Belle Epoque (10 page)

I stop short. “Making a marriage isn’t the reason I came to Paris.” The words fly out of my mouth before I’ve had a chance to think them through.

“Why did you come, then?”

I turn and face her. “To see something of the world.” I’m speaking in my own voice now. For the first time tonight I’m ignoring the endless rules of my profession, and it feels liberating. “I have always dreamed of something more than country life.”

“What is it you want to experience?” she asks. Her dark eyes are shining in the moonlight.

I think back to the village women gossiping about me in Papa’s shop. “More than what people expect of me.”

“Mademoiselle Isabelle.” We both look up to see a servant standing in the doorway. “The countess is asking that you return to the drawing room at once.”

Isabelle sighs and returns to the table where she left her gloves. “Tonight is about showing me off to prospective parents-in-law, before she throws me at one of their sons.”

Before we leave the conservatory Isabelle darts back to the orchids and snaps off two heavy flowers from one of the exotic plants. She puts one in my hair and the other in hers, eyes gleaming. “Father will have a fit if he notices!”

We follow the servant up the grand staircase, not the back stair, to return to the drawing room. Isabelle is hard to read, and I can’t help but wonder if giving me one of her Father’s prized orchids is an act of friendship or malice.

I stare at the ticking second hand of the gold clock on the mantel. It’s after midnight, and Madame Vary and I are the only guests left. The count has retired, and Isabelle is in the dining room helping Madame Vary find an earring she lost somewhere between dessert and digestif. The countess and I are alone, sitting by the fire in the drawing room. The coals are dull red now and all the lamps put out but one; its flame flickers across her high cheekbones and perfect forehead.

Tiredness has smoothed out my nerves. In the warmth and
stillness of the room, I reflect on my interactions with Isabelle. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so honest with my opinions. Did I reveal too much of myself?

“You did well this evening,” says the countess, contradicting my thoughts. “My daughter seems to be taken with you. I can see it.”

I notice the quiet of the house now that everyone has gone. “
Merci
, Madame la Comtesse.”

She smiles, reaching forward to touch the flower still in my hair. “It’s fortunate the count only had eyes for Madame Vary this evening.”

I look down at my lap, not wanting to meet her gaze. It’s a wonder she doesn’t care that her husband flirts with her friend.

“What did you and Isabelle talk about in the conservatory?” she asks.

Her question is perfectly simple, making me feel my answer should be as effortless. But I worry what kind of response she is looking for.

“We talked about her season,” I say quietly. My answer is ambiguous enough. I steal a look across at her. She removes the bracelet clamped to her gloved arm and places it on a side table.

“And what about her season?” She pulls at the fingers of her evening gloves and slides them off one by one.

Why should I hesitate to divulge anything Isabelle said to me? Technically the countess is my employer. I should just tell the truth. I take a breath. “Isabelle doesn’t want to marry someone you choose for her,” I say quickly.

“And what else?” Her voice is calm.

“She says you treat her like one of the count’s orchids.” A
slight smile is the extent of her reaction, and I’m relieved—I thought she might be angry.

She reaches forward and takes my hand. “You have slim wrists like me,” she says. Her sudden familiarity startles me.

“Try on my bracelet.” She picks up the jeweled band from the table.

“Are you sure?” I ask, watching her fasten it around my wrist. The gesture feels too grand.

She laughs. “Just for a moment. Have you worn real jewels before?”

I shake my head. The bracelet is heavier than I imagined. The emeralds evoke the depth of the ocean, and tiny diamonds line the edge of it like stars. I’ve never worn something so special. “It’s exquisite,” I say eventually. I wish it were mine.

The countess leans back in her chair and lifts a foot toward the dying fire. She seems more relaxed in my presence this time than on either of the other occasions we met. Is she beginning to like me?

“Isabelle’s first ball is a defining moment,” she says. “She has some important choices to make now that she has come of age. And those choices affect all of us in the family.” Her voice is soft, and the word
family
sounds revered. “I can count on you, can’t I?” she purrs.

“Of course,” I say quietly, and look down at the bracelet. I unfasten the catch and hand it back to her, watching the jewels dance and sparkle in the firelight. I wonder if I’ll ever get to wear something so precious again.

I
N THE MORNING
I
WAKE
up in my narrow bed with a feeling of drowsy contentment. The blankets are snug, and their warmth coaxes me back to slumber, but the clang of church bells rings out, and I become aware of the clatter of hooves, the jangle of bridles and the cries of vendors: Paris is awake. There is something I have to be happy about today, but in the fog between sleep and waking, I can’t remember exactly what it is. I finally open my eyes and look at the window. The sagging curtains are parted, and I can see the sun chasing clouds from the sky until a square of light appears on the floorboards of my room. Glorious relief: that’s what I feel. The Dubern dinner is over and done with and today I am free; it’s my day off.

I struggle from under the tangle of blankets and pull myself out of bed. It’s chilly this morning, so I light the stove, then dash back to bed until the room warms up. I look around my threadbare room—what a contrast to last night’s setting.
When I can bear the temperature, I get out of bed and pour water from the pitcher into the basin and with clenched teeth have a quick, cold wash and get dressed.

As I get ready, I ignore the mirror. When I became a repoussoir I obscured it with the dog-eared postcards and prints I brought from home. My position at Durandeau’s has confirmed what I always feared. He has managed to solder into my mind with certainty that which my father always implied: that I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, that I was unlovable. Like other facts so uncomfortable to face, I have decided to fold it away in a drawer in my heart, along with the death of my mother and other hurts. That drawer is locked shut.

I sit down at the dresser to braid my hair, peeking at my reflection between illustrations of Paris landmarks. Maman bought these lithographs before I was born. When Papa threw away most of her belongings after her death, I managed to rescue these pictures: Notre Dame Cathedral, the former Tuileries palace with the Louvre in the background and the view from the Arc de Triomphe. They formed the landscape of my daydreams before I came here. Maman used to say that one day she would travel to Paris to see these places with her own eyes, but she never got the chance.

I finish tying my braid and look up at the one photograph I have of her. She is in profile, a handsome woman with strong cheekbones and intelligent eyes—how I wish she would turn her head and look at me. She died of pneumonia brought on by bronchitis when I was ten. The doctor had to travel from a neighboring village; there wasn’t much he could do by the
time he climbed the worn stairs of our cottage. I reach up to touch the photograph; the shade of sepia lightens toward the edges, as though she’s radiating some magical light from her soul. Again that rough stone of sorrow scrapes across my heart. I resist the sadness; I can’t be pulled down with the weight of it today.

I pull my coat and bonnet off the hook by the door.
You can see Paris
, a small voice in my head says.
You should see all those places she wanted to
. The statement is like a dare, for now I only travel across the river to the Right Bank for work. For me it’s the other side of Paris, not just in geography, but in social circles.

I head out and pull the door closed with a bang. Skipping down the stone steps of my building, I gather speed, taking them two at a time and then jumping the last few steps to the landing at each floor. I traveled all the way to Paris on my own: why shouldn’t I explore? It’s my day off, after all, and I’ve nowhere to be and no one to please but myself.

I alight from the omnibus across the river Seine, boundary between the Right and Left Banks. On the map the river looks like a ribbon of blue, thrown off by the wearer; its curving course an accident—it lies strewn across the city. In reality it’s not pale blue but a murky, brackish brown, home to frequent boat traffic, traversed by numerous bridges.

Caught up in the tide of Sunday strollers, I continue along the quayside and then cross the street and pass under a set of
stone arches until I find myself in the Carré du Louvre, a large courtyard in front of the museum. Laying eyes on it for the first time, I realize that the illustration on my dresser fails to capture the grandeur of the former palace.

Opulent and sprawling inside, the museum is crawling with visitors come to admire the most prestigious art collection in Europe. Its musty cathedral smells, trapped by centuries-old vaulted ceilings and gold columns, transport me back in time to an age when royalty ruled France. The child in me wants to pretend I’m a princess from years gone by—a welcome change from my present situation.

I purchase a map for a few centimes. The museum is bewildering: grand staircases, massive halls with painted ceilings and a never-ending maze of rooms, all of which are organized by era and style of art. I discover there’s much more than paintings: sculptures and artifacts from Rome and Ancient Egypt, tapestries and even pottery and jewels. I wander through room after room, aimless, but pulled along with the throng of other visitors—bourgeois families, smart couples and well-dressed European tourists. I watch the tours, the groups of visitors who, like shoals of fish, gape in unison “across to your left” and then “up on your right” as their guide elaborates on the works of art.

Eventually I find myself in a quiet gallery lined with seascapes. The waves and swells of the ocean bring me back to the sea in Brittany, until a noise pulls me from the shores of home. Somebody is snoring. I turn from the wall of paintings and look around. It’s only now I notice another patron on one of
the wooden benches—a man, slumped over. Is he a vagrant? I hesitate to get any closer until I realize that there’s something familiar about him. And then I recognize the ill-fitting suit topped with a mop of uncombed brown hair. My pulse quickens. How unlikely, yet there he is: my disheveled bohemian, Paul Villette.

“M
ONSIEUR
V
ILLETTE
,” I
SAY AS
loudly as I dare. My steps echo across the parquet floor until I’m standing over him. His head is leaning against his shoulder, nodding slightly in time with his breathing, his lips parted.

“Paul?” I say. His eyes remain closed; his brow is smooth, all cares given over to sleep. I let myself study him for a moment. His messy hair looks darker in the dim light, and there are shadows under his eyes. I lean over and touch his shoulder. He doesn’t stir. I fold my arms and consider what to do. His breathing continues, even and rhythmic.

I lean over again and prod him roughly.

His eyes snap open and a look of bewilderment crosses his face. I suppress a smile. It seems he’s forgotten where he is, as though he was soaring with his dreams and now he must adjust to the steady ground of reality.

After blinking several times, he closes his eyes again and groans, “My head.” He rubs his temples, then squints up at
me with a confused expression. It’s clear that he doesn’t even recognize me. A lash of disappointment makes me smart. But why should that surprise me? We have only spoken once, and I was a faceless laundress, not a striking artist, like that woman, Suzanne.

He stretches and yawns. “I came to find her among the art. Instead she drugs me and flees, laughing at my expense.”