The Paris Game

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “Everything by Titian,” she said immediately. “And Veronese’s ‘Wedding Feast at Cana.’ And the works by Delacroix. And David’s ‘Consecration of Napoleon.’”

  “I used to want to sit for hours in front of the David,” he replied. “There was so much to see.”

  “Then you’ll understand if I want to take all day in this wing.”

  “A woman after my own heart.”

  She glanced at him and then looked away. As they traversed the hallway, she kept sneaking glances at him, though he pretended not to notice. The crowd moved slowly and he was content to match its pace, but when she wasn’t looking at him, Sophie was craning her neck to try to see ahead.

  “If only I were taller,” she lamented. He chuckled.

  “We’re nearly there,” he assured her. She stood on her tiptoes, grasping his arm for balance as the crowd came to a standstill. She paled and shrank down, her fingers digging into his arm.

  “He’s up there,” she muttered to him in alarm.

  “Who?”

  “That man from the other night. I’m almost sure of it.”

  “How far ahead?” Marc asked.

  “Twenty feet, maybe more. To our right.” Her voice was barely a whisper. As the crowd shuffled forward again, Marc was able to see the man she’d spotted. At first, it did seem that Jeremy Gordon had come to the museum, but upon a second, closer, look, the man’s hair was darker and his build leaner. It wasn’t Jeremy at all.

  “It’s not him.” He gave Sophie a reassuring squeeze and she didn’t object. She leaned into him for a moment. He didn’t press his advantage and let go when she shifted her weight away from him.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very.”

  Her hand lingered on his arm until she realized what she was doing and let go. He pretended not to notice.

  They passed into the gallery and the crowd finally fragmented. Sophie stared down the length of the hall in awe. The sun streamed through the skylights and brightened the dark, burgundy-painted walls hung with canvases. Even this first section held enough art to occupy a visitor for hours.

  “I don’t know where to start,” she admitted.

  “Anywhere you like, ma chérie.”

  “The art books don’t do this work any justice.” Sophie lingered in front of Jacques-Louis David’s ‘Consecration of Napoleon’, retreating several paces to try to take in the entirety of the massive canvas.

  “My mother said the same thing,” Marc replied.

  “Was your mother an artist?”

  “She was a pianist, but she loved all art. This was one of her favourites, though she used to say that what Napoleon had done was sacrilegious.” He remembered his mother explaining the significance of the painting to himself and Henri during one of their visits.

  “He crowned himself, didn’t he? Instead of allowing the Pope to do it?”

  “And then he crowned Josephine,” Marc replied. “But I’ve always been amused how he ordered David to paint in people who weren’t even at the coronation.”

  “And look how it’s remembered.” Sophie studied the painting, moving forward to sit on the bench in the middle of the gallery. Marc followed. “Has it always hung here?”

  “I can’t remember. Quite possibly. We never spent as much time in this wing as I would have liked. Henri used to complain.”

  “Did he get his way?”

  “Usually. He was older.”

  “Is he your only brother?” she asked, shifting closer until they were shoulder to shoulder on the bench.

  “The only one that lived,” Marc replied. At Sophie’s questioning look, he elaborated. “My mother had several miscarriages before and after my birth. Eventually they had to stop trying.”

  “How awful for her and your father,” Sophie said quietly.

  “She had a little girl when I was only a couple of years old,” he recalled. He didn’t like remembering, but Sophie’s gentle heart was so easy to exploit. “I didn’t even remember, but Henri told me later. She was stillborn.” He could see her name etched on the family tomb. Frances Camille. “What about your family, Sophie? Any little brothers or sisters to tag along on your museum visits?”

  “Four younger brothers. I don’t think they’ve ever seen the inside of a museum.”

  “They didn’t follow in their sister’s footsteps?”

  “No. Alex and William are more like my father—they’re working in Alberta on the rigs. My grandmother was so disappointed. And the twins are still in school, but they’re more interested in math and physics than art.”

  “You’re lucky to have such a large family.”

  “I guess so.” She shrugged. “I’d never thought about it. Do you see your brother often?”

  “He was with the Foreign Legion,” Marc replied. “Unfortunately he was killed in Algeria when I was eighteen.” He didn’t have to fake the tightness in his throat, or the thinning of his lips.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Sophie looked stricken.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’m the only one of my family left, but I’ve gotten used to it. There are a few distant cousins somewhere near Lyon, but that’s all.”

  Sophie took his hand and he stifled a satisfied smile. “Aren’t you lonely?” He gave her hand a squeeze.

  “I have my business, and my friends. There’s not much time to be lonely.”

  “And your music,” Sophie added. “I wish I was musical, but I’m not.”

  “Every musician needs an audience,” he noted.

  “That makes me feel better. I’m good at being the audience.” She gave a final glance to Napoleon and rose, letting go of his hand. “We should continue on. I’ll never get to see the rest of the Denon wing today at this rate.”

  “We have until the museum closes at six. We’ll manage.”

  “As long as I can see the Titians,” Sophie replied. “And Tintoretto’s ‘Coronation of the Virgin’.”

  “Of course. That and more.”

  Sophie smiled at him, and he thought that all was not yet lost.

  “I should head home,” Sophie remarked as they left the restaurant on the rue Saint-Honore after an early dinner.

  “Already?” Marc let disappointment lace his next words. “I’d hoped to spend the evening with you.” He saw her indecisiveness and decided to push. “At least come for a drink. You can look over my books and see if there’s anything that would help your thesis.”

  “I don’t know. I really ought to get back.”

  “Are you sure? I have a good book on the Paris Salon that you would find very useful.”

  “I guess I have a couple of hours before I need to go.”

  “Très bien. I also have a nice port I think you’ll enjoy.” He flagged down a taxi.

  “I don’t remember seeing your books,” Sophie said as the taxi sped along the Champs-Élysées.

  “It was dark, but there are quite a few.”

  “An academic’s dream?”

  He laughed. “Quite possibly. You’ll have to tell me if it matches up with your dreams, ma chérie.” He laid his arm over the back of the seat, his fingers brushing her shoulder.

  “I won’t be very good company with my nose in a book,” Sophie said.

  The taxi drew up outside Marc’s building and he paid the driver as Sophie slid across the seat and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “It’s much nicer than the hostel,” she said as they climbed the stairs.

  “I should hope so,” he replied with a laugh. He turned on the hallway light as they entered the apartment and Sophie’s eyes widened.

  “I might be here all night,” she said, running her fingers over the spines of the nearest few books.

  “That’s quite all right if you are.” Another couple of drinks and a late hour and she would be in his bed. He brushed her as he went by into the kitchen, letting his hand linger on her back as he went. He poured two glasses of port and returned, finding her engrossed in a book on Delacroix.
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  With his free hand he drew her hair back from her neck and stroked the exposed flesh. She gave a shiver and turned to look up at him.

  “Your port, ma chérie,” he said. She set the book down on a shelf and took the glass. She took a cautious sip of the liquor.

  “That’s quite nice. Thank you.”

  “You’ve never had port before?”

  “Never. This trip has been full of experiences.” She took another sip.

  “I’d like to add to your experiences,” he replied, drawing her closer. She lifted her head and he took that as consent. Her mouth was sweet from the port, and soft. He deepened the kiss and heard the quiet moan in her throat. When he drew back, she was flushed. He set his glass on the shelf behind her and she took another sip of hers before clutching it to her.

  He moved to embrace her again, but she stepped back. “I can’t.”

  “What’s stopping you?” he asked. She swallowed.

  “I don’t want to be unfaithful to Edouard.”

  “You’re exclusive already?” He could hardly believe it. “You’ve only just met him.”

  Sophie stepped away from him. “And I’ve only just met you.”

  His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He ignored it, but Sophie heard it.

  “You’re not going to answer that?”

  “I hadn’t planned to.”

  “Go ahead.” She took up her glass of port and turned her attention back to the books.

  “I’m sure it’s not important.” He pulled out his phone anyway, glancing at the display.

  “Perron.”

  “Good evening, monsieur,” Françoise said.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, moving away and into the living room.

  “Mr. Gordon asked me to call you,” she replied.

  “Did he?” He didn’t succeed in keeping the irritation from his voice. “He couldn’t have called himself?”

  “Mr. Gordon asked me to pass on a message. He says that the assignment is complete.”

  “Does he have proof?” Marc asked sharply. He wouldn’t believe it until he’d seen photographic evidence, or at the very least, a coroner’s report. He’d prefer that, along with an obituary.

  “He didn’t elaborate, monsieur,” Françoise replied.

  “I won’t accept just his word.” He heard Françoise sigh. “Give me his number and I’ll call him myself.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’ll have to speak with Monsieur Royale.”

  “He’s unavailable, but you could call him tomorrow?”

  “I suppose that will have to do.”

  “Bonne nuit, monsieur.”

  He slid his phone back in his pocket and returned to find Sophie waiting. He caught her hand. “Where were we?”

  “I should go. This was a bad idea.”

  “I don’t think so. You can trust me, Sophie.”

  She looked up at him, imploring him with her eyes. “I’m not ready to go further—and I know you want to. I just can’t.”

  He sighed. “If I promise not to go any further than you want, would you stay?”

  “I need to go.” She clasped his hand. “Thank you for today. It was lovely.”

  He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head. He released her hand. “Let me get that book for you, then I’ll walk you to the taxi stand,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a grateful look. He had been so close. He silently cursed Jeremy Gordon. He wished now he’d done more than just knock the man unconscious. He forced himself to relax and sublimate the anger. He held the door for her, letting her precede him into the hall.

  “After you, ma chérie.”

  Chapter 16

  Sera’s voice faltered for the second time that evening, fading out in the midst of the last line of Piaf’s classic ‘Adieu mon coeur’. The first time, she’d thought that Jeremy had been weaving his way through the crowd, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest until the man lit a cigarette and the illumination had shown it wasn’t Jeremy at all. This time, the man’s movements were too familiar, his stature just the same, and she stood frozen until Benoît played the last bar with a flourish on his piano. She gave a nod to the crowd, though they’d already turned their attention to their companions and another round of drinks. She could just see Edouard at the bar; he flashed her a puzzled look.

  “Come on, Sera,” Benoît said in her ear. “Let me get you a drink before our next set.” She followed him from the stage.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so awful,” she said once they were away from the crowd, tucked into the tiny dressing room.

  “It happens to all of us,” Benoît replied. “Don’t let it bother you.”

  “But I’m better than this.” She took a tiny sip of the glass of wine he’d fetched for her.

  “You still have one more set to make up for it. Do you want to change the setlist?”

  “How many songs?” She couldn’t even remember. She rubbed her eyes.

  “Ten. But we could cut it to eight. I don’t think anyone would notice.” Benoît looked concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look tired, and you haven’t been quite yourself.”

  “I’ll be okay. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Her dreams had been filled with Jeremy; either he chased her down and dragged her away, or he killed Marc before her eyes. She dreaded sleep.

  “If you’re sure,” Benoît said. “We’ll cut the two Dietrich tunes. Jean won’t even complain then. I’ll go let Serge and Patrice know.”

  “I’ll be out shortly. Thanks, Benoît.” Once he’d gone, she set the wine aside and picked up her glass of water. Everything will be fine, she told herself, wanting to believe it was true. Jeremy couldn’t hurt her here in the club, not where Edouard and Benoît could come to her defense.

  She rose and straightened her dress. It glimmered with tiny sequins sewn into the layer of taffeta. She’d loved it since she’d first set eyes on it in the secondhand shop, even if it had cost her more than she could afford at the time. She refreshed her lipstick and smoothed her hair. She looked every inch the sultry femme fatale, even if she didn’t feel it. One more set to get through and then she could go home.

  When the second set passed without incident and Jeremy didn’t appear, Sera started to relax. The applause put a smile on her face and Benoît grinned at her as she turned to give the band their due. Colette waved at her from a table near the bar and Sera left the stage, heading up to take a seat next to her.

  “That was a fantastic set,” Colette told her, leaning over to give her a hug. “And that dress. It’s ravishing on you.”

  “Thank you.” Sera smoothed a wrinkle from the taffeta near her hip. “You look lovely too—is it a special occasion?” Colette had outdone herself, wearing a slim-fitting red dress with dramatic, plunging cleavage. A dark scarf was draped over her shoulders and her hair had been put up in a chignon.

  “I’m headed to meet Lise shortly. We’re going clubbing. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I think I’ll pass. Tonight I’m just going to go home and sleep. I need it.”

  “Late nights? Have you found a man to replace Marc?” Colette asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “Where is he tonight anyway? I thought he was always here when you sing.”

  Sera shrugged. “No idea. You know how he is. Jetting off somewhere. And I couldn’t care less if I never saw him again.”

  “That bad? What did he do this time?” Colette asked.

  “It’s a long story—I don’t want to get into it.” A glass shattering on the floor made her jump. A young woman picked up the shards as one of the waitresses came with a dustpan. She took a deep breath. “Jean’s going to be furious if that girl keeps breaking glasses. She dropped one earlier too. I’m surprised he hasn’t kicked her out.”

  Colette looked skeptical. “Are you sure you don’t want to come out with Lise and I? It’d take your mind off of things.”

  “I
’d be the third wheel...Lise would get annoyed with me before too long.” Clubbing would take more energy than she had to spare.

  “You know that’s not true. Lise loves your company,” Colette replied.

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. She likes to have your undivided attention.” Sera changed the subject. “What have you been up to?”

  The question set Colette off on a long rant about the travails of her current theatre project, but Sera didn’t mind. It gave her a chance to try to forget some of her worries and rest.

  “We’ll have to get together for dinner on your next evening off,” Colette said, smoothing her hair. The gold bracelets on her arm jangled.

  “Yes, we should,” Sera replied. “It’s next Tuesday I have free, I think.”

  “Consider it a date.” Colette grinned. “You can come to mine and we’ll make something delicious and have a few drinks.” She stood and wrapped the scarf snugly around her shoulders.

  “Leaving already?”

  “I told Lise I’d meet her at 2—it’s nearly time.” Colette gave Sera another hug. “Have a good night, but pop by tomorrow afternoon if you’re not still sleeping and I’ll tell you about my night.”

  “You’ll be sleeping!”

  Colette laughed. “Yes, I probably will.”

  “Have fun.” Sera waved as Colette headed to the door, then she went to collect her things from the dressing room. She ran into Benoît on her way out.

  “Are you leaving? Want to split a taxi?” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m meeting a friend up near your place.”

  “Sure. Anything to save us a bit of money. I just need a couple of minutes.” Sera slung her bag over her shoulder and headed towards the bar. She ducked into the back corridor, pulling an envelope from the pocket of her bag. She’d scraped together almost every bit of cash she had and had just managed to make the payment. She knocked on Royale’s door, hoping he wouldn’t be in.

  “Entrez.”

  She pushed open the door, the envelope held in front of her where he could see it.

  “Ah, mademoiselle. Is it that time already?” She handed over the money without a word, watching as he flipped through the bills. “I’ll need more next time,” he told her.