The glitter and the gold, the lights and the sparkle, the rarest marbles, the shine and the spectacle, the overall glow from all the opulence at the opera house stunned my senses. Even living in New York City, I had never seen anything as grand and ornate as the Palais Garnier. There was not one surface that was not filled with sculptures or painted with gods and goddesses and cherubs, or gilded, or mirrored and gleaming.
As we were shown to my grandmother’s box, I saw my reflection in a gold-framed mirror. During the day I now only wore men’s clothes; tonight I’d taken to borrowing finery from her closet, and the ruby velvet gown I was wearing belonged to her. Cut low across the bosom, it showed off my skin to its best advantage. Around my neck, the necklace that I had not taken off since I’d first put it on glowed, even from a distance. The only blemish was the small welt below the third ruby: I’d had to apply a layer of my grandmother’s makeup there to hide the bite marks her teeth had left on my skin.
Grand-mère’s seats at the opera had remained empty since I’d arrived in Paris, but I had reason to be sitting in them on this night, especially with the important gentleman on my arm. Monsieur Garnier, architect of this grand palace and one of the loyal attendees at my grandmother’s salon, whom I’d met in the apartment on rue de la Chaise, had been only too happy to attend the gala first night performance of Cupid and Psyche with me.
What a coup it would be when Julien noticed me here with Garnier. How jealous he would be that I was being escorted by another man—and a rival at that, the most famous architect in Paris. I had imagined the scene so many times since asking my grandmother’s old friend to accompany me that I almost believed the scenario I’d sketched out had happened already.
Julien spotting me. Recognizing Garnier. Taking umbrage. Declaring his feelings for me. Promising to end things with Charlotte.
I’d gone to my grandmother’s lawyer when the majordomo had come to me needing money to run the household the very day that Dr. Blanche presented me with the first week’s rather costly clinic bill. Monsieur Tissot explained that while my grandmother’s investments were secure and she was very well off, the extra rent she’d been paying on the rue de la Chaise apartment had depleted her cash on hand.
“I can of course sell some of her stock, but it’s all doing so nicely, so I’d rather not,” Monsiur Tissot said. “Why don’t you reopen the salon? We all miss it, and we always gave her lavish gifts in exchange for the entertainment, food, and drink she provided. Those gifts could help pay your bills.”
“No, I think I’d rather if you did sell some stock.”
Even if Grand-mère’s staff was adept at supplying the champagne, cigars, and delicacies, I had no interest in playing hostess; all I wanted to do at night was paint and spend time with Julien.
Despite my lack of interest, three evenings later, several of my grandmother’s callers arrived without invitation. Someone had seen the lights on in the mansion, and a rumor had spread that my grandmother’s doors were open once again.
Alice came to find me and explain what had happened, and I came down from the studio, half undressed in a silk kimono, to greet the handful of gentlemen and explain the mistake.
When I entered the parlor, they were relaxed and quite at home, smoking cigars, drinking champagne, and nibbling on the trays of fruit, cheese, and chocolates that Alice had put out.
Instead of finding the evening distasteful, as I’d imagined I would, I enjoyed flirting and being flirted with. The men seemed responsive to my style, which they told me was even a soup?on more ribald that Grand-mère’s. More of her manner must have rubbed off on me than I’d noticed.
But it was how Julien reacted that pleased me the most. He’d arrived to find me surrounded by men in formal evening attire lounging in the parlor, drinking, smoking, laughing, and all hovering around me like flies to honey.
“Who are all these men? What are they doing here?” He’d pulled me into the hallway. “And what are you wearing?” He fingered my pale peach silk kimono.
It wasn’t the coloring that he objected to, I knew, but how provocative it was. The fabric was so sheer and of such a color to suggest I was naked beneath the silk, even though I was wearing a chemise.
“You look like . . .” He hesitated.
“Yes?”
“What are you thinking, Sandrine?”
“I wasn’t thinking. This is an accident. But now that it’s happened, maybe I should open the salon again. The clinic is expensive. Running this house is expensive. My grandmother’s estate is tied up. It might be a perfect solution. And I rather enjoy the role of libertine.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment but looked from me to the men and then back to me with an unspoken question in his eyes.
“No, I would not entertain the men in my bedroom.”
“Not at first!”
I slapped him. He didn’t say a word or put his hand up to his cheek, which I was sure was smarting.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t have any right to question you,” he said.
“These men have always given my grandmother gifts. Not only for her favors but for her hospitality. For serving the finest food and drink and cigars in Paris and for allowing them use of her bedrooms fantastique when they have a special friend they want to entertain. The doctor thinks that with a few more weeks rest my grandmother will be able to come home, and I want her to come home so much. What would be so terrible to go on accepting those gifts in order to keep my grandmother at Dr. Blanche’s clinic?”
“Do I need to explain?”
“Julien, please, either stay and enjoy yourself or leave, but don’t make a scene.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could solve your financial problems for you.” Julien was quite contrite.
“It’s all right. Would you like to have some champagne?”
His mouth pursed, and he glanced away for a brief second. The expression was one I had come to recognize. He had plans with his fiancée and was torn between his obligations and his desires.
“If you are already spoken for this evening,” I asked, “why are you here?”
“I came to bring you these.” He handed me a bouquet of violets he’d been holding that I hadn’t even noticed.
“And to spend a little time with me before your dinner?”
“Would that be so unusual?” His smile was self-effacing. “I missed our cinq à sept today.”
“They are lovely.” I leaned up and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He pulled me to him. “That dress,” he whispered. “If no one was here, I’d rip it off you right now.”
“Stay then, Julien. No one will notice if we disappear for a while.”
His evergreen eyes clouded. “I would, but . . .”
“Go to your dinner then,” I said. Looked down at the flowers. Back up at him. “Thank you for these.” I sniffed the bouquet. “I’ll take them with me . . . to bed.”
I turned and left him standing in the hall and returned to my guests.
I’d discovered something. Julien didn’t mind that I was surrounded by men at the école. There I was in masculine garb and treated like just another student. But when I was dressed as a femme fatale, with other men looking at me, talking to me, flirting with me, he was inflamed with jealousy.
First the salon and next the opera. How much would Julien be able to take?
The orchestra warmed up. Lights dimmed. The crowd quieted. The overture filled the opera house with beautiful, resonant music, and the show began.