The damp dark days of winter were well and truly over. Paris shed her winter mantel and her heart throbbed once again. The trees were in bloom, the nights warm, and café owners everywhere threw open their doors, lining the pavements with their little round tables and wicker-backed chairs.
Nathalie handed the waiter her last few francs and at the same time wondered how on earth she would get by. Throughout the winter, she had been frugal. Most of her money was spent on wood and the occasional sack of pine cones that the Reynauds had managed to get at the flower market. Now it was all gone. She couldn’t ask her parents for more and neither could she borrow from the Reynauds who were feeling the pinch themselves. She had to find a job, but that was easier said than done. Businesses everywhere were suffering. Even the Reynauds could no longer afford to keep her on. The best flowers came at a premium which few could afford.
Passing a few hours in a sidewalk café had been one of her joys and after today, it seemed that would have to stop until she found a job. A young couple sat at a nearby table, holding hands and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. Nathalie felt a pang of jealousy. How she longed to be in their shoes, inhabiting a bubble in which only they mattered. Her thoughts drifted to Pierre. Madame Reynaud said he was back in Montmartre and she wished he would call to say hello.
Since Sylvie’s execution, five days after she was interrogated at Avenue Foch, Paul decided the group was not to meet for a while. That was three weeks ago, but it had not stopped the odd person arriving at the shop seeking help. In every case, Paul had taken care of them, arranging their new IDs himself. His actions made Nathalie wonder if he suspected someone in the group to be a collaborator. If he did, he was keeping it very close to his chest.
A man’s voice brought her back down to earth.
‘Is this seat taken?’ he asked, gesturing to the vacant chair next to her.
‘That’s fine,’ Nathalie replied, ‘I was about to leave anyway.’
‘It’s good to see people enjoying themselves again, isn’t it?’ the man continued.
She nodded in agreement. He appeared to want to chat and although he seemed friendly enough, she wasn’t really in the mood for polite conversation. The man ordered a glass of champagne. He turned to Nathalie and asked if she would care to join him. The afternoon was too beautiful for her to waste and she accepted.
‘In that case,’ he said, addressing the waiter, ‘make it a bottle. Veuve Clicquot.’
Nathalie looked surprised. Who on earth ordered a bottle of champagne in the middle of the afternoon – especially when times were tough? The waiter returned, poured them each a glass, and set the bottle in an ice bucket.
‘To your health,’ the man said, raising his glass.
After months of cheap red wine, the champagne was like honey and she savoured each sip with sheer delight.
‘Do you live locally?’ he asked.
She was about to point to the apartment above La Vie en Fleurs, which was in the same street, and then thought better of it.
‘Not too far. And you?’
‘I also live nearby.’
She studied him carefully. If he had been a lot younger, she might have thought he was trying to pick her up. He was middle-aged, possibly late fifties, an elegant man with fine dark hair greying at the temples, and a smooth olive complexion: the sort of man who took his holidays in the South of France or Biarritz. Judging by his clothes and his pleasant, self-confident air, she surmised him to be a man who belonged to the professional classes, maybe even an aristocrat. There were certainly plenty of those in the area. She had delivered flowers to them.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ he said, offering her his hand. ‘My name is Chambrun – Lucien Chambrun.’
‘Nathalie Fontaine.’
‘Your accent, it’s not Parisian.’
‘No, I’m from the South.’
‘And what brings you to Paris?’
‘I came to visit my uncle. He’s not been too well. I also thought it would give me chance to look for work.’
Chambrun refilled Nathalie’s glass and then lit up a cigar. Judging by the bouquet it was a quality Cuban cigar, as befitted a man who would drink champagne in a café during the afternoon.
The aroma reminded her of her father. He always smoked one on special occasions.
‘And were you successful?’
She blushed. ‘I’m afraid not. The situation here is worse than I imagined.’ She tried to sound naive. ‘Maybe now that the warmer weather has arrived I will get a job as a waitress.’
‘A waitress! My dear, I would have thought you could do much better than that.’
Beggars can’t be choosers, she thought to herself, especially when you’ve just spent your last few francs on a coffee.
He studied Nathalie as she had studied him.
‘I think I may be able to help you,’ he said with a smile. ‘A friend of mine is looking for someone to work a few hours a week.’
Nathalie looked surprised. She knew nothing about him and yet here he was, offering to help her. Who was he? More importantly, what was the job?
‘Who is this friend?’ she asked.
‘I think you might have heard of him – Monsieur Jacques De Rossier.’
Nathalie was unable to hide her surprise. ‘You mean De Rossier the Couturier?’
‘The very same.’
‘Are you trying to humour me, Monsieur?’ she laughed.
‘Indeed not. I happen to know he’s looking for another model, and from the delightful picture I see in front of me, I think you would fit the bill admirably.’
Nathalie’s hand fluttered across her knee as she smoothed down the folds of her blue and white cotton dress – the only good summer dress she possessed. People had often told her she was attractive, but model material, well that was something else.
‘You have all the right qualities,’ Chambrun continued. ‘You not only have an excellent figure, but you are tall and charmingly beautiful, and you have a freshness that Jacques adores.’
Jacques! Nathalie smiled to herself. The way he referred to one of France’s finest couturiers as if he was a good friend, amused her. Then she remembered that most of the couturiers had either closed their businesses, or left France when the Germans marched into Paris – except for Lucien Lelong and Chanel, who apparently was too busy with her German lover to bother designing clothes these days.
‘How do you know this?’ Nathalie asked.
‘Jacques and I are old friends. He is most particular about the women he chooses to model for his clients. They must possess a certain elegance that compliments their taste.’ He reached for the champagne bottle and topped up her glass. ‘You would think finding a model would be easy, but most of those who apply are from the Pigalle – if you know what I mean?’
Nathalie knew exactly what he meant.
‘I’m not sure...’
‘Why don’t you give him a call? It won’t hurt. Tell him Lucien sent you.’
Chambrun took a piece of paper from his wallet and wrote De Rossier’s name and telephone on it.
He got up to leave. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I must be getting along. Perhaps the next time we meet, your fortunes will have changed.’
They shook hands and he departed, leaving Nathalie thinking it was all a dream. Perhaps she would give De Rossier a call after all.
The Reynauds listened to Nathalie’s story with a mixture of amusement and concern. The first thing that crossed their mind was that he might be a mouchard – a police informer.
‘Where did you say you met him?’ Mme Reynaud asked again.
‘Café Voltaire. I was about to leave when he sat next to me and struck up a conversation.’
Mme Reynaud seemed suspicious. ‘Nobody strikes up a conversation without a good reason,’ she replied, rather frostily. ‘People don’t trust each other these days, especially if they are well-fed, well-dressed, and seemingly well-to-do, as you imply.’
Nathalie was relieved she hadn’t told them they’d drunk champagne.
‘I know the owner,’ she continued. ‘I will make some inquiries as to who he is. It’s strange that he never told you where he lived.’
‘I never told him where I lived either,’ Nathalie replied. ‘Perhaps he didn’t say anything for the same reason you’ve just said: no-one trusts anyone anymore.’
Madame Reynaud knitted her eyebrows together. ‘Alright,’ she said. ‘You can call De Rossier from here.’
Nathalie gave her a kiss on the cheek and dialled the number.
‘Bonjour,’ a woman’s voice answered. ‘How may I assist you?’
‘I’d like to speak with Monsieur De Rossier, please.’
‘And whom may I say is calling?’
‘He doesn’t know me. My name is Nathalie Fontaine. I’m an acquaintance of Monsieur Lucien Chambrun.’
The woman asked her to hold the line. The Reynauds listened anxiously.
After a few minutes a man’s voice answered.
‘This is Jacques. What can I do for you?’
At the sound of his voice, Nathalie was so excited she almost dropped the phone. She told him she was a friend of Lucien’s and that he had told her De Rossier was looking for models. She would like to apply. There was a brief silence and he told her to call at his atelier the next day.
’10:00 am sharp.’ De Rossier said. ‘And don’t be late. I abhor tardiness.’
The phone went dead.
Nathalie put her hands to her face in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said with a huge grin. ‘He wants to see me tomorrow morning.’