“How do you know all these details?”
“My uncle started the bookshop with the idea of specializing in what fascinated him: all things unexplained—magic, the occult, mysteries and miracles, ancient wonders, spells, curses, hidden treasure. Growing up around him and in the shop, I’ve become just as fascinated with the arcane and esoteric.”
He stopped and pointed to the street sign. “Here we are. From desire to fidelity, and now we’re on rue de Paradis.”
Every store on the street was dedicated to the arts de la table. Every window display of crystal or china tempted. The buildings were a combination of styles from the last fifty years; the passage of time was visible in the tile work, the stained glass, and other architectural details.
Mathieu led me to Baccarat’s store. As we walked through the elegant lobby, its giant glittering chandelier cast tiny rainbows on the floor, the walls, even our faces and hands.
Inside a large, high-ceilinged room were cases of historical objects all produced by the glass manufacturer, dating back to the late 1700s.
“These,” he said, pointing at a set of goblets, “were made by Count Thierry for his mistress in 1826.”
I looked at the wine and water goblets. Five sizes, each a watery shade of pale blue, highly faceted and with ornate silver filigree work on the stem.
“The count had the glass matched to his lover’s eyes and ordered more than one thousand of them in the years they were together. Only these six still exist. All the others were smashed.”
“Why?”
“The count was so jealous he didn’t want anyone to drink from a glass touched by her lips. Each goblet she drank from was destroyed after she used it.”
Mathieu took my hand.
“Always love to the point of madness,” he said, “or else what is the point of love?”
Chapter 11
The calls requesting my attendance at parties continued. Monty’s death had actually increased my notoriety, and the more I stayed away, the greater the demand. But I couldn’t return to the circuit. Clifford traveled a lot that late February, and I was lonely by myself. I could have done a party every night, but until the first week of March, I resisted, stayed to myself, and explored the strange series that had seized my imagination, filling page after page with ideas, never satisfied with any of them. Not willing even to try to commit one to canvas. Without putting my blindfold on to sketch, nothing was turning out right. But I couldn’t . . . wouldn’t ever again. Even if I was alone. Even just to explore my imagination.
“You can’t just disappear, Delphine,” Muffy Van Buren insisted. Born into one of New York’s wealthiest families, she had married into an even wealthier one. Both she and her husband were great patrons of the arts, and while he favored Renaissance masterpieces, she focused on discovering new and fresh talent. Once Clifford had introduced us, she became fascinated with my shadow portraits and was now my biggest supporter and a good friend. “And I want you at this party. Consider it your reentry into society.”
Muffy was only six years older than I, but she’d been raised in a more conventional way, befitting women in high society. She hadn’t bobbed her hair or raised her hems. Although publicly she professed to be scandalized by my lifestyle, in private she whispered that she envied my freedom. Visiting my studio that afternoon, she’d been both shocked and titillated by my current canvases. After viewing them, she picked two that she wanted to purchase when they were completed and then decided I needed some sustenance.
“So will you come?” she asked.
We were sitting at a marble-topped table in the dimly lit Caffe Reggio on MacDougal Street. Owned by Domenico Parisi, an Italian immigrant, it had an atmosphere that was both exotic and artistic. The walls were filled with paintings, one supposedly from the school of Caravaggio, although I doubted its provenance. I was equally suspicious about the marble bench that Parisi claimed came from a Medici family estate in Florence. But there was nothing dubious about the elaborate chrome-and-bronze espresso machine, topped with an angel, its base surrounded by dragons, that sat in the position of honor and brewed the most heavenly coffee. Since the place had opened in 1902, it had become a favorite gathering spot for so many artists who lived and worked in Greenwich Village. That afternoon, I noticed two other painters, Arthur Davies and John Sloan, both from the Ashcan school and quite well known, seated across from us in the tiny restaurant.
Muffy said she had been worried about me since I’d dropped out of sight and wanted me to come to her birthday party the following week.
“You can’t just hide away forever. We all miss you.”
“I won’t put on my blindfold if I come.”
The waiter brought over our steaming cappuccinos, a drink Parisi had introduced to New York.
“That’s fine. I don’t want to hire you. I want you to have some fun. You look . . .” She hesitated. “You look like you need some. And you need to show off that new do—it’s so brazen.”
As she sipped her coffee, I thought she’d chosen the perfect word. I felt broken and brazen. I was a miserable artist, barely making my own way in New York. Maybe it was time for me to get out of the studio and put some distance between me and the Clara and Monty incident.
*
“Delphine? What did you do to your hair?” Tommy asked.
I’d only been at the party for a half hour and had only had one glass of champagne. I wasn’t ready to see my former fiancé quite yet. It had been almost a month since he’d delivered his coup de grace and severed our relationship. But there he stood, examining me with a disturbing scrutiny.
“Are you all right?”
“Of course.”
“You look . . .” He trailed off just as Muffy had.
“How do I look?”
“Different.”
“Is that so?”
“Wild.”
I laughed.
“Your hair . . .”
“Yes, I dyed it.”
“But it’s almost orange.”
“I prefer copper.”
“And your dress.”
“You sound quite idiotic, Tommy. Are you going to dissect me completely?”
“Well, the dress makes you look practically naked.”
“It’s no business of yours, but I’m not even close to naked. It’s simply a flesh-colored slip with a sheer chemise over it.”
He was still staring. Then he leaned down and said, sotto voce, “I miss you terribly.”
I shrugged.
“I don’t suppose you might let me take you home later tonight?”
I laughed sardonically. “No, I don’t suppose I might.”
“I’ve heard you are painting couples mating.”
I burst out laughing. So Muffy had been talking about the paintings I’d shown her, and word had already gotten around.
“Yes, that’s a nice way of putting it. I call them ‘Exploring the Beast.’ I’m just following in the surrealist footprints of what’s being done in Paris.”