She wasnt certain what, exactly, or how she would get it. But for right now, she didnt need to think about that. She could simply sit, basking in the glow of not-so-distant stars, which must be somewhere, blinking behind the thick layer of cloud that masked the evening sky.
Paris, Spring, 1955
The offices of Frank, Levin et Beaumont were located on the Rue de Rivoli, on the upper floors of one of the galleried arcades. Grace had the last appointment of the afternoon, and, after a somewhat confusing conversation with the secretary in her halting French, had been shown into Monsieur Tissots chambers, which occupied a corner, with two windows overlooking the north wing of the Musée du Louvre.
Grace sat, still in her overcoat, her handbag firmly anchored on her lap. It felt unreal to be here, like an overly vivid, slightly alarming dream.
She wasnt used to travelling on her own. Mallory had insisted that she stay at the Hôtel Raphael, where shed been with her mother before the war. Located near the Champs-Élysées, it was discreet and quietly grand; much nicer than anything Grace would have chosen for herself. Her room wasnt terribly large but it had high ceilings and was decorated in soft pink and the palest eau-de-Nil, feminine candyfloss colours mirrored in the silk taffeta swags and thick, embroidered bedspread. There was even a chandelier above her bed. Lying on her back last night, shed stared at it, amazed. Clearly the French expected something rather more interesting to occur here than the English did.
There was a small balcony, barely a few feet wide. Grace opened the doors and stepped outside, gazing over the wide tree-lined street below.
The city seemed extravagantly, shamelessly beautiful. In London, entire blocks had been levelled in the war; whole neighborhoods gone. The landscape was punctuated by gaping concrete wounds and piles of charred rubble; grotesque monuments to once great structures. But here, the pavements were smooth and even, the skyline intact. Whatever damage the occupation had done, Paris had put it behind her.
Even the air smelled more refined; not full of damp, oily coal but clear, fragrant with continental sunlight and warmth.
The coffee at breakfast had been shockingly strong, the croissant flaky and buttery more like a biscuit or a cake. How decadent that people ate them every day! It was only the potential shame at being caught that prevented Grace from jamming an extra one into her handbag.
Later that afternoon, walking across the Jardin des Tuileries to her appointment, a kind of giddiness came over her, accompanied by a sudden realization: no one knew her here. Her anonymity both thrilled and disorientated her.
The concierge had given her a street map, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the neat little labelled lines when the city itself surrounded her. Shed always heard that Paris was elegant but had struggled to imagine how. Shed assumed it would be rigid; the demanding intolerance of perfection. But, being here, she was struck by the easy naturalness of everything. From the tall, slender trees, their leaves rustling high above her, to the chalky gravel that crunched beneath her feet or the classically proportioned buildings that rose, uniformly constructed from the same blonde stone, it was all orchestrated to hold the light. The entire city was enveloped in a halo of glowing softness.
The French were fluent in the language of beauty, just as shed been told. But it was a more subtly encompassing comprehension than shed anticipated. In fact, it made sense. Who wouldnt construct the corners of buildings to curve gently rather than meet in a point if they had the means and inclination? And who wouldnt match all the roof tiles in the city radius to create a harmonious landscape of sloping shades of bluey-grey, augmented with squat terracotta chimney pots? Anything else seemed careless.
Likewise, while the men and women were no more naturally attractive than their English counterparts, they dressed with an assurance and attention to detail that would have been considered the height of arrogance in England. Here, maintaining a certain chic was apparently nothing less than a civic duty.
Even now, in the lawyers chambers, there was a unity and precision in the colours, shapes and sizes of the furniture, as if an editor had walked through earlier, removing any distractions.
Even now, in the lawyers chambers, there was a unity and precision in the colours, shapes and sizes of the furniture, as if an editor had walked through earlier, removing any distractions.
The door opened and two men walked in.
The first one was an elderly gentleman with stiff, formal bearing and a neat white moustache. A younger man stood respectfully behind him.
Madame Munroe? The elderly gentleman greeted her unsmilingly, with a curt nod of his head. I am Henri Levin, he announced in heavily accented English. This is my firm. And this is Edouard Tissot, my associate. He will look after you. I trust his service will be satisfactory.
With that he gave a brisk little bow, turned on his heel and left.
Grace didnt know quite what to make of this abrupt introduction.
Please forgive him. Monsieur Tissot stepped forward. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties; tall and slender, a feature highlighted by his traditional pinstriped suit. His dark hair matched his black eyes; his expression was both reserved and intelligent. Hes not used to speaking English, he explained, his voice lowering discreetly. Hes terrified you will ask him something he wont understand.
Oh, I see, she said, nodding.
He held out his hand. Allow me to welcome you to Paris, madame.
Thank you. Grace extended her own, expecting him to shake it.
However, instead he held it lightly, his lips hovering just above the white flesh of her wrist, before releasing it.
It was both a quietly formal and yet intimate gesture; he hadnt actually touched his lips to her skin. But still her skin tingled where they might have been.
And let me begin, Monsieur Tissot continued, by saying that I am very sorry for your loss. Please allow me to assist you in any way possible during your stay.
Thank you very much, Grace murmured, averting her eyes. Shed decided in advance it was best to say little or nothing until she knew more. Instead, she moved the subject on to safer ground. Your English is very accomplished, Monsieur Tissot.
Thank you. He acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Thats precisely why I was chosen to meet with you. Taking a seat behind his desk, he searched through a stack of legal files. Im sorry to make you come all this way, Madame Munroe. However, the terms of the will are quite specific. And of course there are a great many signatures required and other details to attend to. He pulled the correct file out, scanning the documents enclosed. Here we are. The inheritance comprises largely the likely proceeds from the sale of a property, as well as a portfolio of stocks which are currently managed by the stockbroking firm of Lancelot et Delp.
She mustve misheard him. Pardon me, did you say a property?
Yes. An apartment. Or a flat, as you English say. The deceased was living in it up to the point of her death and therefore unable to liquidate the funds earlier. Weve had the property assessed and I can assure you, its quite valuable. He took some official-looking papers out and arranged them on the desk. Madame dOrsey had a power of attorney prepared, so that we could oversee the sale on your behalf. I only await your signature in order to proceed. He looked up. Im making the assumption, perhaps mistakenly, that you would prefer to have us deal with this matter rather than handle it yourself.
Grace leaned forward to look at the papers, only the words made no sense. Theyre in French. Arent they?
Ah! Yes, he admitted, shaking his head. I apologize. I would be happy to go through them with you. Or if you prefer, you may have your English lawyer approve them. I can arrange to have them translated
Im sorry, Grace interrupted, but Im not entirely certain I understand. Would you mind explaining everything to me again? Slowly?
Yes, of course. Maybe Im not being very clear. You see, according to the terms of the will, youre to have the entire proceeds, minus the transaction fees, of the purchase price of Madame dOrseys property holdings. Were planning to accept bids from several different leading estate agents and then, with your permission of course, well be able to market it. In addition, a portfolio of stocks also comes into your possession. However, they are being managed elsewhere.
Graces mouth was open but she was unable to close it. Ive inherited stocks and a an apartment? In Paris?
Well, Monsieur Tissot paused, not quite. The will specifies that you are to receive the proceeds of the sale of the property. Its my understanding that Madame dOrsey wanted you to have the funds, rather than the property itself. It was always her intention to provide you with a lump sum for your personal use.
A lump sum? For my use? It was unnerving to imagine a stranger planning her future in such detail; even a benevolent stranger.
Yes, and quite a considerable one at that.
But surely she didnt intend for the money to go to me, directly?
On the contrary, thats precisely what she intended. My understanding was that she wanted you to have financial independence. Le droit de choisir was how she put it. The right to choose.
Grace felt light headed; her hands were tingling with pins and needles. But not for me, personally. What I mean to say is, am I not inheriting this by default, as it were?
Default? He frowned.
Yes, I mean, surely this was originally meant for someone else, wasnt it?
Madame, you are the named recipient in the will.
Are you sure?
Monsieur Tissots frown deepened.
Grace tried to swallow but her mouth felt dry, as if her tongue was made of felt. Financial independence. A lump sum. May I trouble you, Monsieur Tissot, for a glass of water, please?
Of course. He went to the door and said something to the secretary.
A moment later, he handed her a glass. Are you quite all right? Your cheeks are white. Perhaps you should lie down, Madame Munroe.