Belle Epoque (20 page)

Eventually it is the duke who solves the riddle of Xavier de Rochefort’s disappearance, guessing that he went to visit an acquaintance backstage, unaware that we would be leaving at intermission. And so before long, the party separates into those going home—the viscountess and Claire; those going immediately to Café de la Paix—the viscount, the count and the countess; and the search party for Xavier—the duke, Isabelle and me.

The duke leads the way out the main doors of the opera house and around to the side entrance. It must have rained while we were inside, as the streets are slick. Isabelle and I link arms to avoid slipping on the wet cobblestones.

The stage door is so unremarkable I would have passed it by. The duke holds it open and we step into a wall of cigarette smoke swirling around a group of orchestra players. We follow the duke through a rabbit warren of corridors full of activity: people carrying set pieces, costumes and props flit to and fro in a constant stream of bodies. The air is stuffy and smells of greasepaint, sweat and the gas from the footlights.

The Duke takes us down a hallway, past some dressing rooms. There are lots of scantily clad Egyptian slave girls, and men in evening wear chatting them up like dogs outside a butcher shop. At the end of a hallway there’s a staircase littered with chorus girls. One girl is sitting on the knee of a man in a black evening coat. I recognize his swagger instantly.

“Xavier!” the duke calls to his friend. “Your presence is requested at supper.”

On seeing us, Xavier immediately shifts the actress off his lap. We congregate at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her like a group of lost tourists. Her gown is flimsy and her makeup thick. Xavier greets us, flustered at having an audience for his clandestine meeting. I see a look exchange between the men: the duke’s eyes are smiling as if he has just beaten Xavier in a hand of cards. He’s enjoying his friend’s embarrassment.

Recovering his composure, Xavier nods. “Yes, supper, I’m ravenous.”

For steak or actresses? I wonder.

The girl winks a goodbye to Xavier and turns toward her friends who are decorating the other steps.

“Can we see the stage before we go?” asks Isabelle, indifferent to Xavier’s less-than-proper behavior.

Delighted to be able to accommodate this request, Xavier leads the way to the wings of the stage. The curtain is closed, but there is a gap in the material through which we can peek out to the front of house, and we take turns doing so. Intermission is almost over, and I can see people taking their seats again. I gaze up at the box where we sat, thinking how curious
it is to see it from down here. I was so rapt at the performance, and now I see the insides of the make-believe exposed.

“Is that how they move the set pieces?” Isabelle asks, watching a stagehand manipulate the system of ropes and pulleys. “How does it work?”

Xavier laughs. “You’re not interested in the pretty dresses?”

“Not as much as you are,” Isabelle retorts, sharp as a tack.

He shakes his head and smirks. “Unusual for a girl, aren’t you?” He approaches the stagehand to ask him to explain the apparatus to Isabelle.

The duke and I look at painted sets from the wings until a group of chorus members flood the stage, separating us. After the people have filed past, I don’t rush to rejoin the duke. I hang back and position myself so that he’s standing in my line of vision. I pretend to watch the performers assemble, but in fact I’m studying the duke—the aquiline profile and strong jaw; his sweep of brow, broken up by his dark blond waves.

Suddenly Xavier is at the duke’s side, and the two men immediately plunge into a heated discussion. I keep my distance in the shadows of equipment and strain to listen, catching the odd word or phrase. I assume they must be arguing about our surprising Xavier before, but what I hear doesn’t add up.

“That’s not the point,” Xavier says. “… bad idea.”

“Tonight … last chance before I leave.” That’s all I can make out from the duke.

Xavier shakes his head. “It’s such a risk.” He leaves the duke standing there and returns to find Isabelle. I look over and see that she’s still occupied with the stagehand, unaware of anything
else. Instinct tells me the men’s discussion wasn’t about her. Something else is going on, but I’m not certain what.

The duke turns around and meets my eye. He smiles, betraying no trace of his argument with Xavier. I take a few steps toward him just as I hear a shout from above and look up almost too late to see a rope being flung down from the scaffolding over our heads.

I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders pull me out of the way just in time. My heart racing, I meet the duke’s face inches from mine, his hands still clutching me. I melt with the thrill of such close contact.

“Thank you,” I manage to say. My heart is thumping so loudly he must be able to hear it. I’m grateful for the dim light; otherwise my emotions—lust tempered by embarrassment—would be advertised by my complexion. “Ancient Egypt.” I smile, trying to cover up my inner turmoil. “It’s a dangerous place.”

The duke lets out a melodious laugh and I bask in the warmth of the sound. I could exist on mere scraps of attention from a man like this. I don’t need to be the starring debutante. If he thinks me witty for a moment, that is enough for me.

Isabelle joins us with Xavier at her heels. “It’s all so fascinating,” she says, taking my arm.

“I suppose we should get to the restaurant,” Xavier suggests.

The duke pulls a watch from his pocket and checks the time. “I must make my exit, stage right. I can’t join the others for dinner tonight, I’m afraid. I have an early start in the morning.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, hearing the disappointment in my voice.

“I sail for England tomorrow.”

He kisses Isabelle on the cheek. “Would you give my apologies to your parents?”

Then he leans down to kiss me too. My face catches fire.

He raises his top hat toward his friend. “Xavier.” He nods and turns to leave.

“When do you return?” Xavier calls.

“In a few weeks,” the duke answers.

“Good luck!” Xavier shouts. An officious-looking man shushes him. The duke disappears into the maze of backstage passageways.

A few
weeks
. My heart deflates. Suddenly the evening has become a dreadful bore.

Café de la Paix is not anything like Café Chez Emile. It’s a fancy restaurant, exuding luxury. We are shown to a semiprivate room, where we find the count, the countess and the viscount already drinking champagne, with a plate of oysters sitting between them. As I approach the table I see the countess’s eyes flicker over our party, now missing one vital person.

“You’ve found Xavier and lost the duke.” She laughs, but her eyes are burning with questions. “Maude, you sit near me,” she says. But the waiter doesn’t hear her and draws out a chair at the other end of the table for me.

We take our seats. I know why she’s itching to talk to me, and it doesn’t take her long to broach the subject. “So, where did he go?” she asks between sips of champagne.

“The duke had to leave,” says Isabelle as the waiter pours her champagne.

“Well, that’s obvious, dear,” says the countess, trying to sound light.

I feel a surge of boldness. “He’s sailing for England tomorrow.” I break the news in a matter-of-fact way.

“How dreary,” the countess says through tight lips. “London in November.”

The first course arrives, and so begins another feast for the senses as a seemingly endless supply of dishes is produced from the kitchen: consommé aux perles, turbot de Dieppe, lobster à la Russe and rack of lamb. The wine keeps flowing. The waiters are like dancers, flitting back and forth, flashes of black and white.

The countess is irritable and impatient throughout the meal. Without the duke the glamour of our party has gone. She only has the old viscount to flirt with, not a real audience.

At one point, Isabelle catches my eye, “The
table
looks beautiful,” she says.

This is my cue for our new game. Isabelle has given me a copy of something called the periodic table, a list of chemical elements and their abbreviations. I’m supposed to quiz her on them. I open my evening bag and peek at the folded paper for some letters.

“Magnificent, glittering,” I reply. These words stand for the letters
M
and
G
.

“Magnesium.” Isabelle whispers the correct answer, and we giggle.

The countess’s head whips around. “Isabelle, what did you say, dear?”

“Mother, can I have the carriage tomorrow morning? I promised Maude I would show her some attractions. She really hasn’t had much opportunity to get to know the city since she arrived.”

The countess shrugs. “Why not. But stay in the carriage. I don’t want you girls traipsing the streets alone.”

Isabelle looks at me, her expression mischievous. “Of course, Mother.”

“Where are you going to take your friend sightseeing?” Xavier asks Isabelle. He has been attentive to Isabelle throughout dinner and appears to be taking advantage of his friend’s absence to make headway with her.

“The usual: Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame. Or maybe the construction site of Eiffel’s tower, if we have time.”

“Not one of the belles of Paris,” he says, and immediately glances at me. Is that a snub or a coincidence? “It looks like a factory chimney.”

“I disagree completely,” says Isabelle, with a helping of passion. “It’s an engineering masterpiece.”

Xavier shakes his head. “The tower is an embarrassment for the city.”

“If Garnier had won the commission, it would be done up like a pastry, like this café or his opera house,” Isabelle says.

The force of her opinions and her lack of restraint in voicing them make me smile. I glance over at the countess, who’s watching the whole exchange with a look of extreme displeasure.

By the end of supper, the table looks as though a hurricane has swept through and left the debris of a feast in its wake. The rich are careless with so many things. Outside, the opera must have just finished, as we can see crowds of well-dressed people littering the building’s steps, waiting for their carriages.

“Oh, what a bother,” says the countess as she’s helped on with her furs. “Our driver will get caught up in the opera crowd.”

The agency carriage won’t be picking me up tonight. Girard decided that because I am close to the agency I should walk back. But I have to pretend for Isabelle’s sake that my aunt’s carriage is collecting me. Thus far Isabelle has accepted Madame Vary’s missing presence from our social occasions. She hinted that her mother isn’t good at keeping female friends for long—especially pretty ones.

We step into the cold night and I predict a long, drawn-out set of goodbyes. I glance at the line of carriages across the street. “I think I can see my aunt’s carriage,” I lie. “I should dash.” I nod to my hosts and the Rocheforts. “
Bonsoir
. I had a lovely evening.”

“Come to our house at ten o’clock and we can spend the day sightseeing,” Isabelle reminds me.

The adults barely register my departure.

“It will be lovely.” I smile cheerily and vanish into the crowd.

It isn’t until after midnight when I ring the agency bell. There is one servant on duty at night to answer the door and keep the lamps lit in the dressing room and hallways.

My footsteps echo, loud and lonely, through the building. When I get to the dressing room, there’s one other girl changing. I’m relieved; I hate being the only one here at night. We’re both tired, so we don’t converse beyond a
“Bonsoir.”
I change into my own clothes, and after the other girl leaves I pause to look at my fine dress and fur mantle, on their hanger. The humiliation I feel as a repoussoir has shifted: I used to feel it on duty, but now it is here in the dressing room, when I am stripped of my Dubern clothes and privilege, that I resent the job.

Everyone except me hangs their agency outfits outside Madame Leroux’s workroom, after business hours. I carry the Dubern clothes back to my storage closet. The key sticks in the lock. I push hard and it gives. I hang the dress up but hold on to the mantle. When I stroke the plush fur I think of the duke’s hands on my shoulders when we stood backstage. I slip the garment over my coat, and throwing a glance at the rail of clothes, I wonder who would miss it—I’m the only one with a key. With the mantle draped over me, I take a peek down the corridor to make sure no one is around. I lock the door of the closet, then hurry along the hallway, down the stairs and out of the agency.

I
T
’
S LATE WHEN
I
REACH
Montparnasse. By this time of night drunks and generally unsavory characters populate the streets, so I’ve taken a private cab home. It’s extravagant, but since I’ve started working for the Duberns I’ve been less careful with money. I tip the driver a few centimes and he cracks the whip on his horse’s rump and the carriage pulls away. I hurry to the front door of my building, but I have to climb over a vagrant taking refuge in the doorway. I can smell the liquor wafting around him and see an empty bottle of calvados at his feet.