A vague memory of something Sid had written came back to me. “Oh, yes, I think I was told about this.”
“The affair has divided Paris. There are those for Dreyfus who think that he should be reinstated and restitution should be made, and those who are against him—the anti-Semites. And there are plenty of them.”
“Speaking of which, there goes our friend Degas,” one of them muttered. “In a hurry again.”
A lean man with a black beard strode out on the other side of the road.
“I don’t know why he can so hate Jews, when he himself is of mixed race,” someone muttered.
The well-dressed one turned back to me. “So naturally Bryce hates La Stein as she is Jewish and she hates him with equal passion because he is so intolerant. No, she would be no help to you.”
“So you don’t know where I might find Reynold Bryce?” I repeated. “It is very important that I locate him quickly.” It was like trying to herd cats to keep them from branching out on tangents, and my head was beginning to spin from having to speak and understand so much French.
“Somewhere more expensive and civilized than this place, I am sure,” someone answered. The others chuckled.
“Try the cafés on the Champs-élysées. Try the other bank of the Seine. I hear the Americans are fond of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
“No, no,” another insisted. “She should try one of the hotels where rich Americans stay. They will surely know there. They come to buy his paintings.”
“Where are these hotels?” I asked, desperation now showing in my voice.
“Have you just fallen from the moon, mademoiselle?” one of them asked. “How do you know so little about Paris that you have not seen the Ritz, the Meurice, the Regina?”
“Because I just came into the Saint-Lazare station and all I have seen of Paris is this one little quarter,” I said sharply. “I have my small son with me too, which makes moving around difficult.”
“Now we’ve upset her,” Pablo Picasso said. He reached out and took my hand. “Please forgive us. You can take the Métro, change at étoile, and Line 1 takes you to the first arrondissement where all the rich people stay in the fancy hotels.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at him and again my smile was returned with a sexy wink. “Bon chance, chérie. Good luck,” he said. “But if you don’t find him, come back. We always welcome a pretty face in Montmartre.”
I swallowed back my frustration, thanked them, and left.
Fourteen
I crossed the boulevard to the area with the fountain and found steps going down to a station of the Métropolitain railway. When I saw that long flight of steps going down into darkness I was extremely glad that I hadn’t tried to bring a squirming and heavy baby with me. It also occurred to me that these steps would be impossible to negotiate with a buggy, should I acquire one. I bought a ticket, went through a turnstile, and down more steps to an underground platform. A great blast of air signaled the arrival of a train and I held onto my hat as it came thundering into the station. I was about to board when I noticed that the carriage in front of me had the words Première Classe on them. Holy Mother. How was I to know there were two classes on subway trains? No wonder this part of the platform had been so empty. I had to sprint back along the platform to the second-class carriages. There was now a subway line in New York and I had ridden it a couple of times, but I still couldn’t quite put aside the feeling of terror as we were swallowed into a dark tunnel, moving impossibly fast, leather straps swaying above our heads, windows rattling, everything creaking. I was glad when we finally reached the étoile station and I could walk on terra firma again, following tiled passages to another platform where I’d take Line 1 to the Tuileries.