Escape From Paris by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

I used to visit Paul and his mother quite often.”
    Annemarie smiled. “Oh yes, of course.”
    â€œNo one’s home. I knocked but there wasn’t any answer.”
    Annemarie looked surprised. “Oh, I think you are mistaken, Mme. Masson. Mme. Durand is there. I am living with her now and she never leaves the apartment. I’ve been out shopping. You know how it is, you have to get to the shops so early. I was at the butcher’s at eight this morning. I waited two hours and still there wasn’t a scrap of meat left but I told him she was old and needed just a morsel and he found me a soup bone.”
    Eleanor looked at the basket Annemarie was carrying. Why in the world would she be living with the Durands again? And, even if she were, why would Annemarie be doing the cooking? If ever there was a cook who took joy in her kitchen, who could create the most marvelous meals from the most meager ingredients, it was Leone Durand.
    â€œYou say you are living here now?” Eleanor spoke slowly, staring at Annemarie’s dark face, hoping, but, in her heart, knowing the answer.
    â€œYes, since Professor Durand died.”
    â€œI didn’t know. Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
    Paul dead. Intelligent, aloof, gentle Paul.
    Annemarie was talking on, in that young matter-of-fact voice, “. . . the breakthrough at Sedan . . . a field hospital . . . he had volunteered as an ambulance driver . . . not in a reserve unit . . . asthma. The letter came the next week.”
    â€œAnd Mme. Durand?”
    Annemarie looked sad. “It is odd, you know, what happens to people when their world dissolves. She must have cared too much. I would have said, before the war, that she was the strongest woman I knew.” Annemarie unlocked the door and held it open for Eleanor. The curtains were drawn. It was so dark that it took Eleanor a moment to find Mme. Durand.
    The older woman huddled in the wingback chair next to the fireplace. She didn’t look up until Eleanor came and stood beside her.
    â€œLeone.”
    The once plump high-colored face was sunken and thin. Strands of lank hair hung uncombed. Dark brown eyes looked at Eleanor incuriously.
    â€œLeone, don’t you know me? It’s Eleanor. Eleanor Masson.”
    â€œHow do you do.” The thin childlike tone prickled Eleanor’s back. She looked at Annemarie pleadingly.
    â€œCome now, Mama Leone.” Annemarie’s hearty voice sounded shockingly loud in the stillness of the dusty dim room. “You remember Mme. Masson. Her husband is Andre Masson. You knew him. He was a professor, too, like Paul.”
    Eleanor bent down, reaching for the thin hands that lay supinely along the chair arms. They felt cool and dry, scarcely more human than a bird’s claws. “I’m sorry.” Eleanor’s voice broke. “If I had known, I would have come sooner. Oh Leone, I’m so sorry. We loved Paul, too.”
    â€œPaul. . .” The eyes flickered with life. She struggled to get up. “Paul will be home soon. I’ll start dinner. Whatever am I doing, sitting here like an old woman? And it’s so dark. I must have taken a nap. Here, let’s get these drapes open and get things straight, well, I’ve never seen so much dust, and magazines scattered about. It’s a disgrace and the students start to come, oh, about four, let me see, what time is it?”
    She had slipped between them, darted to the windows, pulled the drapes wide, then turned toward the back of the apartment and the kitchen. Her voice muted now, floated out to them. Pans clattered, cupboard doors banged open and shut.
    Then, abruptly, silence.
    Leone stood in the middle of the tiny kitchen, clasping a brownish green pottery mug to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
    Eleanor recognized the mug. How many cold nights had they sat by the fire, Paul cradling that mug in his hands, sipping strong