Dare to Love (28 page)

“Please do.”

A slender, impeccably dressed man with short, tightly curled hair and rather malicious eyes walked past, and George reached out and seized his arm.

“Here's Eugène. He'll keep you company. Eugène, this is Elena Lopez, the celebrated dancer. You've read about her in all the papers.”

“I certainly have,” he said. “I also saw her dance when I was in London last year.”

“Elena, Eugène Sue. His
Mysteries of Paris
was a tremendous success, and his new novel,
The Wandering Jew
, is causing a sensation. He knows the underworld of Paris as intimately as he knows the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He'll keep you entertained.”

Sue executed a deep bow, his thin lips curling in a wry smile. “I'll certainly try,” he said.

“He's an incorrigible gossip,” George warned, “one of the reasons I'm so fond of him. Believe only half of what he tells you. I must go speak to Lamennais. We will have to have a cozy visit soon, my dear, just the two of us.”

She hurried off to greet the priest, and Eugène Sue cocked an eyebrow, the wry smile flickering again as he watched her go.

“That man will be the ruination of her, filling her head with all kinds of political nonsense. He'll have her out demonstrating in the streets before it's all over with. George is so susceptible, a revolutionary at heart. She'd like to reform the whole world.” He paused and turned to me. “Have you been in Paris long?”

“Only a few days.”

“You came with Dumas tonight, I notice. How like him to find you first. He's an amazing fellow. I can't say that I like his books—his plays, either, for that matter, but then thundering melodrama isn't my sort of thing. Have you met his wife?”

“I didn't know he was married.”

“Dumas is extremely casual about it. Ida Ferrier was an actress with an astonishing lack of talent and no particular beauty, but her father was a broker to whom Dumas owed quite a lot of money. In order to avoid going to debtors' prison, he married the wench. I understand that soon afterwards he arrived home unexpectedly, strolled into the bedroom, and found one of his best friends making passionate love to the lady in question. He stared at the two of them for a moment and then shook his head in amazement. ‘Good Heavens!' he exclaimed. ‘And
he
isn't even obliged to!'”

For the next few minutes Sue continued in the same vein, pointing out guests, identifying them and relating anecdotes about each. He was amusing, malicious, and amazingly well-informed. Word had gotten around who I was, and people were beginning to stare, the men with considerable interest, the women with scarcely veiled hostility. My reputation had preceded me. Elena Lopez was almost as famous in France as she was in England, and even in this gathering of celebrated literary and artistic figures I was receiving far more attention than anyone else. I was relieved when Dumas came over to us, a glass of wine in each hand.

“You've monopolized her long enough, Sue!” he announced, handing me the wine. “I hope you haven't been telling her a raft of lies. Come along, Elena. There's someone I want you to meet.”

Nodding to Eugène Sue, I followed Dumas toward the buffet tables, while everyone in the room watched. Several men smiled at me. One of them bowed. Dumas wore a broad smile, enjoying every minute of it.

“You're creating a sensation,” he informed me. “I haven't seen anything like it since Rachel first took Paris by storm. They're all buzzing about you, you know. There's not a man here who isn't dying to meet you.”

“Ah, yes, how tiresome.”

“It's the price of fame,” he said cheerfully. “
I'm
upset if they
don't
stare. By the way, how's that little companion of yours?”

“Millie? She's fine.”

“I'll wager she's not mooning. No doubt half a dozen men are trailing after her already. She is a tasty little minx, deliciously put together. I just might investigate, if you have no objections.”

“I don't. Millie may.”

Dumas guffawed, finished his wine, set the empty glass down on a table and led me over to an artistic-looking man with long brown hair, soulful eyes and a surprisingly mischievous smile. He wore a dark gray suit, white silk neckcloth, and an exceedingly vivid crimson waistcoat.

“Théophile Gautier,” Dumas said. “The man I was telling you about, my dear. The drama critic for
La Presse
. Théo is an esthete. He writes poetry and that sort of thing, but he's a fine fellow nevertheless. He has enough sense to realize he's got to make a living while he's worshipping art and beauty, and so he works for the newspaper. This is Elena Lopez, Théo. Isn't she stunning?”

“Stunning,” Gautier agreed.

“Théo wants to write a piece about you,” Dumas told me. “Be charming to him. Enjoy yourself. I've got some business to attend to, and must get back to it.”

“I wonder what business he has to attend to?” I asked as Dumas hurried off.

“If I'm not mistaken, her name is Thérèse. She's a minor actress with the Comédie Française. That young woman in yellow standing by the window. Dumas has a particular fondness for obscure young actresses.”

“So I've heard.”

Gautier smiled and took my empty champagne glass. I tried to relax, tried to forget the stares, the open curiosity of the others around us. Gautier noticed my uneasiness and arched an eyebrow.

“I'm honored that you want to write about me,” I told him. “I'm familiar with your work.”

He looked surprised. “Indeed?”

“Not your journalistic work, I'm afraid. I read your novel,
Mademoiselle de Maupin
.”

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I didn't know anyone had read it! That was published ten years ago and promptly banned. It was ahead of its time, I like to tell myself. How did you happen to read it? Were copies of it smuggled to Spain?”

“England,” I said. “I'm English, Monsieur Gautier. All those stories you've read about me—most of them were pure invention.”

Gautier nodded and smiled an understanding smile. “The public demands color, mystery, a touch of the exotic. You were smart enough to give it to them. Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me.”

“You're very generous.”

“Are you going to perform in Paris?”

“I may.”

“You may? You must! We've all been reading about you for months. I understand that your debut in London was so successful that George Dorrance extended your engagement not once, but twice?” It was true. By the second extension the whole show featured my dancing alone. With no opera to get in the way, every performance was sold out. At least Tony had told me that much.

I smiled and nodded my affirmation, but said nothing.

“You're much too modest. I know that your tour was a sensational success, too, breaking records in theaters all over England. Tell me, did the students in Oxford really riot in the theater?”

“Let's just say they gave me an enthusiastic reception.”

Gautier asked me innumerable questions, encouraging me to talk about myself. His manner was amiable, persuasive, understanding, but I was still unable to relax completely. We had conversed perhaps ten minutes, when a man came over, slapped Gautier on the back, and asked for an introduction. Another man soon followed, then another, and before long I was completely surrounded by a group of admiring males.

I tried to be gracious, but I felt trapped and wished I had never agreed to come. The men were suave, debonair, two or three of them strikingly handsome, and in their midst I found myself thinking about Anthony, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Sadness swept over me again, though I fought it. I fought it desperately. Why should I pine? I could have any man I wanted. Damn Anthony. Damn him. I didn't need him, not at all. I listened to the compliments. I laughed an unconvincing laugh. I touched the pink camellia in my hair, smoothed the folds of my creamy satin skirt, playing the role I had played so many times, but all the while I longed to flee.

Accepting another glass of champagne, I immersed myself in the role, playing it well now. While Elena charmed the men and flirted lightly, another part of me observed her and wondered why she made the effort. I wanted only to be alone. Suddenly, there was a stir of excitement in the gathering. Conversation ceased abruptly. Everyone turned toward the door. Most of the women wore a look of rapt expectation. Most of the men looked disgruntled and resentful. I wondered what had come over them. Footsteps rang loudly in the foyer. A woman in blue gasped and placed a hand over her heart.

An extremely tall man in a long brown velvet opera cape stepped into the room, pausing just inside. He surveyed the gathering with cynical eyes and sighed wearily, resigning himself to the tedious adulation that was his daily fare. The woman in blue gasped again, and several others began to murmur. Even my heart seemed to leap. I had never laid eyes on him before, but I knew him immediately. I was supposed to have had a wild affair with him, and I had seen his picture innumerable times. Those features were unmistakable. His cheeks were lean, his lips thin, his nose an aquiline beak. His eyes were dark, and his hair was a thick, tawny gold mane brushed back from his forehead and falling almost to his shoulders.

“Franz!” George Sand cried.

She hurried over to him, a smile on her lips. Giving her a curt nod, he removed his cape and tossed it across the back of a chair, a dramatic bit of business that caused even more murmurs from the women. He wore a dark tan suit, a brown silk neckcloth, and a waistcoat of brocade almost the tawny color of his hair. Well over six feet tall, with a lean, lithe build that suggested the strength and the grace of a panther, Franz Liszt was an imposing figure. The face was too lean to be really handsome, the nose too sharp, but that didn't matter at all. His effect on people was positively hypnotic; he radiated an overwhelming magnetism that seemed to crackle in the air about him.

The Hungarian pianist-composer was said to have a kind of demonic power over women. When Liszt gave a concert, women swooned in their boxes. When he dropped his handkerchief, fans tore it to shreds and divided it among themselves. Women carried his portrait in their lockets, made off with the stubs of cigarettes he had smoked, literally threw themselves at his feet when he appeared in public. His aloofness, his disdain of their worshipful adoration drove them into an even greater frenzy. Now, as I looked at him, I could believe all those stories, and I could understand them, as well. If ever a man was irresistible, this man was. His presence was that of an arrogant god.

George Sand took his hands. They spoke quietly for a moment, and then there was a fluttering noise like butterfly wings beating and half a dozen women rushed over to him, their silken skirts rustling. They all began to talk at once, and Liszt sighed again, accepting the attention as his due, bored with it already. The woman in blue seized his hand and kissed it. A young actress in pink clung to his arm. A languorous brunette turned pale when he looked into her eyes.

“Damned fellow!” one of the men grumbled. “This always happens when he shows up.”

“George shouldn't have invited him,” another remarked. “It's unfair to the rest of us. I say, Elena,
you
Aren't going to rush over there and make a fool of yourself, are you?”

“Certainly not,” I replied. “I'd adore another glass of champagne. Would one of you be an angel and fetch it?”

The party continued, but there was a new tension in the air. Liszt was surrounded by women. I was surrounded by men. Everyone seemed to be waiting to see what would happen. Ignoring the tall, magnetic Hungarian across the room, I continued to talk with the other men, but I could feel him staring at me over the heads of his admirers. I turned once. Our eyes met. He nodded at me, a curious smile playing on his thin lips. I lowered my eyes and turned to answer a question, but my pulse seemed to stop beating and I grew so weak I felt sure my knees would give way at any minute. I had never felt such panic.

He had read the stories. I was certain of it. Why had I ever let Anthony and David release them? According to the papers, Liszt and I had had a fierce, passionate affair marked by explosive quarrels and outbursts of physical violence. He had locked me out of our hotel room, and I had seized a knife and ripped his clothes to shreds in revenge. Once he had attempted to strangle me in a fit of insane jealousy, and on another occasion I had slashed him across the face with a riding crop. I had been “quoted” in the papers, calling him a coward and saying that his reputation as a lover was highly exaggerated. What were the exact words? “Zee meekest of my Cossacks could best zee great Franz Liszt when it comes to passion.”

When I turned to look at him again, Liszt had started across the room toward me, brushing away his circle of admirers as though they were so many insects. The men around me tensed, and then, grumbling, moved away, realizing competition was futile. By some miracle I was outwardly composed, betraying not the least flicker of emotion. The room, the people in it seemed to melt into a blur of colors, a hazy backdrop for the tall, godlike figure who moved toward me. He stopped in front of me and slowly lifted one brow, his eyes full of sardonic amusement.

“I think it's time we left,” he said.

His manner was laconic, and there was a smile on his lips, but I knew he would not be refused. It didn't enter my mind to oppose him. I nodded meekly, and he took my hand in his and started toward the door. I felt I should speak to Dumas and thank George Sand for inviting me, but my will was no longer my own. Dumas had his young actress to amuse himself with, and George would certainly understand the lack of social niceties. Liszt's strong, sinewy fingers crushed my own, and I moved along beside him, oblivious to everything else, in a kind of daze. He picked up his cloak and slung it over his right shoulder without losing a step. A moment later we were moving through the foyer with the dull red walls, and then we were outside, the night air cool on my bare shoulders. Liszt let go of my hand.