There was also the matter of Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret, who had not forgotten her promise to dine with him. Just after Christmas he’d sent her a letter, which she had rather shamefully ignored; but it was followed by another, then another, and on two separate instances he had also sent her flowers. Each posed the same question: when will you be free for an evening of dinner and dancing?
Yesterday she’d received a petit bleu from Sam with the news that he was busy working on a story and once again couldn’t come to dinner at Rosalie’s on Saturday night. She had sat on the end of her bed for a good half hour, simply staring at his untidy handwriting that she now deciphered so easily. And then her gaze had fallen on her dressing table and the pile of messages from Mr. d’Albret, all unanswered, and she had decided she might as well give in and go to dinner with him.
She’d written out a response, posted it straightaway—and had immediately regretted it. The man, after all, had been a complete bore at her aunt’s party the month before. What did she expect? That he would magically be transformed into an agreeable and interesting person?
His response arrived first thing the next morning, the expensive stationery smelling faintly of eau de cologne.
17 January 1925
My dear Lady Helena,
You cannot imagine the delight with which I opened your message. I had begun to fear that my pleas were falling on barren ground, so it is with the utmost pleasure that I accept your invitation to dinner this very evening. I will collect you at eight o’clock. Until then, please be assured of my sincere regard and heartfelt good wishes, for I remain,
Your devoted servant,
Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret
It was a perfectly polite and proper response, although his choice of words was perhaps more flowery than she would have liked. She’d bristled at his suggestion that she had issued the invitation, but he was writing in a foreign language, after all, and it would be unfair to parse every word of the message.
All Saturday she worked alongside her friends and said nothing, not wishing to color her day with dread of the inevitable. It was also the case that she had a pretty good idea of how they would react.
Only when it was time to leave for dinner at Rosalie’s, and they were putting on their coats and dousing the lanterns in the studio, did she admit the truth of her plans for the evening. Both étienne and Mathilde were horrified; fortunately Daisy had already left, so she wasn’t present to cast a third condemning vote.
“Are you mad?” Mathilde asked. “The man is un cochon . . . étienne?”
“A swine.”
“Yes. And I do not say this as a critique, for you are a lovely girl, I hope you know it, but this d’Albret person is in search of a fortune. Remember what your Sam said at dinner that night—”
“He’s not ‘my’ Sam,” she protested. It had been one month since he had kissed her, so long that even her carefully tended memories of the moment had begun to fade.
“Pfft,” said Mathilde. “He said that these airplanes are very expensive, and d’Albret, he sees your aunt, he sees how she lives, and he thinks to use you to get some of it for himself.”
“I only said I’d have dinner with him,” Helena protested. “What harm can that do?”
“You know, Hélène, just because Sam is busy, that is no reason for you to look elsewhere,” étienne added.
“I’m not! I only thought it might be nice to go dancing. That’s all. And I don’t see what Sam has to do with any of this. Really I don’t.”
“Eh bien. I will be at the D?me later, just in case. If you are bored, ask him to bring you there.”
She’d taken the tram home, not feeling up to a walk through the cold, and had spent the absolute minimum of time and effort in preparing for the evening. Her Vionnet gown was too fine for the occasion, so she put on a simple frock of plum-colored wool, touched up her face with some rouge and powder, and declared herself ready.
Mr. d’Albret rang the doorbell at five minutes before the hour, and if he was surprised when she answered it herself—Vincent was in Antibes with her aunt, and the other servants were busy belowstairs—he didn’t show it. He was beautifully dressed, and indeed looked very handsome. Nor could she fault his manners as he helped her in and out of his enormous black Daimler, then escorted her into one of the private dining rooms at Lapérouse on the quai des Grands Augustins.
It was rather alarming to be separated from the other diners and effectively left alone with a man who was little more than a stranger, but the restaurant’s waiters were never far away, and the chambre particulier was very charming. It was small, less than half the size of her bedroom at home, and was extravagantly decorated with figured walnut paneling, very bad copies of Old Masters paintings, and mirrors in elaborate gilded frames.
The mirrors, she noticed, were covered in scratches, with scrawled initials here and there, which seemed rather odd given the luxury of their surroundings.
“I see you are wondering at the marks. They were left by courtesans. When their lovers gave them diamonds, they would test them on a mirror, for only a true diamond can cut the glass.”