“You are pouting, and it’s not flattering. We do need to discuss the question of your marital status and your plans.”
The main dining room of Le Grand Véfour was decorated in an eighteenth-century Italianate style, with red velvet banquettes, crystal chandeliers, and tall mirrors framed in gold, flanked with delicate neoclassical paintings under glass of women with baskets of flowers. Roses and stucco garlands graced the boiserie ceiling, where more women, as well as paintings of fish and game and flowers, filled in every space. Lovely and busy decorations that gave the restaurant a timeless quality. In the mirrored wall behind my grandmother, I glanced at my own reflection. Was I pouting?
But I didn’t see my own face glance back at me. The face of the woman in the paintings in the stone tower was superimposed over my own. I shivered. The ghostly image was at once beautiful but also deeply disturbing. Who was she? Why was she haunting me? And why was the tower shut off like that?
“I really would like to hear about La Lune. What reason could there be for not telling me about her?”
Rather than answer, my grandmother lifted the crystal champagne glass and brought it to her lips.
We were seated beside the windows, which were as tall as the mirrors and faced the gardens. Snow began sprinkling the trees and flower beds with a fine white powder that reminded me of the dust in the artist’s studio that Monsieur Duplessi and I had found.
“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” I asked.
“It’s all legend and myth and not very pleasant.”
The sommelier arrived with the bottle of Bordeaux my grandmother had ordered and poured the ruby wine. The waiter arrived with our first course. Placing china bowls in front of us, he ladled out spoonfuls of lobster bisque. Once the waiter had filled the bowls three-quarters full, he sprinkled lightly toasted croutons on the top and wished us Bon appétit.
I tasted my soup. Fragrant and flavorful, the bisque offered the essence of the sea mollified by luscious cream.
“I need to talk about her,” I said.
My grandmother lifted the spoon to her mouth, then dipped it in the soup again.
The sounds of the restaurant made the silence between us all the louder. All around, silverware clinked, glasses tinkled, conversations flowed, guests laughed, waiters recited specials. Only at our table was there such quiet.
There we were, two women, both wearing black silk mourning dresses, while around us were women bedecked in jewel-toned gowns, fanciful lace and ribbons, rich velvets and shimmering satins. My grandmother followed my glance.
“Yes, we’ve had enough black,” she declared, as if she’d been reading my mind. “On your birthday you get a wish, don’t you? Mine is that we stop being so very sad.” She finished off her soup. “None of this moping will bring your father back. Besides,” she said as she laid her spoon down, “I knew my son, you knew your father. He would most certainly not approve of us languishing.”
She was right about that. My father took great pleasure from life. But would changing the color of the silks we wore make us miss him any less?
“Papa,” I said, tying in the last conversation with the previous one, “told me that you knew much more of the story about her than he did. That she was a woman of grand passions.”
“About who?” my grandmother asked.
I knew that she was pretending not to know who I was asking about.
“La Lune.”
“Oh, Sandrine, really. What is there to discuss? She lived over three hundred years ago. She was a very successful courtesan who inspired a few poets and painters and dabbled in painting herself.”
“Did she marry?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did she have children?”
“Yes. She had a son who became an actor and two daughters who continued in their mother’s footsteps, or so the story goes. It seems many of the male children in our family go on to become quite respectable, but the women . . .” She shook her head.
“Are you saying that you aren’t respectable?”
“Well, I’m not a duchess living in a chateau, am I?” Grand-mère laughed. It was such a wonderful sound. Not a light laugh like crystals tinkling, but a rich, seductive laugh that came from her throat and was tinged with a voluptuousness that, suddenly that night, for the first time, made me envious.
“Papa always said that he could hear your whole personality in your laughter. He said it was all there—your joie de vivre, your refusal to allow life’s troubles to weigh you down. And in the lower notes, he could sense your indefatigable determination.”
Tears sparkled in my grandmother’s eyes for a moment.
“Will it always be like this?” I asked. “Will remembering Papa, even happily, always make me sad . . .”
“No, the sadness will soften, its edges will become less rough. In time missing him will be the way you love him.” She reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin felt like velvet. “You’ve lost a lot. Your mother when you were seventeen and needed her the most, and now your father, and in a way your husband. You speak of him so little, mon ange. We should, you know.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll answer all your questions about Benjamin and why I am afraid of him coming after me if you tell me what you are hiding about La Lune.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hiding anything. So much time has passed, she’s nothing but a fairy tale.”
The waiter approached and refilled our wineglasses.
“All right. If you want to hear about Benjamin, tell me the fairy tale. It’s been a while since I heard one, and I might quite like it.”
“So stubborn, just like your Papa, aren’t you? And he was so like his father. I wish Albert were still alive so you could spend time with him while you are here. He would be delighted by you.”
“Was he your favorite? Did you love him?”
She shook her head. “I loved only my son. It’s best for our kind never to fall in love and become vulnerable. But I liked his father more than most. Albert was a good friend to me. He taught me about money and how to invest it. And he took care of our son. I have much to thank him for.” She raised her glass to the long-gone lover and took a hearty sip.
Before I could pressure her to tell me about La Lune, two waiters arrived with identical silver domes. One was placed in front of each of us, and then at the same time, with great ceremony, the lids were lifted off. The aromas and perfumes rose up. We had both ordered capon with truffle sauce, and for a few moments we admired our beautifully appointed plates before we began to eat.
“My husband is a very cruel man,” I said finally.
“Clearly, from what you’ve told me, he is certainly a ruthless businessman. Do you mean he is also cruel to you?”
I nodded.
“In bed?” my grandmother asked.
I was startled by her bold question for a moment, but only a moment. She was L’Incendie. Making love was her occupation. Matters of the bedroom were not a subject of embarrassment to her.
“In all ways.”
Since we were seated beside the window, there was no one to my right, and to my left was a party of six, busy conversing and not listening to us, but still I was uncomfortable talking about this at dinner.
“What were his particular persuasions?”
“He is . . . He was very rough—” I broke off. I’d never spoken of what went on between us to anyone.
“Mon ange, there is nothing that a man can want that I have not heard of and probably done for him. You don’t have to be coy with me. Did he hit you?”
“No, no.”
“Did he ask you to perform uncommon acts?”
“I’m not sure I’d know what is uncommon, but I don’t think so.”
“What then?”
“He was violent and quick. It was always very painful, and he didn’t care. Sometimes I thought he even enjoyed my pain.”
“It was always like this?”