no flat time, and I wait there for you. You may possess me for the whole of the day if you wish; I am at your dispensal. When you have been to the
musée,
I take you anywhere in Paris—anywhere in France!—and then back to the trains, yes? Your wish is my commode.”
“Thank you, Jacques,” she said. She looked around at the well-remembered streets of the beautiful city as the car wended its way south through the press of traffic. He drove fast, but he was remarkably adept, moving effortlessly from lane to lane and always checking the activity in the rearview mirror and the little side mirror outside his door. He watched everything like a hawk. After just a few blocks, she decided that he was an excellent driver.
Down Rue La Fayette he drove, bobbing in and out of snarls, passing slower cars like the old pro he obviously was. When they arrived in the Place de la Concorde, Nora caught fleeting glimpses of Cleopatra’s Needle and the Champs-Élysées, then a snatch of the Louvre on her left and, after they crossed the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower in the far distance on her right, grimly acknowledging that this would probably be the full extent of her sightseeing today. The car flew along Rue de Bourgogne to Rue de Varenne, and here it was. Jacques pulled the car to a stop before the impressive former hotel that was now a museum, jumped out, and ran around to open her door.
“Et voilà!”
he announced. “
Le musée, avec quinze minutes
—eh, fifteen? Yes, fifteen minutes in the spare!”
Nora smiled and glanced at her watch: 11:45.
“Merci, Jacques. Vous attendez-moi ici?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, I put the car there.” He pointed toward Boulevard des Invalides a few yards away. “I park and wait, yes? You find me here.”
“I shouldn’t be long,” she said.
“Trente minutes.”
“
Oui,
half an hour!” He grinned, delighted at his mastery of English. She laughed and went up the walk to the entrance.
Because it was a weekday morning, the line for tickets was fairly short, and she was soon inside. Her good spirits were immediately replaced by a sense of deep anxiety. Avoiding the crowds and roving groups of guided tours, she looked around the big downstairs rooms, then went upstairs to scan more galleries, barely glancing at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures. She was looking at the people, T-shirted tourists and well-dressed natives—she could easily tell who was and was not French around here—searching for anyone who might be showing an interest in her. The groups clustered around some of the works made her decide to take her husband’s instructions literally.
He’s thinking.
She went outside, to the gardens.
There was no need to ask where the biggest attraction in the collection was; all one had to do was follow the steady stream of pilgrims. Along with the
David
in Florence and the
Winged Victory of Samothrace
and
Venus de Milo
in the Louvre just over a mile from here,
Le Penseur
was one of the world’s most famous sculptures. And there it was, in front of a wall at the end of an avenue in the hedged, rose-bedecked grounds. The fan club at the moment was fairly modest, perhaps a dozen people in a semicircle before the massive figure.
Nora stopped on the path before she got too close to the crowd, studying the faces she could see and the backs of the others. No one looked familiar, and they were all focused on the statue. People came and went, passing by her on their way to or from the building behind her. A guard stood nearby, watching for idiots who tried to approach and touch or take forbidden photos
“We have a beautiful day, yes?” he said over his shoulder. “Yesterday was
la pluie,
the rain, but today it is the sun. I have you at Musée Rodin in no flat time, and I wait there for you. You may possess me for the whole of the day if you wish; I am at your dispensal. When you have been to the
musée,
I take you anywhere in Paris—anywhere in France!—and then back to the trains, yes? Your wish is my commode.”
“Thank you, Jacques,” she said. She looked around at the well-remembered streets of the beautiful city as the car wended its way south through the press of traffic. He drove fast, but he was remarkably adept, moving effortlessly from lane to lane and always checking the activity in the rearview mirror and the little side mirror outside his door. He watched everything like a hawk. After just a few blocks, she decided that he was an excellent driver.
Down Rue La Fayette he drove, bobbing in and out of snarls, passing slower cars like the old pro he obviously was. When they arrived in the Place de la Concorde, Nora caught fleeting glimpses of Cleopatra’s Needle and the Champs-Élysées, then a snatch of the Louvre on her left and, after they crossed the Seine on the Pont de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower in the far distance on her right, grimly acknowledging that this would probably be the full extent of her sightseeing today. The car flew along Rue de Bourgogne to Rue de Varenne, and here it was. Jacques pulled the car to a stop before the impressive former hotel that was now a museum, jumped out, and ran around to open her door.
“Et voilà!”
he announced. “
Le musée, avec quinze minutes
—eh, fifteen? Yes, fifteen minutes in the spare!”
Nora smiled and glanced at her watch: 11:45.
“Merci, Jacques. Vous attendez-moi ici?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, I put the car there.” He pointed toward Boulevard des Invalides a few yards away. “I park and wait, yes? You find me here.”
“I shouldn’t be long,” she said.
“Trente minutes.”
“
Oui,
half an hour!” He grinned, delighted at his mastery of English. She laughed and went up the walk to the entrance.
Because it was a weekday morning, the line for tickets was fairly short, and she was soon inside. Her good spirits were immediately replaced by a sense of deep anxiety. Avoiding the crowds and roving groups of guided tours, she looked around the big downstairs rooms, then went upstairs to scan more galleries, barely glancing at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures. She was looking at the people, T-shirted tourists and well-dressed natives—she could easily tell who was and was not French around here—searching for anyone who might be showing an interest in her. The groups clustered around some of the works made her decide to take her husband’s instructions literally.
He’s thinking.
She went outside, to the gardens.
There was no need to ask where the biggest attraction in the collection was; all one had to do was follow the steady stream of pilgrims. Along with the
David
in Florence and the
Winged Victory of Samothrace
and
Venus de Milo
in the Louvre just over a mile from here,
Le Penseur
was one of the world’s most famous sculptures. And there it was, in front of a wall at the end of an avenue in the hedged, rose-bedecked grounds. The fan club at the moment was fairly modest, perhaps a dozen people in a semicircle before the massive figure.
Nora stopped on the path before she got too close to the crowd, studying the faces she could see and the backs of the others. No one looked familiar, and they were all focused on the statue. People came and went, passing by her on their way to or from the building behind her. A guard stood nearby, watching for idiots who tried to approach and touch or take forbidden photos
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