Paris: The Novel (107 page)

Luc listened, and now he understood. This was the key he had been searching for.

“So you believe that you are French.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Do you want to discover your French family? Have you any information at all?”

“I am not sure. I have my mother’s name. That’s all.”

“There are records. In every town hall. They’re not always open to the public. But I know a lawyer who specializes in searches. He’s quite reasonable.” He took out a little notebook, wrote down a name and address on a page, and tore it out. “There. You can always see him if you want.”

She waited two weeks before she went to see the lawyer. Monsieur Chabert was a compact, gray-haired man with a quiet voice and very small hands. He agreed to start a limited inquiry.

“I shall begin in Paris, mademoiselle. Most likely the Corinne Petit you seek was a young woman when this happened, and was sent out of the country to have the child. If that is the case, I should have a list of possible candidates quite soon.” He mentioned an amount that would use up the spare cash she had after a couple of small payments she had just received from Chanel. “I shall keep within that budget, mademoiselle. Before incurring any extra expense, I shall ask your permission. Come to see me again in ten days.”

When she returned, he greeted her with a smile.

“The search was quite simple. I found three girls born in Paris who
would have been under twenty-five at the time of your birth. Keeping within your budget, I was able to check all three of them. One married and went to Lyon, the other resides in Paris. The third, however, came from a family who are still to be found in the Saint-Antoine quarter. They have moved from their old address, which actually made it easier for me to seek information about them from old neighbors. In one evening I was able to discover quite a bit. It seems that Corinne found a position with a family in England and never returned. After her departure, the family never spoke of her. I cannot promise you, but I think it is very likely that this is the family you seek. What do you wish me to do?”

“Nothing more at present, monsieur. But I thank you.”

“A word of caution, mademoiselle. If you go to see them, they may not welcome you.”

“I understand, monsieur.”

But she didn’t.

She took the Métro to Bastille. To reach the address the lawyer had given her, she only had to walk eastward down the rue de Lyon and into the avenue Daumesnil. But when she emerged from the Métro, she found that the pale sunlight of the afternoon had given way to a dull, listless gray, and suddenly feeling that she wasn’t prepared for her encounter, she turned southward instead.

From the Place de la Bastille to the Seine, a line of wharfs ran down the side of one of the northern canals as it widened into a long basin, where the barges unloaded their cargoes. For a quarter of an hour she wandered there. Then a yellowish peep of sun seemed to signal that she should proceed, and so she crossed the water by the lock near the Seine and made her way eastward again.

The avenue Daumesnil was long, straight and grim. Immediately behind it ran a large, high viaduct that carried the railway trains out to Vincennes and the eastern suburbs beyond. She walked down the avenue. There were motor cars and buses in the roadway, but here and there a horse-drawn cart carrying coal or timber lumbered sadly by. Twice, a train from the viaduct let out a prolonged rattle that gradually died away behind the eastern rooftops.

The street she sought lay on the right. It was narrow. The storefronts
on the street level mostly had shutters and their windows informed the passersby, with seeming reluctance, what might be found within. A selection of hammers, copper pipes and boxes of screws, accompanied by a familiar, metallic smell from the open door, announced the hardware and ironmonger’s emporium. Another window contained rolls of wallpaper, only one of which had deigned to reveal its pattern. And halfway down the street, a window containing a well-made table and bookcase, and a faded gold sign above the door saying
PETIT ET FILS
, told Louise that she had reached her destination.

The young man who emerged and stood behind the desk at the back of the little showroom was about her own age. He had brown hair and blue eyes. Nothing special. Did he look like her? Not really.

“May I ask,” she said politely, “if your family name is Petit?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.” He spoke respectfully. His accent belonged to the streets. She hadn’t thought of it, but she realized that, of course, whether in English or in French, she spoke in the accent of a different class from that of her real family.

“It is possible,” she said, “that we have a family connection.”

“A connection?” He was polite, but obviously puzzled.

“Through Corinne Petit.” She watched him a little anxiously.

“Corinne?” He looked mystified. Clearly the name meant nothing to him. “There is no one of that name in this family, mademoiselle. I have never heard it. It must be another family.”

“She went to England.”

“My uncle Pierre and his family went to Normandy once on holiday. That’s as close as anyone has been to England.”

“Is your father here?”

“He will be back tonight, mademoiselle, but not until late.” He looked apologetic, but then brightened. “My grandmother is here, if you would care to wait a minute.” He disappeared into the workshop behind.

His grandmother. My grandmother, perhaps, she thought. After a long pause, the older woman appeared.

She was slim. When she was younger, she would have had a figure very similar to her own, Louise realized. Her hair was gray, frizzed in the fashion of an earlier time. Her eyes were just like her own. But they were hard, and angry. She stared at Louise in silence for a moment.

“Mademoiselle?”

“I was asking your grandson …,” Louise began.

“He has told me.”

“I am the daughter of Corinne Petit, madame.”

She watched the old lady’s eyes. There was recognition. She was certain of it.

“There is no one in this family of that name, mademoiselle.”

“Not now. But I believe there was once. She led a respectable life in England, married and died. I never saw her. I was adopted by a banker and his wife.”

“You are fortunate, then, mademoiselle.”

“Perhaps. I was curious to know something of my French family, madame. That is all.”

“And why did you suppose you would find them here?”

“A lawyer made researches for me. He found three families with a daughter of that name born in Paris at the right time.”

“Perhaps your mother was not born in Paris, mademoiselle.”

“It is possible, madame, but I suspect she was.”

“I should know if I had given birth to a daughter named Corinne, mademoiselle. And I did not. You have come to the wrong place.”

She was lying. Louise knew it instinctively. She was certain of it. This old woman was her grandmother. Was the scandal really so terrible for the family, back then? Was her grandmother still implacable? Perhaps it was because the boy was there.

“I am sorry you cannot help me, madame,” she said sadly. She suddenly felt an urge to cry.

“I may be able to help you,” the old lady said. Was there a hint of pity, of kindness, in her voice? She paused. “My late husband had a cousin. They never spoke. There was a family quarrel—he never told me what it was about. But he had two daughters. One went to live in Rouen, I believe. The other, I don’t know. She could have been called Corinne. It’s possible. If you could find her sister in Rouen …” She turned to the young man. “Jean, I forgot that cake in the oven. Run upstairs to the kitchen, and take it out for me.”

The young man disappeared.

“I think you are my grandmother,” said Louise. “Was my mother so terrible that you have to lie?”

But now, with her grandson gone, the old lady changed abruptly. The
look she gave Louise was venomous. When she spoke, it was quietly, almost a hiss.

“How dare you come here? What gives you the right? The person you speak of has been dead to us for more than twenty years. You want to come here with your stupid quest, and disgrace the next generation as well? We didn’t want her and we don’t want you. Now get out, and never show your face here again.” She went to the door and opened it. “Get out! Live your life elsewhere. But stay away from us. Forever.” She reached for Louise’s arm, seized it with surprising force and shoved her out into the street, slamming the door behind her.

Louise looked back at her grandmother through the glass. There was no hint of mercy in the old lady’s face. It was pale, and cold, and hard.

It was still early evening when Luc came by the restaurant. He’d been on a business errand.

Sometimes he told himself that he should work harder, but the twenty or thirty clients to whom he discreetly supplied cocaine provided him with all the ready cash he needed. Years ago when he was operating the bar before the war, he had run a few girls as well, acting as a protector mainly. But he’d given that business up. It was too much trouble. People had sometimes asked him if he could supply them with a nice girl. “If I find someone, I’ll let you know,” he had always told them. But so far he hadn’t come upon a good prospect.

He was carrying quite a quantity of cash, and was going to put it in the small safe he kept in the office behind the restaurant. Then he was going to have a meal, walk up to his house, and go to bed early.

When he got to the restaurant, Louise was sitting quietly at a table. “She’s been sitting there two hours,” Édith told him. “Waiting for you, I suppose.”

He sat down opposite her.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

She shook her head. He ordered for them both.

“I met my grandmother today,” she said. “She told me never to come there again.” She gave him a sad smile. “It seems nobody wants me.”

“You must eat,” he said.

As they ate, Luc did not try to comfort her too much. But he did try to
explain. He pointed out that it was natural for the old lady to act as she had. “I dare say that’s how your mother was treated all those years ago when they threw her out. Plenty of families would have done the same. They do it to protect themselves. So when you appeared and threatened to upset the apple cart, she must have been terrified.”

Louise listened. She understood what he was saying, but she was still all alone in the world.

When they had finished their meal he asked her quietly if she would like to come with him, and she nodded. After they had left the restaurant, he put his arm around her shoulder, protectively, and she smelled the aroma of Gauloises in his clothes, and she felt comforted. Then they walked up the hill of Montmartre toward his house.