Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  “He’s not ‘my’ Sam,” she protested. It had been one month since he had kissed her, so long that even her carefully tended memories of the moment had begun to fade.

  “Pfft,” said Mathilde. “He said that these airplanes are very expensive, and d’Albret, he sees your aunt, he sees how she lives, and he thinks to use you to get some of it for himself.”

  “I only said I’d have dinner with him,” Helena protested. “What harm can that do?”

  “You know, Hélène, just because Sam is busy, that is no reason for you to look elsewhere,” Étienne added.

  “I’m not! I only thought it might be nice to go dancing. That’s all. And I don’t see what Sam has to do with any of this. Really I don’t.”

  “Eh bien. I will be at the Dôme later, just in case. If you are bored, ask him to bring you there.”

  She’d taken the tram home, not feeling up to a walk through the cold, and had spent the absolute minimum of time and effort in preparing for the evening. Her Vionnet gown was too fine for the occasion, so she put on a simple frock of plum-colored wool, touched up her face with some rouge and powder, and declared herself ready.

  Mr. d’Albret rang the doorbell at five minutes before the hour, and if he was surprised when she answered it herself—Vincent was in Antibes with her aunt, and the other servants were busy belowstairs—he didn’t show it. He was beautifully dressed, and indeed looked very handsome. Nor could she fault his manners as he helped her in and out of his enormous black Daimler, then escorted her into one of the private dining rooms at Lapérouse on the quai des Grands Augustins.

  It was rather alarming to be separated from the other diners and effectively left alone with a man who was little more than a stranger, but the restaurant’s waiters were never far away, and the chambre particulier was very charming. It was small, less than half the size of her bedroom at home, and was extravagantly decorated with figured walnut paneling, very bad copies of Old Masters paintings, and mirrors in elaborate gilded frames.

  The mirrors, she noticed, were covered in scratches, with scrawled initials here and there, which seemed rather odd given the luxury of their surroundings.

  “I see you are wondering at the marks. They were left by courtesans. When their lovers gave them diamonds, they would test them on a mirror, for only a true diamond can cut the glass.”

  “Ah,” she said, rather unnerved that he had brought her to an establishment known for assignations with courtesans. “Thank you for explaining, Monsieur d’Albret.”

  “Oh, please—you must call me Jean-François.”

  “Very well. I’ve, ah, never been here before,” she said, hoping to steer the conversation in a more conventional direction.

  “Where do you dine, if not in the finest establishments?”

  “Well, I dine at home. With my aunt. And I do go to several restaurants in Montparnasse with—”

  “Pah. That ghetto. With my apologies to your aunt’s excellent cook, I fear this means you have not yet experienced the wonders of French haute cuisine.” He snapped his fingers, and a waiter ran in from the corridor.

  “I have decided that we shall both partake of the tasting menu. To begin, I have ordered a bottle of their finest champagne.”

  “Oh, really, there’s no need—”

  “But I insist.”

  Dinner was endless, a parade of increasingly rich dishes that he devoured with great gusto, but which Helena barely touched. The tasting menu, disappointingly, included many of her least favorite foods, and she was simply unable to muster the appetite to eat more than a bite or two of each course. There were jellied langoustine, which looked disconcertingly insectlike, duckling in a viscous orange sauce, lamb’s kidneys, and even frog’s legs.

  She had accepted only one glass of champagne at the beginning of dinner and had refused anything more; by the end of the meal, Jean-François had finished off the bottle, as well as an additional bottle of claret. He stumbled on the way out of the restaurant and had some difficulty in entering the car, but this in no way dampened his enthusiasm for the evening.

  “Let us go to Le Grand Duc in Pigalle. It has the best American jazz music in Paris. After that, we shall go dancing at the Bal Bullier.”

  Although she would much rather have gone home, the prospect of hearing jazz music played live did appeal to her. She’d only ever heard it on gramophone records, and if she were lucky the music would be so loud that she wouldn’t have to make conversation with the man, her store of conversational topics having petered out well before the second course at dinner. Of course, if he’d even once asked about her interests, or work, or friends, they’d have had plenty to talk about.

  At the Grand Duc, they were ushered to a table near the front and provided with yet another bottle of champagne on ice. Helena ignored her glass, knowing it would only make her growing headache worse, and though she asked the waiter for a glass of water it never appeared.

  None of that mattered once the music began. The musicians played without sheet music before them, often at dizzying speeds, and although she didn’t know much about jazz it seemed that they were improvising some of the songs. It was the perfect music for dancing, though she’d no idea how one would dance to it. Perhaps Étienne might be able to show her.

  Jean-François emptied the bottle of champagne at high speed, and thereafter he seemed to grow increasingly annoyed with the music, or perhaps the venue in general. Right in the middle of a song, and in front of the entire audience, he stood and beckoned for her to follow him out.

  “We are going!” he shouted over his shoulder. “I’ve had enough of this degenerate Yankee music.”

  “I thought the musicians were very accomplished,” she said as they got in the car.

  “Pah. What would you know?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He giggled, a ridiculous sound coming from a grown man, and patted her arm in a way she did not appreciate, not one bit. “I do apologize. I meant only that a lady like yourself cannot possibly understand the vulgarity of such music.”

  “I think I should like to go home now,” she said evenly.

  “But the night is young! How can you even think of going to bed before midnight? And surely you do not wish to disappoint me, not after keeping me waiting for so long.” His smile widened into a leer, and a wisp of panic took up residence behind her sternum. In this car she was trapped, for she couldn’t depend on the driver to come to her aid, and d’Albret—she no longer wished to think of him in a friendly fashion—seemed to have abandoned his morals along with his sobriety.

  An idea came to her then, for hadn’t Étienne said he would be at Le Dôme? If she could persuade d’Albret to go there instead of the Bal Bullier, she might enlist her friend’s aid in divesting herself of this disagreeable man. At the very least he could distract d’Albret while she got into a taxi and went home.

  “Very well. But could we go to Le Dôme first? The barman makes the most divine cocktails.”

  “I suppose,” he acceded. “But after that we must go dancing.”

  The café-bar was packed, but Étienne, disappointingly, was nowhere to be seen. It was rather late; perhaps he had already gone home. She would have to sort things out on her own.

  D’Albret led her to a table in the back corner, but rather than sit opposite he squeezed onto the banquette at her side. He pressed against her, his breath hot against her ear, and she had to remind herself that they were in public, in an establishment where she was known, and nothing bad could possibly happen to her so long as she refused to get in his car.

  He was talking again, this time about his plans for a passenger service via airplane between Paris and London. She longed to tell him it was a ridiculous idea, for who on earth would risk their life on an airplane when they could get from one city to the other by ferry and train in less than a day, but she bit her tongue and nodded approvingly.

  Like Étienne, d’Albret was given to talking with his hands. Unlike Étienne, he ha
d a disconcerting way of allowing them to settle on her shoulder or arm, or even, though she brushed them away firmly more than once, on her knee.

  It was unbearable, truly unbearable. She was going to stand up and walk a pace or two away, thank him for a lovely evening, and go; she would hope, in that moment, that he wouldn’t dare to make a scene. Before she could act, however, he whispered something in French that she couldn’t quite make out, seized her chin, and turned her face toward his.

  He was going to kiss her, she knew it, and she pushed against his chest to make him leave off, retreat, but he was surprisingly strong, and his other hand was around her waist, and oh, God, he really was going to press his mouth to hers—

  And then he was gone. She heard, as if from a distance, the sound of chairs tipping over and glass breaking, and then her eyes cleared and it was Sam, right there, and he was the one who had pulled d’Albret away.

  His cheeks flushed, his eyes glinting with murderous intent, Sam twisted d’Albret’s arm behind his back and marched him outside, and she just sat and stared and told herself that she mustn’t be sick, could not be sick, no matter how much her stomach was churning.

  “Come on,” came a voice, and there was Sam again, his arm outstretched, and he led her away and outside to the blessedly cool night. D’Albret had vanished.

  “What did you do? Did you hit him?” she asked, her voice shaking so much she had to force the words past her teeth.

  “No, Ellie, I didn’t hit him. I shoveled him into his car and told him to sleep it off.”

  “Oh. I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “I may also have told him to keep his hands to himself, especially when he’s around a lady. And it’s possible that I also told him to never come near you again. Because if he did, I really would hit him.”

  She was shivering, although her coat was warm enough, and she badly needed to sit down. “How did you know we were here?”

  “Larry Blochman was sitting at the bar. He recognized you, saw you were having trouble with that jackass, and called me at the paper. I got in a taxi and came down here as fast as I could.”

  “Ah. Well. I suppose I should go back to my aunt’s.”

  “You should. Come on—the taxi’s still waiting.”

  They didn’t talk on the way home, and though she longed for him to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right, he kept his silence. Not until they were standing at Agnes’s side door did he speak again.

  “Good night, Helena. Lock the door behind you.”

  “Please don’t be angry,” she implored. “I was about to get up and leave. I wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t have let him kiss me.”

  “What were you thinking? What if he’d assaulted you? A man like that can’t be trusted.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have gone. But he was so persistent, and I’d nothing else to do this evening . . .”

  At last he looked at her, and his face was the picture of torment. Something was tearing him apart, something more than the shock they’d both just endured, but she’d no idea how to help, or what to say. So she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his mouth.

  Before she could pull away, he backed her against the door, his mouth never leaving hers, and his hands went to frame her face, as he’d done the last time he kissed her. Only this kiss was different, it was wild and desperate, and though she wished to comfort him she also wanted more, so she pushed against him and opened her mouth and let his tongue press past her lips and clash against hers.

  “No,” he groaned, and he pulled his mouth away. He took a step back, and his expression was so anguished that her eyes filled with sympathetic tears.

  “What is wrong? Did I do anything wrong? I’m sorry if I was forward. I only meant—”

  “Ellie, you know I care about you. You must know.”

  “I do.”

  “And so what I’m about to say has nothing to do with you. Nothing. You must believe me.”

  “What is it? I told you I’m sorry about tonight.”

  “This isn’t about tonight, and I’m sorry if I was mean to you just now. It wasn’t your fault. I know that.”

  “Then what is the matter?” she asked, hating the piteous tone in her voice.

  “I can’t . . . the thing is, I can’t offer you anything else. Anything more. Not now, at least.”

  “You don’t want me? In that . . . in that way?”

  “Of course I want you. You know I do. But it would be wrong of me to expect anything more, not when I . . . I wish I could explain.”

  “We could be lovers. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.”

  Her words hung in the air between them, as vivid and unsettling as a neon sign. For long seconds Sam just stared at her, his eyes darkening, his face pale but for two flags of color high on his cheekbones. He took a step back, looked down, and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.

  “No,” he said, and he shook his head vehemently. “No. I want to—if you only knew how much. But it wouldn’t be right. It would be the farthest thing from right. I wish there was a way to make you understand.”

  “But I do,” she said, and she did. He desired her, but not enough to act on it. He liked her, but couldn’t conceive of a future with her.

  “I hope you can forgive me,” he said quietly. “I never meant to act like this. I never meant for you to be hurt.”

  “And I’m not,” she insisted, wishing her voice didn’t sound quite so wobbly. “We were friends before, and we’re friends now. That’s all that matters.”

  “Well, then. I guess I had better go. Good night, Ellie.”

  “Good night.”

  She couldn’t bear to watch him walk away, so she went inside and crept into bed, her chest so bound by dread and disbelief that she could scarcely take a breath. Dawn came, and she was still awake, shivering under her eiderdown, her eyes hot with unshed tears, the words of that singular poem beating an endless refrain in her head. I was born to be lonely. I am best so . . .

  They were true, the truest words ever written, for she was alone now, as she had always been, and perhaps, as the poet had said, it was best that she be so.

  PART THREE

  Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

  —Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

  Chapter 22

  Tuesday, 24 February

  Dearest Ellie,

  Wonderful news—I know that in my last letter I complained that there was no hope of my escaping the winter this year, but the Delamere-Strathallans have taken a villa in Biarritz for the season and Violet has invited me to stay! As you know I cannot bear the thought of a sea voyage that lasts one minute longer than necessary, so I shall be taking the train from Paris—and (if I have read the timetables correctly) that means I shall have nearly twenty-four hours in the city to visit with you! I arrive in the early afternoon Tuesday next and depart late the next morning.

  I do realize it is terribly short notice but I am so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your new friends. Do you recall the day we spent together when we were girls, just before my debut? We had such fun—and though I’m rather long in the tooth for such antics it would be so lovely to wander around Paris together and see the sights.

  Do let me know if this is convenable, as the French say—I shall cable you the exact details of my arrival as soon as I hear from you—

  With much love,

  Your devoted sister,

  Amalia

  Helena did recall their long-ago day together. It had been the spring of 1909, a bare month or so before Amalia’s debut, and they’d come to Paris so the final touches might be put on her sister’s gowns for the Season. Their elder sisters, Sophia and Bertha, had made their debuts already and had been duly married off to men who were so little known to Helena that she always had trouble recalling their names. Although Amalia was five years older, they had always been close, and the thought of being left alo
ne in the nursery until her own debut had been weighing upon Helena for some months.

  A day or two before their departure for home, Mama had canceled their engagements, for reasons Helena couldn’t now recall—likely she’d had a headache, or something of the sort. It had been a beautiful day, so bright and warm that it was a shame to stay inside, and Amalia had asked if they might go for a walk with Bessie, their mother’s maid. Rather to their surprise, Mama had agreed, insisting only that they return in time for tea at four o’clock.

  They’d left their hotel on the Place de la Concorde and walked through the Tuileries Gardens, which were pretty but rather dull, and had crossed the Pont Royal and wandered along the banks of the Seine, past the stalls of les bouquinistes, pausing now and then to admire a fine leather binding or, even rarer, a book printed in English.

  She and Amalia had ventured into Notre-Dame, heads thrown back to wonder at the stained glass and ancient stonework, and had even lighted candles at a saint’s statue in a side chapel. She couldn’t recall, now, if she had prayed for anything in particular. Had she known to ask for a reprieve from her sisters’ fate? Probably not; although she’d been sad at Amalia’s imminent departure from home, she’d also been excited at the prospect of her own debut, far-off as it had then been.

  They had gone to a café, or a bistro of some kind, and had eaten croque monsieur sandwiches and crème caramel, and then, though Bessie had protested, saying it was time to be going back to the hotel, they’d walked along the boulevard St.-Michel until they’d encountered the fence that enclosed the Luxembourg Gardens. They’d followed it around, eventually arriving at the entrance by the Musée du Luxembourg, and they’d paid their entrance fee for the museum, wandered through its galleries, and marveled at its astonishingly modern art.

  After an hour, likely more, Amalia had insisted they see the rest of the gardens. There was a carousel, which they’d gone on twice in a row, and a Punch and Judy show, though the puppets were called Guignol and Madelon in French, and an ornamental pond where boys and girls alike played with elaborately rigged toy sailboats.