The Paris Time Capsule (14 page)

Cat ran a hand over her face.

“Cat?” Loic came up behind her. “You finished?”

Cat forced herself to focus on where she was.
“We need to talk to the owner.”

“
Ah, I am afraid the nunnery’s archives are all with the Mairie,” Monsieur Chevalier said, once Loic had given him a fast yet detailed explanation of the situation in French. “The only thing is …” his voice trailed off.

A young couple entered the front door. He stopped short, shook his head.
“Is best you go to the Mairie,” he said.

“
He was going to say something,” Cat whispered to Loic, but he had his hand on the door. “But he was interrupted.”

“
Cat. Lunch first. I’m starving.”

Loic supplied several of Albi’s restaurants with wine from his vineyards in Provence. After a quick conversation with the owner of a bistro set in a medieval looking square just near the Cathedral, a waiter showed them to a table layered with white cloth by the window in a nearly full room.

Once they had ordered
specialties of the region, Loic at last began to talk. “So, we go to the Mairie, look in the archives, and take it from there. Agreed?”

“
Oh, the Mairie,” Cat sighed, playing with her wine glass.

“
What is it, Cat?”

“
Nothing! So … how is Sylvie?”

Loic
shook his head. “I don’t want to burden you, but, now that you’ve gone, it’s hit her. She’ll never have a chance to talk to Grand-mere about it ever again.”

It only took Loic a few seconds to get them past the reception desk at the Mairie and into the archives department. Cat pushed all thoughts of home into the remotest parts of her mind. Tash had persisted, texted her three times since their conversation. Could she, Tash, tell Alicia and Morgan that they were bridesmaids? Or would Cat prefer to do the honors? Marilyn wanted to know if she could use a photo taken of Cat and Christian at the family wedding anniversary for the announcement in the Times? She thought it was a gorgeous shot, but she had to ask. And Elise Rothschild, the wedding planner had also been in touch, a bossy sort of text asking for Cat’s exact measurements.

The man sitting at the archives desk shook his head.
“Non, non, non,” he said, and then launched into a detailed monologue.

Loic
fired some questions, and then turned to Cat. He placed a hand in the small of her back. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, turning towards the entrance.

Once they were back out in the street,
Loic turned towards the square. Cat almost had to jog to keep up. Loic marched straight over to a free seat in one corner opposite the cathedral. He sat down, then he stood up. Walked in a circle, then came back to Cat.

“
You know, the most annoying part of this is that I can’t see any way in hell that we are going to find out the truth.”

Cat slumped down on the bench.
“We have to.” Her phone buzzed again. She put her bag down on the bench next to her.

“
The nunnery closed in 1792, Cat.”

Cat tapped her fingers on the bench. A wave of pigeons descended on the square. Several children ran into their midst in delight.

“It’s hopeless.”

“
I swear Monsieur Chevalier, in the Musee, was about to say something.”

“
I don’t think so.”

One of the children’s parents had procured bread. The pigeons crowded around the small group in the corner of the square, swooping and pushing, tens of them grabbing at the tiny crusts. Cat’s phone buzzed twice.

She ran a hand across her forehead.

“
I think, Cat, it’s time we called it a day. All this angst is driving Maman insane. You should have heard her. Let’s just leave it.”

“
But I can’t take all your grandmother’s things.”

             
Loic stood up, started to move across the square, paced back again. Inclined his head. In spite of everything, it was a friendly gesture.

             
‘Come on, Cat, let’s go.”

The next morning Cat packed her suitcase but her mind wandered everywhere else. She had hardly slept. This morning, there had been a barrage of texts from Tasha, Alicia and Morgan. Added to that, there was a lengthy voice message from Marilyn, asking if Cat preferred lavender silk or taffeta for her engagement dress, because wonderful Elise Rothschild, who had stepped in at such short notice, wanted to know. And would Cat mind if Marilyn gave her mobile number out to the caterers, and the florists? It was the sort of endlessly polite question that Marilyn would ask.

To take Sylvie’s apartment, the family painting, was more than criminal.

“Honey, stop worrying about it,” Christian had said at some ungodly hour in the night. “Honey, come on home. I miss you. If these people don’t know what a good thing is when it’s offered to them, then that’s their problem. The apartment was left to you. Give them a benefactor’s donation, that will sort it.”

“
What?” Cat had laughed. “You make me sound like …” one of you, she almost added. But she stopped.

“
Well, I’m sure looking forward to seeing you home in New York.”

Loic wasn’t in the breakfast room when Cat went downstairs. She ate quickly, a bowl of fruit, some yoghurt. She would have to go to the station, check out what time trains left for Paris, how many changes she would need to make on the way. She would have to borrow the hotel computer this morning, book her flight back to New York.

If only there wasn’t one thing plaguing her mind.

Cat raced up to her room, did a final pack, brushed her teeth, slicked on some mascara, dabbed on perfume, and slipped out of the hotel heading straight in the direction of the Musee de la Mode.

Monsieur Chevalier was at his reception, Cat could see him through the doors. But the Musee wasn’t open yet. Cat moved closer to the glass door, then stopped. If she didn’t find out if he had meant anything by his hint, it was going to niggle her badly.

Another text buzzed through on her phone. Elise Rothschild. Cat held the phone up, peered at the small photograph in front of her. A mauve confection of a dress: short, tight. Cat texted back a polite: No thank you. Oh, she should be there.

Monsieur Chevalier spotted Cat. He bent down, unlocked the catch at the bottom of his entrance door, and opened it.

“Bonjour, Madame?”

“
Oh, oui, bonjour Monsieur Chevalier,” Cat smiled. How on earth was she going to phrase her question?

“
Vous voulez entrée? You like to come in?” he said, holding the door open.

“
Thank you, Merci.” The interior of the Musee sent the same frisson through Cat as it had yesterday. Its magic lighting was already on, the pieces showing in stark beauty through the dimness of the space.

The elderly man went to sit behind his desk.
“Please,” he said, “Sit down.”

Cat took in a breath. She was going to sound ridiculous. Of course,
Loic had explained the problem in some detail yesterday, and Monsieur Chevalier had been kind, but still.

“
Monsieur. My … friend, Loic told you yesterday that we were trying to trace a … refugee who fled Paris in 1940.”

“
Mais, oui.”

“
Oui. And look, it’s just that, I thought you started to say something and then stopped. Sorry if I have it wrong. I had to ask.”

Monsieur Chevalier laid his hands on the desk
. “So. There was nothing at the Mairies?”

“
The convent shut so long ago,” Cat said, keeping her voice polite.

“
Oui.” He toyed with his fountain pen on the desk. It was exactly like the one that Monsieur Lapointe had.

Cat waited.

“So. You are determined to find something out, oui?”

“
I have to,” Cat said.

“
Alors.” The old gentleman seemed to appraise her now. “Well, Madame -”

“
Jordan, Catherine Jordan.” Cat leaned forward, shook his hand. “Pardon, but I thought you might have started to say something yesterday.”

“
Oui, but is odd.”

“
Try me.”

“
It goes back further than you think.”

“
Sure.”

“
There is a story, and some people do not believe it, those who are more … religious are not convinced.” He eyed her.

Cat stayed quiet.

“It is said that one of the nuns, one of the last nuns in this nunnery, during the revolution, had an … affair with a member of the royal family. An escapee from La Guillotine. A cousin of Louis XVI.”

“
Really?” Cat gave him an encouraging smile, but her heart sank.

“
And.” The gentleman leaned forward. “We have an old woman, here in Albi, who is descended from this … infamous nun. Of course, many people say this is rubbish. They do not acknowledge the woman as being descended from royalty, or, more importantly, even of our church!”

“
Ah.”

Monsieur Chevalier pulled a small piece of thick cream paper from the top of his walnut desk. He pulled out his fountain pen, st
arted writing in upright, black script. “You can talk to this old woman. She will help.”

There was an address on the piece of paper, and a name, Madame Josephine Leclair.

There were people outside the glass door. It was ten minutes before opening.

“
Thank you, Monsieur.” But, how on earth was she going to convince Loic not to rush back to work? He had said that he would book a train first thing.

The old gentleman leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
“Good luck, Madame Jordan,” he said. “I wish you the best.”

Loic was in the reception area of the hotel. Cat saw him through the window as she hurried back, turning possibilities over in her head until she gave up. His suitcase was at his feet, and he was frowning at his phone. When he saw her through the glass he shook his head, raised his hands in that Gallic way that Cat had come to see as somewhat therapeutic when she did so herself.

Cat rushed over to him.
“What time’s your train?”

He looked faintly amused.
“In an hour, why?”

“
You have to listen to me!”

There were other people checking out of the tiny reception. A small queue had formed at the desk, and a couple turned to stare at Cat. Carefully, she reached out, grabbed
Loic’s arm and pulled him to the far corner of the room.

“
I have a lead,” she whispered. “If you have half an hour, you need to come with me now. If my lead can’t speak English …”

Loic
ran a hand through his hair. “Cat.”

“
Look, I know it’s a long shot,” she was almost hissing now. “But Monsieur Chevalier knows this woman who’s descended from a renegade nun, and a prince, or a cousin of the prince, during the revolution. They had an affair. I know it’s far fetched, but it’s all we’ve got, and I couldn’t bear not to follow it up. Not now.”

Loic
chuckled. “I thought Monsieur at the Musee looked crazy.”

Cat forced herself to stay calm.
“Look Loic, if I don’t try, then … I’ll never live with myself.”

Loic
raised a brow. He pulled up his arm, looked at his watch. “I have half an hour,” he said, “But that’s all.”

“
Good.” Relief almost made Cat slump backwards.

“
Let’s go then.” Loic reached down and took the piece of cream paper that Cat held in her hand.

Her phone buzzed again. Elise Rothschild. A bright aqua dress this time, reached down to the toes, voluminous with gold shoulder straps.

“Lovely, Cat,” Loic said, looking over her shoulder.

Cat put the phone back in her bag.

“I know exactly how to get to this address,” Loic said. “It’s only five minutes walk.”

“
Excellent.” Cat felt her shoulders relax a little.

Loic
held the door open for her.

Madame Josephine Leclair’s house was an ancient house in a street of ancient houses. When Loic knocked on the door Cat crossed her fingers that the elderly woman would be home. No sound came from inside, no sound of footsteps through the door.

“
Are you sure you have to go, Loic? This is our only chance.”

“
There’s no point in me staying, Cat.”

For some reason, this filled her almost with despair. She had come to value his company; his being there. He hadn’t had to help her, not at all. And, overall, he had been pretty good about the entire situation. As for Sylvie, she’d been wonderful.