“Oh, that’s a lovely exaggeration.”
He smiles. “Perhaps someday you will sit for a painting.”
He must be very talented if Rousseau is interested in him. I am about to agree when Rousseau speaks. “Most unfortunately Mata Hari is very busy,” he lies.
Both men look toward me.
“My schedule is full,” I say, and I see Rousseau’s shoulders relax. But perhaps he is too relaxed. “However, it is very flexible, like I am.”
Later that evening Rousseau buys me a ring worth a thousand francs, and I recognize how easily he can be led. When he takes me to the races at Longchamp the following day, I search out Pablo. We talk and I laugh at everything he says as if he’s the most charming man in Paris. It doesn’t take very long: Pablo is in the middle of a story about Spain.
“Mata Hari,” Rousseau interrupts.
I look at him and mouth shhhh. I turn back to Pablo.
“Mata Hari, it’s time we leave.”
“So soon? But Pablo—”
“Yes.”
I take his arm and follow him out. Rousseau is silent. I wonder if I overplayed my hand.
In the car, he sits very still for several minutes without looking at me or saying a word. I begin to think of ways to placate him when he says, “I can get your daughter back.”
I am stunned. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me since the first day we met. I believe I have the means to help you,” he says. “Nothing is more important to you, is it?”
“No.” Now I feel guilty for flirting with Pablo. “My lawyer is already—”
“Edouard Clunet?”
I’m surprised he knows the name.
“I’ve dealt with him before. We don’t need his help.”
“But he’s already—”
“Mata Hari, I know people.”
I study him through sudden tears. He is earnest.
“Let me handle this.” He holds out his hands. “Stay with me,” he says.
I take his hands. And I do.
*
I live with Rousseau in his chateau for four weeks. There are so many promises he makes. Trips we’ll take, gifts he’ll buy, places we’ll dine—and of course, most importantly, the rescue of Non. But by the end of the month, for all of the fancy dining, trinkets, and shows, he has done nothing to bring me my daughter. I take out my bags and start packing my things.
“Where are you going?” Rousseau actually sounds shocked. He is in the doorway, watching me fold clothes.
I don’t want to tell him the truth so I say, “You know I can’t stay in the country forever.” I fold some silk nighties into my case. “I have to return to Paris. I have to dance. I must earn my living.” If only I had a contract.
Rousseau is at a loss. A coin doesn’t sell its owner. “Can’t you stay?”
“You will find other women to entertain you,” I tell him.
“Not like you!” He crosses the room and holds me with surprising strength. “I’ll take care of you,” he swears. “I promise.”
My attempt to leave makes him more generous. I write to Edouard and ask about his progress with Non. I end with a postscript. “PS: Maybe this is love?”
Edouard writes back. The status of Non’s custody remains the same. He ends with his own postscript: “For whom? You or the old man?”
*
“I have a surprise for you,” Rousseau says, and the next day we go for a ride. His chauffeur turns left on Rue Windsor, one of the most expensive avenues in the fashionable suburb of Neuilly. The car stops in front of a glittering white villa with wide, arching windows and sweeping vistas. Rousseau turns to me. “The Villa Rémy.” He hands me an envelope. “My surprise. It’s yours.” Inside the envelope is the deed. “All I ask is to be welcome to visit once in a while.”
I am crying. “Why did you do this? Why?”
“Because I can.”
*
I usher Edouard inside. The stained glass over the door reads Sois le bienvenu.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
I watch his eyes as they appraise the villa. My villa. Not an apartment belonging to someone else. “There are six bedrooms,” I say. “Plus a pool and a garden and a stable with horses.” I show him everything: my boxes of jewels, my closets filled with clothes. But I save the best for last. A room meant for Non. I’ve had the walls painted pink.
“Your banker friend must have a lot of money.” Other men he has no trouble calling lovers. But Rousseau is “my banker friend.”
“Imagine my daughter living here,” I say. I will do for Non exactly what I dreamed my father would do for me.
Edouard takes a seat on the child-size bed. He looks at the dolls and frowns. “I know this is taking a long time,” he says.
“Yes, but I have something to tell you.” I am nervous.
“You aren’t pregnant?” he asks.
“Of course not!”
He looks relieved.
“I told Rousseau about Non. I told him the first day we met.”
“M’greet—”
“He’s hired someone to get her.”