Paris Ever After: A Novel

by K. S. R. Burns

  I find him in the grand salon where we had coffee the other day. It doesn’t have books, so I wonder why he calls it a library. If I had a room like this, it would be lined from floor to ceiling with books.

  “Hervé. I can’t believe I slept so late. I was going to cook you dinner.”

  He shrugs.

  “I had an amazing nap though.” I flop down on the brocade settee opposite him before remembering that flopping is not how one comports oneself in France—especially in elegant surroundings. I scoot to the edge of the settee, where I position myself with knees together and ankles crossed. “It’s so quiet here. I was out like a light.”

  His eyes widen. “You went out?”

  “What? No, I mean, I slept very soundly.”

  He sips some champagne. “Ah.”

  Like the other day, a small fire flickers in the fireplace. Unlike the other day, orchestral music is playing softly, and a sweating bottle of Moët et Chandon presides on the low table between us. He knows I can’t have champagne, but it’s still odd he started drinking before I got here. Hervé is always such a stickler for protocol. “You find your bed is comfortable?” he asks.

  “Yes. It’s fantastic. Thank you.” I watch the columns of tiny bubbles travel up the tall, thin flute in his hand. My tongue tingles. Of all types of alcohol, champagne is the one I enjoy most.

  Ha. It’s just as well Hervé isn’t offering me any; after everything that’s happened lately, I’d be tempted to gulp down a glass. Or two. “I love the room. Rooms. You’re really helping me out here, Hervé.”

  I want to be sure he knows how truly grateful I am. Ever since I came to Paris people have put themselves out to help me. It’s been incredible. I don’t want to leave without recognizing and thanking each one of them.

  “Amy. Stop.” He flutters his hand in the air, revealing what looks like a new Rolex on his wrist. He must have a whole collection. “It is not necessary to display obligation. I insist.”

  He takes another sip of his champagne and stares into the flames.

  I sit on my hands. Not only is Hervé not plying me with alcohol, he’s not pumping me for information. I expected him to start off by asking about Sophie’s abrupt reappearance, Margaret’s investment potential, or the reason I changed my mind about staying with him. He is, for Hervé, peculiarly incurious.

  But this is another good thing. I’ve no desire to add to the day’s tally of fraught conversations. It’s Sunday night. One of my last evenings in Paris. I am totally up for some banal chitchat.

  I’m about to ask Hervé the name of the composer of the music he has on, or if he knows how to play the concert grand piano that forms the focal point of this room, when a bell chimes. I look for the source, this time knowing to search for a red LED light.

  Hervé follows my gaze to the blinking intercom half hidden behind a cloisonné vase on the side table. “It is time. Do you wish to go in?”

  “Sure.” I hop to my feet. Nine p.m. is late to eat dinner, in my opinion, but I’m starving. Catherine needs nourishment. And it’s better to think about food than about Manu, and how after I leave Paris I’ll never see him again.

  “During the week I take an early supper,” Hervé adds. “But it is your first evening here, so we must celebrate.”

  He escorts me across the cool foyer into a dimly lit dining room. I can’t help but chuckle at the sight of two formal place settings positioned at the far ends of a long mahogany table, miles apart, like in one of those BBC period-costume dramas. An enormous flickering candelabrum commands the center of the table. A floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a hunting scene, complete with horses and hounds and ladies with conical hats trailing veils, dominates one long wall. The opposite wall features a life-sized oil painting of a stern-looking gentleman wearing a lace collar, thigh-high black boots, and a pointed goatee. I look for an echo of Hervé’s features in the scowling face but find no resemblance.

  “This is fabulous,” I say as Hervé pulls out one of the chairs for me. Margaret would be able to tell if the china and crystal arrayed on the table is Limoges and Baccarat. It probably is.

  He shrugs. “I confess to you that typically I take my meals in the kitchen. The breakfast table there is more—what is the word?—convivial. But it is also pleasant to dine properly, as Margaret would put it.”

  I nod. “She would.”

  “I called her and invited her to join us, you know. But she declined. I even invited her daughter. Sophie? But they had other plans.”

  I nod again. I’m not surprised. Sophie is, rightfully, taking all of Margaret’s attention. Her priorities, like Manu’s, like William’s, like mine, are realigning. It’s like a game of musical chairs. The music has stopped, and everyone is grabbing for a seat. It would be easy to get caught between chairs and land on my butt on the floor. I must be careful not to let this happen. Because it’s not just me anymore—it’s Catherine too.

  Hervé picks up his ivory-handled knife and fork. “Bon appétit, chère madame.” Again, he doesn’t offer me any beverage, not even water, and I wonder if this is some baronial thing. Maybe nobles don’t serve others; they wait for others to serve them. It’s weird though. I’m thirsty.

  “Bon appétit,” I echo as I look down at my sliced red tomatoes drizzled with a tarragon vinaigrette.

  Salade de tomates à l’estragon is a starter that pretty much anyone can produce, which makes me wonder who produced it. After all, the bell that summoned us to dinner didn’t ring itself. The tomato starters didn’t travel from the kitchen to the dining room on their own. Yet I haven’t seen a single domestic servant, unless you count the angry woman from the other day. But maybe Hervé has armies of people to cook and clean for him. Maybe what comes next is a perfectly executed sole meunière with lemon wedges and butter and chopped fresh parsley.

  What comes next, however, is the same scowling lady from the other morning. She’s bearing an enormous stainless steel tray and wearing a black shirtwaist dress with a white apron—not a maid’s outfit, but almost. The temperature in the room seems to drop as she removes our empty plates and replaces them with small cups of a thick pink soup.

  “Et voilà,” Hervé murmurs as the woman exits backwards through the swinging door. He doesn’t say thank you or introduce her to me. He doesn’t even look at her. He’s too busy brushing imaginary lint off the sleeve of his blue blazer, which—like a lot of his clothes—looks a little too big for him. Even the Rolex watch hangs slack on his wrist. For the hundredth time I think how little I really know about Hervé.

  The soup is a fish bisque. This, too, can be an easy dish to pull off as you can actually buy ready-made soupe de poisson in any Paris grocery store. It comes in clear glass jars and isn’t bad if you add croutons and a dollop of garlicky mayo, which tonight our cook didn’t bother to do. Still, the smell tells me it will be edible—correct, as the French would say—and I lower my eyes as I dip in my spoon. I might as well enjoy being fed and waited on like a lady of the manor. It certainly won’t happen in Phoenix.

  “This is fun, Hervé. But I hope my being here isn’t causing you a problem.”

  He glances up. “You mean Odile. She is not a problem. She doesn’t enjoy to do any extra work, that is all.”

  I don’t answer, because the extra work is obviously me. We’ve returned to sipping our soup in silence when Hervé looks up. His pointy nose twitches like a Pomeranian’s as he stares at the heavy mahogany door that opens to the foyer.

  “Expecting company?” I ask, though I don’t believe it’s possible. As far as I can tell, Hervé has few friends. Or maybe it’s that I can’t imagine uptight, prissy Hervé having the kind of pals who would just pop by. He’s the sort who makes and then loses friends, in some way cursed to alienate people before relationships have time to solidify. Not that he doesn’t have good qualities. He does. Otherwise, why would Margaret and I spend time with him? He can be witty, quirky, and almost too generous. But sometimes I feel sorry for him. He never s
eems to relax and allow himself to be real.

  Before I can ask any more questions, I hear a metallic click and the murmuring of voices. Hervé puts down his spoon and purses his lips to emit a soft whistle. It sounds like a signal, and indeed, a sound that could be an answering hiss comes from the direction of the kitchen. Then the foyer door bursts open, and a tall, heavy-set, elderly man wearing a camel hair coat and carrying a black and tan plaid umbrella sweeps in. He has a full head of Brillo-pad-gray hair, matching eyebrows, and a hooked nose. His expression is aggrieved, as if someone switched out his morning café au lait with decaf, and the rest of the day went downhill from there.

  Hervé and I sit as if affixed to our chairs as the elderly man’s dark eyes move from the flickering candelabrum to the shining array of china and crystal and silver on the table to the cups of soup in front of us. When he gets to the Rolex peeking out from beneath Hervé’s sleeve his umbrella falls and clatters to the floor.

  The spell broken, Hervé leaps to his feet. “Monsieur!”

  Monsieur moves the umbrella aside with his foot and steps farther into the room. He’s twenty or so years older than Hervé but clearly the alpha male here. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici?”

  As Hervé begins to explain “what is going on here,” Monsieur’s bristling eyebrows pump up and down like frightened caterpillars. Hervé wrings his hands and stutters through what sounds to me like a series of inadequate explanations. Monsieur continues to work his eyebrows. He is not appeased.

  I could live in Paris for decades and still not be able to understand French people when they talk to one another, much less argue. Soon it won’t matter though.

  Two minutes later a woman about the same age as the man—but with nicer hair—enters the room. Hervé rushes to her side. “Madame,” he purrs, and pulls out a chair for her. But the interruption doesn’t help his case. Monsieur shrugs out of his luxurious coat, tosses it onto a chair, and begins to fire off a series of follow-up questions.

  No one takes notice of me—not even Madame, who sits and watches the two men as if she’s at a play. So I seize the opportunity to finish the rest of my soup. Catherine and I need to eat, after all, and I’m pretty sure dinner is now over. When my bowl is empty, I push back from the table as unobtrusively as possible. I have an overwhelming desire to call Manu. I shouldn’t do it. He’s probably with Sophie. But, I tell myself, he would find this whole story so much fun.

  I’m halfway to my feet when Monsieur pauses his interrogation and redirects his piercing gaze to me. “Ah.” He bows slightly from the waist. “Mademoiselle.”

  I sink back down into my chair. “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

  “Bonsoir,” he corrects, and inclines his head in a cordial manner. I’m trying to think of an intelligent-sounding way to introduce myself when he returns to berating Hervé, which I’m sure is what’s happening, though I don’t know why or what for.

  At first, I assumed these people were Hervé’s parents and they were angry with him for, say, failing to appear at an aunt’s hundredth birthday party or denting the fender of the family Bugatti. But now I’m not so sure I’m getting that dynamic. The vibe here isn’t familial. It’s commercial.

  Madame joins in, leavening the men’s harsh tones with a sweet low voice, but I understand her French only a little better than I do theirs. I catch a word now and then—maison and travail—“house” and “work.” But otherwise they may as well be speaking Martian.

  Hervé is standing with his back to the wall tapestry and holding up his hands like an outlaw in a TV western when I again dare to rise from my chair. Monsieur is speaking in crisp tones. Madame is nodding her agreement. Seems like a good time to make my getaway. I’m halfway to the door when Madame turns and smiles at me, her eyes widening as she notices my baby bump.

  I smile back, suppress an impulse to curtsy, and scuttle away.

  twenty-two

  In my room, which likely isn’t going to be my room for even the short time I need it, I curl up on a brocade loveseat and struggle to rein in my galloping heart.

  Phoenix is small. Ordinary. In my opinion, boring. All my life I dreamed of a place that was bigger and more beautiful, a place filled with excitement, glamour, adventure, beauty, history, and character.

  A place like Paris.

  Yet there have been plenty of times when the experience threatened to be overwhelming. Like the catacombs. Like tonight. “Be careful what you wish for,” Dad used to tell me. “You just might get it.” I’ve never much cared for this expression, but I’ve got to admit there’s truth to it.

  What I should be doing is calling around to hotels to find a room. But it’s past ten p.m. This has been one extremely draining and depressing day. How great it would be if Hervé explained to Monsieur and Madame who I am and asked them to let me stay here just for the night. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Hervé’s focus is on looking out for number one.

  I sit up and reach into my pocket for my phone. Again, I yearn to talk to Kat. For ten years, fully a third of my life, she was the one I went to with all my problems. She wasn’t perfect—who is?—but she always listened, always helped me see the funny side of things. Anyway, when you’ve lost someone, you don’t think of the ways they might have failed you. You think of the ways you failed them.

  I can’t call Kat. But I can call Manu. In fact, I can’t stop myself, even though the recollection of his dropping-everything response to Sophie’s phone call this afternoon makes me cringe.

  But, as should probably not be surprising, he doesn’t answer. I hang up. Two minutes later I try again and leave a voicemail (“Call me! Even if it’s late”). For good measure, I type out a text too, and am hitting “Send” when I hear a light tap-tap on my door.

  “Mademoiselle?” I jump to my feet as Madame peeks in. “May I chat with you?”

  She speaks in heavily accented but perfectly understandable English. Thank God. I’m really not up for struggling through my imminent eviction in French.

  “Yes. Please come in.” I watch as she heads for one of the bergère chairs positioned in front of the fireplace and seats herself with care. She moves as if every muscle in her body pains her, and lightly places her palms on the padded armrests, as if for support. I take the opposite chair, my feet flat on the floor, my hands balled up into fists on my lap.

  Maybe I can spend the night on a bench at a train station. They’re open twenty-four hours.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to leave as soon as poss—,” I begin, but Madame waves her hand.

  “First, I must apologize to you, Mademoiselle, for the terrible incident you have just witnessed.”

  I’m surprised she would apologize. The incident downstairs wasn’t that terrible. It was confusing and even amusing.

  She continues before I can respond. “But now I must ask you. What do you do here?”

  This makes more sense. Naturally, Madame and her husband are wondering what the hell a random pregnant American woman is doing holed up in their guest suite. Monsieur has probably sent her up here to—as Margaret would say—suss me out. And then kick me out.

  “Hervé is the acquaintance of a friend of mine.” My voice is smaller than I would like it to be. “A lady. I’ve been living with her these past few months. But then her daughter returned and needed her room back so Hervé offered to let me stay here. As a guest. Just for a couple days. I don’t know him that well, really. We met in July. I’m going back to the States in a few days.”

  Madame cocks her head to one side and creases her forehead as if maybe she’s wondering whether her English is up to this conversation. I’m about to rephrase my explanation, more slowly and less colloquially this time, when she winks. “You perhaps ask yourself who I am, no?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I do.”

  She lifts her chin. “I am Elisabeth de Villiers. The gentleman you saw with me downstairs is my husband, Jacques de Villiers.”

  “Ah,” I say, as if this information makes perfect sense to
me. So these are Hervé’s parents after all. But it’s still a little hard to believe. In the argument downstairs, they were using the formal “vous” and not the informal “tu” when addressing each other. Granted, they were speaking so rapidly I could have misconstrued the verb conjugations. Or perhaps noble types say “vous” even to their own children. Who knows?

  I unball my hands and straighten my back, endeavoring to match a little of Madame’s dignity. “How do you do. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Amy Brodie. I’m from Phoenix, Arizona. I’ve been staying in France, but I’m leaving soon.”

  There it is, my life to date, summed up in three sad sentences.

  Madame nods and glances around the elegant room as if she hasn’t seen it for a while. “This is our home.”

  “It’s lovely.” To say the least.

  “Merci.” She leans back and sighs, her small, satisfied smile telling me she’s well aware of the glories of her house and garden. “Now. You must know.” She makes her mouth into a little moue. “That person downstairs. The one you call Hervé? His real name is Jean Martin. His responsibility is to care for the house when we are traveling. Or I should say ‘was.’ He is no longer employed here.”

  “Employed?” I jump to my feet. “You mean to say—he’s not your son?”

  Madame’s china blue eyes widen. “Our son? Mais non. Pas du tout!” But no. Not at all.

  “So—” I pause to clear my throat. “He’s not a baron?”

  “A baron? Oh my dear child!” She presses her lips together as if to keep from laughing out loud and runs her hands across her lap, fluttering her eyelashes.

  Margaret would be able to tell if that bouclé skirt and its matching cardigan jacket are real Chanel. She could take one look at Madame’s double-strand necklace and know if the pearls were genuine. And yet, like me, she was apparently not able to recognize a real baron from a fake one.

  Unless… maybe it’s Madame and Monsieur who are the imposters? It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s fake anymore.