What else? She tilted her head as she asked this, as if the answers came from someone offstage.
If not for your lack of papers, you would be suited to be a diplomat’s wife. You could be a courtesan, though much would depend on your enthusiasm for men. And your ability to sense how to get them to act on your behalf. Without an instinct for this, most women with these ambitions are doomed to a certain level. Consider, for example, La Pa?va. She is no great beauty. But she has more than beauty. She keeps no list of prix d’amours; there is only a sum for which, if it is not met, she is not aroused. The man does not exist. But when the sum is there or surpassed, what comes to life in her makes that man feel, during the moments he is with her, as if he were the most fascinating, most interesting, most delightful man in the world. He is not paying her for favors. Favors are nothing compared to this. He is her protector because in the moments he is with her he feels as he never does away from her. This feeling, this is everything. So he pays for her food, her horses, her dresses, her home, all so as to be able to be this man he is when he is with her. And if he must extend the realm she occupies so he can also be that man elsewhere, this is what he will do. But she never even meets his glance without the sum. And this is why she has the finest home in Paris and the attentions of her German industrialist.
With your lack of family connections, you will most likely never marry. Any man of quality would eventually marry someone else—you would be his distraction. You can offer no guarantees, you see, for your offspring. You would do best to become a celebrity of some kind. And then, once you are sought after, you might find a husband.
But who knows? Who knows what you will be. And you may never want a husband once you see what a husband is.
§
When we returned to Félix’s atelier to retrieve my dresses, a gentleman in a perfectly tailored dark suit appeared at her elbow and whispered in her ear.
She thanked him dismissively, but lightly so; her scorn was not for him. This way, my dear, she said to me. As we left, she told me Eugénie herself was inside on a rare visit and that we were not to go in.
I held my breath.
I could have gone in, she said, as we neared her carriage again. But she’s afraid of me, and there would be no good to it.
Afraid of you, I repeated, not quite a question, as she airily directed her driver to stay put.
She has what belongs to me, she said, turning back. And she knows it. But I have something else she wants, she said, with a grin. And so we cannot let her see you, I think. More important, we cannot let her see you with me.
The gentleman who had spoken to her was one of the Emperor’s secret police, and their duty was to walk the streets protecting the Emperor, Empress, and her court as they went about their errands. They gave the appearance of being elegant gentlemen, well-bred and well tailored, and I knew from my time at the Tuileries that they knew Parisian society’s secrets better than Parisian society did. They were secrets themselves, hidden until needed and then gone. I’d only seen them in the palace, where they were typically acknowledged openly; I’d never had the occasion to see them in public.
As we walked away, I knew they likely knew exactly who I was, and if they did not, they soon would.
The Empress has a few more of these agents than I do, the Comtesse said, and gestured grandly at the atelier, distracting me from the encroaching misery at the thought of being found out. But then, she is a small woman; she has always been. This role . . . it was never right for her.
We drank a glass of champagne nearby, and when we returned, the Empress had left and I went in for the last fitting to be sure the fit was correct. I dressed in my new day dress, and when the vendeuse politely asked if I wanted the old one in a box, I waved it away. We returned to the carriage and rode through the Bois.
That day the barren chestnut trees looked to me like the black iron feathers lining the gates of the palace at Compiègne, as if those feathers had spread across the country to become a forest of iron. The parade of horse-drawn phaetons, coupes, buggies, and carriages were filled by some of the wealthiest and most beautiful people in Paris.
You’re attracting some notice, the Comtesse said to me, as we made the first turn. You shouldn’t accept the first admirer, however, unless he does something truly extraordinary to get your attention. And even then, consider resisting, she said. Unless, of course, she said, by accepting him you attract the competition of another admirer. Ideally there will be several. A single man’s support is unreliable, she said. With three you can be secure.
What is the best number? I asked.
That would depend, she said. Three can keep you very busy. But some of us, and she gestured at the crowd circling the lake, have as many as there are on this road right now.