I didn’t usually stay in my art-school attire when I got home. Not wanting to be late for my cinq à sept with Julien, I always hurried to my bedroom, undressed, bathed, and then, after attending to my toilette, dressed for my lover. But my lover was mourning his fiancée, and I had nothing to dress for that afternoon.
I climbed the stairs slowly, studying the gallery of ladies who seemed to be watching my progress. The longing in their eyes spoke to me. What had they wanted? Love? Passion? Did any of them have a desire to create? How many of my ancestors had stood here and faced their futures with the same dread I was feeling at that moment?
Their eyes locked on mine as I passed each one. Their unfinished lips mocked me. For what? For caring so much about my paintings? For caring so much for Julien? Like Charlotte, Julien’s father had died in a terrible accident, and Julien had never stopped blaming himself. Would he do the same now? After all, Charlotte had been on that tower in order to introduce a potential client to him.
As I soaked in my bath, I tried to plan how I should deal with Moreau’s request. If only I could ask Julien. He always had a solution. I tried to imagine what he’d suggest, but I couldn’t think the way he did.
A radical idea occurred to me. Maybe I didn’t have to bring the paintings in at all. I was an accomplished liar. I would claim they had been damaged. Perhaps burned in a fire? Or what if I said I’d destroyed them because they were so inferior to the kind of work I was doing now? Would that work?
“Mademoiselle?”
I opened my eyes.
“Monsieur Duplessi is downstairs,” my maid said.
Julien was here?
“Thank you. Help me get dressed, Alice.”
I stepped out of the bath into waiting, warmed towels and watched in the mirror as my grandmother’s maid rubbed my skin. I felt blood rushing to the surface. Around my neck the ruby rosettes that I wore even when I was naked glinted in the setting sunlight.
Make of the blood, a stone. Make of a stone, a powder. Make of a powder, life everlasting.
What did it mean? Julien was back now. He would help me figure it out. And he’d help me come up with a solution to my problem with Moreau. Everything would be all right now that he was here.
“I’m so glad you’ve come. I wanted to see you but didn’t want to interfere,” I said as I stepped into the salon where he was waiting.
He came over to me and took my hands. For a moment he just looked at me, as if he’d never seen me before, as if he was learning my face. Then he bent and kissed me chastely on the lips.
“It’s only been days, but it feels as if I haven’t seen you for so very long . . .” He hesitated. “Sandrine, there are some things I must tell you.”
Oh no. I imagined his confession. He felt guilty that he had been seeing me when he was betrothed, and now that Charlotte was dead and he was in mourning, he was going to call off our affair.
I felt a sudden breath of hot air behind me. Turned around. No, no one was there. Beads of perspiration gathered at my hairline.
“Let’s sit, we’ll have some wine.” I called out to the maid to see to some refreshments.
There was a chill in the room. I glanced over at the mantel. Yes, the fire had been laid in anticipation of the evening’s soiree. Approaching, I lit the paper fan and watched it blaze. Once I was sure the fire had caught, I returned to Julien, who was on the couch.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” I said.
He bowed his head. “Thank you.”
My grandmother’s manservant came in with a decanter of Julien’s favorite Bordeaux and goblets. I poured two glasses and handed one to my lover, who took one sip and then another. He was so dark, so gathered into himself. His green eyes were a deeper shade than I’d ever seen.
“How is Charlotte’s father?”
“Inconsolable. Since his wife died three years ago, he’d become dependent on Charlotte. Now I can’t get him to eat . . . He barely sleeps.” Another sip of wine. “I didn’t expect him to rebound quickly, but I’m actually worried that he might try to take his own life. I’ve been staying with him all day and all night. That’s why I haven’t been here sooner and—”
“You don’t need to explain. I understand. You’re both devastated. Mourning has its own timetable, I know.”
He nodded. “I saw her fall, Sandrine. It was terrible. You do know that she fell from the Eiffel Tower, don’t you?”
“Yes, I heard,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I’d heard her laughter echoing as she fell, as her body tumbled, buffeted in the wind, becoming smaller and smaller the closer she came to the sidewalk.
“It was a freak accident. The railings are too low. She was reaching for an umbrella. An umbrella.”
“I’m sorry you had to see it.”
“The worst part was telling Olivier. Seeing his face. As he listened, as he absorbed what I said, and I saw something in him die.”
My eyes filled with tears. If my grandmother was right and La Lune chose which women to inhabit, then she had chosen unwisely with me. I was not strong enough to withstand this. “I can’t . . .” -I stood up.
He reached out and grabbed my hand. “Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
“You loved Charlotte. She was going to be your wife. I understand how upset you are, but I can’t be the one to hear this.”
Holding on to my hand, he stared at me. His eyes were so troubled.
“Sandrine, do you think that I loved her?”
Now it was my turn to stare at him. “Of course.”
“But I told you it was a marriage of convenience.”
“Yes, but I assumed you told me that so that I would feel sorry for you and take you as a lover.”
He laughed a long, bitter laugh. “Sit down, Sandrine.” He pulled me to him on the couch.
I sat.
Julien took a deep breath.
“Charlotte had an image of the life she wanted to live. She planned to sing opera for two more years while using her access to wealthy patrons of the arts to help me get important commissions. When I had the kind of prominence she envisioned, we’d marry and build a mansion on Parc Monceau, where she’d entertain as the wife of the important architect Julien Duplessi.”
“It’s hard to blame her for wanting to help you. You are a brilliant artist. I would want to help you, too.”
“But you wouldn’t want to cage me, and she did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our very engagement was a trick. She told her father I proposed when I had done no such thing, and he was so delighted that I . . . Stupidly, I let it go. Cingal’s wife had just died, and I couldn’t cause him more grief right away. But it was a mistake, and I told Charlotte so. She refused to call it off, and when I insisted, she turned on me and said she would tell her father that I’d gotten her with child and taken her to a charlatan doctor for an abortion. We both knew that he’d believe her, lose all respect for me, and probably let me go. My reputation would be tarnished. If word got out that Cingal had fired me, it would be difficult for me to get other employment. Paris is a town of gossips. Again I let it go. Blamed her inability to be reasonable on her mother’s death. I planned to wait a time and then approach her again. But it became intolerable to keep up the charade. She was a shallow and conniving woman. Finally I called her bluff and said I would tell her father the engagement had been a misunderstanding and take my chances; that if she did tell him her preposterous story, he would believe me.
“Before I had a chance to speak to Cingal, a fire broke out in one of the nightclubs I had designed that was under construction. One of the workers was badly burned. Within days a potential client canceled a commission because he’d heard the fire was the result of us using substandard material in order to save money. Then a second client queried our practices. Cingal was vexed and upset. Where was this gossip coming from? His reputation was stellar, as was mine.