“You can’t tell him no?” I’m imagining the Rothschilds’ other guests, already downstairs and chatting to one another over orange juice and champagne. I’m looking forward to seeing my aviator again.
“This is the baron. He is relentless.” He looks around my room, at all of my belongings—some hanging, some on the backs of chairs, some delicate pieces on the floor where they were discarded in haste. He sighs. “I’ll come back for you in an hour. Be ready.”
Edouard returns exactly when promised. He lifts my two cases and when I begin to protest, he shakes his head. “We’re using the servants’ stairs,” he says.
A small thrill passes through me as I follow him into a stairwell reserved for the household staff. A butler on his way to the second floor scowls at us, but I borrow the tone of Edouard’s blonde and say, “We’re on our way to attend to Lady Brochard,” and immediately he looks abashed and lets us pass.
Outside, the reporters are gone and Edouard’s car is waiting. He starts the car and as we drive away I feel as light as a child; Edouard looks like a giddy schoolboy.
“You’d make a fine spy, M’greet,” he says.
The car smells of freshly polished leather and smoke. The blonde must have been in my seat last night. We drive down the Rue du Clo?tre, passing under the shadow of Notre Dame. There are more cars on the road than carriages. I wonder if it’s the same now in Leeuwarden. “Do people have more money to spend or are cars getting cheaper?”
Edouard frowns. “I suppose they’re getting cheaper.”
“How much do they cost?”
“Close to fifteen thousand francs.”
The baron paid me twice that for Lady Godiva. I look at one of the rings that Guimet gave me and think that perhaps I will buy myself a car. We fall into silence. Finally, I ask, “So how was your night?”
He looks at me sidelong. “Excellent. Yours?”
I take one of the cigarettes the aviator gave me and light it the way Edouard’s blonde did, tilting my head back and letting the smoke out, slowly, sensuously, as I practiced in the mirror. “Wonderful.”
He grabs the cigarette from my mouth. “Jesus Christ, what are you doing?” He flings it out the window and I’m shocked. “That’s a nasty habit.”
“Your blonde smokes!”
“Who?”
“The girl you left with last night.”
“She smokes? Well, notice who’s in the car with me. I don’t live with her.”
“You don’t live with me either!”
We both brood for several long minutes. Edouard is the one to break the silence. “I have another engagement lined up for you,” he says. “But this isn’t like our previous arrangements. There will only be women in this audience.”
“Wives want to see me perform?”
This makes him laugh. “I highly doubt it. You will be dancing for Comtesse de Loynes.” He waits several moments before realizing I haven’t heard of her. “Her literary salon is the most famous in Paris. She is in her sixties now; in her youth she had love affairs with half a dozen famous men, but she’s not truly interested in the male of the species. If your desire is to gain social prominence and recognition, Jeanne de Loynes can offer both to you on a platter. Her connections in this city are unsurpassed.”
I think of the reporters who followed us to the Rothschilds’: What would they write if they knew I was engaged to perform nude for a group of women? They’d be trampling bushes to cover the story. “Is it already confirmed?”
“Awaiting your approval.”
“Yes,” I say swiftly. “Of course. Tell her yes.”
Chapter 5
Glistens Like Water
So this is the famous Mata Hari,” Comtesse de Loynes says a few days later.
I have become an “overnight” sensation. Le Petit Parisien declares that I’m “the best-kept secret in France.” Le Figaro calls my performance for the Rothschilds “astounding.”
“Comtesse, it is a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand so she can see the rings Guimet has gifted me and she squeezes my fingers, inspecting each one. Nothing about the Comtesse de Loynes is what I imagined. I had thought she would be tall and sophisticated—an older version of Edouard’s smoking blonde. But she’s petite and a bit plump, with a head of unruly still-brown curls. She reminds me of the American actress, Maude Fealy.
“Please, have a seat.”
She indicates a silk chair patterned with flowers. If the parlor reflects the house, her entire home is decorated in purples and mauves. The impact is slightly disconcerting. She may be famous for her salon, but I doubt she has ever been praised for her taste in décor.
“And please.” She leans forward. “Call me Jeanne.”