It was foolhardy, I knew. I wasn’t even sure where they were going or how they were going to get there. What if they took a carriage, and I was left in some neighborhood I didn’t recognize? What if it was unsafe?
But as it turned out, they walked and never left the 6th arrondissement. After crossing Saint-Germain, they strolled down rue de Tournon toward the Luxembourg Gardens and then into the gardens themselves, traversed a diagonal path and exited on rue de Fleurus.
After they crossed the street, the two men proceeded down de Fleurus, stopping in front of number 6, a five-story building with lovely wrought-iron balconies and a slight undulation to the facade. Designed, but not overly so, it was elegant without being grandiose. Julien remained outside while Cingal disappeared inside. I waited a few doors down in the shadow of another building’s entrance. There were no gas lamps on my side of the street, only on theirs, and since Julien didn’t glance my way, I believed I was safe.
Was this the building where they lived? Why hadn’t Julien entered? Where had Cingal gone? I was imagining scenario after scenario when, after a few minutes, Cingal returned, a young woman on his arm.
In the lamplight, I could see her well enough for her countenance to disturb me. She was very lovely, with blond curls, full lips, and a feminine figure, and from the way she tossed her head, she was very used to being the center of attention.
I tried to imagine Julien touching her face the way he had touched mine. Kissing her the way he had kissed me. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t just because I was jealous. There was an iridescent aura about her that was evil. It made me uneasy and frightened for Julien. And for me.
Just like the creatures hovering above and living below the tombstones in the cemetery, the shimmer, I had no doubt, was real and a manifestation of dimensions never before accessible to me. But it was visible now for some reason I couldn’t comprehend.
The rabbi’s words echoed in my mind just then. You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said. She’s showing you her realm. We must find out why.
A carriage pulled up, and Cingal, his daughter, and Julien climbed inside. I watched as the horse trotted off, and was left standing on the street by myself. How was I to get back to my grandmother’s on my own? Unused to traveling alone in Paris at night, I walked to the corner and hoped that I’d find a carriage as easily as Cingal had. But there wasn’t one in sight. And so I began to trace my footsteps, back through the park, back toward rue des Saints-Pères.
There were no other pedestrians in the gardens. The pathways were dark. Figures seemed to lurk in the shadows. The wind rustling through bare branches sounded like footsteps. What was I doing? How foolish to have put myself in the position of being a helpless woman out alone after dark in a park. How would I be able to defend myself if attacked?
I looked straight ahead and kept my pace quick. While I walked, I distracted myself with thinking about Charlotte Cingal and the way she’d tilted her face to look up at Julien. How the light had skimmed her cheekbones and how fine her skin had been. How petite her feet and hands were.
My mother had been small like that, but I took after my father and my grandmother. Taller than most women, my shoulders slightly wider, my hands just a bit bigger.
My father used to say that he was glad that I wasn’t fragile, that fragile women never seemed to claim life. And that out of everything, that was what he hoped for me. That I would claim my life. I asked him once if my mother had, and he’d smiled and said she had, but he didn’t think it was the kind of life that would satisfy me.
Reflecting on my parents had distracted me further, not from the possible dangers lurking in the park but from a darker danger. But it would do no good pretending. I had to admit what I was thinking, even if it was only to myself.
I’d hated Charlotte Cingal the moment I’d seen her. As the carriage had pulled up, I’d imagined the horse suddenly rearing on his hind legs and coming down with his full force, knocking her to the ground and trampling her.
The vicious and violent image disturbed me. How could I have conjured such a scene in my head? Of course some jealousy was in order—but hatred and murderous rage?
The ugliness of my thoughts embarrassed me. And worried me a bit. I’d never had any kind of malevolent fantasy before. Not toward anyone. Even Benjamin, who had been such a curt and callous husband, had not engendered these kinds of thoughts. Not even when I discovered that he’d driven my father to his death.
From whence had this blackness in me sprung?
I was afraid I knew. And again the rabbi’s words came to me: You’re in touch with a troubled spirit, aren’t you? he’d said.
I had almost reached the rue Bonaparte exit when I realized that I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see anyone, but I was certain I’d heard footsteps. I stopped suddenly, spun around, and searched the shadows but saw no one. I began walking again and after a few seconds was sure I heard a twig crack, as if it had been stepped on. Should I turn around again? Or hurry out posthaste? Was someone following me? Had one of Benjamin’s detectives found me?
Hastening out of the park, I turned onto rue Bonaparte. Had someone watched to see what direction I’d take? If so, I couldn’t lead him directly to my grandmother’s apartment, so instead of heading directly toward Saints-Pères, I stopped in a café for an espresso and kept my eyes on the door. It didn’t appear anyone had followed me inside, and peering through the windows, I saw no one hiding in wait in any doorways.
Believing I’d lost my pursuer, if indeed I’d had one, I continued on home, imagining what Julien and Charlotte Cingal were doing right then. I saw them in the carriage. Her looking at him from under her eyelashes again. Him taking that tiny hand to help her down.
He had not told me the truth when he’d implied that he wasn’t in love with her. Of course he was. He’d only said that it was going to be a marriage of convenience so that I’d welcome him into my bed.
I envisioned the three of them walking into a luxurious restaurant with red velvet banquettes and golden wall sconces and glittering chandeliers that would give her skin an even more irresistible glow. He would not try to resist her. Why should he? She was his. He was going to marry her, and she was going to make him a good French wife. Looking resplendent in her lace and satin and pearls and diamonds. Being oh so good for his business and charming all his clients.
Hadn’t I done the same for Papa and Benjamin? It was only since coming to Paris that I had begun to think of that life with such disdain. And why? Because unwittingly my husband had shown me the danger of allowing the pursuit of the dollar to take over your life. Because all the effort I had put into behaving correctly and doing the right thing and being the proper sort of wife and daughter had not protected me. I’d been too dependent on my father and now was unprepared for a life without him. Charlotte Cingal was who I had been. Not who I needed to become. I was going to learn to be on my own, like my grandmother, making my own way, never being dependent on a man again.
But she was dependent, wasn’t she? Without men how would she live? Where would she be?
As I turned left on rue du Vieux-Colombier, I began plotting how I might meet Charlotte myself and discover who she really was under those Fragonard-pink cheeks and rose-colored lips. There was something rotten in her soul. I’d sensed it, and I would expose it, and Julien would sour on her like cherries tasted before their season.
The thought was so satisfying, I smiled to myself.