They’d left their hotel on the Place de la Concorde and walked through the Tuileries Gardens, which were pretty but rather dull, and had crossed the Pont Royal and wandered along the banks of the Seine, past the stalls of les bouquinistes, pausing now and then to admire a fine leather binding or, even rarer, a book printed in English.
She and Amalia had ventured into Notre-Dame, heads thrown back to wonder at the stained glass and ancient stonework, and had even lighted candles at a saint’s statue in a side chapel. She couldn’t recall, now, if she had prayed for anything in particular. Had she known to ask for a reprieve from her sisters’ fate? Probably not; although she’d been sad at Amalia’s imminent departure from home, she’d also been excited at the prospect of her own debut, far-off as it had then been.
They had gone to a café, or a bistro of some kind, and had eaten croque monsieur sandwiches and crème caramel, and then, though Bessie had protested, saying it was time to be going back to the hotel, they’d walked along the boulevard St.-Michel until they’d encountered the fence that enclosed the Luxembourg Gardens. They’d followed it around, eventually arriving at the entrance by the Musée du Luxembourg, and they’d paid their entrance fee for the museum, wandered through its galleries, and marveled at its astonishingly modern art.
After an hour, likely more, Amalia had insisted they see the rest of the gardens. There was a carousel, which they’d gone on twice in a row, and a Punch and Judy show, though the puppets were called Guignol and Madelon in French, and an ornamental pond where boys and girls alike played with elaborately rigged toy sailboats.
When they had returned to the hotel, well past teatime, Helena’s shoes and stockings had been soaking wet, a casualty of her having rescued a toy boat in danger of capsize; Amalia, always so immaculate in her dress and manners, had torn the hem of her frock, which was very dirty besides, and lost her hat. They had been sent directly to bed, without any tea or supper, and Mama had grumbled for days.
Helena looked over her sister’s letter again; she was arriving Tuesday next, so there wasn’t much time to make plans. Not that they needed to work terribly hard to have fun in Paris, of course—all they required was a group of friends and enough francs to pay their way.
Amalia’s visit would be just the distraction she needed. It had been more than a month since Sam had rejected her so comprehensively, and she hadn’t seen or heard from him since. She’d wasted countless petit bleu forms on messages that went no farther than the wastepaper basket in her bedroom, her stilted invitations so cringingly worded that she very nearly felt sick when she read them over.
If you happen to be free and don’t have anything else to do I should be so very happy if you could join me and my friends for dinner at Rosalie’s.
No; it was better to remain silent. If he wished to see her—if, as he said, he truly wished to remain friends—he would seek her out.
She extracted a telegram form from a pigeonhole in her desk and wrote out a reply to her sister.
DEAR AMALIA STOP WONDERFUL NEWS STOP SO LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR DAY TOGETHER STOP MAKING PLANS FOR ENDLESS FUN STOP CANNOT WAIT TO SEE YOU STOP LOVE ELLIE
As for how they ought to spend their day . . . romps in the Luxembourg Gardens were out, not least because it was the middle of winter, but Amalia would probably wish to see Helena’s studio and meet her friends from school. They would have dinner out, for Agnes was still in Antibes, and then they would go to a cabaret, or somewhere that played le jazz hot, and they would go dancing, too. She would invite the Murphys, and they would come into town for the evening, and it would be heavenly.
HELENA WAS AT the Gare du Nord to meet Amalia’s train, having missed her watercolors class to collect her sister. She spotted her straightaway, so beautiful that she drew the attention of every man she passed, and so stylish that she might easily have passed for a Parisian born and bred.
Although she sincerely loved all three of her sisters, Helena was especially fond of Amalia, who had a rare sweetness to her nature, and an infectious sort of warmth that had a way of drawing others close. She was intelligent, too, and had been particularly good at mathematics; had she been born a decade later she might have aspired to a place at university.