Talk at the table was strained, though Agnes and the Murphys did their best to carry things along. Discussion turned first to Mr. Fitzgerald’s work, for his third novel had just been published.
“Scott’s first two books were grand successes,” Sara explained to Helena and Agnes. “We’re all quite certain The Great Gatsby will be, too.”
At this Mrs. Fitzgerald giggled, or perhaps it was only a hiccup. “Everything Scott touches turns to gold. Doesn’t it, honey?” She drained the last of her cocktail and set the empty glass on the table. Her pretty face was shiny with perspiration, and she had begun to handle her cutlery and the stem of her cocktail glass with exaggerated care.
Mr. Fitzgerald’s face reddened, but Sara spoke before he could answer. “How is your Scottie liking Paris? You would love the child, Helena. Such a dear little thing. Not even four and she knows her entire alphabet forwards and backwards. She’s even learning to speak French.”
“I hate Nanny,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, her expression grim. “And she hates me, too—I know it. I hardly see Scottie anymore. Whenever I pop into the nursery, that woman tells me they’re busy with lessons, or playtime, or mealtime, or naptime.”
“Now, come on, Zelda,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “You know we agreed that a settled routine is best for Scottie.”
“Yes, and where does that leave me?”
“If you ever thought of anyone apart from yourself, for one single second of the day, you’d admit that Nanny is right. The world doesn’t revolve around you—”
“So says the great man of letters. The saving grace of American literature.”
“Now, Zelda,” Sara interjected, “you haven’t told us what you’re wearing to the ball. Have you something fun planned?”
“We’re not going,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered, his voice sharpening to a sneer. “Zelda’s too tired.”
“It’s too late to change our minds. We’d be the only ones there without costumes,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said evenly, her eyes fixed on a point at the far side of the restaurant.
“Gerald and Sara don’t have costumes,” he countered.
“We’re actually planning on changing. Just so you know,” Sara said mildly.
“And we’ve been out every night this week already. Can’t we just have a quiet evening at home?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, her voice beginning to quaver. “Just the two of us?”
Mr. Fitzgerald glared at his wife, the air between them fairly simmering, before he stood up so abruptly that his chair tipped over. “I’m going for a walk.”
“I had better go,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, and she hurriedly kissed Sara goodnight before rushing after her husband. Together, nearly embracing, they gingerly negotiated the distance between the table and restaurant entrance, and as they vanished from sight Mrs. Fitzgerald began to cry.
“Well,” Sara said presently. “I do apologize. Poor Zelda has been feeling a little lonely, what with Scott being so preoccupied with the new book, and Nanny being so zealous in her care of the child.”
“They weren’t at their best tonight,” Gerald agreed.
“When are they ever at their best?” Agnes said abruptly. “This is the third time I’ve met them, and it’s always the same. He ends up sodden with drink, she’s miserable because of it, and the evening ends in tears. So undignified.”
“Agnes is right,” said Gerald. “I like them—how can you not like them?—but they do have a way of wearing you down.”
“I know,” said Sara, “but they’re so young, and—”
“Remember how they woke us all up, even the children, in St.-Cloud last spring? That’s what I mean.”
Sara sighed, remembering. “We scarcely knew them—I think we’d met them once or twice before, but that was all. And then one night—”
“One morning,” Gerald corrected.
“One morning, it must have been three o’clock at least, there they were, in our garden, tossing pebbles at the bedroom windows and shouting at us to come down, come let them in. Come get dressed and go out with them. And something about their being booked to sail on the Lusitania? So silly. Of course it woke the children, and all the servants, and then the dogs started barking . . .”
“I’ve known people like that before,” Agnes said, her expression suddenly grave. “Always their own worst enemies.”
“Who, Auntie A?”
“Dimitri’s relations. And look what happened to them. First against the wall when the revolution came.”
AS DINNER CAME to an end, the Fitzgeralds still hadn’t reappeared, and Gerald declared himself tired of waiting.
“We’re off home to change. We’ll see you there.”
It was a short ride to the Théâtre de la Cigale in Pigalle, where the ball was being held. Neither of them spoke much on the fifteen-minute journey, and Helena could only suppose that her aunt was, like her, feeling a little exhausted by the Fitzgeralds’ carryings-on at dinner. It had been a strange, somewhat fractured evening so far, and she could only hope it improved once they arrived at the theater.
Helena hadn’t thought to ask Agnes who was hosting the ball—it wasn’t the Comte de Beaumont, who was known for the extravagance of his parties, and it wasn’t any of the other artistic or literary luminaries in her aunt’s circle. She didn’t recognize anyone in the crowd that was milling about the entrance, and compared to Agnes’s usual set of friends it seemed rather a young crowd.
Very likely it was a student ball, then, for that would explain the incredibly risqué costumes on many of the guests. One young woman who passed by, shivering, was naked apart from a layer of gold paint and a few strategically placed feathers.
Without quite meaning to, Helena found herself separated from her aunt, but there weren’t so many guests that she’d never be able to find her again. Instead she wandered around the theater, which had been cleared of seats for the occasion, and discovered Étienne and Mathilde in a matter of minutes. Étienne was dressed as the Sun King, Louis Quatorze, and looked terribly handsome in his golden suit and powdered wig.
“Where on earth did you get that costume?”
“I’ve a friend who’s a dresser at the Opéra. Isn’t it perfect?”
“It is. I especially like the—”
The compliment died on her lips, for just then, at the very periphery of her vision, she caught sight of a flash of auburn hair. She turned her head, and her heart stuttered in recognition.
It was Sam, wearing his ordinary clothes, without even a mask or funny hat to offer the appearance of fitting in. Sam, standing with strangers, one of them a young and fashionably dressed woman. She was laughing at something he’d said, her hand clutching at his jacket sleeve, and though her eyes were hidden by a silly little mask Helena could tell the girl was gazing up at him adoringly.
Of course it was no business of hers that he was here. There was no reason, even, for their paths to cross. He had his friends, and she had hers. She would not allow herself to be jealous of the woman who stood at his side and touched his arm in such a familiar, knowing way.
“Will you dance with me?” she asked Étienne, and he took her by the hand and led her to the front of the theater. Onstage, a band was playing American jazz music, and though the rhythm was infectious the dance itself was unfamiliar to her.
“It’s the Charleston!” Étienne shouted in her ear. “I’ll show you what to do!”
He took her left hand in his and set his left hand at her back, and then he showed her how to step back and forth, then kick from side to side, then pull away so their arms were outstretched and there was room enough for diagonal kicks between them. All this was accomplished lightly and speedily, with turns at each rotation, and in no time at all she had mastered the basic steps and was dancing as gaily as anyone else there.
They danced for ages, song after song after song, stopping only when the band announced they were taking a break. Mathilde had gone off with someone she knew from the École des Beaux-Arts, so Helena was alone, waiting for Ét
ienne to return with some drinks, when Sam came over and sat next to her.
“Hello,” she said, and offered a careful smile. “I hadn’t realized you were coming. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested.”
“I’m not, to be honest. I got strong-armed into it by a friend at work. His wife’s younger sister is visiting, so they asked me to keep her company.”
“Ah,” Helena said. “Are you having a good time?” Of course she didn’t really care, but it was polite to ask.
“Not really. She’s a nice enough girl but dull as . . . well, you know. Dull as a twenty-two-year-old from the Midwest, I guess you could say.”
She thought, but was too well-bred to say, that such a girl was exactly what he deserved. A dull, dutiful, and obedient girl who would never ask him questions or push at him or expect anything more than dinner and a chaste kiss at the door.
“I miss you,” he said. “I feel as if we never see one another anymore.”
She wouldn’t look up. Couldn’t, else risk him seeing, and understanding, everything. So she inspected the flaking paint on her frock and then, once she could be certain her voice was steady, she answered. “I’ve been busy with school. Preparing my work for the Salon des Indépendants.”
“When is it?”
“The vernissage is next Saturday,” she said evenly.
She waited for him to say he would be there, or that he should have liked to be there but was busy with work or some other obligation, but he remained silent.
Étienne reappeared just then, fortunately with a tall glass of seltzer for her, and he and Sam shook hands and greeted one another warmly. She gulped nearly all of it down, then, feeling much restored, resolved that she would dance some more.
“Étienne and I are off to dance again,” she announced.
“And I had better get back to my friends.” With this he bent his head, kissed her cheek quickly, and disappeared into the crowd.
She spent the rest of the evening dancing with Étienne’s friends, with men she knew from the academy, and even with a few strangers. Every time she looked over their shoulders, her eyes searching the room, she found Sam, and his gaze was invariably fixed on her.
She danced and danced, and then, not long after midnight, the instep strap broke on her left shoe. Étienne and Mathilde were set on staying, so she wished them good night and went in search of her aunt. She found Agnes sitting with the Murphys, who were dressed as South American deities; Gerald told her the names, which contained an alarming number of consonants, and which she promptly forgot.
“Would you mind if we went home?” she asked Agnes. “The strap on my shoe is broken, and I’m feeling quite tired.”
“Of course we can go. Did you say good night to Sam? I saw you talking with him earlier.”
“No . . . he was busy with his friends.”
As they departed, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder one last time. He was watching her, just as he’d done all evening, but rather than wave good-bye she turned her back and followed Agnes into the night.
Chapter 26
Later, when the ordeal of the opening reception was done and she could think clearly again, she’d feel badly about the lie she was about to tell her aunt. But not today.
“Étienne is feeling nervous about the vernissage,” she announced as she and Agnes were finishing their lunch. “I told him I’d go over with him a little early. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. What time do you want me there?”
“The invitations say six o’clock, but no one is ever on time for these things. Any time after that is fine.”
“You and Étienne will take a taxi? Promise?”
“I promise.”
They would do nothing of the sort, for Étienne was God only knew where, and she was going to make the journey on the Métro, contrary to her aunt’s wishes. If the Salon des Indépendants weren’t being held at such a distance from the city center she’d have happily walked, or even taken a taxi. Most years it took place at the Grand Palais, but this spring it was being held at the Palais de Bois, a good three and a half miles distant.
On any other day, she’d have been happy to make the journey with Agnes, but her aunt was so transparently delighted by Helena’s inclusion in the Salon that she all but burst into applause every time their paths crossed. It didn’t matter that the Salon was a nonjuried exhibition that anyone might enter; simply the fact that Helena’s painting would be seen alongside the works of established artists was enough to delight Agnes’s generous heart.
The afternoon crept by in glacial fashion, with little for Helena to do beyond fret and pace. At four o’clock she began to get ready, and by half past four she was ready to depart.
As she said good-bye to Agnes and walked north across the Pont Louis-Philippe, Helena found herself wishing that she had planned to meet up with Étienne or Mathilde, for they would understand and likely be just as nervous, too. It was too late for a change of plans, however, for she’d no idea where either friend was that afternoon. There was nothing for it but to get on the Métro and see for herself where her painting had ended up.
Helena had never been on the Paris underground trains, but as a frequent tram rider she had a good idea of what was expected. The station entrance was only a few minutes’ walk away, its distinctive Art Nouveau canopy and sign quite impossible to miss. She sprung for a first-class ticket, which was ten centimes dearer than a second-class fare, and descended to the westbound platform.
The Metro didn’t seem terribly different from the Underground back home, which she’d used often; her parents hadn’t minded, just as long as she’d had a footman or maid with her. Nearly every wall was tiled in white, which helped to brighten the dimly lit halls and corridors, and scores of eye-catching advertising posters lined both sides of the platform.
She didn’t have long to wait for a train, and though it was near the end of the workday and the second-class carriages were becoming crowded, there were plenty of empty seats in the first-class carriage she boarded. It was odd to sit by a window and see only darkness beyond, and if she were bothered by enclosed spaces it might have been disturbing; as it was, the relative quiet and solitude of her journey was exactly what she needed.
Porte Maillot was at the end of the line, at the border between Paris proper and Neuilly-sur-Seine, and the station was all but empty as she climbed the stairs to the exit. Blinking a little in the late afternoon sun, she looked around, trying to find her bearings, and then descended again to the ticket hall to ask for directions to the Palais de Bois.
Fortunately it wasn’t far, just a short walk across the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, and as the afternoon was warm and sunny this final part of her journey helped to further steady her nerves.
She’d been furnished with one ticket by virtue of her membership in the Société des Artistes Indépendants, the only prerequisite for inclusion in the Salon, and this she handed to a waiting attendant in return for the exhibition catalog.
Pausing just inside the entrance, she searched through the catalog for her name, an easy enough task given that artists were listed alphabetically by surname. She found it on page 242.
Parr (Helena), née à Londres (Angleterre)—Anglaise—51, quai de Bourbon, 4e.
2602—Femme de fermier—600 fr.
It was far from her best work, and she knew it, but it was too late to change her mind. At least Maître Czerny had deemed one of her paintings good enough for inclusion in the Salon, and she could now say she’d had her work displayed at an exhibition in Paris. That was something, after all.
The one other time she’d seen her name in print had been the announcement of her engagement in the Times more than a decade before. It was strange and wonderful to read her name, her true artist’s identity and not the triple-barreled dynastic surname she’d always thought rather pretentious, and below it to see the title of a painting that she had created—and even a price. Six hundred francs was a great deal of money for a work
by a totally unknown artist, but perhaps someone, apart from Aunt Agnes, might like the portrait enough to buy it.
She edged a little farther into the exhibition hall, rather surprised at how modest it was compared to the luxuriously decorated Grand Palais, where the Salon had been held the year before. The building had the air of something temporary, and while she was uncertain of its history it felt rather like a remnant of a past exposition or world’s fair.
Approaching an interior wall, she was surprised to discover that it consisted of nothing more than a wooden frame covered in burlap. The light was wonderful, however, with many clerestory windows and skylights, and the paintings had been arranged sensitively, with a reasonable amount of space between the canvases.
It came as no surprise when, upon entering the first large room of the exhibition, she found her own face staring back at her. Étienne’s portrait of La femme dorée had been given a wall of its own, and as it was by far the largest canvas in the room, and arguably the most striking, it was attracting a great deal of attention.
She came a little closer, but rather than push to the front, to stand by her friend, she hovered at the edge of the crowd, a little nervous that someone would recognize her as Étienne’s model. But no one made the connection, much to her relief, not even when Étienne beckoned her to his side.
He had never looked more handsome, or more happy, and she prayed that tonight would be the moment when her friend received the acclaim he was due. A glass of champagne in his hand, a half-wilted gardenia in his buttonhole, he embraced her dramatically and managed to spill most of his drink down the front of her frock.
“Désolé, ma belle—but it is champagne, and champagne never leaves a stain.”
“I’m so proud of you. Just look at the admirers. People are standing ten deep to catch a glimpse of the extraordinary portrait by Étienne Moreau.”
“I disagree—it is you they have come to see. The most beautiful woman at this exhibition. Have you found your painting yet?” he asked.
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