I crossed the river to the island and hesitated as I approached the Prefecture of Police. Should I perhaps seek out Inspector Henri and file an official missing persons report? Or … and here I hesitated, not wanting to consider the thought that lurked at the back of my mind … ask if any bodies brought into local morgues might match the description of my friends. I approached the guard on duty then turned away again. One more day, I told myself. I’ll give it one more day. At least I now knew where to come.
The great cacophony of bells had died away, leaving the sound lingering in the air—except for one small bell that continued to ring somewhere close by on my left. It seemed to be coming from inside the courtyard of the Palais de Justice. Suddenly I was filled with a deep desire to be in a church again. My past experiences hadn’t been positive, but that had nothing to do with God—more with bad priests. I followed the sound until I came to what was obviously a thin, tall church attached to the stout walls of the palace. I found an entrance, went in, and stood, mouth agape. The walls were entirely composed of tall stained-glass windows rising as if to heaven. At the far end was an exquisite rose window and as I stood there the sun must have peeped between clouds because stripes of colored light illuminated the floor. At the high altar a priest was saying mass while a few devout souls knelt in the front pews.
I stood there, gazing in awe, and found myself praying. “Let them be safe, oh God. Holy Mother, keep them safe. Keep my husband safe. Keep my son safe.” It didn’t seem right to pray for myself, but I hoped that God and the Holy Mother might take that prayer for granted. As I turned to leave I noticed I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing at a side altar, gazing up at the window above. For a second I almost believed I was seeing an angel—and then I realized that the vision in blue and white with long white-blonde hair curling around her shoulders was none other than Ellie, the girl I had met on the ship.
Nineteen
She was staring, lost in thought or contemplation as a shaft of light fell on her, completely oblivious to my presence or that of anyone else. I went over to her and she started in alarm as she perceived someone beside her.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
For a second she looked as if she might shy away, like a nervous colt, then her face broke into a smile of recognition. “Why, it’s you. We met on the ship, didn’t we?” she whispered. “How lovely to see you again. Isn’t this glorious? I’ve been coming every day since I arrived and I still can’t get over the beauty of it.”
“It is glorious,” I agreed.
An old woman in black turned to glare at us. We grinned to each other and made our exit. The rain had indeed stopped and a watery sun had appeared between dark clouds.
“So have you been enjoying your freedom in Paris?” I asked, realizing I didn’t know her last name. “I’m afraid I only know you as Ellie, and that wouldn’t be quite proper, would it?”
“Who cares about being proper.” She laughed. “We’re in Paris where nothing is supposed to be proper. Do call me Ellie. My given name is Eleanor May, which I hate. And yours is?”
“Molly Sullivan,” I said. “Please do call me Molly since we’re not required to be formal here.”
She nodded. “In answer to your question I’ve been having an absolutely glorious time, Molly. Enjoying every single moment of it.” She looked around. “Look, I’m going to get some lunch. Will you join me? It’s a lovely city but it’s rather sad to always eat alone.”
“I really shouldn’t,” I said looking around me as the midday crowd crossed to the Right Bank of the river. “I’ve left a woman looking after my baby son.”
I saw her face fall and realized how young she still was. “Do you not have to eat with your chaperone? Or have you managed to escape from her?”
“Oh, she’s already gone.” A mischievous smile lit up her face. “I’m all alone until Peter gets here at the end of the week. Isn’t it thrilling?”
“How did you manage that?” I asked, having observed the most attentive chaperone on the ship.
“It was rather simple really. Everyone at home thought I was going to meet Peter and his family at the Ritz as soon as I arrived. The dreadful mademoiselle thought that too. So her job was only to escort me to Paris and deliver me to the Ritz—which she did. Peter thinks I’m arriving at the end of the week, at the same moment he gets here, so I’ve fooled all of them.”
She looked and sounded like a naughty ten year old.
“How did you manage to pull that off?” I asked.
“Simple. You just tell people what they want to hear. I’ve become rather good at it.”
“But won’t there be trouble when Peter finds out you’ve been staying at the Ritz for a week without him?”
She laughed. “How will he find out? I’m not staying at the Ritz, silly. I couldn’t afford that kind of money. I’m actually staying at a dear little hotel on the Left Bank … on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It’s called the H?tel d’Alsace and it’s quite dinky but famous because Oscar Wilde actually died there. You know about him, don’t you?”