Read an excerpt below from Was it Love? Or was it Paris?
Normandy, France July 1945
Chapter One
The war had ended; the hated Boches were gone. Paul Delacroix was finally able to return to his family’s château. He had asked his son Georges-Henri to accompany him. They’d taken the morning train from Paris.
It was a hot day. The air in Paris had been stifling when they left Hélène’s apartment in the sixteenth. The two had been glad to get out of there. The new baby, Charlotte, had kept the entire household awake during the night.
“What do you suppose it will be like after all that has happened?” Georges-Henri asked as the countryside sped past the window.
Paul looked over at him. “I don’t know. We shall see.” He didn’t want to share his worst fears.
His son was the spitting image of himself at the same age. Tawny gray eyes, curly hair, a quick smile. But now he walked with crutches, and his face was haggard and ashen, his sunken eyes surrounded by dark circles. He was only twenty years old, but he looked fifty.
They had heard stories about the ravages the war had wrought in Normandy. For all they knew, the château had been completely destroyed, bombed, gutted by fire, as the last months of the war dragged on. Paul had tried to find out, but none of the old villagers he knew had answered his letters. That, too, had him worried. Were they all dead? Did the village even exist anymore?
He couldn’t think about that now. Father and son would deal with whatever had happened when they arrived.
The train chugged through the countryside, passing villages and farms. Where once cows grazed peacefully in a lush green landscape, only burned-out skeletons of houses and outbuildings were left. Entire villages had been reduced to rubble. The fields lay barren and ravaged.
Paul surveyed the devastation and wept. Little remained of the Normandy he loved.
“Maybe the château has been saved, Papa,” Georges-Henri said. “We know the Boches lived in it. They wouldn’t have destroyed it when they fled.” He rubbed his chin. “Or would they?”
“Anything is possible. We can only hope for a miracle.”
“In this war,” his son said, a sad look in his eyes, “miracles rarely happened.”
Paul nodded, then he patted his son’s shoulder. “You are here with me, mon fils, that is enough of a miracle for me.”
Georges-Henri smiled at him. He said, “If it is necessary, you and I, we will rebuild together, Papa. Marielle will help us, too, when she returns.”
Paul stared out the window. He wouldn’t tell him. Not just yet.
The train pulled into the station and came to a screeching halt in a cloud of steam. Paul stood and picked up both their valises. Whatever was left of Normandy, he was home.
The château was eerily quiet. No dog to greet them. Paul wondered what had become of old Napoleon. The loyal shepherd was getting on in years when they had had to flee from the château.
He looked out to the pasture. The donkey was gone, too, as were the two horses. Come to think of it, there were no birds singing in the trees. The only sound was the quiet susurration of the wind as it swept through the trees and across the gray, barren meadow. Nothing looked as it might have this time of year. The war had stolen the surrounding countryside and robbed it of its lushness.
He sighed over the appearance of the château. Smashed and broken windows. The ancient stones chipped and pitted with bullet holes. One of the turret wings had been severely damaged, most likely by a bomb. There was a crater in the side yard where another bomb had destroyed the outbuilding where he had once stored his car. The large garden behind the barn had been neglected, vegetables left to rot, roses to fend for themselves over too many harsh winters. What the Nazis hadn’t destroyed when they retreated, the Americans had pulverized as they pushed their way to defeat Hitler.
Wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, he said, “We can restore all this. It will take time. I’m thankful the old girl didn’t let them completely destroy her.”
“Come on, Papa,” Georges-Henri said. “The back door has been left open. Let’s go inside. Maybe they kept the interior better than the exterior.”
“Careful, mon fils,” Paul warned, putting his hand against his son’s chest. “We don’t know what or who might be lurking.” Thieves and poachers had most certainly invaded the deserted buildings after the war had done its damage. “Trust nothing.”
Georges-Henri gave him a knowing look as he stepped over the threshold.
They walked wordlessly from damaged room to damaged room. The devastation went beyond theft: flowered wallpaper hung in damp strips and a heavy smell of rot and mold filled the air. A thick layer of dust coated everything.
The kitchen had been scavenged of dishes and pots and pans; the rugs and curtains had disappeared. Upstairs, they found more of the same. The beautiful old floors were pockmarked from the constant pounding of jackboots. The wardrobes were empty. Much of the furniture had been carted away.
In the dining room, the long table in front of the ancient fireplace had obviously been used as a command post. Broken shards of china plates and the château’s crystal wine glasses were scattered everywhere. Paul picked up a stem from a goblet next to the hearth. Holding it to the light, he imagined a German commandant taking a sip and smashing the glass against the fireplace.
“Come see this, Papa,” Georges-Henri called from the salon.
Paul went through the foyer, where once two statues of medieval knights had greeted visitors. The statues, both smashed, lay in pieces against the far wall. “What is it?” he asked as he entered the salon.
Georges-Henri stood in the middle of the room. “It’s been left intact,” he said with a broad grin on his face. “Can you believe it, Papa?”
The salon had been Paul’s favorite room in the entire château. He patted the desk, a much-treasured antique Bartholdi with black lacquer diamond inlay on its center. He smoothed his fingers over the beautiful gold-tooled leather writing surface. “This is where they must have signed the documents of surrender,” he said softly.
“Oui,” Georges-Henri said. “We are very fortunate our château was chosen.”
Paul bent down and ran his hand behind the desk’s right front leg until he found the catch. When he pressed it, a seamless door opened to reveal a velvet-lined hollow that, like the hollows in the other three legs, was filled with gold pieces. The family treasure had remained undiscovered for all those years. He stood and shook his head. “They didn’t find them,” he said. “They used this desk, but no one suspected the secret it held.”
He put his hand on Georges-Henri’s shoulder as they descended the spiral staircase. “We will make the château beautiful again.” There was hope. He would be able to return it to its original glory.
“Bonjour? Y a quelqu’un?” Is anyone there?
Someone was in the kitchen. Georges-Henri felt in his pocket for his pistol.
“Qui est là?” Paul called. Who is it?
………………………………………………….
Click here to view my pencil sketches of the characters in The Seven Turns of the Snail’s Shell: character_sketchbook_roe.
Note: many of these same characters make repeat appearances in The Blue Amulet, and also as younger versions of themselves in As Darker Grow the Shadows.
Below is my sketch of the snail showing the arrangement of the twenty arrondissements of Paris. This appears in The Seven Turns of the Snail’s Shell. The excerpt from Chapter Seven which follows explains the drawing.
An excerpt from Chapter Seven of The Seven Turns of the Snail’s Shell:
“You are first time in Paris, oui?” the waiter asked, nodding in the direction of the journal. “Can I ‘elp you find some place?”
“I am looking for a hospital. Bon, well, several hospitals.” Anna glanced over at Monique.
The waiter gave Anna a look of grave concern. “Mais, mais, vous n’allez pas bien, Mam’selle?”
“Oh, si, si, Monsieur, je vais bien. I am fine. I am looking for someone in Paris. That is all.”
Monique shifted in her chair. One eyebrow lifted. It was obvious that she was becoming very impatient with the conversation.
“And he is at a hospital?” the waiter persisted.
“Oui, un docteur.”
“Ah oui. C’est normale. But of course.” He set down Monique’s hot water for her tea and hesitated, standing by the table until they looked at him inquisitively. “It is often said that a snail’s shell has seven turns. Do you know that expression, Mam’selle?” he asked Anna as he served her cup of espresso. His intense black eyes fixed on hers.
Anna noted that he was short and rather stocky. She decided that he was probably in his twenties, maybe a university student, or an artist perhaps.
“Pardon, Monsieur?”
“With your permission, Mam’selle?” He nodded at her pen and open journal. She hesitated and then handed them over to him.
“May I turn the page?”
She nodded.
He carefully laid the journal on the table and turned to a fresh page. On it, he drew a quick, circular drawing.
“C’est quoi ça?” Monique asked with impatience.
“Beh, l’escargot, n’est-ce pas? The snail?”
“Oui.” Anna nodded. There was a slight resemblance to a snail’s shell.
Monique squirmed in her chair.
Next the waiter drew a downward-curved horizontal line resembling a frown through the center. “Voilà la Seine,” he paused to check to see if they were with him. “It runs through the center of the city, hein? And it curves around—comme ça.” He extended the line upward and to the left, then completed the circle. Again, he checked on their understanding. “L’escargot, oui?”
Anna smiled, nodded, and enjoying herself, she took a sip of her espresso. It looked indeed just like the venerable escargot, the snail that the French find a culinary delicacy.
“Now, I show you the good part, Mam’selle. You will remember this way all the arrondissements of Paris.”
Anna watched as the waiter put in numbers, starting with numbers one through four, above the line in the very center, and continuing clockwise below the line with numbers five through seven. “Now we are crossing the river again. We are on the Right Bank.” He put in the numbers eight through twelve above the line. “We are now dropping to the Left Bank at La Nation.” Numbers thirteen through fifteen on the Left Bank completed the next turn of the shell. After adding arrondissements sixteen through twenty on the Right Bank, he made a circular motion around the whole with a flourish, holding the pen in his hand as would a maestro conducting an orchestra with his baton. “The périphérique, the auto route, goes around the twenty arrondissements.” He pointed to the outer curve. “Bois de Boulogne, west, Clichy, Saint-Ouen, Saint-Denis, north, Montrouge, Ivry-sur-Seine, to the south. The outskirts.”
“Parfait. Bravo!” Anna applauded, and the young man gave a little bow.
“À votre service, Mam’selle.”
Maps for reference:
Many people are not familiar with the island of Corsica off the southern coast of France. Diamanté Loupré, a Corsican, is a main character in all three of my novels. The island figures prominently in The Blue Amulet and As Darker Grow the Shadows.
An Excerpt from Chapter Fourteen of The Blue Amulet:
The ferry approached the port of Bastia in late evening. Standing on the deck, Anna, Diamanté, and Luc were welcomed by a flock of chee-ing, swooping seagulls and a strong scent.
“It smells like thyme and rosemary,” said Anna.
“The scent of the maquis,” Diamanté said, and he inhaled deeply. “There’s nothing in the world like it. You know you are approaching Corsica when you smell that.”
Vichy France 1939-1944
An Excerpt from Chapter Twenty of As Darker Grow the Shadows:
Occupied Paris
14 July 1942
Diamanté and Elise stood side by side on the brick-paved Quai Saint-Michel. The twin towers of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame rose high into the sky above them, and in the distance, over the rooftops, they could see the pinnacle of the Eiffel Tower. It was Bastille Day, and despite the presence of the invaders everywhere and the decree by the Vichy government that there be no national celebration, Parisians walking along the banks of the Seine could be heard humming “La Marseillaise.”
“It is his dream,” Elise said as they watched Ferdinand push a small barge-like wooden excursion boat from the landing below. The tricolor flew from its bow in direct defiance of the Germans who had forbidden the display of French flags in Paris.
Elise sighed. “Oh là, he’s been building it for many months now in the back alley behind the hotel. He planned the launch deliberately for today.” She looked up at Diamanté admiringly. At eighteen, he was taller and much more muscular than his brother. She smiled. “He thinks it will be a very good business someday, you know.”
Diamanté nodded.
“He is pleased you are here to see the launch.” Then she added, “Actually, so am I…pleased, that is, that you came.”
Diamanté cocked his handsome head sideways and turned to her. “You are?”
She smiled and nodded.
Ferdinand jumped into the back of the boat and looked up at them with a wide grin on his face.
They waved and shouted encouragement, then watched with nervous anticipation as he started the engine and steered the craft into the middle of the river.
A few curious bystanders lingered, cheered briefly at the sight of the tricolor, then quickly moved on.
“I asked him how many people it will hold,” Diamanté commented. “He said he planned to begin with small, private parties and expand as the business grew.” He laughed, then whispered, “I wondered if he’d take the Boches.”
“And how did he answer?”
He shook his head. “Pas question.”
“Oh, mon Dieu, it’s going in circles!” Elise exclaimed as she glanced back at the river. “I don’t think it’s supposed to do that.”
The boat’s engine sputtered and stopped. Ferdinand started it again, but almost immediately it quit.
“Quelle catastrophe!” Elise cried out. “It’s definitely not supposed to do that. Oh là. Look. It’s taking on water, too!”
They stared in dismay as Ferdinand leapt from the sinking boat and swam frantically toward them. Together they pulled him out of the water, catching a last glimpse of Ferdinand’s dream excursion craft as it disappeared beneath the surface of the river.
“I guess we’re out of business,” Ferdinand declared with a shrug. Then he laughed.
Just at that moment, a patrol boat, its black, white, and red flag bearing the German naval insignia, rounded the bend in the river, speeding straight for them.
“Merde. Run like hell!” Ferdinand yelled. And they did.
They reached the safety of the hotel and broke into fits of laughter.
