I came up into fresh air again at the Tuileries station. As my eyes adjusted to bright light I just stood there, rooted to the spot, while other passengers jostled past me. I had never seen anything so magnificent in my life. Apart from New York the only city I had seen was Dublin, which was fair enough in its way, with its squares of elegant Georgian buildings. But this was glorious. On the other side of a broad boulevard a long colonnade of buttery stone buildings, perfectly proportioned, stretched as far as the eye could see. On my side were wrought-iron railings and behind them some fine-looking gardens and what appeared to be a palace beyond. This was finally the Paris I had dreamed of when the Hartleys’ governess told us about her travels and showed me postcards she had brought home with her.
I decided to start my inquiries at the Ritz, since that was a hotel everyone, including myself, had heard of. I stopped a policeman, looking very smart in his uniform with its high-crowned blue cap, and asked directions. I realized then the benefits of wearing Dodo’s clothes. The policeman addressed me as if I was a person who would naturally want to know where the Ritz hotel was. “Only a little way, madame. Follow this street, take the next turning to the right and you will come to the Place Vend?me. You will see the column and behind it the Ritz hotel itself. Only a short stroll on such a fine spring day.”
Then he saluted and I thanked him, walking along the boulevard, admiring the shops beneath the colonnade and the carousels in the park to my left. It was the sort of place I’d have liked to linger, but I pressed on around the corner and saw the column he had spoken about ahead of me. It was tall and green and looked like something that might have come from ancient Egypt. And behind it that glorious curved creamy stone building with the flags flying outside had to be the Ritz.
I had to pluck up courage before I went in through those impressive doors. I half expected the doorman to stop me but he opened the door for me and said “Bonjour, madame,” in a way that made me realize he also thought I might belong there. So there really was something to that old adage “clothes make the man.” I looked around, wondering whom to ask, when a most superior young man in a black suit and high collar approached me.
“May I assist you, madame?” he asked in English.
“I hope so,” I replied, relieved that I didn’t have to explain in French. “I wondered if you could tell me the address of the American painter Reynold Bryce. I have been asked to visit him, but I have mislaid his address.”
“I’m sorry, madame, but I do not know,” he said. “Monsieur Bryce is a resident in our city. At the Ritz we only entertain visitors and tourists. Maybe one of my superiors might be able to assist you, but I think not.”
I was trying to keep calm although my frustration was mounting by the minute. “Then could you perhaps suggest where I might find out about him? Is there a place where Americans living in Paris meet?”
“There is the new American Club, madame,” he said. “I understand that all Americans of means and position are members there. Surely your Mr. Bryce would qualify.”
“The American Club? Of course.” I let out a sigh of relief. “And where is this club?”
“It’s in Passy, close to the Trocadéro.”
“I’m afraid that means nothing to me,” I said. “I’m newly arrived in the city.”
“I understand the club is actually situated on the Quai de Billy, beside the Seine.”
“Is it very far from here?” I was horribly conscious of a clock ticking away inside my head.
“Not too far, I think. You can go on foot. It is a pleasant walk. All you have to do is proceed to the Place de la Concorde, go down to the Seine, and then follow the quai until you come close to the Eiffel Tower. Maybe fifteen minutes. No more.”
Just then I heard a voice behind me speaking English and saying in imperious tones, “Where the devil have you been, Henrietta? You’ve kept us all waiting for hours. It’s just not on, you know.”
I turned around cautiously and went cold all over. Because I knew that voice. It belonged to Justin Hartley, the landowner’s son from Ireland, the man I thought I had killed when he was trying to rape me. He was standing at the foot of the marble staircase and looking up as Miss Henrietta, my former classmate at the big house, came down toward him.
“Pardon me, but I am feeling unwell,” I stammered and made for the nearest chair with its back to that staircase.
The young man was most solicitous. “Madame, is there something I can get you? A glass of water perhaps?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be all right in a minute.” I took out my handkerchief and held it up to my face.
If he came this way I was lost. I was sure he knew there was now a price on my head in Ireland, and nothing would please him more than turning me in. He had never forgiven me for the brain damage he suffered when he hit his head on our stove, and that his injuries had forced him to leave the army. He would like nothing better than to see me hanged.
“Stop being so impatient, Justin,” Henrietta’s voice carried across the wide foyer.
“But I hate to be kept waiting, you know that.”
“We’re on holiday, aren’t we? And doesn’t Mama want to join us?”