depth.
Le droit de choisir .
But the right to choose what?
Grace wasn’t used to making choices on her own; wasn’t certain she liked it. How would she know if she’d made the right ones?
Sighing, she flicked a bit of ash off the end of her cigarette.
There was a knock at the door.
Grace started, hurrying to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Monsieur Tissot? Monsieur Tissot, is that you?’ She stood up.
There was no reply. ‘Hello?’
Again, another knock.
Grace went into the front hallway. Listened. If she did nothing, maybe they’d go away.
But they didn’t; the knocking continued.
Grace opened the door. ‘Oh, hello!’ she smiled in relief.
A young girl was standing on the landing, holding a cardboard box. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, with even brown plaits and a serious face.
‘May I help you?’
‘ Bonjour , madame. Parlez-vous français ?’ she asked, pronouncing each word with exaggerated clarity.
‘ Ah, well , oui . . . un peu . . . mais je ne parle pas très bien . . .’
‘I speak some English.’ (Obviously the answer to the girl’s question was ‘no’.) ‘The man downstairs said you were, ah, the heir? Is this true?’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose I am.’
‘Yes, um, my mother, she wanted you to have this.’ The girl handed her the box.
‘I’m sorry, who is your mother?’
‘ Pardon .’ The girl was looking down at her shoes. ‘She is the concierge, Madame Assange. She says this is for you.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re English, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this is you, yes?’ She pointed to the top of the box.
Scrawled across one corner was her name: Grace Munroe.
Grace felt her skin go cold. It was written in the same, strong slanted hand she’d seen on the paper in Monsieur Tissot’s office. ‘Yes’ she nodded, ‘that’s me.’
Grace opened the lid.
Inside was a collection of half a dozen small china figurines, wrapped in newspaper; delicate frolicking shepherdesses with white faces and flowered gowns, the kind of inexpensive, sentimental bric-a-brac she abhorred.
‘Madame d’Orsey gave them to Maman for you, to keep safe. She didn’t want Monsieur Migret to have them.’
‘Who is Monsieur Migret?’
‘Monsieur Migret owns . . . ah . . . l’antiquaire . . . Il vend . . . he sells les bibelots . . . um . . . les deuxième main . . .’ the girl pointed to her hand.
‘A second-hand shop?’ Grace guessed. (She’d always been good at charades.)
‘Yes,’ the girl nodded. ‘Second-hand. He clears the house when someone dies.’
‘And he cleared this apartment?’
‘Yes.’ The girl turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Grace stopped her. ‘This Monsieur Migret, do you know where his business is?’
‘He has a shop . . . um . . . on Rue Saint-Claude.’
‘Rue Saint-Claude,’ Grace repeated, committing it to memory. ‘Is that close?’
‘A few streets away.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace another took a step forward. ‘Do you think, perhaps, I could meet your mother? I would like to thank her and to speak to her, about Madame d’Orsey.’
The girl hesitated, her face suddenly guarded. ‘My mother does not speak English, madame.’
‘Yes, but maybe you could help me,’ Grace suggested, with a smile. ‘You could sit between us. Or Monsieur Tissot, the man you met downstairs, he would help.’
The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘She does not like gossip.’
‘But this wouldn’t be gossip. I just have a few questions about what Madame d’Orsey was like.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ The girl inched away from the door. ‘I will let her know. She is very busy though.’
She started back down the steps.
‘Did you know her?’ Grace called after her.
The girl turned. ‘Madame d’Orsey?’
‘Yes.’
She thought a moment. ‘She gave me once a doll for my birthday. I was five. It was very pretty – with blonde curls made from real hair and a china face. The nicest one I have ever owned.’
‘So she was a friend
Le droit de choisir .
But the right to choose what?
Grace wasn’t used to making choices on her own; wasn’t certain she liked it. How would she know if she’d made the right ones?
Sighing, she flicked a bit of ash off the end of her cigarette.
There was a knock at the door.
Grace started, hurrying to stub out her cigarette in the ashtray.
‘Monsieur Tissot? Monsieur Tissot, is that you?’ She stood up.
There was no reply. ‘Hello?’
Again, another knock.
Grace went into the front hallway. Listened. If she did nothing, maybe they’d go away.
But they didn’t; the knocking continued.
Grace opened the door. ‘Oh, hello!’ she smiled in relief.
A young girl was standing on the landing, holding a cardboard box. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, with even brown plaits and a serious face.
‘May I help you?’
‘ Bonjour , madame. Parlez-vous français ?’ she asked, pronouncing each word with exaggerated clarity.
‘ Ah, well , oui . . . un peu . . . mais je ne parle pas très bien . . .’
‘I speak some English.’ (Obviously the answer to the girl’s question was ‘no’.) ‘The man downstairs said you were, ah, the heir? Is this true?’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose I am.’
‘Yes, um, my mother, she wanted you to have this.’ The girl handed her the box.
‘I’m sorry, who is your mother?’
‘ Pardon .’ The girl was looking down at her shoes. ‘She is the concierge, Madame Assange. She says this is for you.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re English, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this is you, yes?’ She pointed to the top of the box.
Scrawled across one corner was her name: Grace Munroe.
Grace felt her skin go cold. It was written in the same, strong slanted hand she’d seen on the paper in Monsieur Tissot’s office. ‘Yes’ she nodded, ‘that’s me.’
Grace opened the lid.
Inside was a collection of half a dozen small china figurines, wrapped in newspaper; delicate frolicking shepherdesses with white faces and flowered gowns, the kind of inexpensive, sentimental bric-a-brac she abhorred.
‘Madame d’Orsey gave them to Maman for you, to keep safe. She didn’t want Monsieur Migret to have them.’
‘Who is Monsieur Migret?’
‘Monsieur Migret owns . . . ah . . . l’antiquaire . . . Il vend . . . he sells les bibelots . . . um . . . les deuxième main . . .’ the girl pointed to her hand.
‘A second-hand shop?’ Grace guessed. (She’d always been good at charades.)
‘Yes,’ the girl nodded. ‘Second-hand. He clears the house when someone dies.’
‘And he cleared this apartment?’
‘Yes.’ The girl turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Grace stopped her. ‘This Monsieur Migret, do you know where his business is?’
‘He has a shop . . . um . . . on Rue Saint-Claude.’
‘Rue Saint-Claude,’ Grace repeated, committing it to memory. ‘Is that close?’
‘A few streets away.’
‘Thank you.’ Grace another took a step forward. ‘Do you think, perhaps, I could meet your mother? I would like to thank her and to speak to her, about Madame d’Orsey.’
The girl hesitated, her face suddenly guarded. ‘My mother does not speak English, madame.’
‘Yes, but maybe you could help me,’ Grace suggested, with a smile. ‘You could sit between us. Or Monsieur Tissot, the man you met downstairs, he would help.’
The girl’s brow furrowed. ‘She does not like gossip.’
‘But this wouldn’t be gossip. I just have a few questions about what Madame d’Orsey was like.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ The girl inched away from the door. ‘I will let her know. She is very busy though.’
She started back down the steps.
‘Did you know her?’ Grace called after her.
The girl turned. ‘Madame d’Orsey?’
‘Yes.’
She thought a moment. ‘She gave me once a doll for my birthday. I was five. It was very pretty – with blonde curls made from real hair and a china face. The nicest one I have ever owned.’
‘So she was a friend
Similar Books
