Parisian Promises Page 20

  “Your lies worked when you were covering up for my father, but I’m not easily fooled anymore.”

  This bitter comment could have opened the floodgates of the long-standing rancor poisoning family life at Les Charmilles, but Serge preferred to continue plugging the holes in the dyke with lies and excuses. Serge never believed that Christophe’s father had been a collaborator during the German occupation, and that is why he stayed working at Les Charmilles decade after decade. Initially, he protected the late, big-hearted Viscount from those who wanted revenge for getting away scot-free with what others perceived as financial gain through his affiliation with the Vichy Régime. But Serge understood the madness, the frenzy, the destruction that a torrid love affair could inflict on a man; Victoire had caged his own aching heart and thrown away the key.

  Similarly, the late Viscount had fallen, quite literally, head over heels for Marcelle, a much older seductive woman. He had followed her hypnotic leg and sparkling red toes caged in peep-toe stiletto heels up the spiral staircase of a shady hotel in Paris. Although his fedora covered most of his face, the Viscount had been photographed by Robert Doisneau, a beam of light spotlighting Marcelle’s leg. Whenever he saw that picture, his heart was singed with burning desire for her. The late Viscount purchased the photograph and had it enlarged and framed for Marcelle.

  Unfortunately, more than one collaborator saw the photograph, recognized his face, and decided to blackmail the Viscount. He could have betrayed Marcelle as a known Résistance fighter to the Vichy Régime and its sympathizers, but he had her best interests at heart, and he paid off one, then another, and another collaborator, until they all died. All for the love of Marcelle, the Viscount’s true heart and soul.

  With a heavy heart, and to tame his wife’s fears about the welfare of their son, Christophe, he gave up Marcelle––although he did allow her to live in one of his properties in Paris for the rest of her life. He returned home to Les Charmilles and attended to his estate, vineyard, and prize horses, tolerating his wife’s anger, the never-ending wrath of a woman scorned, for the sake of his adoring son.

  Serge knelt down, attempted to brush the dried mud away, but Christophe stopped him. His eyes were red with boiling rage.

  “I have to bring Monica back to Les Charmilles,” he announced. “This is where she belongs…”

  He choked on his words, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Let her go––” Serge began, but this seemed to enrage Christophe more.

  “Should I follow your example? Is that what you’re saying?” Christophe shoved the old man. “You never fought to keep Victoire, and now look at you. You’re a pathe––”

  Serge grabbed Christophe with his iron grip, and clambered to his feet. “You’re right about Victoire and me,” he said. “Why don’t you telephone Monica at Madame Caron de Pichet’s, and let her explain?”

  “The explanation is right there.” Christophe kicked the caked mud from the rug. “I just need to bring her back here with me. Don’t you understand that I need her presence?”

  Serge understood that to love profoundly means both to soar and to dive. Monica’s absence, and her suspicious activity with another man, had torn Christophe’s heart out and plummeted him into the depths of wretchedness. His love for her was making him suffer and pine in the same way that Serge did, despairing over losing Victoire year after year.

  “Shall I telephone Madame Caron de Pichet and ask her to put Monica on the line?”

  “No, I’m driving to Paris right now.” Christophe disappeared into the main house, and came out minutes later carrying an overnight bag. When he stepped into his car, he found Serge sitting in the driver’s seat.

  “I’ll drive you,” said Serge, starting the car. “I know where Madame Caron de Pichet lives.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I drove you father away from her house, back to Les Charmilles years ago.” Serge finally spoke the truth, and Christophe said nothing. For almost an hour they drove in tense silence, before Christophe found himself able to speak.

  “Did my father love that woman?” he asked in a voice not much louder than a whisper.

  “Yes, but not as much as he loved you. He came back to Les Charmilles to be with you and your mother.”

  Christophe pounded the dashboard. “Why does loving Monica hurt so much?”

  “It’s always been this way,” Serge told him. “The anguish and the exhilaration of love! She was in your arms two days ago and you were in paradise. Now, she’s left and you are in hell.”

  “I didn’t think I could love anyone as much,” Christophe groaned. “I’m love-stricken. I have to get her back. Drive faster, Serge.”

  But Serge could not bypass the line of trucks driving slowly into Paris. As they crawled along the highway, the truck drivers––the heavyweights of French dissent––honked their enthusiasm about joining the growing fireball of protestors in Paris. Every dissatisfied segment of society was on its way there, prepared to make its voice heard and to parade its ideological stripes.

  “Damn it, Serge, drive on the side of the road and get me to Paris!” screamed Christophe. Old Serge obeyed, maneuvering the car on the narrow side of the highway, hoping that the police were preoccupied elsewhere.

  When they drove into Paris, it was impossible to miss the protestors already filling the streets, from clusters of disgruntled labor unions to groups protesting nuclear testing in the Pacific. The idealistic students from the Latin Quarter joined the throng, looking excited to be part of the legacy of the French student protestors of 1968.

  “I thought you said she lived in the 6th arrondissment, around this quartier? Let me out of the car and I’ll run to her house,” Christophe insisted.

  “Take a look around and face the reality of the situation, Christophe. See that group over there?” Serge pointed to a bedraggled group of anarchists. “Can’t you see how they’re lining up to fight the hard-booted fascists hiding behind the pissoir there?”

  Serge pointed to the defaced and decaying public men’s urinal, the foul odor of which only seemed to pump up the neo-fascists and serve as a military shield, a barricade of sorts, against possible opponents.

  “I only care about Monica. Tell me her address, because I’m going there now.” Christophe flung open the car door.

  Serge managed to drive up on the sidewalk a few blocks from rue de Condé, screeching to a halt near a heap of trash bags left uncollected by striking waste-disposal employees.

  “Wait up, I’ll go with you,” he said. “Marcelle won’t see you without me there to vouch for you.”

  Lola gazed out from her dormer window in the cramped garret of Madame’s apartment building.

  “You know,” she said, turning to Monica, “Haussmann designed these airless rooms as quarters for the servants. And we’re not servants. Let’s get out of here for good.”

  Monica said nothing and didn’t move, slumped on the bed as though in a depressed daze.

  “Look!” Lola shouted, trying to wake Monica from her stupor. “I’m not sure what’s going on out on the streets today, but it looks like another protest. I’m going to the travel agency near the Fontaine Saint-Michel, and I’m buying you an airline ticket back home, before their employees go on strike as well.”

  Monica shrugged her shoulders and slumped back on the bed. “I guess,” she said quietly.

  “My cousins told me to get your ass back to California before the fuzz come looking for you… and me.”

  “So are you flying home with me?”

  “Hell, no.” Lola looked defiant. “I’m going to Monte Carlo. Then when I’m good and ready, I’ll go back to California.”

  “But aren’t you afraid of the police?”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? You’re sounding as daffy as our housemother. Did you hear her last night, cooing and purring with some man about the delicious dinner he just bought her at Le Procope? He must be an old mute because I didn’t hear a word
from him. She went on and on about the food, and how the old waiter remembered her from her heyday. Geez, I can’t believe you slept through the whole thing. Her bedroom is just one floor below yours.”

  Monica ignored all this as though she hadn’t even heard. “I want to see Christophe before I leave. I have to explain to him and tell him I love him.”

  “So, give him a call.”

  “I telephoned him this morning but he wasn’t at home. Neither was Serge. And, needless to say, Madame La Vicomtesse was very curt to me.”

  “Then that’s that.” Lola didn’t want to engage in any forlorn babble about Christophe. There was no time to lose. “I’ll be right back. You start packing, and we’ll both head out of Paris before we get into any more trouble.”

  “I can’t allow my year in Paris to end so abruptly.” Monica was being stubborn. “And, I, I can’t live without seeing Christophe.”

  “Please look out the window, Monica!” Lola was exasperated. “One hell of a protest is brewing down there, and I have to buy your airline ticket now while we still can. Just promise me you’ll stay in this room until I return, OK?”

  Lola didn’t wait for Monica to reply. She hightailed down the five flights of stairs, eager not to lose any more time. When she stepped into the street through the large wood gate, the concierge hurried out to lock it behind her.

  “Please be careful, Mademoiselle, it’s a hornet’s nest out there. You can’t trust anyone. Believe me; even a prince can turn out to be a snake in the grass.” The concierge spat on the floor, then gave the fifth-floor apartment the evil eye.

  Upstairs, Madame was calling up to Monica in the attic bedroom.

  “Monica, my sweet girl, please come to the salon.”

  Monica wiped her tears and slowly made her way down. She was surprised to see Madame dressed in what looked like brand-new and very expensive Chanel.

  “Oh, my gosh, you look fabulous, Madame. You were made to wear that Chanel suit.”

  “My dear, you’re too sweet. But yes, I was made to wear Chanel and dine at the best places. I had a great dinner last night, and now I must do an errand of utmost importance.” She reached out to Monica and whispered. “Mon amour has asked me to pose for a photograph down by the street protestors.”

  “But that could be dangerous, Madame,” warned Monica. “It’s too crowded and you know you lose your balance in crowds.”

  “Not if you’re with me, my California girl! I just have to make my way to the middle of the crowd and look as if I’m still leading the Résistance. He said I have to hold my hand up high and the photographer will snap the shot for the book on my days as a heroine of the French republic.”

  A beaming Madame packed up her handbag and grabbed Monica’s arm.

  “Let’s go, my dear girl,” she said, ignoring Monica’s cautions.

  “I, I really should stay here. I’m expecting a phone call.”

  Madame laughed. “The telephone workers will be going on strike tout de suite as well before too long! Let’s go and have my photograph taken. Oh, I can’t wait to be famous––again.”

  Downstairs, the concierge was guarding the building as though it were the Bastille, about to be stormed at any moment.

  “I will not open this gate for any strangers,” she barked at Serge and Christophe.

  “I understand your apprehension, Madame,” Christophe told her. “But it is urgent that I speak with Mademoiselle Monica. She’s one of the guests of Madame Caron de Pichet.”

  “Anyone can give me the same set of facts you’ve just uttered. I refuse to open this door.”

  Serge interceded. “Madame, please tell us if Madame Caron de Pichet and Monica are in the house.”

  “Certainly not!” The concierge was emboldened by her own stubbornness.

  Christophe thought with his pure heart and said, “Madame, surely you were in love once, deeply in love, that is––”

  “No, can’t say I was. Came close to it, recently. But all men are filthy opportunists.” She spat on the ground again and thought of Jean-Michel. He came in and out of her apartment as if it belonged to him, expecting her to do this and that for him, expecting her to bow down to him. Last night he’d even had the gall to sleep until dawn in her bed, while she lay, sleepless and fuming, on her sagging sofa.

  Serge gave up on being calm and polite. “Look here, woman, this young man is the son of the Viscount who, uh, who came often to visit Madame Caron de Pichet. If you’ll just peek through the gate, you will see the family resemblance.”

  “Humph, I don’t care about any Viscounts. Didn’t they all get their heads guillotined on a day of protest just like today?” The concierge laughed. She pulled the hummingbird from her apron pocket and idly plucked at its iridescent green feathers.

  “I beg you,” pleaded Christophe. “Is Mademoiselle Monica in the house or not? I will pay you handsomely for your service, Madame.”

  “Ahhh, now you’re talking like a Viscount. How much is it worth to me to go up five flights of stairs to verify if your beloved Monica is there or not? Let me add up my numbers.” The concierge pulled out a handful of tiny feathers, dropped the bird on the ground, and crushed its remains with her heavy-soled shoes.

  “Please Madame, name your price, I beg of you.” Christophe’s voice cracked. “My heart is racing. I fear something awful has happened to her.”

  “Fine, slip three hundred francs under the gate and I’ll go check. And quit your sniveling and act like a man, for God’s sake!”

  The money appeared moments later, and the concierge pulled the dusty notes free. But rather than open the gate right away, she wandered into her apartment and threw the stained bedspread off her mattress. She’d hidden some items she found in Jean-Michel’s valise under her bed. She had an urge to add all the mad money she collected the last several days from not one, but two nobles. No wonder the fools had their heads chopped off ages ago: they had no sense of safeguarding their money. When Jean-Michel had left his valise next to her sofa, she’d stolen six hundred francs, two house keys, and a large toucan bird.

  Jean-Michel had laughed at her petty theft, as he had called it. But the concierge had been afraid of the things she’d seen inside the toucan’s huge bill, and she wanted to make sure they were gone, as Jean-Michel had promised they would be.

  The men outside were pounding on the heavy wooden gate again, demanding to be let in. The concierge pulled open the toucan’s top bill, and saw, to her relief, that the bottom bill was now empty. She added all her tips and started daydreaming about a future bird-watching trip to the Amazon.

  “You took the three hundred francs,” Serge shouted. “Now let us talk to Mademoiselle Monica.”

  The concierge ambled out and opened the sliding peephole. “Yep, you sure do look like your father,” she said to Christophe.

  Serge glared at her. “Is Mademoiselle Monica at home or not?”

  “No, she and Madame Caron de Pichet walked out, arm in arm, about a half an hour ago.”

  “Which way were they heading?” Christophe asked.

  The concierge rubbed her thumb and index finger together. “Oh, that will cost you an additional two hundred francs.”

  Christophe pulled out his wallet and, shooting the concierge a black look, shoved another two hundred francs under the gate.

  When she’d picked up and counted the notes, the concierge felt every bit the lowlife she had always been. She swallowed hard at this brutal truth, though it wasn’t a pleasant thing to admit. But what could she do? It was her nature. After all, a hummingbird flits from one flower’s nectar to the next, a green parrot screeches all day long, and a toucan sometimes uses his serrated bill not to break tree bark, but to safeguard grenades for his master.

  Still, the concierge felt a tinge of guilt, and thought that today, just for once, she could behave in a slightly more honorable manner.

  “I can tell you this,” she said. “Madame Caron de Pichet was bragging about a photographer who was going
to take her photo leading the protest. She said something about the Fontaine Saint-Michel.”

  She jabbed an index finger in the direction of the river, and Serge took hold of Christophe’s arm.

  “I’ll stay right here and you go look for her. I don’t trust this harpy,” he whispered, and Christophe took off running towards the Seine, blind to the agitation of the protestors, his eyes scanning the heaving crowd for his beloved Monica.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Heart Stands Still

  From his perch high above rue de Condé, Jean-Michel could observe all the coming and goings of the street below. Now that he had the apartment to himself, he could open all the full-length French doors in Madame’s salon. He walked out onto the narrow balcony and leaned against the wrought-iron guardrail. His machinations, he thought with a self-satisfied grin, would soon earn him a place at the table of all the major subversive organizations in Europe.

  A gust of air seemed to applaud his well-thought out plan, the sheer lace curtains billowing out from the salon to obscure his face from any nosy neighbor. Jean-Michel smiled out at the City of Light: Paris continued to offer him its camouflage, its protection, inviting him to execute his plan all within the street theater of the famous Parisian demonstrations. Today’s demonstration was huge, the perfect setting for his genius. Soon he would witness his California Girl and his ancient Parisienne together, carrying out his orders. He stuck his head out to peer in the direction of Boulevard St.-Germain-des-Près and Boulevard St. Michel, but he could not yet spot Monica and Madame, his unlikely agents of terror.

  Little could Jean-Michel have predicted that Madame was totally confused in the teeming crowds. She leaned heavily into Monica and said, “I do wish I was wearing my old Chanel shoes. These new heels are making me wobbly.”

  “Let’s turn around, Madame.” Monica was concerned about the elderly lady. The crowd was heaving, and they were being pushed this way and that. “You’re off-balance and you don’t seem well.”