Alice was in a foul mood. She was bored by painting, tired of sculpture, and fatigued by antiquities. She wore a pale yellow velvet walking dress. The color, other women’s glances told her more than once, was all wrong. The rain had turned the hem a dirty ochre.
“Can we go now?” she asked more than once.
“But we’ve only just arrived,” Cait replied. “And besides, you were the one who wanted to come.”
They stopped to peer up at a vast painting by Titian.
“What do you think?”
“Of what?” Alice asked.
“This painting,” Cait replied. “Of Jupiter and Antiope?”
“Clearly I am not sophisticated enough to understand it.”
“Well,” Cait said, “Jupiter is in the form of a satyr—”
“Stop! Look. It’s him.”
The count was standing beside a Raphael. He was at the center of a group of young men and in the middle of telling a long story, a tale that prompted regular, short bursts of laughter. The collar of his white shirt was undone and he had the look of someone who had not yet been to bed and wanted everyone to know it. As he reached the punch line, his eyes fell on Alice, but without stopping, they moved on, sliding across her face to linger on a woman a few feet away, a woman in a pale blue dress and a straw hat. She shook her head in mock disapproval, which made him laugh, longer and louder than everyone else.
“Would you like to see the sculpture?” Cait turned, but Alice was gone.
First, Cait walked the entire length of the Picture Gallery and then looked in the Salle Carré and the Galerie d’Apollon. Alice wasn’t in the vestibule or waiting on the staircase; there was no sign of her. Cait turned left into the other, smaller salons; bronze antiquities, furniture, tapestry, Oriental fabric, each one led on to the next. Could Alice have come this way? There were fewer people here than in the main galleries, just older couples, private tutors and their pupils, and elderly single men who lingered but were easily distracted by the click of a woman’s heel on the marble floor.
As she walked on, the galleries became emptier and emptier. Thick dust lay beneath the glass cases of Egyptian sarcophagi and antique pottery; the floors were dulled by a lack of footfalls. She walked faster, almost breaking into a run. Alice could be anywhere. She spoke almost no French. She rarely carried money. Maybe she should go back the way she had come? Maybe she should wait by the main door? She stopped to take her bearings and realized that she had passed along the gallery that connected the Old Louvre to the Tuileries and was now in one of the galleries around all four sides of the Cour du Louvre. Surely if she carried on she would end up back where she started? And so she went on, turning left, then right, then left again. A room of Dutch Masters. Hadn’t she been here before? The heavy gold frames all looked the same. A bell rang somewhere deep inside the museum. It was closing time. She turned a corner. Another gallery hung with portraits: men, women, children, babies. She walked faster but there were more of the same, one opening into the next, an endless display of dynasties, ancestors, generations of wealth. The air was stale and still as if time itself had been trapped and bottled.
At last she found an open window, stopped, and gulped down the cool air. Outside the sun still shone, the birds still sang, the shadows were lengthening. Why, she asked herself, was she so anxious? She wasn’t a nursemaid. Alice was old enough to not lose herself in an art gallery, surely. And yet what if she was with the count? What then? How swiftly damage could be done to a woman of her age. How easily a reputation could be tarnished. And then, from somewhere nearby, came the murmur of women’s conversation.
“I thought I’d die! Without ever attending a proper ball.”
The voice was unmistakable. Cait ran through salon after salon until she reached the last and just there was a flight of stone steps that led down into a gallery of Greek statues. And there, at the bottom, was Alice Arrol, sitting on a stone bench with the woman Cait had noticed earlier, the woman with the pale blue dress and straw hat.
“Here you are, Mrs. Wallace!” Alice cried out when she saw Cait. “We’ve been waiting an age, you know. Where have you been?”
Cait tried to catch her breath and swallow her fury. Alice was safe; that was all that mattered. Not the fact that she had been driven half-mad with worry and had walked halfway around the museum. Not the fact that Alice didn’t seem remotely contrite.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Cait replied in a voice that was as controlled as she was able to keep it. “Everywhere, actually.”
“I was here,” she replied as if Cait were idiotic.
And then Alice laughed.
“Where else would I be?” she added. “Thankfully I wasn’t alone.”
“It’s easy to get lost in the Louvre,” the lady in the straw hat said in English with a touch of an American accent. “And there are many unscrupulous men who will take advantage of a young woman without a chaperone.”
“I am indeed indebted to you,” said Cait.
“While we were waiting for you, your charge was telling me all about how you came to be in Paris. And how much she would like a portrait of herself.”
“Really?” Cait replied. “Alice has never mentioned it before.”
“My husband is an artist,” the woman continued. “Maybe I could see if he has a space in his schedule?”
“Isn’t she elegant,” Alice enthused after the lady had taken her leave. “She learnt English from a lover, a famous painter, I think. And she was so kind, waiting with me while you took yourself off on your little gallivant. She said that every young lady should have a portrait of themselves for posterity. You know, I think I’ve made my first real Parisian friend.”
The attendant held the door open for them. Outside it had stopped raining.
“Her name,” Alice continued, “her name is Gabrielle.”
30
____
September 1888
AUTUMN, THE MOST BEAUTIFUL season of the year in Paris, had arrived; fallen leaves crisp beneath the shoe sole and in the early morning air the faintest suggestion of frost. Socially, it was an in-between time—society had returned, but only briefly, before heading out to house parties in the châteaux on the banks of the Loire or the Oise. For a week or two, however, the air was filled with the smell of new cloth and hot irons as the wealthy tried on their new wardrobes, the women in checks and plaids, the men in bowler hats and English cloaks.
Émile knew that the dressmakers, the milliners, and the corsetières would be booked up weeks in advance; it was impossible to pick up a copy of Revue de la Mode anywhere. As a boy, he remembered longing for his parents to leave with their trunks full of new clothes, to head out to the small family château in the Loire and let him start back to his Catholic boarding school in peace. The château—it was more of a large house—had been locked up for years now, his mother unwilling to vacation there alone. One day, he had promised himself, he would find the time to go back and unfasten the shutters and air the rooms. Until then, it was a bill he paid monthly, a tithe to the family’s legacy.
The city’s fixation with one’s wardrobe had always struck him as decidedly archaic, not to mention expensive. The countryside was not the Bois de Boulogne, and yet there were dinners and dances, cycling and shooting parties, weeks of activity that demanded several changes of clothes a day at least. In the future, he hoped, all the rigid lines of decorum, the rules that dictated what could be worn and when, would be forgotten and no one would care whether gloves were de rigueur at dinner or whether hats should be removed in restaurants. People would have other, more interesting things, or people, to think about.
Since the first time, months ago, Cait Wallace had come to see him sporadically, whenever Alice was busy and she wouldn’t be missed. The last time, however, she had come to the tower site after-hours as he had asked her to. It had been early summer, and although it was late, the daylight had only just begun to leach from the sky. He invited her into one of the work hu
ts and swept a table clear of paper and instruments, of newspapers and pencils. She glanced at the door. He locked it. And then there was only the rise of her breath beneath the span of her corset, the nub of her tiny buttons as one by one he released her, the stretch of pale skin at the top of her stockings.
Afterward, as she fastened her clothes, she had told him that she and Alice were leaving Paris for the summer holidays, for the Deauville on the coast. And then she paused. Outside, a man’s voice called out. Another laughed. Someone was approaching. A knock sounded on the door.
“Monsieur Nouguier,” a voice called out.
Cait looked at him and could not hide her horror; it was the foreman.
“Can I come in?” he asked, then tried the door handle.
There were no other doors. Émile motioned to a chair and she sat down and flattened her skirts.
“Monsieur!” Émile said as he unlocked the door. “You must get this door fixed. It won’t close unless you lock it.”
The foreman stepped inside, then looked from Cait to Émile.
“Of course, Monsieur Nouguier,” he said. “So sorry to disturb you. Shall I come back later?”
Cait took this as a cue and rose to her feet.
“Actually, we were finished,” she said. “Thank you for your time, Monsieur. I will convey your thoughts to Monsieur Arrol’s uncle.”
And then she was gone, leaving nothing but a stray hair on his collar and the scent of her body on his lips. Afterward, it was hard to concentrate on what the foreman was telling him. Did he suspect anything? Did he believe his explanation? It was thin, to say the least.
“I’ll have a go at the door,” Émile said, picking up a screwdriver. “It probably just needs a small tweak.”
The foreman had nodded.
“I’m sure a tweak would do it,” he said, his face deadpan.
Since then the weeks had passed but he’d had no word from Cait. And so he had agreed to meet Jamie Arrol during working hours on a street corner in the second arrondissement, just as the boy had requested. He would know when Cait and Miss Arrol would be back from the coast.
Jamie was waiting for him underneath a lamppost at the cross section between Avenue de l’Opéra and rue Danielle-Casanova. Émile climbed down from his carriage as Arrol lit a fresh cigarette. He looked up and seemed a little surprised to see him.
“Here you are,” Jamie said. “I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Am I late?” he asked.
“A little,” he replied. “It’s a couple of minutes’ walk from here. I hope that’s all right.”
“Lead on.”
It was late morning and the avenue was full of nursemaids and children, clerks and bankers from the Bourse heading out to lunch. The question vexed him like an itch and yet he could not ask straight out; he would have to wait for the right moment.
“This is the one,” Arrol said as they took a narrow street on the left-hand side.
Émile glanced up. It was the rue Chabanais. They stopped at the end, at number 12.
“Are you acquainted with this establishment?”
Émile laughed and shook his head.
“I know of it but have never experienced it firsthand,” he said with a slight raise of his eyebrow.
“Well, come this way,” Jamie said. “It really is something special.”
The front door of La Chabanais had been made to look like the entrance to a cave. Once inside, however, a sweeping staircase led up to more than two dozen rooms. It was, he knew, one of the most expensive, most luxurious brothels in Paris, and catered to every taste, every whim, every fantasy. In this maison close there were rooms where mirrors covered all the walls and the ceiling, rooms with special apparatus and custom-made furniture.
“That’s Bertie’s room,” said Jamie as they passed a door. “He’s said to have a special chair, a large copper tub, and his own coat of arms above the bed. I’d let you have a look but it’s kept locked.”
It was well known that the Prince of Wales was a regular. So were half the members of the Jockey Club de Paris. And the cabinet. But the pleasure house was quiet at this time of the day, the corridors empty. Madame Kelly, the Irishwoman who ran the place, wasn’t at home. The windows had been opened but the air was still murky and smelled of extinguished candles and washing starch, plus something else, something animal that he hesitated to place. From the back rooms where the girls lived came the faint sound of laughter and from up ahead, farther along the corridor, the ratchet of the saw.
“Here we are,” said Jamie as they reached the last room.
The door was wide open. For a moment Émile stood and blinked. In front of him was a huge construction of wood painted to look like iron. It was a section of the tower, his tower. Inside was a huge bed. A workman was sawing up lengths of wood next to the window.
“Can you leave us for a moment?” Jamie asked the workman. “Now, watch this,” said Jamie once he was gone.
A screen on rollers had been set up behind the bed. It was painted with a panorama of Paris. As Jamie turned a lever, the bed started to rise and the painted scene to descend.
“To simulate the lift,” Jamie explained.
Émile nodded.
“And you’re supposed to . . . ?”
“Absolutely,” Jamie confirmed.
“And what do you do when you get to the top?” he asked.
“Come down again!” Jamie declared. “You could go up and down all night if you wished.”
“You’re sure it’s safe?” Émile asked.
“No.” Jamie laughed. “I mean, yes, I certainly hope so.”
“And who turns the lever?”
Jamie frowned.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Have any suggestions?”
“A lift mechanism, maybe?” Émile shrugged. “Hydraulics? But it would be noisy. Or as an alternative, maybe the bed could stay still and only the screen would move?”
“No, that won’t do,” he said. “Someone will have to man the lever. At least until I can find a simple solution.”
They stared at the bed in silence for a moment.
“Well, anyway. Congratulations!” Émile said.
“Thank you,” he said. “For your contribution. And for your understanding. Everything is under control. I’m back on my feet, more or less.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it,” he replied.
“You’ve been more generous to me than I deserve. Hopefully I can return the favor one day.”
They stood and stared at the floor for an instant.
“So,” Émile said. “I take it your sister has returned from the coast?”
A look passed across Jamie’s face. “They came back the day before yesterday,” he said. “By all accounts it was rather dull.”
A door slammed somewhere in the building. A horse pulling a cart trotted past in the street below.
“Well,” Émile said. “I must get back.”
“So soon?” he said. “Surely for once you can put yourself before that blasted edifice? I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet. Fifteen minutes more, that’s all I ask.”
“I don’t think—” he began.
“She’s not for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The door was painted gold on one side and was plain wood on the other. It opened onto a narrow stone staircase.
“Delphine!” Jamie called.
A girl appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in a low-cut gown. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes bright, but her skin was white as chalk. She was terribly pretty and extremely young. Seventeen, at a guess.
“Jamie!” she said, and opened her arms for him.
“This is Monsieur Nouguier,” Jamie said after they had embraced. “And this is Delphine.”
It was the girl in the daguerreotype Jamie had shown him months earlier, the one who had come to the site.
“Mademoiselle.” He bowed to her.
Closer, he saw that what he had initially take
n for a healthy flush was in fact rouge. Dark smudges underlined her eyes and she was thin, so thin that her collarbone stood out sharp above the neckline of her dress.
“You should tell me when you are going to call and bring a guest,” she scolded. “I have nothing to offer. Please go up.”
Her room had bare floorboards and a sagging bed in the corner. A table and two chairs were placed below a small attic window. Delphine hurriedly took down a washing line strung with undergarments and brushed some crumbs from the seats of the chairs.
“Sit!” she said. “Sit down.”
Although the door was closed, the noise of the building rose up through the floor, a man singing tunelessly, the indignant whine of a dog, the thwack of wet washing in a tin basin.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Jamie said in English. “As soon as I have saved up enough, I’m going to buy her out from Madame Kelly.”
Émile had heard that this was possible, that girls could be bought out of brothels for a price, but he had never actually heard of anyone doing it. He glanced up at the girl standing behind Jamie’s chair. She smiled, reached over, took Jamie’s hand, raised it to her mouth, and kissed it. The look in Jamie’s eyes was one of complete subjugation. Despite, or maybe because of, the obstacles placed before them, their love seemed perfectly pure and utterly detached from reality. Was it, as Shakespeare labeled Romeo and Juliet’s passion for each other, a wise kind of madness? The past forgiven, the future wrapped up and waiting like a gift. The fact that they had cut through the lines of class and convention seemed only to make their union sweeter. Émile felt a sudden sense of admiration for the boy; he was more than the sum of his parts.
Delphine’s smile turned into a frown. She covered her mouth with her hand and took herself to the doorway, where she tried and failed to swallow down a coughing fit.
To Capture What We Cannot Keep Page 21
