sure you can understand the need for the addresses, Sister.”
“I don’t know, monsieur, this is highly unusual, but the Princess Farah has been so generous to us, we even have named our Jardin de Farah flower gardens after her and the children’s dining area is now Farah Hall.”
“Will you deny this wonderful lady the chance to do more good for the boys and for the orphanage?” Sister Marie’s eyes never left sight of Karl’s hand holding the check where she could plainly see its amount and who it was made payable to.
“The records are old, monsieur, and I do not know exactly when these boys came here. I do not believe we still have this information; it has not been for fifteen years or so since we heard from the Princess Farah.”
“May, 1951, Sister, Charles Andre and Robert Conrad.”
Sister Marie-Louise asked Karl to accompany her to a basement file room where an old folder was kept listing all entrants to the orphanage by their date of admission. Next to each name were the names and addresses of adoptive parents, the date of the adoption, and the natural mother and father’s names, if they had been given.
“May 23, 1951, here it is, monsieur, the two children’s names and their mother’s name, Françoise Dupont. I wonder how the Princess Farah knew Mademoiselle Dupont?”
“I really don’t know, Sister. What are the names of the adopting parents?”
“Jean-Paul et Catherine Larouche, twenty-three rue Bernier, Chartres, for Charles Andre and Carl and Judy Elliott, 5 boulevard des Agneaux, Paris.”
Karl presented the check to Sister Marie-Louise and thanked her for her assistance. The first step in finding the sons of Father Dick had just been taken. The journey was far from over.
Twenty-three rue Bernier in Chartres was an apartment house with four apartments. The owner had purchased the property in 1965. All four units were large five-room flats that served as quality residences for executives working in Paris and wanting to live on a quieter street in the suburbs. The owner was not familiar with the Larouche family but mentioned to Karl that one of the tenants had lived there since the early 1950s and, perhaps, he could help. Karl’s persistence paid off as the long-time resident did indeed remember Jean-Claude Larouche as an interpreter for the American Red Cross office in Paris. They had bought a house in Chartres some years ago but that he had lost touch with them. He suggested to Karl that he try the Red Cross office, which was still located in Paris. Instead, Karl’s visit to the town hall produced records that indicated that the Larouches had purchased property on rue St. Jean in 1965 and there were no records indicating any sale of the property since then.
“Madame Larouche, my name is Karl Pelland from the American embassy in Paris. Is your son Charles at home?”
“Charles does not live here anymore, monsieur, may I ask what this is about?”
“Yes, of course, madam, but it would be best if I could explain to both you and your husband, Jean-Claude, I believe.”
“Jean-Claude passed away two years ago, monsieur, and I live alone now that Charles has moved to Dijon. But why are you looking for Charles?”
“Madame, forgive me for being so bold, but does Charles know that he once lived in the orphanage in Giverny? It appears that he has been left money from a woman who claims to be his real mother. Have you ever told Charles that he was adopted by you in 1951?”
Obviously surprised to hear the news in such a sudden manner, Catherine Larouche, a woman in her early sixties, immediately became defensive as her expression revealed the unexpected announcement she had dreaded to hear for years. It was not that the Larouches had not told Charles of his origin when he was a teenager, it was the news that his birth mother, who had abandoned him, suddenly wanted to now enter his life, a woman who, she feared, would steal the affection of the only living being still close to
“I don’t know, monsieur, this is highly unusual, but the Princess Farah has been so generous to us, we even have named our Jardin de Farah flower gardens after her and the children’s dining area is now Farah Hall.”
“Will you deny this wonderful lady the chance to do more good for the boys and for the orphanage?” Sister Marie’s eyes never left sight of Karl’s hand holding the check where she could plainly see its amount and who it was made payable to.
“The records are old, monsieur, and I do not know exactly when these boys came here. I do not believe we still have this information; it has not been for fifteen years or so since we heard from the Princess Farah.”
“May, 1951, Sister, Charles Andre and Robert Conrad.”
Sister Marie-Louise asked Karl to accompany her to a basement file room where an old folder was kept listing all entrants to the orphanage by their date of admission. Next to each name were the names and addresses of adoptive parents, the date of the adoption, and the natural mother and father’s names, if they had been given.
“May 23, 1951, here it is, monsieur, the two children’s names and their mother’s name, Françoise Dupont. I wonder how the Princess Farah knew Mademoiselle Dupont?”
“I really don’t know, Sister. What are the names of the adopting parents?”
“Jean-Paul et Catherine Larouche, twenty-three rue Bernier, Chartres, for Charles Andre and Carl and Judy Elliott, 5 boulevard des Agneaux, Paris.”
Karl presented the check to Sister Marie-Louise and thanked her for her assistance. The first step in finding the sons of Father Dick had just been taken. The journey was far from over.
Twenty-three rue Bernier in Chartres was an apartment house with four apartments. The owner had purchased the property in 1965. All four units were large five-room flats that served as quality residences for executives working in Paris and wanting to live on a quieter street in the suburbs. The owner was not familiar with the Larouche family but mentioned to Karl that one of the tenants had lived there since the early 1950s and, perhaps, he could help. Karl’s persistence paid off as the long-time resident did indeed remember Jean-Claude Larouche as an interpreter for the American Red Cross office in Paris. They had bought a house in Chartres some years ago but that he had lost touch with them. He suggested to Karl that he try the Red Cross office, which was still located in Paris. Instead, Karl’s visit to the town hall produced records that indicated that the Larouches had purchased property on rue St. Jean in 1965 and there were no records indicating any sale of the property since then.
“Madame Larouche, my name is Karl Pelland from the American embassy in Paris. Is your son Charles at home?”
“Charles does not live here anymore, monsieur, may I ask what this is about?”
“Yes, of course, madam, but it would be best if I could explain to both you and your husband, Jean-Claude, I believe.”
“Jean-Claude passed away two years ago, monsieur, and I live alone now that Charles has moved to Dijon. But why are you looking for Charles?”
“Madame, forgive me for being so bold, but does Charles know that he once lived in the orphanage in Giverny? It appears that he has been left money from a woman who claims to be his real mother. Have you ever told Charles that he was adopted by you in 1951?”
Obviously surprised to hear the news in such a sudden manner, Catherine Larouche, a woman in her early sixties, immediately became defensive as her expression revealed the unexpected announcement she had dreaded to hear for years. It was not that the Larouches had not told Charles of his origin when he was a teenager, it was the news that his birth mother, who had abandoned him, suddenly wanted to now enter his life, a woman who, she feared, would steal the affection of the only living being still close to
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