A Paris Apartment (7 page)

“But still a prostitute.”

“Technically speaking. But les demimondaines were quite fashionable. The highest members of society mimicked their dress and hairstyles but could not possibly keep up. Even the wealthiest matron had only one husband lining her pocketbook, demimondaines had many. Why settle for a single man’s largesse when you can curry the favor of five or more? Her occupation makes sense, really, given the pieces in the apartment.”

“Fascinating,” Luc said with a grin. “I admire your deep knowledge of hookers.”

“Demimondaines,” April corrected him, grinning back. “They were a fascinating group of women. It wasn’t merely sleeping around, either. They had societal duties and even career obligations. And the general consensus was that a cocotte had not arrived unless she’d inspired four duels, a suicide, and had at least one déniaisé.”

“Ah, déniaiser,” Luc said. “To fuck your lover’s oldest son.”

April coughed, choking on her last sip of wine as Luc signaled the waiter for two more glasses. This discussion called for reinforcements, it seemed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have I offended your sensibilities?”

“Yes. Tremendously so. You know how delicate we Americans are.”

Luc paused, obtaining license to unsubtly look April up and down; as if needing to verify her Americaness. She tried to muster a little outrage. This was smarmy, non? He did just spell out the particulars of an incestuous ménage à trois in the same breath used to order wine, and was now clearly performing a mental appraisal of her physical attributes (
Face of piece slightly tired, veneer worn down; given lack of size and visual interest, bosom assumed original
). But despite her best intentions, April couldn’t feel disgusted. She would’ve with anyone else and was surprised to find herself giving Luc this pass.

“You can stop gawking,” she mumbled. “You’ll find nothing out of the ordinary in terms of my Americanism.”

“It’s curious,” he said as the waiter approached. “Though you are very tan, you don’t look American.”

Luc plucked their new glasses from the waiter’s service tray—placing one in front of April and the other at his side. It should’ve seemed impatient or arrogant, how he usurped the server’s duty without permission. Instead April felt flattered, much to her irritation. It was as if Luc couldn’t trust anyone else with the task and wanted deliver the glass to April personally.

Composing herself, she replied.

“Olive-skinned. Not tan.”

“Still, not American.”

“Yes, you mentioned something along those lines earlier when inspecting my attire.”

“I meant it entirely as a compliment,” he said.

“Well, I left my sweatpants and sneakers at home, so I understand the confusion. It’s an utter shame, of course. I don’t want people to think I’m not from the good old U.S. of A.”

Luc laughed and ground his cigarette into the ashtray.

“I think you will be an interesting diversion.”

“I’m here to work, not divert,” April said quickly, trying not to think too hard about what he meant. “Tell me, what else do you know about Marthe de Florian? About the painting?”

“All right,” Luc said and shook his head, smiling, as he sucked the wine through his teeth. “Back to business. After a quick perusing of some of her journals, we know a few things about Marthe de Florian. Of course this assumes what I’ve read so far is accurate.”

“Why wouldn’t it be accurate? She wrote them!”

“The woman was known to exaggerate. Or so I’m told. But if Boldini did in fact paint her in 1898, she was twenty-four at the time.”

“Twenty-four and also pregnant.”

“So it would seem. Lisette Quatremer’s mother was born in 1899, so it could make sense.”

“What happened to Lisette’s mother?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. Though I gather her maman died at a young age.”

“And why did Lisette leave Paris in the first place?”

“Je ne sais pas. Given she departed in 1940, it was likely related to the war.”

“But she never returned. How could she abandon all her family’s things? How could she leave
Paris
and not come back?”

“You
do
like questions.”

“And how come Lisette’s heirs are selling
everything
before seeing a single piece?”

Luc shrugged again. “There is only one heir. And I don’t have the answer for you.”

April tried not to let the irritation show on her face. Luc promised answers yet all he’d really provided was a name, occupation, and year of birth, all things April could’ve gleaned on her own. She didn’t know if he was endeavoring to be a pain in the ass or if it was merely a by-product of his personality. He was, after all, an attorney, and Parisian—and Luc.

“Do you have any other information about the painting?” April asked, her voice nearing desperation. “About Marthe de Florian? Perhaps your client might allow us to read the journals?”

“You are quite anxious about the diaries, non?”

“‘Anxious’ isn’t the word. However, I believe—”

“Auctioneers,” he said and turned to reach for the leather portfolio he’d placed on the café table earlier. “Such an urgent breed.”

“Technically, I’m an auction house expert,” April said, then cringed.

The title was said with no degree of pomp. When bandied about the office, it was like calling someone a human resources specialist or revenue accountant, the word “expert” almost commoditized. But said to people outside the auction world it sounded downright haughty.

“Or ‘auctioneer,’” April said. “Whichever you prefer. Anyway, I’m only trying to do my job. This will help your client’s estate.”

“Yes. I know. Provenance.”

Luc was so fatigued by the excuse April didn’t bother to respond or make eye contact at all. She’d already grown tired of being the butt of his jokes. However, if April had bothered to look up instead of staring morosely into her wine, she would’ve seen in his eyes the playful spark she’d already come to understand was Luc’s way of showing … something. And she wouldn’t have been so startled by the thud on the tabletop.

“What the—” April grabbed her glass as if to save the wine from spilling.

She spotted four blue-ribboned stacks of paper on the table between them.

“Are those—”

“Her diaries? Yes, some of them,” Luc said. “I’ve rifled through them a bit since I last saw you.”

“Rifled?” April gulped.

“Skimmed. I’ve only read a few but I believe the first one is dated 1891. That’s where you should begin. Maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you see the rest.”

If she was good.

April’s heart sang. She reached for the diaries and thanked Luc, this time looking him straight in the eyes. Perhaps she’d misjudged the man, written him off as a roadblock when instead he could prove an ally. Of course he was still churlish and crusty, but it was a start. Maybe he’d give April what she wanted. She promised herself that no matter how aggravating Luc would get—and she already sensed he would prove quite so—she would at least give him a chance.

Chapitre XI

Paris, 24 April 1891

Well, today was the day. The glorious Jeanne Hugo finally married Léon Daudet, allegedly merging two celebrated republican dynasties into one. What utter mayhem. The crowds! The trumpets! The constant dowry speculation! All for France’s
Jeanne au pain sec
: Jeanne with toast. That this was Victor Hugo’s nickname for his cherished granddaughter tells you a little something about the girl. The man was famous for his skill with words, and this is his chosen description? Jeanne with toast? I prefer Jeanne
or
toast, in which case I pick the toast.

Who in this country does not know of Jeanne Hugo-now-Daudet? Yet what does anyone really know? She is beautiful. This is her raison d’être but ultimately not a compliment in the slightest. Instead it is the one positive thing anyone can say about her, and even the word as applied is debatable. I once saw a circus nudist who bore more than a passing resemblance to our fair
Jeanne au pain sec.
In fact the horse upon which she rode called to mind Madame Daudet’s bone structure. In fairness to the equine, he did not sport the same ungainly fine black mustache. In fairness to the bareback rider, her personality was far more alluring!

Having been raised in a convent, I should endeavor to be more gracious. The nuns certainly taught me better. But Jeanne’s physical unsightliness is a fact. Allow not your heart to weep on her behalf. Our new Madame Daudet is not a pitiable, gangly-faced thing unable to stop her nose from crooking or teeth from jutting. She is ugly because of what’s inside, because of the things she’s done. Jeanne herself has allowed the gradual blackening from the inside out. Most people do not understand this of her. To the public she is a silly girl sipping Pernod and buying the dearest gowns because she can. I, of course, know better. My connection runs deeper.

Nonetheless I feel some modicum of remorse for my uncharitable thoughts. I picture Sœur Marie and see her sour displeasure. Of course this would not be the nun’s only quibble with me. That I stole from her is the reason I’m in Paris at all. Alas,
nous sommes qui nous sommes
.

We are who we are. Ironic when you are speaking of Jeanne Hugo. Ironic when you are speaking of me.

In the end my distaste for the bride could not keep me from witnessing the biggest wedding of my lifetime. Along with the throngs of thousands (someone said the number was closer to a million!), I squeezed myself onto the rue de la Pompe to view her marital procession. I needed to see the spectacle up close. I wanted to witness Jeanne and this new husband, a man so lauded even his reputed flatulence could not keep him from society’s upper echelons. But the crowd was too thick, and the only piece of supposed dynasty I saw was Jeanne’s pale, corpulent brother. Georges was barely able to stand upright, as is customary. I am surprised he would venture out in public, given his gambling debts. He is fortunate no one stabbed him.

The atmosphere was festive, I will allow Jeanne that much. People spoke to strangers, exchanged embraces, and beamed at one another as the Daudet carriage passed. For a moment we were one expansive, all-encompassing Parisian family.

My own streetside neighbors included an elderly couple and their grown children as well as a thin, shaky girl vagabond. She said her name was Marguérite, and though she claimed to be fifteen I would place her closer to twelve. I am not sure where she lives, and she was very clearly not there to see the bride but instead to pick pockets. Nonetheless I liked her immediately, no doubt because the first thing she said to me was, “Is there anyone more loathsome than Jeanne Hugo?”

I laughed and said I felt much the same.

Though the fledgling pickpocket probably despises Jeanne for her wealth, this is not what bothers me. It is not what Jeanne
has
that I find so disagreeable, but who she
is
. Not just now, but before. Forever. I cannot help but feel she stole a piece of me, even if she refuses to acknowledge it.

Chapitre XII

“Ça va, Avril?”

April shook her head.

“Yes? Okay? What?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She placed the journals on the table and laid both hands over the tops, as if to protect them.

“Your question?” she said. “I’m sorry. I missed it. I was engrossed in the diary.”

“Yes, I know. It’s quite compelling, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly compelling. Do you think I might meet with your client? Between the journals and a brief interview, I could quickly get all the background required to complete my work.”

“Ah, so hungry la jolie fille, and you only just ate.” He nodded toward the journals as his eyes skipped over to the mangled piece of bread.

“Well, to establish provenance it’d be quite helpful—”

“You and your provenance. I’ve already grown tired of the word.”

“Shall I use the phrase ‘more money’ instead?” she asked. “Because that’s really what we’re talking about.”

“Mo’ money, mo’ problems.”

“Excuse me?” April barked out a laugh, startled by the unexpected phrase. She couldn’t decide if Luc was trying to amuse her or whether he was simply funny without the effort.

“Is that not what they say in the United States?”

“Well, if you’re a rapper, I suppose,” April said, still laughing. “Though the French accent adds a unique dimension.”

“It always does, Madame Vogt,” Luc replied, with just enough confidence to make April blush. “As charmingly as you demand your journals and your provenance-gathering interviews, unfortunately my response must be no.”

“To which part? Because if I only had a moment with—”

“The heir does not wish to meet with any curious auctioneers. Oh, my apologies, that is not the correct term. What was it? ‘Auction expert’?” Luc wiggled his brows.

“‘Auctioneer’ is fine,” April said quickly. “And I understand completely. I don’t mean to intrude. Surely she is grieving now, but if she happens to change her mind—”

“I did not say the heir is female. And a change of mind is not anticipated.”

“Very well then,” April said. “The journals should be enough.”

She glanced down at the stack of documents, skimming their lines, trying to catch another word, another phrase, any reference to the Hugo family or to anyone else.

“You can hardly stop reading,” Luc said with a wink. “I’ve never had to compete with a moldy stack of paper to secure the attentions of a woman.”

April bristled. Mo’ problems indeed. What was Luc trying to prove? That he could discombobulate the fairer sex with his innate charisma and rakish good looks? Well, mission accomplished. This Luc Thébault character gave Frenchmen a worse name than they already had. Perhaps she’d been too charitable. His penchant for aggravating her would not be easy to ignore.

“Seems odd you’d be trying to secure my attentions in the first place,” she said.

“Ah, funny Avril. I’m only, how do they say it in America? I’m only joshing you.”

“‘Joshing’ me? They do not say that. They do not say that at all.”