Read The Paris Architect: A Novel for Free Online

city and the country, overseeing their estates and investments. I’ll bet in an average week I never spent more than an hour’s time with my mother and father. They would often forget my birthday. When I was at boarding school, I didn’t see them for months or even receive a letter from them. They were simply too busy for me and my brothers and sisters.”
    “That’s a shame,” said Lucien.
    “No, I was raised by Madame Ducrot. She was my nanny, but she gave me as much love and affection as the best mother could. And she was a Jew.”
    “A Jew? How did she…”
    “I have no idea how my parents picked a Jew to be our nanny. Maybe they weren’t as anti-Semitic as the rest of their kind. Oh, I still got the usual Catholic instruction from priests. But she never hid the fact she was Jewish; in fact, she told us all about it—the holidays, the synagogue, the Exodus—everything.”
    Lucien found this fascinating.
    “Several times before the war, I was a house guest of Winston Churchill’s at Chartwell, his estate in England. I once asked him about a photo of an old woman on his mantle, and he told me it was Mrs. Everest, his nanny. He called her ‘Woomany.’ He said that when she died, he was crushed with almost unbearable sadness and grief, a thousand times worse than when his own mother died later. That’s how I felt when my nanny, who was my ‘real mother,’ died. So you see, Monsieur Bernard, in a way, when I hide these people, I’m hiding Madame Ducrot.”

5
    Lucien couldn’t wait to get home to tell the news to Celeste. Well, at least the part about the factory. Telling her about Manet’s apartment would put her in grave danger. The apartment job must always remain a secret. As Lucien walked home, he held the book tightly against his chest. He soon realized that any Gestapo agent watching him would think something was up, so he moved the book into one hand and held it loosely by his side, as a person normally would. But because he was terrified that the book would slip out of his hand, hit the sidewalk, and disgorge all of his francs, he kept an iron grip on it.
    As he walked by a telephone booth, an idea occurred to him. He picked up the receiver, deposited his coin, and dialed his mistress, Adele Bonneau. It had been a long time since he’d shared the news of a new commission with her, and she would be quite pleased. A successful Paris fashion designer in her late thirties (late twenties, if you asked her), Adele had a genuine interest in his architectural practice. She always wanted to see the designs and wouldn’t hesitate to offer her opinion, which Lucien loved, although he rarely took her advice. After they had had sex and were lying in bed smoking and drinking wine, it brought him great pleasure to argue with her when she disliked some aspect of a design. It was as sexually arousing to him as their foreplay. As was often the case with mistresses, Lucien felt that Adele was really the kind of woman he should’ve married in the first place. Adele also knew of the latest architectural work being done in Paris, whereas Celeste believed architecture was a man’s business and thus was of no interest to her.
    The phone rang several times before Adele picked up. Lucien was thrilled to hear her deep, sexy voice.
    “Adele, my love, I’m going to be doing a new factory for Auguste Manet, the big industrialist,” announced Lucien.
    “Why, how wonderful, my dear Lucien. That’s thrilling news,” said Adele. “I just love it when you get a new job—you remind me of a five-year-old on Christmas morning. I’m so happy for you. Remember, you must show me the preliminary designs before you present them to Manet.”
    “You know I will, my sweet. You’re my co-architect, we work together on everything,” Lucien said. He always told his clients the same thing, that they would work as a team on a project, but that was pure nonsense. He made all the decisions, because collaboration on any creative work