The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

Then the damn frog army turned us off and left with our train. They said to catch the Lisbon-bound train again here. I rode a blasted bicycle. I can’t go any farther,” he said.
    It felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. She’d spent her last dollar on the train. “How am I supposed to get to Paris?”
    “You won’t be getting another chance from here. Try Bayonne. And hold tight to your ticket, miss, it’s worth gold.”
    The shutter rattled in the ticket seller’s window. Claire elbowed her way over and pounded on the wood. The shutters opened a crack, revealing squinting eyes.
    “How much to rent an automobile?” Claire asked.
    Bared teeth reflected in the moonlight. The man cackled, and the window slammed shut.
     
     
    C laire tried a large hotel facing the beach, with a grand portcullis and rows of balconies overlooking the water. The line at the front desk extended out the door. The place was full. Everywhere, she found, was full.
    She wandered aimlessly in the faint moonlight along the beach boardwalk. Exhausted, she finally dropped her bags and slumped against a low iron railing. Her eyes were on the white lines of waves nipping at light sand, but her tired thoughts whirled. How the hell was she going to get to Bayonne to catch the train?
    “ Bonsoir , Madame.” A man approached, his thin neck jutting from the open collar of a dark suit. He faced her and asked a quiet question.
    Claire caught the last two words, le train .
    She jerked to her feet, smoothing her skirt. “The train to Paris? Yes. Is it coming?”
    His eyes flicked over her, his mouth tensed into a hard line. He jerked a knife from his coat pocket and held the point to her neck.
    “Votre billet, s’il vous plait.”
    Claire froze. Now that she did understand. Billet meant ticket. Her train ticket.
    Her heart skittered in her chest. She forced in a breath. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” she said, stalling.
    Surely someone was going to walk by, there were people camped out all over this town. But the sidewalk remained empty.
    “Votre billet de train!” he hissed.
    The moonlight sparked off the blade hovering inches from her throat. Desperation burned in his eyes, his gaunt stubbled cheeks were sharp shadows.
    Claire fumbled at the purse draped casually on the railing. Her trembling fingers were clumsy as she flicked open the clasp. Cursing, he jerked the bag from her hands. The knife point fell away from her neck as he clawed inside.
    “Fuyez, Américaine. Fuyez maintenant!” Ticket clenched in his hand, he flung her purse into the surf and rushed into the darkness.
    “My papers!” Claire swore, her eyes on the bag disappearing beneath an incoming wave. She slipped off her fur and ran into the surf. Stumbling in the wash, she spotted a light shape floating in the darkness. She snatched the dripping purse and staggered, drenched, toward the boardwalk.
    She collapsed onto an empty bench, her legs weak. Her body began to shake, more from emotion than the cold. Her throat throbbed as though the blade had cut it. She doubled over and vomited in the sand.
    Claire wiped her face with a salty wet hand and sucked in a deep breath. The knife had frightened her, but it was the despair in the thief’s eyes that chilled her. She remembered well the look from her first hungry days in New York among the bread lines. The man might once have been important. But tonight he had nothing to lose. And Claire did.
    She peeled the wet papers from her purse and used her skirt to press them dry. It was all here, except for the ticket. Worth gold, she thought with a sharp pang. There wasn’t money to buy another. She shivered as she stared at the waves. She’d been worried about getting to Bayonne. Now how the hell was she going to get to Paris?
     
     
    C laire spent the rest of the night curled up on a bench with her fur coat pulled tight around her. She slept fitfully, waking at every sound, her train case and purse clenched to her