Time Shift

By Christiane France

Second edition. Title and author have not changed. When Mariette Joubert visits the house where her grandfather was born in Paris, France, she falls through a secret doorway and finds herself in 1763, working as a courtesan in a high class house of pleasure where the infamous Marquis de Sade and his friends are regular visitors. Exclusive rights to Mariette have already been purchased by wealthy merchant, Philippe de Gaspard, but when one of de Sade’s friends decides he want her, Mariette is in big trouble. The Marquis de Vernnay is reputed to be even worse than de Sade. He also has royal connections, so his wishes take precedence over Philippe’s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christiane France
• Release date: Jun 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533770554

Book preview

Time Shift

By the time the tour bus reached Notre Dame Cathedral, the huge gothic monstrosity dominating the Ile de la Cité, Mariette Joubert had had more than enough of listening to dry historical facts and figures. She wanted to see and experience the real Paris—the romantic and beautiful City of Light she’d learned so much about from her maternal grandfather. The city where her entire family was born and raised.

She wanted to walk along the Champs d’Elysees and recall the stories Grandpère had told her about the dark days of WWII. About the day the German army arrived, and how he’d stood on the Champs holding tightly to his mother’s hand. How he, his mother, and everyone else there that day had kept silent and just stared at the ground rather than watch the goose-stepping invaders take over their beloved Paris. And how, in a world gone mad, a world strangely devoid of the normal, everyday noises of people and traffic, the only sound they’d heard was the relentless clomp, clomp, clomp of the soldiers’ boots gradually coming closer and closer. A sound he’d said he heard time and time again over the next few years, and one that Mariette knew still haunted him even now, more than sixty years later.

Grandpère had also told her stories about much happier times: amusing anecdotes about growing up in Paris before the war, then later, wonderful tales about La Libération—the day the Allies arrived and Paris and its citizens were finally set free. After years of starvation and deprivation, how everyone had crowded onto the Champs, decorating their liberators with flowers. Everyone laughing and singing, delirious with joy that, finally, the enemy was on the run back to Germany, fleeing for their lives.

Mariette wasn’t big on history per se. It had been far from her best subject in school. But, thanks to her grandfather, French history was a whole different matter. Her favorite stories had always been the historical vignettes Grandpère had filled her head with during the hours she’d spent with him between finishing school for the day and waiting for her mom to come home from work. Fascinating tales the old man had brought to life while cooking their supper. Stories with vivid descriptions and familiar names such as Marie Antoinette, Robespierre and Picasso. Grandpère had also told her about le Louvre and Versailles, and le Palais Royale and Sacre Coeur. And the Left Bank cafés and bars that were once meeting places for famous writers and painters, politicians and other historical figures. Well known places such as the Deux Magots and the Brasserie Lipp that were still in existence to this very day.

Last night, she’d had dinner at Le Procope, reputedly the oldest operating restaurant in the whole world, where she’d lingered over a dish of cote de veau and a glass of rosé and imagined herself sharing a table with some of the eighteenth-century revolutionists who’d eaten there. Le Procope was full of ghosts from yesteryear: Balzac, Voltaire, Rousseau, and Benjamin Franklin, and a host of other household names who’d managed, by some means or another, to find a place for themselves in the history books.

Mariette knew there was no way she could see and do everything in a few short weeks, but she certainly intended to try. The concierge at her hotel had said a city bus tour would probably be the best and fastest way to orient herself with the layout of Paris, and his suggestion had been a good one. But now, the tour was behind her and she was on her own. She had a guidebook and a detailed map to steer her through the maze of side streets and main thoroughfares, and a To Do list of all the things she wanted to see and experience, in declining order of importance.

The first thing on the list was a trip to Le Marais to check out a little personal family history.

Before she left the States, Grandpère had warned her that, instead of the familiar north-south, east-west street layout she was used to back home, the highways and byways of Paris angled off in all directions, and she’d need to watch where she was going. Fail to pay attention, and she could easily waste hours of precious sightseeing time by getting lost or finding herself going around and around in circles.

After leaving the Ile de la Cité, Mariette headed for Le Marais. At one time, way before Paris became a city, she knew this part of Paris had been marshland. Later, it became the location of La Bastille, the great state prison of France that was stormed and destroyed by the citizens in July, 1789.

Mariette’s grandfather was born and raised in Le Marais, not far from where La Bastille had once stood. In a seventeenth-century house on la rue Charles V that was reputedly once owned by a rich merchant who counted le Marquis de Sade among his friends. That was, apparently, until le marquis pushed the envelope a little too far and got himself arrested and imprisoned for his sexual excesses.

Following the deaths of her great-grandparents, the property had changed hands a number of times. For several years it had remained a private residence. But later, as families grew smaller and the need for large homes diminished, according to Grandpère it became first, what he so quaintly referred to as a house of ill repute, then a home for orphans and runaways, and most recently a boarding house for young, single women. The last time her grandfather had visited Paris a few years ago, he learned the boarding house had closed and the owner was considering converting it into flats. A decision that made perfect sense to Mariette. In this day and age, young, single women wanted apartments of their own, where they could live as they pleased, not a room, a curfew, and a list of rules and regulations to inhibit their enjoyment of life.

However, when Mariette finally came to her family’s former home, it was not at all what she’d expected. Instead of a newly-renovated jewel with a freshly painted façade like similar properties she’d just passed—or even the house with the lace curtains at the windows and carefully tended window boxes from the photos Grandpère had taken the last time he was here, she found herself staring at a partially-burned out building with a FOR SALE notice plastered over the strips of wood securing what remained of the front door.

The house occupied what was an undoubtedly valuable corner lot. Like the front door, however, the windows on the ground floor had all been boarded over, and what plants still survived in the flower boxes in front were overgrown and choked with weeds. Whatever caused the fire hadn’t occurred recently. Even so...

Figuring her best chance of finding out what had happened was to have a chat with the neighbors, she glanced at the house next door. But the blinds were closed and what looked like several days’ worth of newspapers were sitting on the front step. However, a little further along the street she noticed a sidewalk café. The tables out front were all empty, but a dark-haired, young man wearing a long, white apron was standing in the doorway.

No more than half a block separated the café from what was left of her family’s former home, so she decided to check