A Paris Apartment (29 page)

This
Le Comte
–perfected smile was on full display when he signed the documents on my new apartment in the Ninth. It’s glorious, this place, all seven rooms of it. I now have both an antechamber
and
a drawing room. Sometimes I worry it is too much space. Of course even too much is never enough. And I will have a grand time filling it up!

Already we’ve started on this endeavor. Every day new gowns and jewels arrive. Montesquiou sends artwork and vases and the finest bone china, delivering them through the most exclusive dealers and even a suspected smuggler or two. I have tried to pass some of these objects off on Pujol as recompense, but he will accept none of my charity.

According to the gossipmongers, when Boldini heard of the apartment and my benefactor, he took his collection of
Le Comte
portraits-in-progress and impaled them on the statues outside the Opéra. I daresay the decimation of the Robert de Montesquiou works will provide the most satisfaction Giovanni will ever find in painting the man. Oh, such wicked thoughts. Forgive me, Robert! But you can be so difficult when you feel your beauty is not appreciated to its fullest extent!

It’s amusing, the beautiful pieces the beautiful Montesquiou sends to my home when his looks as it does! The man is thirty-nine years old and still lives at his parents’, in an apartment atop his father’s Quai d’Orsay mansion. Though the mansion itself impresses, the rooms above are positively atrocious. Simply to access the flat one must ascend a treacherous staircase and crawl through a tunnel lined with Egyptian tapestries. And that is just the start! At every turn it is a violation of all five senses, six if you include common sense.

Le Comte
has a red room and an orange room, a purple one under consideration. When he is of bad
humeur
(not as often as Boldini, thank goodness!) it is to the gray room Robert goes, where he sits on his gray furniture and smells his gray roses, specially bred for him by a farmer in the countryside.

There are polar bear rugs and a Russian sleigh (here come the Cossacks!). One must not forget Montesquiou’s pet turtle—a live turtle!—which crawls around the Persian rugs sporting a jewel-encrusted shell and defecating at will.

If a moderately attractive woman enters the premises,
Le Comte
will drag her through his
nuances les plus tendres
, the blasted tie collection, and “entertain” his guest with a story of each. Did you know ties can have stories? If they belong to Montesquiou they have much to say. However, the ties are no match for his photograph collection. There are 199 pictures but only one subject:
Le Comte
.

Sometimes I worry that my apartment displays too much good taste and Robert will come to understand the eyesore in which he lives. I am not, at this juncture, seeking a roommate of any sort and do not wish to host
Le Comte
on a nightly basis! Alas, Montesquiou’s apartment is a perfect reflection of his personality, so I should continue to remain unencumbered.

Plus, logistically speaking, Robert uses his quarters to enjoy the comforts of women other than myself. I’ve seen no evidence but know they exist: American heiresses, actresses from the Folies, the positively antique Sarah Bernhardt, and perhaps the occasional boy to boot. We do not speak of it. Just like a married couple! Sometimes it’s nice to know that others share the burden of entertaining him.

Though Robert can be trifling, our time together is not altogether torturous and we share many common interests. For example, we both positively love to parade throughout town in my new carriage! The vehicle is a thing of beauty—an eight-spring landau upholstered in blue satin and pulled by four black horses. It’s quite the appropriate carriage given what so many people call my breed,
les demimondaines
: “eight-spring luxury models.” “Luxury models,” indeed! I would not have it any other way.

On Fridays we grab a friend or two and assemble in the carriage, me in a jaguar-lined coat, my hat trimmed with roses and bird feathers. Montesquiou dons whichever silk suits his mood and off we go to make our appearances at the cafés.

Though I still like Maxim’s (even post-Pujol, even if or because we might see Boldini there) Robert prefers Paillard’s, the favorite restaurant of the Prince of Wales. That so-called prince is such a wet sally with all his moping. If he forces me to listen to his refrain one more time I might stick hot pokers in my ears.

“Everybody recognizes me and nobody knows me,” the prince complains without end.

Yes, that is true. No one cares to know you because you are a bore! You make Montesquiou look like an intellect of the highest order!

I prefer staying above the Seine as opposed to below it. The Folies, Maxim’s, the Moulin Rouge … what does one need with the Fifth, Sixth, or Seventh when we have it all in the Ninth? This is what I say to Montesquiou anyway.

Sometimes, though, I am forced to venture downward, as
Le Comte
is such a fan of Café Procope. Though it is not my kind of place (the clientele are as dry as Marguérite’s
petit poulet en cocotte fermière
), at least it has some history, a cadre of vaunted former guests. Voltaire was a regular some century and a half ago, drinking up to forty cups of coffee a day while openly ridiculing the Catholic Church. Victor Hugo himself spent no small amount of time in the establishment. When I’m there I like to imagine him sitting nearby.

After we pay our social dues at Café Procope and its less illustrious neighbors, Montesquiou and I drive our carriage back up the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. It is not the most direct path, and, truth be told, there is no real reason to take this detour. I imagine Robert is doing it for my benefit, but of course it could also be for his.

Regardless, no matter how debauched I am or how very well I feel I’ve moved on, as the carriage turns on Boldini’s street, as I see from afar the tall white brick building and the black iron gates glinting beneath the gaslamps, we pass the studio and I always look for a light. My head stays cocked toward Notre-Dame-des-Champs as we turn onto the boulevard Raspail and then cross over the Pont-Royal back into the Ninth. Montesquiou never says a word, never remarks upon my distraction.

Sometimes I wake up the next morning, groggy, head clogged with the night before, and all I can think of is my grumpy portraitist. I want to see him. I want to laugh at whatever Maxim’s mishap occurred nine hours before. I attempt to discuss these things with Robert only to find he’s missed the spectacle altogether, so busy was he staring into a mirror or running a comb through his beard.

However, to his credit, when I get a little testy about all he’s missed and the scant bit of attention he pays, Montesquiou knows how to set my mood right again. All he must do is open
Le Figaro
to find my name in the fashion pages and somehow, miraculously, it is almost always there. Three years ago I straggled into this city with the earth’s shabbiest frock falling off my frame. Now Parisiennes clamor to read about my clothes. They try to emulate my dress! My hair! If feathers seem ubiquitous it’s because I wore them first.

According to Montesquiou, I am now more popular than Jeanne Hugo. True or not, he is rather adroit at entertaining my distaste for the woman. Though I suspect he is merely paying homage to my ire. The papers
do
speak more of my gowns, my hair, and my jewels than they do of hers. Although perhaps this is less about me and more about her. Why discuss Jeanne Hugo’s frocks when you can talk about her divorce?

Yes, it’s true. Jeanne finally left that scoundrel of a husband, Léon Daudet. Too much gambling, too much drinking, too many affairs, to speak nothing of all that time spent criticizing the union. As contemptible a creature as Léon is, I never would’ve guessed their marriage might end like this. With all the excess and beauty of the day, it’s hard to believe it played out in the darkest alleys, in the beds of shabby old hotels, in the most vile and hateful ways imaginable. Some small part of me feels sympathy for Jeanne. Of course, when that happens, I brush it away as quickly as possible.

While we’re on the subject of dark alleys, Robert is off to one of his
clubs
tonight. I will spend the evening with Marguérite. Dear Marguérite. I am well on my way to quitting my post as a Folies barwoman, thanks to Montesquiou’s generosity, and she would do well to follow my direction. Yet the silly girl insists on loving other female performers, not counts, and no amount of cajoling will convince her otherwise! It is not about the sex, I tell her. It is not about the sex!

Nonetheless Marguérite is doing quite well. Her contortionist act continues to gain notoriety. She’s even received a competing offer from the Moulin Rouge! I suppose she’s chiseled out a little specialty for herself, a niche. And isn’t that exactly how Marguérite is? Always doing things her own way. Of course, this is often much to the detriment of her friends as well as polite society. If she doesn’t wish to wear a corset, she won’t wear one. If she wants to make poached pigeon she will try to pass it off as pheasant!

My driver is at the door, the horses outside my window clomping their hooves on the cobblestones. I suppose it’s time for me to stop writing and depart to Marguérite’s to dine badly. I feel glum this evening, not in the mood to converse with the cancan dancers and acrobats. I suppose I should take Robert’s view of things. He never contemplates a dinner party without declaring, “The place of honor is where I find myself.” Since he is his own favorite company, Montesquiou is always the happiest man in the room. As ridiculous as it seems, I suppose we could all take a lesson from him.

Chapitre XLVI

The kitchen table was stacked with papers awaiting transcription into the auction catalog. April rose and took a quick glance at her phone. It was nearly six o’clock, only fifteen minutes since she’d last checked for a birthday greeting from Troy, which was in turn only fifteen minutes since the prior inspection.

April should’ve been showered by then, preparing for the birthday Fête with Luc. Instead she stared down at the work in front of her and at the blank phone, and found no reason to celebrate, hirsute, attractive French companion notwithstanding. She was in Paris to work, not attend a fireman’s ball with her attorney. A few hours in, and already April sensed thirty-five was going to suck.

She dialed Luc’s number.

“Bonjour!”

“Hello. It’s me, April.”

“’Allo, me Avril. Are you anxious for the Fête Nationale celebration this evening?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Listen, I appreciate your generous offer to take me out. Unfortunately I must decline.”

“‘Decline’? Nonsense!”

“Je suis désolée. I know it’s rude to cancel at the last minute, but I just don’t have it in me tonight.”

A long pause settled on the line. Horns bleated in the background, followed by the roar of motorbikes. Luc did not speak.

“Luc? Are you still there?”

“You don’t have it in you?” he said. “What is this expression?”

“It means I don’t have the energy.” She snorted. “Which makes me sound
very
thirty-five-plus, I realize. Quite geriatric.”

“You do not have the energy
now
? This does not make sense. If you stay on your derrière all evening you will definitely lack the energy
then
. You will not have the energy at all.”

“Valid point,” she conceded. “Okay, maybe it’s more about my mood than my flagging energy levels. Honestly, I am a bit glum, a little blue.”

“And you aim to cure this glumness by yourself? At home? On your thirty-fifth birthday?” Why was it his logic always sounded more reasonable than hers?

“I have a pile of work to get through,” April said, despite knowing he was a little bit right. “After that, perhaps a glass of wine or two, a bit of fromage, and then an early bedtime. Everything always looks fresher in the morning, including thirty-five-year-old auctioneers.”

“You will work the night of your birthday?” Luc asked, aghast. “Avril, you can work anytime, but your birthday and the Fête Nationale are now. Don’t you want to enjoy today and, for a change, not worry about yesterday or tomorrow?”

“Seriously, Luc. I am not up for it.” She did her best to sound firm.

“‘Seriously’? You are always too serious. Too seriously.” His lips smacked against a cigarette. “Alas, non. You will not decline because, as with any good lawyer, I know what is best for everyone. It is clear we need to start the festivities immediately. This is an emergency, and we cannot wait for the bal des pompiers to commence. We must prepare with joyeux anniversaire cocktails beforehand.”

“Cocktails beforehand? In America they call that prepartying. And it’s not the best idea when I’m moderately depressed and have a lot of work to do.”

“You have no choice in this matter. The moment we hang up I will send you a text with my address. Come over, and we will enjoy some aperitifs before we depart for the bal des pompiers.”

“Luc—”

“Do not fret, Madame. I will not force you into my home.” He snickered. “We can go to the café below my flat. Revelry in public. No badgers. I promise.”

April sighed. She didn’t want to go out. It seemed like a lot of effort for an evening that would undoubtedly produce moments of extreme awkwardness followed by a multitude of day-after regrets.

Yet waiting out Troy’s belated birthday wishes seemed worse. A gal could only stare at her phone for so long. The idea of wallowing over a good Côtes-du-Rhône was much more romantic in theory than actually finding oneself alone all evening, listening to the sounds of Fête revelers on the streets.

“All right,” April said at last. “You’ve convinced me. I wish you luck. My expectations are high.”

“Excellent. I plan to exceed them all.”

April laughed in spite of herself.

“When should I come?” she asked. “Nine o’clock? Nine-thirty?”

He chuckled. “Now, of course. You come now.”

April looked down at her yoga pants and braless thirty-five-year-old chest. She was a long way from going out Parisian style.