Paris: The Novel

In one evening I was able to discover quite a bit. It seems that Corinne found a position with a family in England and never returned. After her departure, the family never spoke of her. I cannot promise you, but I think it is very likely that this is the family you seek. What do you wish me to do?”
    “Nothing more at present, monsieur. But I thank you.”
    “A word of caution, mademoiselle. If you go to see them, they may not welcome you.”
    “I understand, monsieur.”
    But she didn’t.

    She took the Métro to Bastille. To reach the address the lawyer had given her, she only had to walk eastward down the rue de Lyon and into the avenue Daumesnil. But when she emerged from the Métro, she found that the pale sunlight of the afternoon had given way to a dull, listless gray, and suddenly feeling that she wasn’t prepared for her encounter, she turned southward instead.
    From the Place de la Bastille to the Seine, a line of wharfs ran down the side of one of the northern canals as it widened into a long basin, where the barges unloaded their cargoes. For a quarter of an hour she wandered there. Then a yellowish peep of sun seemed to signal that she should proceed, and so she crossed the water by the lock near the Seine and made her way eastward again.
    The avenue Daumesnil was long, straight and grim. Immediately behind it ran a large, high viaduct that carried the railway trains out to Vincennes and the eastern suburbs beyond. She walked down the avenue. There were motor cars and buses in the roadway, but here and there a horse-drawn cart carrying coal or timber lumbered sadly by. Twice, a train from the viaduct let out a prolonged rattle that gradually died away behind the eastern rooftops.
    The street she sought lay on the right. It was narrow. The storefrontson the street level mostly had shutters and their windows informed the passersby, with seeming reluctance, what might be found within. A selection of hammers, copper pipes and boxes of screws, accompanied by a familiar, metallic smell from the open door, announced the hardware and ironmonger’s emporium. Another window contained rolls of wallpaper, only one of which had deigned to reveal its pattern. And halfway down the street, a window containing a well-made table and bookcase, and a faded gold sign above the door saying PETIT ET FILS , told Louise that she had reached her destination.
    The young man who emerged and stood behind the desk at the back of the little showroom was about her own age. He had brown hair and blue eyes. Nothing special. Did he look like her? Not really.
    “May I ask,” she said politely, “if your family name is Petit?”
    “Yes, mademoiselle.” He spoke respectfully. His accent belonged to the streets. She hadn’t thought of it, but she realized that, of course, whether in English or in French, she spoke in the accent of a different class from that of her real family.
    “It is possible,” she said, “that we have a family connection.”
    “A connection?” He was polite, but obviously puzzled.
    “Through Corinne Petit.” She watched him a little anxiously.
    “Corinne?” He looked mystified. Clearly the name meant nothing to him. “There is no one of that name in this family, mademoiselle. I have never heard it. It must be another family.”
    “She went to England.”
    “My uncle Pierre and his family went to Normandy once on holiday. That’s as close as anyone has been to England.”
    “Is your father here?”
    “He will be back tonight, mademoiselle, but not until late.” He looked apologetic, but then brightened. “My grandmother is here, if you would care to wait a minute.” He disappeared into the workshop behind.
    His grandmother. My grandmother, perhaps, she thought. After a long pause, the older woman appeared.
    She was slim. When she was younger, she would have had a figure very similar to her own, Louise realized. Her hair was gray, frizzed in the fashion of an earlier time. Her eyes were just like her own. But they were hard, and angry. She stared at Louise in silence for a moment.
    “Mademoiselle?”
    “I was asking your grandson …,” Louise began.
    “He has told me.”
    “I am the daughter of Corinne Petit, madame.”
    She watched the old lady’s eyes. There was recognition. She was certain of it.
    “There is no one in this family of that name, mademoiselle.”
    “Not now. But I believe there was once. She led a respectable life in England, married and died. I never saw her. I