The Joy of His Heart

Henry Mitchell spent the summer of his senior year of college touring Europe. He arrived in Paris by train shortly before noon, eager to tour the City of Light and research a nagging family rumor.

He was hungry as he exited the train, so he bought a croissant and coffee from the nearest kiosk and sat down to study his map. A well-dressed lady walked up to him. She appeared to be in her early 70’s.

“Hello sir,” she opened, “are you looking for a place to stay? You are welcome to stay in my apartment; the price is very reasonable.” Her English was exceptional, and she spoke with a beautiful accent. Henry wondered at this. He had heard, many Parisians would not speak English to American tourists, even if they could.

“I was going to a youth hostel,” he said with another bite of his croissant, “I’m on a tight budget.”

“There is no need,” she pled, “I have a nice room for you. I live nearby. Come, I will pull a bag.” She motioned to one of his bags, the one with the wheels.

“Just a minute,” he said, somewhat unnerved, “how much do you charge?”

“Only €50 a night,” she answered, “can you pay that?” The price was less than a nearby youth hostel. He stared at the strange sight of this older woman hawking a room as he finished his croissant.

“If you don’t like it, no problem,” she added, “but the price is good. Let’s go now; I’ll walk you there.”

“OK, OK, I’ll look, but no promises.” With that, he swallowed the last of his coffee and picked up his knapsack. She grabbed the handle of his luggage and began rolling it out of the Gare de Lyon train station. He followed closely, hoping this wasn’t a setup for a robbery.

“I also provide meals,” she added as they crossed the Boulevard Diderot.

They continued down the Rue de Lyon. He was impressed by her vitality but wondered if this was a mistake. Perhaps he should grab his bag and return to the train station. He didn’t know what to think about this lady.

“You must be a student,” she continued, “What do you study?”

“American literature with a minor in French.”

“Before I retired,” she said, “I taught English at the Lycée Chennevière down the street. My husband was the principal,” her voice cracked as her emotions gave way to her native tongue, “Mais il est mort!”

Henry expressed his sympathy, “Je vous adresse mes condoléances,” and they spoke in French from then on.

“Was he sick?” Henry continued.

“No, he died suddenly, and now I must rent my extra room to pay expenses.”

She pointed ahead, “There’s my building.” It had six stories; he recognized the Art Deco architecture.

“I’m on the third floor,” she said as they entered the small lobby. The wallpaper was yellowing, and there were spider webs in the corners. A trash can was running over, and a light was out. She pressed the button to open the elevator, and they stepped inside. An ominous feeling came over him as the doors closed behind them. The elevator creaked up slowly to the third floor. He wondered again if this was a robbery.

“I made soup this morning, and I have a fresh baguette and cheese. You’ll like it.”

He nodded, resigning himself to his fate as the elevator opened. The hallway was somewhat cleaner than the lobby, though the wooden floor was worn. At least all the lights were working. She was proud of her old building as she led him down the hall.

They entered her home and stepped into an earlier era. The apartment was clean and well furnished with many antiques, Tiffany lamps, and porcelain figurines. Oil paintings decorated the walls, and a crystal chandelier hung in the dining room. A portrait of a distinguished gentleman was displayed prominently on a console. Presumably, this was her deceased husband.

“Please sit down.” Madame Levasseur motioned her guest toward a small table in the kitchen.

“Could I see my room first?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” she led him through a small hallway to his bedroom, then motioned, “do you like it?”

He stood in awe at the appointment. “Of course,” he answered as he set his knapsack down near the bed, “I’ll take it for the week. Will you accept American dollars?” he asked as he pulled out his wallet.

“Oui, Monsieur, I’ll apply the difference to your meals and keep a running tab.”

Henry couldn’t believe his good fortune. “Madame,” he asked, “how did you know to trust me? How do you know I won’t rob you?”

“I have worked with young people over several decades. I picked you out from the crowd, and I knew I could trust you after our first conversation. Had I reason to doubt you, I would have left you on the street. But I know I can trust you.”

Henry was not so sure. He went on to explain he would be touring Paris each day for the next week, would not return for lunch, and probably not for supper. But Henry hoped she could provide breakfast each day. He unpacked his bags and took a short nap before leaving to stroll along the Seine. He later dined at Le Royal, an inexpensive restaurant near the Eiffel Tower.

Every morning, he was up early planning his day during breakfast. He visited several historical attractions during the week. He enjoyed the restaurants but soon learned Madame Levasseur was an excellent cook and had most meals with her.

Near the end of the week, Madame inquired of his plans. “Well, I want to see more of Europe, but I need to stay a few more days. My grandmother came from Paris, so I promised to research our history while I’m here.”

“Well, Monsieur, in that case, I have a small proposition.”

“Oh,” he seemed surprised, “What might that be?”

“Are you handy around a house? I need a little work done. You can work in the morning and do your research in the afternoon, and I will cut your rent in half.”

“That’s interesting,” he said, “what do you need done?”

“Well, to start, I’ve noticed a few small flies in my bathroom. Can you look at it? My husband’s tools are in the closet, and there’s a hardware store nearby.”

“I’m not a plumber, Madame, but we’ll see.”

Madame brought Henry back to her bathroom and opened the cabinet under her sink. A small drain fly flew out. Henry sat on the floor and reached inside; the base and backboard were wet.

After emptying the cabinet, he examined it more closely with a flashlight. As he suspected, there was a slow leak from the water faucet.

“Madame, this has been leaking for some time. I will have to replace the back and the floor of the cabinet as well as the faucet. We’ll need to make a trip to the hardware store but let me remove the cabinet first and make a list.”

“Oui, Monsieur, I’m going shopping but will return shortly, and we can walk to the hardware store and get whatever you need.

As Henry moved the small vanity, he noticed someone had replaced the original plaster with thin boards. He pried them back, and wedged between two studs was a small brown suitcase. Henry tried to pull it out by the handle, but it broke off. So, he slowly maneuvered the fragile case from behind the wall and laid it on the floor. The suitcase had already been broken open. Inside, a small black notebook lay on top of several neat bundles of typed documents.

He flipped through the notebook. It was a journal with dates going back to the late 1910s. “This can’t be,” he thought to himself. He carefully lifted the manuscripts from the suitcase. “Unreal,” he thought, “if this is what I think it is, it’s worth a fortune!”

Henry gently placed the journal and bundles back into the case, put the case in a large shopping bag, and hid them in his room.

Madame Levasseur soon returned, and they walked to the hardware store for supplies. He didn’t mention the case but asked about her building’s history. It was built in 1921, then changed hands several times. They bought their apartment about 35 years ago when Monsieur Levasseur was promoted to principal.

Henry replaced the faucet and repaired the vanity. Later, Madame prepared a wonderful dinner of Sole Meuniére with pommes vapeur, but Henry still said nothing about the manuscripts. He slept fitfully that night, struggling against his integrity to justify keeping the treasure. By dawn, he knew what he must do.

“Madame,” he began at breakfast, “Do you have an attorney you can trust?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Madame, I’ll explain shortly. Are you sure you can trust him?”

“Yes, of course, he’s been my family’s attorney for many years.”

“Very well, please call him; we need to see him today.”

----------

After sifting through the documents, Monsieur Beauchamp gave a long sigh. “Madame Levasseur, you may have something of immense value here. I will need a few days to authenticate it.”

“Please leave the materials,” he continued, “Here’s a receipt; I will call you next week.”

----------

Later the following week, Monsieur Beauchamp called, and they returned to his office.

“Madame, an expert examined these documents. They are indeed the lost manuscripts of Ernest Hemingway that were stolen from his first wife at the Gare de Lyon, only a few blocks from your apartment.”

“I’ve also researched your building’s history and discovered how that suitcase came to your apartment. The city commissioned the buildings on your block in the early 1920s for public housing. Your apartment’s first occupant was André Barbier, an associate of the infamous Milieu, the French Mob. He was arrested for armed robbery in 1924 and later died in jail.” Henry listened intently but did not comment.

“Madame,” he lowered his voice, “this material is easily worth a million euros, probably much more. Although Hemingway died many years ago, these still rightfully belong to his descendants.”

“But,” he continued, “they should give you a handsome reward. I have contacted The Hemingway Society anonymously. They have assured me, if the documents are genuine, they will reward you generously for their return, as they know we could easily sell them on the black market.”

Then lowering his voice to a whisper, “They want these materials badly. They offered to put $400,000 in escrow to examine them. The money will become yours once they certify the documents. We can negotiate for more, but that much, at least, is assured. They are ready to dispatch their attorney to Paris immediately.”

“Given our long relationship, Madame, I’m only asking for a 5% fee for ensuring the arrangements. That will leave you plenty for your living expenses for the rest of your life. Is that agreeable?”

“Marvelous, Monsieur, but we can’t forget my friend. Without him, we would have nothing. Can we offer him a generous finder’s fee?

“Of course, Madame, what would you suggest?”

“I think he should receive the same,” then turning to Henry, asked, “Would $20,000 be acceptable?”

“Madame, I would be thrilled!”

__________

After the affair and celebrations were concluded, Henry Mitchell returned to the Gare de Lyon and embarked on a train to Amsterdam. Once underway, he reached into his knapsack and pulled out his journal and a well-worn genealogical chart. André Barbier was his great-grandfather, the thief who ruined his family’s heritage. His only daughter married William Mitchell, an American serviceman, who was Henry’s grandfather. Henry’s grandmother often lamented her father’s misdeeds.

Henry sat back in his seat and began a letter to his aged grandmother. A quiet joy filled his heart.