China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) Madalyn Morgan (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📖

later she was stopped in her tracks by the splendour that was L’Opéra. With its large arcades and tall pillars behind marble figurines, the opera house was the most beautiful building she had ever seen. She looked at the upper levels. Tall double columns framed huge windows and above that, breath-taking, thrilling decoration. She wished she had time to look inside. ‘One day,’ she said to herself.

After walking for half an hour, Claire sat on a bench overlooking a small fountain and took out the Métro map. She was in the Marais district, bordering the 3rd and 4th arrondissements, so she was heading in the right direction. She continued along the Rue Saint-Antoine to the Place de la Concorde. She marvelled at the vastness of the squares, the lifelike statues, the tiered fountain that reminded her of a cake stand, and what had to be the tallest obelisk in the world. From there she walked west along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, passing palaces, monuments, and a theatre. She came to a parade of shops by a small park, and slowed her pace. According to the directions she had memorised, she was close to the rendezvous. There were several cafés with tables and chairs outside on the pavement. She looked at the names above the different coloured striped awnings. The third in the row was Le Park Café.

She checked her wristwatch. She had time to buy a newspaper from the shop next to the café. With the Paris-Soir under her arm she sat down at the table furthest away from the café’s entrance. She read the paper and when the waiter came, ordered coffee.

She sipped her coffee, occasionally looking across the avenue at the people passing by, as anyone who was new to the city would. She took the Métro map from her bag and laid it on the table. The directory was the first clue as to who she was. She then took her wallet out to pay for her coffee.

As the café became busy the three chairs around each table were moved about. A middle-aged man asked if he could take a chair from Claire’s table. Smiling, she said, ‘Please do.’ If someone asked for the remaining chair she would have to let them take it. Then where would Thomas Durand sit when he arrived? If he arrived…

‘Excuse me, Miss. Is anyone sitting here?’

Claire jumped. Deep in thought, the sound of a man’s voice took her by surprise. She looked up. ‘Please do,’ she said, politely. The man, tall, in his mid-twenties, with black hair curling over the collar of his shirt, pulled out the chair and sat down. Claire resumed reading her newspaper.

The waiter brought the man a cup of coffee. ‘Your usual,’ he said, putting the coffee on the table.

‘Thank you, Armand,’ the man said.

By the way the waiter spoke to him, and because the man knew the waiter’s name, he was obviously a regular customer. Claire felt disappointment and gratitude at the same time. Disappointed because the man sitting opposite her wasn’t who she was expecting and grateful for the same reason. She wondered if Thomas Durand was wandering about waiting for his chance. Or maybe he was sitting at another table, ready to join her when the regular customer left. She put the paper down and looked across the avenue. Then she casually brought her focus to the men at the other tables.

‘I see you have a copy of the Métro. Are you a visitor to Paris?’

Claire’s heart almost stopped. It was him! The man sitting at her table was Thomas Durand! ‘Not exactly. I am in Paris to visit my grandmother, but thought I’d take in the sights while I am here. Are you a visitor?’

‘No, I’m here to meet a friend, but she appears to be late.’

That was Claire’s cue to leave. She stood up, put the money for her coffee on the table, and put the Métro back in her bag. ‘Goodbye. I hope your friend arrives soon,’ she said and left.

On the far side of the avenue she looked back at the café. Thomas Durand was reading Paris-Soir. Her eyes dropped to the table. The wallet had gone. She walked away, confident that the money she had delivered would buy much needed guns and ammunition for the Paris Centre Maquis group.

She turned towards the Arc de Triomphe and shortly afterwards arrived at the Champs Élysées. Stopped in her tracks, Claire gasped at the sight of the bomb damage. The underground newspaper reports had shown devastating photographs of German tanks thundering down the Champs Élysées, stormtroopers strutting through the streets of Paris. The German machine – convoys of armoured cars, trucks, and tanks – crushing everything in their way.

Seeing the destruction in person saddened her, reminding her how the Luftwaffe had bombed Coventry, Liverpool, Newcastle and many other British cities. And how they had blitzed London’s East End. Night after night throughout September and October of 1940 hundreds of German bombers, escorted by fighter planes, dropped their bombs on huge areas of East and South East London until many of the boroughs had been turned to rubble. The damage Claire was seeing now had been done by Britain and her allies as well as the Germans.

She looked along the street at burned-out and smoke-stained buildings that had every other window blown out of its frame. Windows that had survived the allied bombing were thick with dust and grime, their shutters dangling from tall sash windows in large square bays. Gates were hanging off their hinges and doors blown in. She turned away in tears.

Three stops on the Métro, a short walk, and she would have a safe place to stay tonight. Maybe tomorrow and over the weekend too, if Madame Marron was as generous as her husband.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Claire left the Métro at Les Sablons. Rue de Lesseps was wide