Belle Epoque (14 page)

“What kind of offers would she attract then?” the countess harps on.

They talk about Isabelle as though she’s an investment or a piece of property, a chess piece to be fought over—and it can’t be the first of these rows. I look at Isabelle, whose disinterested expression confirms my theory.

We pass under a set of stone arches and the horses slow to a walk in front of a floodlit building that resembles a palace. There are torches blazing along the driveway, which is lined with carriages in numbers rivaling a busy Paris boulevard.

“What is this place?” I ask Isabelle. “Is it a chateau?”

“It’s just a house.” Isabelle sounds bored. “It belongs to the Viscount de Rochefort.”

“It’s too bad his elder son is in the Orient,” the countess says. “The younger one, what’s his name again?”

“Xavier,” says the count.

“Yes, Xavier. He’s more agreeable, but of course, he won’t inherit the title.”

Isabelle sighs in response.

Before I mistakenly reach for the door myself, a footman in livery saves me and opens it, then helps us descend from the carriage. I stare at the family home of the Rocheforts and try to quell the queasy rolling in my stomach.

“I did find out that the Duke d’Avaray will be attending tonight. Did you hear me, Isabelle?”

“Yes, Mother.” Isabelle rolls her eyes.

It’s hard for me to understand how Isabelle can be so relaxed while my anxiety has advanced to a stage of pure fear. I can’t even get out of a carriage without showing myself up and they’re talking about fortunes and titles. My mind is reeling as we walk toward the palatial house: Will I be able to navigate the dancing and manage polite conversation? Will I say the wrong thing or have my accent questioned again?

We walk up the stone steps and pass through an elaborately carved front door. The ladies’ cloaks are taken in the entrance hall, along with the men’s hats, canes and overcoats. I wonder how they keep track of whose is whose.

Isabelle’s parents don’t hesitate for a moment about what to do or where to go. We advance with other guests up a wide marble staircase and through a vast doorway into the ballroom, and I can hear my own intake of breath. If the Dubern house felt luxurious, this place is the epitome of opulence, fit for a king or an emperor. The floor is polished, shining like a new chestnut, and
couples are dancing in perfect time; the dresses are like twirling butterflies of silk, each one anchored to a dark suit and white tie. Pale mint walls are crowned with ornate moldings; bronze sconces fashioned like intertwining rose branches hold pink candles. Gilt-framed mirrors as tall as the room are interspersed between vast windows, and sugar pink settees are positioned along the walls. The light is golden and fizzing. I am speechless—it feels as if I’m walking through the pages of a fairy tale.

The girls are beautiful, a chorus of rustling skirts and laughter. I thought Isabelle looked striking, but seeing her competition, I understand Marie-Josée’s peach lesson. How will Isabelle stand out in this crowd?

“Do you know all these people?” I whisper to Isabelle. There must be a hundred guests in the ballroom, all of them glittering and radiant.

“I know
of
them,” she says, clearly unimpressed. “And I warn you, we’ll be forced to dance, for no one here can engage us in intelligent conversation.”

I shake my head, flummoxed by her complacency.

“Posture.” The countess runs a finger down her daughter’s spine and Isabelle makes an effort to stand straighter.

“And smile,” the countess says.

Isabelle obeys.

“Don’t grin, dear,” the countess scolds, herself the essence of poise and grace.

Isabelle’s parents approach an older couple I recognize from the Dubern dinner, who appear to be formally greeting the guests. At their side is a handsome young man with a thick
brow and a conceited swagger. He sports a mustache, perhaps to add gravitas to his youthful looks.

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” says the count to the older man. “Fine turnout.” They shake hands.

His wife, the viscountess, shakes her head at the countess. “I can’t believe our Claire and your Isabelle are already debutantes.” She gestures to the young man standing next to her. “You remember my younger son, Xavier.”

“Of course,” the countess purrs, offering her hand to the young man.

“Madame la Comtesse,” Xavier says, taking the countess’s hand. “You look stunning, as usual. Watch out, or the gentlemen will take you for a debutante yourself.”

The countess laughs, swatting at his arm in mock protest. “Honestly, Xavier,” she says, delighted by his attention.

The young Rochefort exudes something that could be mistaken for charm but feels more like arrogance.

More guests arrive, and the Rocheforts turn their attention to them—but Xavier remains with us. He seeks out Isabelle. “Mademoiselle Dubern, I was hoping to see you tonight.”

Isabelle gives a functional smile, one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Everything looks splendid.”

“I can’t take credit for a thing,” he says. “Mother and Claire made all the arrangements. It’s a peculiarly feminine talent, don’t you think, planning a party?”

If he’s trying to impress her, he’s doing a poor job. Isabelle ignores his observations on the gentler sex. She introduces me instead. “This is my friend Maude Pichon.”

Suddenly the focus of attention, I feel like a statue, mute
and heavy, as if I were cast in bronze; my breath is shallow and my mouth is frozen in a smile.

Xavier takes my hand in a tepid grip. “The Pichon family,” he says, “from … where did you say?”

My heart leaps and then I realize that no one said where I am from. I have to remind myself that he doesn’t suspect me of being the imposter I am; he’s simply trying to place me in the social hierarchy. “I’m from Normandy,” I answer. At least Normandy is in the right direction to the truth—it’s the province next to my home in Brittany. “A small village near Deauville. You wouldn’t recognize the name, I’m sure.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I daresay I wouldn’t.” His tone is dismissive and rude, but I can only deflect his scrutiny.

“And where are you from, Monsieur de Rochefort?” I ask.

“Paris,” he sneers. “Where else?” He immediately turns toward Isabelle, snubbing me completely. “Dance with me, I insist.”

“Very well,” she says. But I know she’s not enthusiastic. As she is led away by the young Rochefort, her eye catches mine, and her expression reads
I told you so
.

I exhale a breath, glad for a reprieve from socializing. But left alone with the count and countess, I feel like an uninvited guest. The count must be thinking the same thing, as he immediately takes his wife’s arm. “Come, dear, let us leave the dancing to the young people. I want to find the general.”

The countess looks irked. “How can you focus on anything other than your daughter tonight?” This first dance is a highly charged moment for her. Her gaze follows Isabelle and Xavier as though she’s watching a new horse run its first race.

“She’s not in mortal danger,” protests the count. “She’s dancing.”

The countess leans toward me, her perfect features tense. “Make sure you stand beside Isabelle between dances,” she whispers. I can smell her perfume: sandalwood and spice. “And don’t dance yourself unless she is engaged.”

I nod, both relieved that I don’t have to dance but put out that I’m all but forbidden to do so.

“Whatever you do, don’t leave her alone.”

Before she can utter more instructions, her husband cuts in. “Edwige,” says the count impatiently. “Come, I see the general.”

I want to laugh when I hear the countess referred to by her Christian name: it doesn’t suit her. As they walk away, I can hear the count saying, “Queer-looking girl, and what a solemn face.”

I let the remark bounce off me; there’s no point taking offense. Embrace your flaws, I remind myself. Now that I have been abandoned by my party, I can truly watch the dancing. And it’s glorious. Everyone moves like clockwork; and not just when they’re dancing. I observe the groups of people, catch fragments of conversations and snatches of gestures. It’s an effortless display of well-executed manners and etiquette. The men know how to approach a lady, how to engage her in conversation; the ladies know how to laugh sweetly at just the right moments and when to move on graciously without giving offense. There is no Girard prompting in the wings: they all know their cues by heart, as if they were born with the knowledge.

The night wears on, and Isabelle’s first dance turns into several. I wander away from the activity and take a seat on one
of the settees at the edge of the floor. I realize that this is the quintessential repoussoir moment: sitting on the fringes and watching your client soak up the attention. I should be relieved that the evening is playing out as it was meant to, but I can’t help feeling disappointed; despite the beauty surrounding me, the sheen has been taken off the night. How foolish to have gotten my hopes up just because I’m wearing the Dubern gown and pearls. Between the dancing figures I catch sight of my reflection in one of the mirrors on the opposite wall. I don’t think that what nature has given me in terms of my appearance can be improved beyond how I look tonight—this is the limit of my attractiveness, and still I am passed over.

“There you are,” says a voice, and I look up to find Isabelle standing over me.

Next to her is the handsomest man I have ever seen.

He takes my gloved hand in his. “
Bonsoir
, mademoiselle.” He kisses it. “Duke d’Avaray.” My heart hiccups and my cheeks warm. I study his immaculate appearance: dark blond hair, intense blue eyes, a strong nose and fine jaw. Unlike most of the men in the room, he wears a military uniform—he stands out from the fray in his blue jacket and red epaulettes. What’s most surprising is that Isabelle appears perfectly nonchalant. She doesn’t betray any excitement or flutters of the heart in front of this Adonis.

Xavier then joins our party with a pretty strawberry-blond girl whose head is piled high with curls. She turns out to be his sister, Claire. She gives me a small curtsey when we are introduced, then bats her eyes at the duke.

“Let’s dance again,” says Claire, trying to catch his attention.
“Tricky number, five,” says Xavier, letting his eyes flicker across my face. He turns his back to me, and I understand immediately that he wants to avoid having me as a partner. I try to appear oblivious, my expression the pleasant mask I’ve mastered for introductions. Still, it annoys me that someone of his breeding could be so rude.

The duke turns to ask Isabelle for a dance, but she preempts his question. “I’m going to sit this one out. Oh, please dance with Maude, I insist. She hasn’t danced once this evening.”

My stomach somersaults at the notion of disobeying the countess—not to mention the dancing itself. I can see myself treading on the duke’s toes or tripping him. I turn to him, ready to make an excuse, but I’m met with a smile. He betrays no disappointment at ending up with me. Hand extended, he simply says, “Well then, shall we?” His voice sounds rich and smooth.

I hesitate, glancing across the room to see if the countess is watching. “I’m not much of a dancer,” I murmur.

“Go on, Maude,” says Isabelle. “You can’t be a wallflower all night.”

I’m about to protest again, yet the truth is, I don’t want to say no. I reach for the duke’s outstretched hand and a tingle shoots up my arm. I can hear Girard’s stick thumping a rhythm in my head as he leads me to the center of the room—
one
, two, three,
one
, two, three.

I must look as nervous as I feel, because the duke asks, “Is this your first ball?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious,” I say, and blush immediately.

He grins. “Don’t look down at your feet. Look at me, I’ve got you.”

The dance begins and the duke whisks me across the floor with assurance, holding me firmly. The orchestra is loud, and I let the violin and cello chords vibrate through me. My nerves, untangled by the music, are now restrung as quivers of excitement. With his confidence on the floor, I relax into his hold on me. As I am spun around the room, I look at his impossibly handsome face, admire his poise and ease.

“There, you’re doing fine,” he says. He is one of those rare people who manages to extend their confidence to those around them; his every gesture is natural, his conversation fluid—awkwardness just wouldn’t occur to him.

Despite my shyness I want to know more about him. I study his face. What could I possibly talk to a duke about? The gold buttons on his uniform distract me, glinting in the candlelight. “You are in the military!” I exclaim, then wish I’d kept quiet.

“My commission is almost up,” he answers. “I’m going to take over the family estate.”

I sense a reluctance in his voice. “It sounds as though you’d rather stay in service,” I say, attempting to draw him out.

“It’s that obvious?” He smiles and sighs at the same time. “My father died and I am the only son. He was the real Duke d’Avaray. I’m merely a pretender.”

His modesty only makes me like him more, makes me want to reward his openness by sharing a confession of my own. “My mother died when I was ten.” And as soon as I say it, I feel cheap using my mother’s death as an excuse for conversation.

But the duke looks down at me with kindness. “It’s a horrible feeling, losing a parent.”

“Nothing prepares you for it,” I murmur.

“You’re right,” he says, reassuring me. I catch his eye and his smile radiates warmth and lights a fire beneath my breast. In this moment, he makes me feel as though I’m shining like the jewel itself, not the lowly metal foil designed to enhance it. I don’t care how I came to be here; the only thing that matters right now is that I, Maude Pichon, from Poullan-sur-Mer, am in the arms of a duke.

When the dance ends, the duke cuts in on Xavier and Claire. It doesn’t matter to me—I float back to where I left Isabelle, happy for my moment. I cross the room and revel in the way every glass, curtain and candlestick appears to be standing at attention, mindful of its contribution to the occasion. And I am part of this too. The real world of Montparnasse and the agency fades from memory, as do the feelings of humiliation and loneliness. My garret room, Monsieur Durandeau and the repoussoirs seem like a fiction, and only this fairy tale is real.