Read Online The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lynn Sheene
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taking short strides on the balls of her feet to keep from sliding on the ice-covered cobbles. Instinctively, one hand reached back to test the blanket stretched over the cart’s top. The arrangements she had worked on all morning. Yes, still wrapped up tight like her own newborn babes.
A man rushed around the corner and smacked full-body into Claire. She fell hard to a knee, wind knocked from her. From the cart, the loud clink of jolted vases. The man scrambled to his feet and scurried away.
“Merde!” Claire hissed as she stood and steadied the cart before it tipped. She didn’t even want to imagine the flowers, twisted and broken on the cobbles. They would be impossible to replace. She glared back down the street, looking for the rushing man. From her quick impression of a tailored wool coat and the faint scent of woodsy cologne, he didn’t seem like the type to trample a woman and leave. But he was gone. This was not the Paris she had found six months ago.
Claire glanced down at her faded green coat, a kindness from Madame Palain. Heavy black stockings swathed her legs beneath her long skirt. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the times that kept him from stopping. Perhaps it was her. Sighing, she tucked her scarf carefully into her coat collar and reached for the cart. Too bad she couldn’t have dressed a little more interestingly for Leluc. She would have had a better chance of getting something extra, perhaps a chunk of coal for the stove at home from the hotel’s special supply.
The wind was stronger on avenue Montaigne, channeled down the wide linear boulevard. Claire pulled her hat lower and squinted against the chill. She blinked and then froze.
A half block ahead, a black sedan idled at the curb, its muffler smoking. Her heart skipped. Only the Germans had cars. Her gaze swung to the sidewalk next to the car. Soldiers in feldgrau , field grey. The color buried Paris and made the harsh winter even colder.
Two soldiers stood in front of a man in a worn suit. He was talking earnestly, gesturing with a clenched hand that flashed white. Papers. The Nazis were examining identification papers.
A sweep.
A third soldier stepped into view from a doorway. He returned to the car, cigarette in his mouth. His eyes caught hers. An irritated frown and he gestured her toward him, his gloved hand flashing impatiently.
Her mind raced. She forced herself to start walking, but slowly, a limp forming on one leg. She thought of the passport and visa tucked in the lining of her coat. Useless. After six months in France, the stamps expired two weeks ago. Excuses bubbled into her thoughts. She’d been hurt. The limp, didn’t they notice? But how to explain why she’d never gotten her carte d’identité , the identification card required by the Nazis since October?
The soldier scowled at her progress, he turned and spoke to the others.
The truth—she couldn’t get the damn card. As Andrew had said long ago, all she had were stamps, she wasn’t on the lists. If she went in to the police, the best she could hope for was to be sent back to the States. Welcomed home with jail time for illegal travel or worse—Russell or one of his goons with a knife. No, she wasn’t going back.
Hôtel Emeraude loomed on her left, across the wide avenue. Soldiers stood guard at the front entrance beneath a monumental archway, rifles at attention. Her throat tight, she stared at the stone columns that glimmered like a mirage. She raised a shaking hand, forced a cheerful wave at the staring soldier then pointed to the hotel entrance. She stepped onto the street, her ears straining for the thud of boots pounding behind her.
A shout, but she didn’t dare look back as she tugged the cart onto the sidewalk. She tried a smile for the hotel guards eyeing her approach, but it felt like a grimace. “Blumen,” she said to the nearest guard, displaying the hotel pass made out for La Vie en Fleurs for flower delivery. Picking up a corner of a
A man rushed around the corner and smacked full-body into Claire. She fell hard to a knee, wind knocked from her. From the cart, the loud clink of jolted vases. The man scrambled to his feet and scurried away.
“Merde!” Claire hissed as she stood and steadied the cart before it tipped. She didn’t even want to imagine the flowers, twisted and broken on the cobbles. They would be impossible to replace. She glared back down the street, looking for the rushing man. From her quick impression of a tailored wool coat and the faint scent of woodsy cologne, he didn’t seem like the type to trample a woman and leave. But he was gone. This was not the Paris she had found six months ago.
Claire glanced down at her faded green coat, a kindness from Madame Palain. Heavy black stockings swathed her legs beneath her long skirt. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the times that kept him from stopping. Perhaps it was her. Sighing, she tucked her scarf carefully into her coat collar and reached for the cart. Too bad she couldn’t have dressed a little more interestingly for Leluc. She would have had a better chance of getting something extra, perhaps a chunk of coal for the stove at home from the hotel’s special supply.
The wind was stronger on avenue Montaigne, channeled down the wide linear boulevard. Claire pulled her hat lower and squinted against the chill. She blinked and then froze.
A half block ahead, a black sedan idled at the curb, its muffler smoking. Her heart skipped. Only the Germans had cars. Her gaze swung to the sidewalk next to the car. Soldiers in feldgrau , field grey. The color buried Paris and made the harsh winter even colder.
Two soldiers stood in front of a man in a worn suit. He was talking earnestly, gesturing with a clenched hand that flashed white. Papers. The Nazis were examining identification papers.
A sweep.
A third soldier stepped into view from a doorway. He returned to the car, cigarette in his mouth. His eyes caught hers. An irritated frown and he gestured her toward him, his gloved hand flashing impatiently.
Her mind raced. She forced herself to start walking, but slowly, a limp forming on one leg. She thought of the passport and visa tucked in the lining of her coat. Useless. After six months in France, the stamps expired two weeks ago. Excuses bubbled into her thoughts. She’d been hurt. The limp, didn’t they notice? But how to explain why she’d never gotten her carte d’identité , the identification card required by the Nazis since October?
The soldier scowled at her progress, he turned and spoke to the others.
The truth—she couldn’t get the damn card. As Andrew had said long ago, all she had were stamps, she wasn’t on the lists. If she went in to the police, the best she could hope for was to be sent back to the States. Welcomed home with jail time for illegal travel or worse—Russell or one of his goons with a knife. No, she wasn’t going back.
Hôtel Emeraude loomed on her left, across the wide avenue. Soldiers stood guard at the front entrance beneath a monumental archway, rifles at attention. Her throat tight, she stared at the stone columns that glimmered like a mirage. She raised a shaking hand, forced a cheerful wave at the staring soldier then pointed to the hotel entrance. She stepped onto the street, her ears straining for the thud of boots pounding behind her.
A shout, but she didn’t dare look back as she tugged the cart onto the sidewalk. She tried a smile for the hotel guards eyeing her approach, but it felt like a grimace. “Blumen,” she said to the nearest guard, displaying the hotel pass made out for La Vie en Fleurs for flower delivery. Picking up a corner of a
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