It’s really nothing, she said. I ask that you wear them this evening. And that you continue your habit of refraining from speaking in public so as to keep up the alias I have created. It will only be necessary a little longer.
I turned them over in my hand, and as I did, she said, A lesson on jewelry. You only rid yourself of a gift if you are at the end of an affair—if you are sure there is no hope. If you are in need of funds, sell your jewelry last; first suggest to an admirer the nature and scope of the debt, and then if that fails, sell the separate stones first rather than the entire piece. Always avoid selling the entire piece as it would likely be recognized by the giver on someone else and this would, even if you have ended the affair, embarrass or offend him. Especially if he could have covered the debt happily. Sell the original piece whole only if it is a historically important piece of jewelry.
She sat back. Do not keep the setting and have the original stones replaced with paste, as no one is fooled by this. Either restore the setting as you are able or reset the stones remaining. Take these with my blessing. Let them remind you of all I have told you.
The hairdresser and his assistant arrived then and began to heat their tongs, playful, speaking of new styles, admiring our clothes and hair and the earrings as I placed them in my ears. As I examined them, I could tell they were not new; they had been hers.
There was an affair she was ending or had ended. There was no hope. But who? I wondered. But as I admired the earrings in the mirror, I knew them.
The Empress, that day at Compiègne, waiting for her hairdresser and fiddling with the emerald leaf she had from the Emperor. These were a match, I was sure of it. They were a set, and he had split it between them.
§
In Italy, when we go to the opera, we watch the opera, she said to me, as we exited the victoria and the coachmen helped us down. In Paris we watch one another, and she gestured a little at the crowd outside the theater.
We entered and ascended the stairs of the Théatre-Italien. A hush descended over the crowd along the stairs and ahead of us; people turned to stare and whisper. It was a strange, quiet procession she and I made. I remembered when I’d first seen her move through the crowd at the Exposition, thinking it was her beauty that made people stare, but it was also envy, fury, spite.
In her private box she cast an eye over the people entering the other boxes, who were themselves looking up to see her. Then she sat back, drew her wrap closer, and smiled at me.
Have you ever been to the opera? she asked me. You may speak freely until we are joined.
Yes, I said.
You were perfect as we entered, she said. Perfect, perfect.
Thank you, I said. This word, her highest praise.
Tonight is Verdi, she said. Il Trovatore. It is about a wandering troubadour. Do you know what a troubadour is?
A little, I said.
He is a traveling singer, she noted. And he also travels as an agent for his king. They are excellent spies, singers, she said. No one thinks to stop them.
There was a commotion in the hall and then the door to the box opened. Shadowed at first was the figure of a woman, her hair piled high on her head and an enormous choker of pearls covering her throat and chest. When the door closed, we could see her more clearly.
Jou-jou, my dear, the Comtesse said. I present to you Giulia Barucci. The greatest whore in Paris. Giulia, this is Jou-jou of the Bal Mabille.
The new arrival smiled at this, as if it were a royal title, and made something of a curtsy before laughing as she stood upright. Enchanté, she said to me, and then she threw herself into a chair.
They then dropped into conversation in rapid Italian. Giulia made occasional nodding glances at me as her eyes swept repeatedly up and down the box and my own figure. She then reached out and touched the emeralds on my ears.
Que bellissima, she said, with a sigh.
I was careful not to reply or even look at my patroness. I was nervous, though, to be introduced that way—was it a joke?
She stood. See you in Baden-Baden, then, she said in clear English to me, and left, her glass nearly untouched.
When the door was shut, the Comtesse asked the waiter to stand outside the box, and then when he was gone, she said, She meant you. I won’t be going.
The opera began.
May I use your opera glasses? I asked.
Of course, she said.
I was curious and excited, but I had also become afraid and, with the glasses, searched the boxes near us as surreptitiously as I could. This was the opera the tenor loved above all others, and as such, it contained the soprano role he most wanted me to learn, that of Leonora, the doomed lover to the trovatore. We’d never seen it performed during my time with him, and if I were still with him, we would have been seated in another of these boxes that night. For this reason, I was sure he was near; he would have to be ill or away from Paris to miss this. But I could not see him and decided to be content: If I could not see him, he likely could not see me, and in the meantime, I was grateful for the chance to decide on the role without him.