“That’s terrible,” I blurted out. “To lose two people so close together. How did it happen?”
“His wife died of a long illness. As grief-stricken as he was, we all felt it was a relief for her. Suffering like that is no life. Thérèse had been her nurse. That’s how Eugène met her. And after Sophie died, Thérèse was there to comfort him. Eventually, they became engaged. I don’t know much about how Thérèse died, although I tried to get him to open up about it. But I thought he was better. Since he’s returned from Egypt, he’s come to a few soirees, seems more engaged. You know better than me, Mathieu—he’s been a regular at the library.”
“I know his fiancée died of a combination of absinthe and laudanum,” Mathieu said.
“Accidental?” Picasso asked.
Mathieu shrugged. “He never shared any of the details with me, and I never pried, so I don’t know the circumstances, but I always got the impression that it was a suicide. He’s never been the same since. And as Cocteau said, it’s been a while. Except . . .” Mathieu’s gaze drifted over to me for half a second. “Some love affairs never fade.” He looked back at Picasso.
Had anyone else seen Mathieu’s glance rest on me? Had Sebastian? I looked over, but couldn’t tell.
“Time does little to dim their luster. Altogether, Eugène has had tragic luck with the women in his life.”
Mathieu’s words about love affairs that never dim echoed in my mind. I was having trouble focusing on what everyone else was saying.
“I’m exhausted,” Madame Calvé said. “I’m going to bed, but you’re all free to cavort to your heart’s content.”
“I’ll go up with you,” I said, and stood. I was getting a headache, one of the maladies my sister Opaline and I both suffered from as a result of “events,” as she called them. I could never tell when one was about to descend on me, and they could be brutal unless I caught them early. I had some headache powder in my room. If I took it quickly, I might escape this attack.
Together Madame and I climbed the stairs in silence. At the top, we said good night to each other. Before she turned to go toward her room, she pulled me close and hugged me. “There is so little in life that is worthwhile and without risk or pain. Loving someone is very hard,” she said.
And before I could ask her if she was referring to Eugène or someone else, she walked away.
Chapter 39
In my suite, I grabbed my toiletries case, found the powder, and spilled it into a glass, which I filled with water from the tap. I mixed it with my finger and then sat on the edge of the bathtub and drank it down. I was anxious to get ahead of the pain and not allow it to burst open.
After I finished the draft, I rinsed out the glass and went back into the bedroom, where I noticed a package on my pillow. A silver ribbon encircled green watery silk wrapping.
Taking it in my hands, I judged its heft. It had the feel of a book. The size was also right. I untied the satin ribbon, which fell onto the floor, curling like a snake into a perfect coil. Then, because the paper was so beautiful, I unwrapped it carefully.
Inside was indeed a book. The front and back covers appeared to have been made of peacock feathers. I ran my finger over one of them. The iridescent colors twinkled in the light. Emerald, amethyst, sapphire, and turquoise with flecks of gold. The silky feathers against my skin mesmerized me and distracted me from the nascent headache.
The eye of the center feather had been cut out to reveal a deep purple shagreen circle decorated with a crescent moon and outlined in silver. Inside were my initials: DLD. Mathieu had said he’d brought a book for Madame, but surely this wasn’t that. He’d said he didn’t know I’d be here. But this book had my initials on it.
I ran my fingers over the feathers again. I traced the initials. I knew Mathieu’s work almost as well as my own. During the four months I had been with him, I’d spent many evenings in his workshop, painting while he created his marvelous book dressings. People brought him favorite novels or historical tomes, memoirs or family records, so that he could elevate their exteriors into works of art. He also created journals, like this one, that he sold in his uncle’s shop. They were ideal as personal diaries or sketchbooks. Some people used them to record dreams, an ancient art that had recently gained popularity, partly because of the writings of Carl Jung. And for a few rare shoppers who were habitués of the Librairie du Merveilleux, Mathieu also made covers for grimoires holding collections of spells.
Bookbinding was an art like any other, but it didn’t gain much recognition until the turn of the century. Around the time I met him, Mathieu’s books were being shown alongside other great craftsmen’s wares: Rene Lalique’s glass, the ceramics of Charles Catteau, the House of Cartier’s jewelry, Edgar Brandt’s wrought-iron lamps and furniture, and the lacquer screens and furniture of Jean Dunand.
Holding the journal to my chest, I tried to imagine Mathieu walking into my room and looking around. Had he stood by the vanity? Touched my brushes? Had he sniffed my perfume and remembered the day he’d taken me to L’Etoile’s shop? Had he come over to the bed and smoothed out the pillow before placing the gift there? Now I had another entry to add to my Book of Hours. Another artifact to worship.
I placed the book in a drawer of the armoire. I didn’t want its beautiful colors to speak to me, to whisper and tempt me. My mother had taught me that the most powerful force of a daughter of La Lune was not the gift bestowed on her. It wasn’t my mother’s ability to cast spells, or Opaline’s ability to speak the language of stones, or my younger sister Jadine’s talent for reading tears, or my own ability to draw secrets. Our greatest strength and most dangerous power was our determination. With our iron wills, we could do anything once we decided. No one could bend a daughter of La Lune once she made up her mind. And I had made up my mind about Mathieu. I’d left Paris and stayed away. I had orchestrated a good-bye scene so cruel I knew he wouldn’t try to contact me. And he hadn’t tried.
My decision had been the right thing for both of us. My only mistake had been not returning the ring he’d given me. I looked down at the crescent moonstone surrounded by a curve of pale blue sapphires. All the secrets of the orb intensified by the surrounding gems. I hadn’t been able to give it back to him. I’d known how hard my sister had worked on the piece so that it reflected me, choosing sapphires the exact color of Mathieu’s eyes and finding a moonstone with magical qualities. Nothing I could have told her would have justified my returning it.