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 ma?tre 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.