No! It was wrong of me to think this way. Where was this evil coming from? Why did it give me pleasure to indulge in these black thoughts? I had known Julien was engaged when I took him as a lover. Our affair was a temporary passing fancy. I had read enough and had enough female friends to know how these things worked even if I’d never indulged before. One did not take these dalliances seriously.
I opened the door to the porte cochère, crossed the courtyard, and entered my grandmother’s apartment.
In the grand parlor, a salon was in full bloom. My grandmother, ablaze with her fire opals and a dress of the same incendiary hue, sat surrounded by admirers. Gentlemen in fine evening clothes lounged as they drank champagne from sparkling crystal flutes or sipped brandy from large glasses engraved with Napoleon’s crown. Several young women served drinks or lit cigars, or flitted around the room, flirting. They were either blondes or brunettes; not one had red hair to compete with my grandmother’s. The women were clearly sophisticated and clever given the way the men hung on their every word. One girl in cobalt lace passed a tray of tidbits around. A gentleman sat at the piano, playing a Debussy etude.
My grandmother looked up as I stepped into the room. With a confused expression, she whispered something to the gentleman to her right, who got up and walked toward me. From across the room, she watched.
I’d never seen my grandmother regard me with such ambivalence, and it disturbed me. Had I made some mistake I wasn’t aware of? Had she expected me even though she’d told me that she was busy that night?
In a formal voice, the gentleman said: “Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
“Can you tell me who it was who invited you?” he asked.
Why was he asking me? Why was he peering at me as if sizing me up?
“Do you have an invitation?” he asked when I didn’t answer.
I shook my head. “No.”
And then I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and realized with horror exactly what was wrong. My grandmother hadn’t recognized me. Of course she hadn’t. Why would she? I had forgotten that I was still dressed in my art school costume. I’d been at the école, then the café, and then had followed Julien. I’d never gone back to La Lune to change into my clothes, into my pretty dress and daintily heeled shoes. I was wearing men’s trousers, and my hair fell to my shoulders in easy waves. I had on a hat that cast shadows across my features.
“I would encourage you to leave then, without further ado, to avoid any unpleasantness,” the gentleman said as my grandmother continued to watch.
“Yes, yes, I . . .”
The man put his hand on my arm. “Now would be best.”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
Just before I turned to go, I saw the expression on my grandmother’s face change from one of suspicion to one of fear. She’d recognized who I was. But she didn’t get up. She didn’t stop her friend as his hand tightened on my arm.
“Now would be best,” he repeated, and showed me out of my own house.
Chapter 16
“Why were you dressed like a man last night?”
My grandmother sat at the table in the dining room. She didn’t look well rested, and I was unsure if it was solely because of me or if something else had occurred.
“I wanted to study painting, and women weren’t allowed at the école. So I thought I’d disguise myself as a man and bought these clothes. As it turned out, I applied and was accepted as a woman, but I found I liked dressing like this; it’s easier to do everything—from walking through the streets to painting.”
Her eyes searched my face as if there were some secret written there she would be able to detect with intense scrutiny.
The maid entered with coffee and a plate of toast, which she placed in front of Grand-mère, and then asked me what I’d like. I said I’d take the same thing. Once she left, my grandmother resumed her inquisition.
“Why do you need to study painting at all? I don’t understand. You never cared about painting.”
“Why is it such a disturbing idea to you? I’ve always loved art. Museums have been a refuge and delight for me my whole life.”
“Yes, but it’s one thing to admire and appreciate art and another to put on a smock and stand in front of a canvas.” She took a bite of her dry toast.
“What about my studying painting could possibly bother you?”
She took another bite and chewed slowly, as if that was going to help her explain.
“Well, for one thing, you are dressing up to do it. Walking about in costume.”
“Yes?”
“It’s perverse.”
“I’m not sure that dressing up like a man in order to study painting is any more perverse than dressing up like a seductress in order to ensnare a man.”
She flinched as if she had been slapped, and a few drops of the coffee in the cup in her hand sloshed out and spotted the white linen tablecloth.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked.
“Almost a month.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Sandrine, you have changed since your first week here.”
“Yes, Paris agrees with me.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure that it’s all been for the best. You are more secretive, strident, argumentative. You’re darker.”
“My father died.”
“What I’m seeing is not mourning. I know what that is.” Reaching over, she put her hand on mine. “Am I wrong to be afraid for you?”
“Yes. I’m enjoying it here. I feel as if I’m becoming the person I was meant to be. Finally.”
“What do you mean?” She leaned in closer, her voice stressed. “What exactly do you mean?”
Alice entered with my breakfast. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until she put it down in front of me. Before answering my grandmother, I took a bite. There was the perfect amount of butter melted into the bread, and it was delicious. I took a second bite.
“Sandrine? What do you mean when you say you feel as if you are becoming the person you were meant to be?”
“I’m not sure how to describe it. But living here, painting . . . I simply feel as if I am where I am supposed to be. Doing what I am supposed to be doing.”
I took a sip of the steaming coffee laced with cream. Grand-mère’s cook was a marvel.
“I have a question for you, too. Why is your house closed up? What are you really doing with Maison de la Lune?” I asked.
“I told you. A renovation. Why?”
“How long will it take?”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to live there instead of here, and I’d like to know when I might be able to move in.”
“You will not live there. Ever.” Her voice was strong and loud and raised goose bumps on my arms. “Don’t you understand that you shouldn’t even be in Paris? It’s far too dangerous for you just to be in this city, but certainly you cannot live in that house. You cannot step foot in that house.”
Her cheeks were red; her eyes were blazing. She grabbed both my hands in hers. “It’s my job to keep you safe. You have to promise to stay away from La Lune.”
I wrested my hands away. “What are you talking about? What could be in the house that could put me in danger? You lived there your whole life. My father grew up there. I spent time there when I was fifteen. The only danger I face is if Benjamin finds me.”
“The house is closed and will be for some time. There’s no question about you living there.” She stood.
“I’ll find out. I want to know, and I’ll find out.”
She whirled around, bent down, and slapped me hard on the cheek. I felt the sting of her fingers. The pain where her rings had hit my flesh.
“You will do what I say. I don’t care how old you are. You are under my care and protection now, and I will not stand for your insubordination and tone. I am telling you that you will stay away from La Lune.”
I laughed. From shock? From anger? The sound was scarlet and strong and nasty. The way a snake might laugh when confronted by a strident mouse.
“Try to control me, old woman. Just try.”