On the Brink of Paris by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel Read Free Book Online Page B

one, for any reason, was to become Separated from the Group. We were to takethe bus or the metro to the museum, using the map and directions provided in our information packets. Or in my case, the map and directions provided in Charlotte’s information packet. There we would assemble by what Madame Chavotte called “ze glesspairmeed,” which both Charlotte and Janet claimed to understand. Because of what Charlotte had said on the train last night, I didn’t ask her what “ze glesspairmeed” was. I didn’t want another lecture. All would become known to me in good time, I figured. Like Bonnie always said, the Universe revealed everything to us when we most needed it.
    We were standing outside the VEI as Madame Chavotte reviewed the instructions for the fourth time. She had intensified her tone so that she sounded more like she was auditioning for a yodeling contest than performing her chaperoning duties.
    â€œOkay, zen, if you MUST spleet up, you go in TWO GROUPS ONLY. Ze boys wis ze boys, ze girls wis ze girls, ça va ? Do NOT GET SEPARATED FROM ZE GROUP. Eet ees absolument forbeeden. Eef you break zis rule, forget eet. No more Paree. No more nussing! We will cancel everysing. No more treeps ever. D’accord? Good. Okay. At lunchtime, you are taking le métro or le bus to the Louvre, where we will all meet at ze glesspairmeed at exactly one P.M . Comprenez ?”
    Everyone nodded energetically. After yodeling the sameset of instructions one final time, Madame Chavotte reluctantly released us. As instructed, we separated into two groups and dispersed like a flock of carrier pigeons suddenly freed in the wild. Well, the girls did at least. I looked back to see the boys standing around, looking genuinely flummoxed. Bud and Chaz were taking tentative steps back and forth. Lewis, polishing his Sidekick case with his shirt, looked like he was trying to figure out a way to come with us. And the Mysterious Tim was missing altogether, the unfortunate victim, apparently, of a stomach virus. Or maybe he did the chili-dog-before-the-ride thing at Disneyland Paris too. Though I’d never even made eye contact with Tim (that I was aware of), I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him—blowing chow on vacation in Paris. But Charlotte was already blazing a path down the street, and there was no time to offer them helpful suggestions. We had to take care of ourselves. Or rather, we had to let Charlotte take care of us. Which at this moment involved running down the street after her.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I called to Charlotte. I had to practically jog to catch up with her. Janet was plodding clumsily beside me, out of breath, but Bonnie had somehow managed to get way up ahead, drifting like a medieval apparition with her long, straw-colored hair streaming behind her.
    â€œYou absolutely must see Victor Hugo’s house, Lily,”Charlotte said, “and of course we can’t miss the Pompidou. If we hurry, we might even have time to stop into the Musée Carnavalet before heading over to the Louvre.”
    It was really rather alarming how Charlotte knew about all these places, their hours of operation, and how to get there on foot. When Charlotte acted like this—like some kind of Madame-Chavotte-in-Training—I had to remember her loyalty, her sweetness, and her commitment to me. Even though she’d been positively parental with me last night, I knew that most of Charlotte’s lectures were intended for the Benefit, Education, and Advancement of Lily M. Blennerhassett, a charity to which I myself was quite partial. Worry though she might, Charlotte believed in me. She believed I was a Great Writer, that I was going to become an even Greater Writer, and that I was fully capable of penning the Great Parisian Novel. Charlotte always stuck with me, through thick and thin. She helped me believe in myself. So if she was being kind of bossy, that was just fine with