In every corner, Emma Calvé had created small theater sets, with flowers, ferns, dried moss, shells, silvered orbs, malachite pyramids, lapis lazuli eggs, and quartz plinths. Majolica jardinieres, garden seats, and vases of every configuration added splashes of color and whimsy. Dried Spanish moss hung from branches arranged artfully in vases covered with sea glass or shells. Topiaries in the shapes of orbs and pyramids sat on mantelpieces. Where there were no murals, the walls were covered with paintings. Ivy grew around their ornate gold frames, forming second frames, with no thought to how the plants might be affecting the gilt wood.
And there were Buddhas everywhere. Sitting on mantels, shelves, and side tables, tucked into pots, mixed in with photos on top of the piano. Ivory, jade, quartz, gilt, wood, silver, in every size and shape. Some rustic, others so refined they looked as if Fabergé had carved them.
One room had been turned into a Japanese-style meditation garden, with rice-paper screens, a koi pond edged in rocks, and fragrant bonsai. Its Buddha was the largest of them all, almost as tall as I was, carved out of rosewood, so smooth it invited touch.
There were also very fine oil paintings hanging on the walls. At first, I thought they were scenarios from operas Madame had performed in, but on closer inspection, I saw that each was a staged tableau of magickal events and occult spectacles throughout history. While the styles were different, the subject matter corresponded, and together they created a fantastic narrative telling the history of the arcane and esoteric.
Rich rugs covered the marble floors. The furniture was upholstered in velvets and silks in a riot of wild purples and blues and deep, rich reds and pinks—chairs, couches, and pillows—creating gardens of fabric flowers.
Madame’s home was a giant stage with a hundred sets. Shelves and tabletops and corners, each a story waiting to be deciphered. With an air of fantasy and theater, secrets and drama, which Madame moved through like the diva she was. Hidden everywhere were mirrors of all shapes and sizes, and in their reflections I saw moving shadows that surprised and disturbed me.
The more of the house I saw, the more I understood my initial excitement. And my fears.
“I keep bringing in architects and interior designers to work on one section and then another. We rip out walls and floors and renovate them, all the while looking for the book. We’ve taken apart and rebuilt almost every room, to no avail. Everything would suggest it’s not here, yet I’m certain the book is hidden here someplace.”
I opened my mouth to ask her why she was certain, but Sebastian, anticipating my question—which he did too often—shot me a silencing look. In the car, he’d warned me that I should humor Madame Calvé, since she was paying the largest commission he’d ever been able to secure and the last thing he wanted was for me to plant doubt in her mind that the treasure might not exist.
We’d made it back to the grand staircase.
“Your rooms are up here. My students are usually housed in this wing, but they are in Paris for a week, taking a bit of a break from my hammering away at them. I’m a brute of a teacher, and every few weeks, I send them off to see the sights. This year, they are all from America.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if that was the only reason they weren’t here. Sebastian had warned me that the search for the book was a secret. In order to protect her reputation, Madame had never publicly associated herself with the occult in any way. For more than thirty years, her interest had gone undiscovered by the press, and she was determined to keep it private.
We reached the first landing, which was decorated with a large painting of Madame Calvé as Carmen, the role she was most famous for. In the painting, she was at the height of her career, sensual, powerful, and seductive. The artist had somehow managed to catch the music playing in the swirl of her skirts, and I could hear strains of her aria in my mind.
She looked at it with me for a moment. “Carmen was a wonderful combination of uncontrolled desires and strange powers. An interesting combination, don’t you think?”
“I do.” Hadn’t I been living a life that combined both those things since I’d left Paris almost five years before?
“I first performed it in 1894,” Madame continued. “That was the year I met your mother. Carmen was an auspicious role for me. My life had already become enmeshed in the occult, and my knowledge of fortune-telling and supernatural phenomena allowed me to bring something unique to the role.”
She continued gazing at the painting for a moment. “It’s been a wonderful run. Glorious. And now I teach other young women to be glorious.” There was a hint of sadness mixed with delight. “I still sing at my soirees, though. I’m having one this weekend for a few of us to gather and say good-bye to a dear friend who’s passed over. You’ll know a few of the guests. Some of my friends are also yours.”
“Mine?” I asked, worried that she was referring to Mathieu and at the same time wishing she was. There it was again; ever since I’d set foot in this house, I kept feeling a push/pull. Stay/go. Feeling welcomed/repelled. Elated/fearful. And now desperately wanting Mathieu to be one of her guests and praying he wasn’t. I wasn’t strong enough to renounce him a second time. But what was I even thinking? Renounce him? He wouldn’t even look at me long enough to say hello, and that would be worse, wouldn’t it? After the way we parted and the betrayal he must have felt, I was certain he’d never speak to me again. Hadn’t that been the whole point of my charade?
Madame nodded. “Yours and your brother’s. The art world is quite small, isn’t it? And so many artists from Paris are at the beach this year. It never used to be like this. The south is flooded with English and Russians during the winter, but in the summer we residents enjoyed it all to ourselves. Now Saint-Tropez, Cannes, Juan-les-Pins, and Nice are full of tourists, and the roads are clogged with cars.”
The mellifluous sound of her voice made me want to just go on listening to her. She was rumored to have had—and to still have—many lovers. I didn’t doubt it. Despite her body being a bit stout and the lines etched on her face, her every turn of phrase was luscious and rich. Her dark brown eyes drew you in and sparkled with a kind of bronze-colored glee and seductiveness that were ageless and infectious.
“Now, this is your room, dear Sebastian.”
She opened the door to a stately suite with pale green walls and dark gray accents, silver knickknacks, and silvery gray curtains hanging on the tall windows. The view looked out over the valley. Lush and green and still clouded over with dark shadows.
Leaving my brother, we proceeded down the hall, passing three more doors, until she stopped.
“I’ve given you my favorite room. And it has a secret.” She smiled at me conspiratorially and opened the door.
I felt as if I were stepping into the inside of a conch shell. The walls were painted an exquisite silvery pink-peach, a color made all the more intense by the sudden shaft of sunlight that broke through the clouds.
“This is your sitting room,” she said.