The Witch of Painted Sorrows (25 page)

Chapter 26

For the next few days, when I wasn’t at school or at the Louvre copying paintings or at Moreau’s atelier, I played detective and followed Julien.

When we were together, I’d ask about his plans, meetings, and appointments so whenever possible I could observe him with Charlotte. I needed to know more about her and about them together.

I spied on them. I watched them. Oh, how I hated the sight of her blond curls next to his dark ones. How I hated the way she put her hand on his arm when they sat in restaurants, as if she owned him. And that flirtatious way she looked up at him from under her lashes. Every action waiting for a reaction, every tease waiting for a response.

He showed all the signs of a man in love. He was attentive and responsive. He laughed with her and was affectionate. When she whispered in his ear, he smiled.

I had never been jealous when my husband interacted with other women at dinner parties or the theater or when we visited with friends. Never taken more than a cursory interest when he paid attention to a female other than myself.

But I had never loved my husband. And I did love Julien. Not just with my mind but also with my lips, my fingers, my skin. When he
was not with me at the mansion, I was painting him from memory in my studio or imagining being with him. Julien was my fever. The idea of him burned inside of me. When I went a day without him, I felt actual pain, like the hunger pangs you can suffer when you’ve gone too long without food. While this kind of feeling was new and marvelous, it was also terrifying to be in its grip.

Wednesday evening, Julien and I were together for
le cinq à sept
, an accepted time when all over Paris, husbands saw their mistresses, wives their paramours, lovers delighted in one another and guilt took the evening off. Hedonism was an indulgence that didn’t require complicated justifications, remorse, or blame. There was the institution of marriage, and there were one’s sensual needs. When the two weren’t compatible, society accepted the alternatives. One didn’t reveal one’s affairs to a wife, so I didn’t expect Charlotte knew about Julien’s dalliances, but according to the custom of the day, if she did know, she would try to turn the other cheek.

I had been painting at the Louvre that afternoon, and when I returned, I found Julien waiting for me. He’d brought a fragrant Bordeaux, a creamy soft wheel of Saint André, a little wooden crate of figs, and a fresh baguette. We drank and feasted on the food and then on each other. Afterward, while we lay in between the fine cotton sheets in the Persian bedroom, I asked him what he was doing that evening.

“Why do you ask me if you know the answer is going to make you pout?” he asked.

“I don’t pout.” I waved my hand as if dismissing the issue like a piece of dust.

“You do pout, darling, you do.” He leaned down and kissed me. “I can’t just call off my engagement with Charlotte. And we couldn’t marry even if I was free. You’re not divorced yet. We need time to figure out how to do what we want to do.”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re right.” I forced a smile. “So tomorrow?” I asked as he got dressed. “I don’t have class. Would you like to go to the Bois de Boulogne for luncheon?”

“I would, but I am having lunch with a potential client at the Eiffel Tower. The gentleman, a businessman from Germany and a great patron of the opera, is going to build a new department store in the 5th arrondissement. He’s in the process of choosing an architect, and Charlotte has arranged the meeting. It could be my largest commission to date.”

“How wonderful,” I said, and truly meant it, already envisioning the marvelous sinewy, curling, twisting building that Julien was capable of designing.

Thursday turned out to be the kind of day that I thought showed off Paris in the best light. Others waxed euphoric over sunshine, but for me the magic of the city shone brightest when the skies were moody and melodramatic. That afternoon, charcoal clouds threatened rain, and the air had a slightly metallic scent that added an edge of excitement to the atmosphere. As if a storm was not all that the city was waiting for.

As always, there was a crowd at
la Tour Eiffel
. Only open for four years, the iron latticework structure drew tourists and Parisians alike. It was a constant source of discussion—people debated whether the metal sculpture fascinated or repelled. No one was neutral.

Because of how jammed the tower might be, I had arrived early so I could be there when they arrived and not miss them. After waiting twenty minutes or so, I saw Julien alight from a cab, help Charlotte out, and then lend a hand to a portly gentleman who sported a twisting mustache and extremely tall top hat.

Hiding in the shadows among the crowd, dressed in my masculine garb, I watched as the trio made their way to the elevator.

Charlotte, wearing a fetching verdant-green silk dress and hat that set off her blond hair, was leaning on the gentleman’s arm, flirting with him, while Julien walked alone. I felt a secret pleasure that not only did he not seem to be paying attention, he also didn’t look
annoyed with her. Although even if he was jealous, he couldn’t very well show it, could he? She was helping him procure a commission; it wouldn’t do for him to make the gentleman uncomfortable.

All three entered the elevator. I watched the cabin rise, keeping sight of Charlotte’s emerald-green hat, which sparkled brightly like a bird’s wings as they ascended.

I thought of the last thing that Julien had said to me before he’d departed the previous evening . . .

“I will be at dinner tonight, thinking of you here, in bed, naked, like this.”

“Don’t go then. Stay with me here, naked, like this.”

“I am obligated.”

“Yes, you are obligated.”

But do you love her?
I wanted to ask so I could understand. Love, or the lack of it, I wanted to tell him, was not a frivolous reason for making a decision about marriage. It was the only reason. Love, I wanted to shout, was the only reason to do anything. The only value worth living for. A goal truly worth making any sacrifice for.

But I just fingered the rubies around my neck and kept silent.

As the elevator worked its way up the tower, I climbed the stairs, my sensible boots making it easy to keep up a steady pace. In fact, I was able to outdistance the lift. When I reached the restaurant level and stepped off, I looked down and watched the emerald-green feathers rising, flying up.

Would they look around first or go straight to the restaurant? I had made a reservation and would simply wait and let them be seated first and then tip the maître d’ to make sure I wasn’t in Julien’s line of sight.

I positioned myself so I could observe them get off the elevator without them seeing me.

After emerging from the lift, they walked to the right, away from the restaurant and out onto the observation deck. Using the crowd to conceal myself, I followed. With all the people around, it was unlikely
Julien would notice me, especially in my drab black pants and jacket and hat pulled down to cast my face in shadow.

The trio stood at the railing. Charlotte put down the straw basket she was carrying, bent over, and opened it. Withdrawing three champagne flutes, she handed one to the German and two to Julien. As she did so, she leaned close to him, brushing his arm with her breast. I bristled. No matter what he had told me, he was betrothed to her, not to me. She had the right to be this way with him in public. To lean on him. To touch him. And I did not.

Next she pulled a bottle of champagne out of the basket and with great ceremony proceeded to open it. At the end, she lost control of the cork, either by accident or on purpose to make the moment even more exciting. As it went sailing over the edge, she gave a shriek I could hear despite the crowd’s murmuring. It was a lovely sound—she was a singer after all—but at the same time it had an ominous tone to it, like one of the broken bells in the tower.

I caught sight of the cork as it arched over the crowd and then dropped. Peering down, I followed its trajectory. Would it hurt someone when it landed? There were a lot of trees below; most likely it would be caught in the branches of a chestnut or plane tree.

The dizzying view made me uncomfortable, and I stepped back from the edge. As I did, I bumped into someone. Turning around to apologize, I came face-to-face with my husband.

No. That was impossible. He was in New York. It was the dizziness. It was the shadows from the clouds. Indeed, he was similar in height and coloring, but his features were not the same and his eyes were kind. My husband’s eyes were intelligent and shrewd but never kind.

“Excuse me,” I said to the stranger.

He smiled and told me it wasn’t a problem, but he stared. It took me a moment to realize why. The juxtaposition of the feminine voice and masculine clothing had caught his attention.

I resumed watching the trio by the railing. Charlotte filled the
glasses. The three of them clinked the flutes with a toast I was too far away to hear, and then they drank.

Keeping at Julien’s back so that he didn’t spot me, I inched closer. I wanted to listen to what they were saying.

The German was pointing out over the rooftops of Paris. “That is the street. Right there will be the finest store in all of this fine city. I want to be able to stand here and look out over Paris and see my store. Will you be able to do that, Monsieur Duplessi?”

They were all leaning over the railing now, looking far into the distance, toward the 5th arrondissement.

“Of course! The tallest, most fantastic store in the city!” Charlotte cried, answering for him.

The wind picked up, and I felt the first few drops of rain. But no one seemed to notice, or if they did, it didn’t dampen their spirits.

Charlotte pointed. “Is it right there? Next to the church? Will you sell hats? I love hats,” she sounded as if the champagne had gone to her head already.

“No,” the German said. He took her hand and moved to the right. “That street. Do you see it? There is a long row of uneven rooftops, like bad teeth.”

The wind grew stronger, but no more rain fell. It seemed to me that the tower was swaying. Some of the crowd noticed it, too. I heard comments of concern and surprise.

Another stronger gust caused a more obvious swaying that was disturbing enough for a surge of people to rush to the elevator. In the crush someone shoved me. I began to fall into the man in front of me. The stranger whom I’d thought looked like Benjamin. But at the last minute he moved, opening up a direct path between me and Charlotte. I was going to fall right into her as she leaned over the edge. I might throw her off balance.

I twisted to the right, falling instead into a middle-aged woman holding a child’s hand who was beside me and nowhere near the ledge.

“Be careful!” she shouted as she pulled her child closer.

I stood, turned around, looked for whoever had jostled me to complain. But no one around acted in the slightest way responsible. I had no idea who it had been.

At the railing, Charlotte, Julien, and the German were still looking out over the city, oblivious to my mishap and how close we’d come to disaster. Neither the strong winds nor the tower’s tremble seemed to be troubling them. Charlotte, still leaning, was now using her champagne glass as a pointer and swaying in rhythm with the tower, as if the wind were her dancing partner.

Julien pulled a notebook from his pocket and sketched rapidly, while the German looked on, lavishing praise.

Fat, cold raindrops began to fall then, enough so that the two men inched away from the railing and moved closer to the restaurant and shelter so Julien could keep drawing.

Charlotte, however, remained, still leaning over, still looking out, as focused on the city as the men were on the sketch.

A woman struggling to open her scarlet umbrella asked me to help. Taking the frilly contraption from her, I tried to release the catch while a squall pushed against my efforts.

Just as I was about to give up, the wind moved direction. At my back now, the gusts helped and the umbrella opened quickly. Suddenly, with a force that took me by surprise, the wind flew into the open canopy and stole the whole umbrella from me.

It flew, like some odd bird, through the air, right toward Charlotte, as if aiming for her specifically.

“Watch out,” I shouted over the rain.

I’m not sure what she heard, but she turned, saw the umbrella, moved to the right, giggled, and, following its trajectory, tried to grab it. What was she thinking? It was just some stranger’s red umbrella.

Teasing, the wind blew the elusive silk parasol back to her and then away in the other direction. Charlotte laughed, making me think of a kitten playing with a ball of string.

The sky blackened. In the distance thunder rumbled. The wind blew the umbrella back toward Charlotte, who, reaching for the wayward instrument, stretched out her hand and leaned all the way forward.

Too far forward.

I rushed toward her, reaching out to help her, to stop her, because I could see what was going to happen and I couldn’t allow it. To my horror my fingers grasped only air. Impossibly, in one quick and terrible instant, she’d gone over the tower’s railing. The parasol along with her, winging its way through the charcoal sky, picked up by drafts of air, dancing still. But Charlotte did not dance. She fell straight down, hurtling toward the crowd and the hard pavement below us. She fell fast, becoming smaller and smaller, while all I could do was watch.