Belle Epoque (21 page)

“Pardon,”
I say as I clamber over his legs.

The man grunts, then pushes his hat back off his face. “Maude!” he shouts.

I jump back in fright.

It’s Paul, completely drunk and sprawled out on the doorstep. “There you are,” he says, hauling himself to a sitting position, kicking the bottle, which rolls into the gutter with a clink.
“What are you doing?” I say, relieved it’s him. “How did you know where I live?”

He pulls himself to his feet unsteadily. “You said rue Delambre. I asked the concierge at each building from the corner down,” he says.

I sigh. “That will make me popular with the neighbors.”

“You teach your pupil awfully late. I’m a little drunk.” He throws his hand against the door for balance.

“A little?” I shake my head at the state of him. “Let’s get you home. Where do you live?”

He points erratically. “Edgar Quinet,” he slurs. “Not far.”

I sling his right arm over my shoulder and hold him at the waist with my left arm. He leans heavily on me as we weave down the street like a couple of drunken sailors.

“How did you manage to end up so drunk without Claude around?” I ask.

“You took longer than I thought, so I finished the brandy alone.”

“A whole bottle? What were you toasting?”

He waves his free arm theatrically and we nearly topple over. “The end of my music career.”

“Sounds a little premature, don’t you think?” I’m not really taking his ramblings seriously, I’m just trying to keep us upright.

We round the corner onto boulevard Edgar Quinet. I’ve always wondered where he lives. Given how much time he spends at Café Chez Emile, I knew it had to be close by.

We walk with difficulty along the street until he stops abruptly in front of his building. “The keys are in here,” he says,
swiping at his coat, not managing to find the pocket. I fish out the keys to his apartment.

“Maude, I’m a complete failure.” He sways like a poplar in the wind. “Didn’t show up for my audition.”

I’m fumbling with the front door, trying to prop it open and keep him from falling over at the same time. “What audition’s that?”

“The music academy. Why waste their time?”

“Come on.” I gently pull him through the front door and we stagger toward the stairwell. “What floor are you on?”

“I’m on the third,” he slurs. “They would have laughed at my composition. I know it,” he adds loudly.

“Shhh,” I tell him. “You don’t want to wake up the concierge.”

I drag him up the steps in the dim light. “Your career is just beginning. You can audition again.”

“All I do is play popular music in bars. I’ll never be taken seriously.”

“Not with a bottle of brandy in you.”

He mumbles some more but it’s unintelligible. “Come on,” I tell him. “We’re almost there.”

When we finally get to the third floor, I’m out of breath from the effort of acting as a human crutch. I try a few different keys on his chain before I find the right one and push open the door. Finally inside his apartment, Paul stumbles forward and I help him land on the settee. It’s odd to suddenly be standing right in his rooms.

His head lolls back and he blinks heavily. “Sorry for the state of things.”

“It’s fine,” I say, looking around.

The large room is a complete mess of sheet music and used glasses and dirty clothes. A piano stands near the window, dwarfing all the other furniture in the room. I rub my hands together for warmth. I light a paraffin lamp then set about cleaning the grate and building a fire while Paul dozes.

Once the temperature is more bearable, I remove my fur mantle. I pull off Paul’s boots and tease his coat off his shoulders, then cover him with a blanket. His apartment has a proper kitchen area, unlike mine, but there’s nothing to eat and only the dregs of alcohol to drink—save for a tin with some tea. I find the kettle, fill it with water from the pitcher and set it on the stove.

I peer over at Paul. He appears to be dozing now. While I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, I look around the room. Tacked to the walls are photographs, paintings and sketches. It’s strange inspecting someone’s home like this, without their knowledge; like reading their journal, or poking about in their thoughts.

Sheets of music are scattered across the floor—the labors of his compositions, covered with scribbled notations. Is this mess just a symptom of being an artist? I take a seat at the piano; an empty wine bottle sits on the keys. I put it aside and look at the piece of music open in front of me. It has a handwritten title, and I squint at the name: “
La Bretonne
.” My heart quickens. But no, it can’t be connected to me, can it? It must be a coincidence. As if Paul could answer my silent question, I look over at him—he’s fast asleep.

I turn back to the piano and run my finger lightly across the keys without making a sound. What would it feel like to create a melody, to write a symphony—what does it take? A shiver
shoots up my spine and I feel a tug in my gut, a tug of desire. I wish I could try something like this, something creative. The secret belief—the same thing Marie-Josée told me—that I was meant for bigger things flickers across me and vanishes. Who am I fooling with these notions? I can’t play a bar of music on the piano or any other instrument.

The kettle whistles and I go to the kitchen to make tea. I realize Paul isn’t going to wake up anytime soon, so I pour only one cup. I sip my tea by the dull paraffin light, my fur mantle across my lap. Before I leave I write him a note and place it on top of the piano keys, where the wine bottle stood.

I glance again at the composition called
“La Bretonne”
and struggle for some time with the signature—kind but not too forward.

“V
EXED
. I
AM UTTERLY VEXED
.” The countess puts down her coffee cup and looks at me.

The agency carriage just dropped me at the Dubern home, and I have been escorted to the breakfast room—a bright dining room near the conservatory—to wait for Isabelle.

The countess appears to be taking the duke’s trip abroad as a personal insult.

She leans back in her chair, looking sulky. “Why must he leave now, when we were making progress with his affections for Isabelle?”

“Perhaps it was urgent business that took him away from Paris. Maybe it couldn’t be helped?” I shrug.

She looks up at me, still pouting. “Did he say that?”

I shake my head. “No.” I lower my eyes and study her silk dressing gown. It’s embroidered with gold and green birds, and the colored threads gleam in the morning light like precious stones.

The countess picks at a pastry, pulling off tiny flakes. “Didn’t
you witness anything of importance? Surely he would have given some hint of his affections.”

She looks at me intently, desperate to hear something positive, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I search my memory, trying to come up with something, anything, for her to latch on to. “Well, there was one moment—” I stop short.

The countess drops the pastry. “Yes?”

“We were backstage looking at the sets and watching the actors take their places,” I say, then bite my lip.

She leans forward in her chair. “Tell me,” she says, her face looming closer to mine.

I am about to fabricate a story, but I can’t help myself. “A coil of rope fell from a scaffold above Isabelle,” I say. “The duke grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her to safety, clutching her firmly.”

“And?” the countess demands.

I am a barefaced liar, but I continue undeterred. “There was a point when a look passed between them. I could tell it meant something.” As the words leave my lips, I realize that I’m doing more than placating the countess. If I’m not the object of the duke’s affection, why can’t I live my fantasies through someone else, through the girl who’s supposed to be the heroine of the love story?

The countess picks up her coffee cup, satisfaction spreading across her face. “That sounds promising,” she says, then takes a sip. “I think we can be sure that the duke will be thinking about her while he’s away. Perhaps his hasty departure was necessary to wrench himself from her quickly and not prolong the heartache of parting.”

“Yes, that could be it,” I say, shifting in my seat. Did I go too far?

“But the duke is not the only eligible bachelor this season,” says the countess. She taps her nail against the porcelain cup. “There are other suitors I will introduce her to over the next few weeks. The duke shouldn’t become complacent about his position. Perhaps if he hears of her popularity with other contenders, it will urge him to action.”

“Do you mean a proposal?” I ask, inching forward in my chair, eager for details of the love story to unfold.

The countess jumps, her attention drawn to the door. “There you are,
chérie
,” she says as Isabelle walks in.

I feel sheepish when I see Isabelle in person, given what tales I’ve just been telling. But was any real harm done? I’m only keeping the countess happy.

“Are you ready, Maude?” Isabelle smiles at me.

“Yes,” I say all too quickly, rising from my chair. “Goodbye, Madame la Comtesse.”

“Goodbye, Mother,” says Isabelle.

“Amusez-vous bien, mes chéries,”
says the countess with a limp wave.

“You can drop us at the Palais du Trocadéro,” Isabelle tells the driver as we step into the carriage outside the house.

“The countess says you are not to get out and walk, mademoiselle,” says the driver with a shy look, reluctant to meet Isabelle’s eyes.

“Are you going to stop me?” Her tone is harsh, turning her into that girl I met in the hat shop.

The young driver flushes and closes the carriage door behind us.

It annoys me when Isabelle is sharp with the servants. She doesn’t understand that everyone is just doing what they’re told to hang on to their jobs.

As we drive through the different neighborhoods, Isabelle acts as tour guide, pointing out the sights—the church of la Madeleine, the Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde. It’s so much more civilized than sitting wedged between ordinary folk on the omnibus. I don’t have to crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the landmarks or miss out because a hefty passenger is blocking my view.

We alight from the Dubern carriage at the Palais du Trocadéro, just across the river from
le Champ-de-Mars
, the construction site of Eiffel’s tower. The driver helps us unload Isabelle’s photography equipment from the carriage. He gives us a solemn nod and climbs back onto the driver’s seat. “I’ll be right here if you ladies need anything.”

Isabelle is already striding ahead with the camera case and box of plates. I turn to the driver. “Thank you. And please don’t tell the countess we got out of the carriage. We won’t be long.”

He nods in agreement; then I chase after Isabelle, carrying the cumbersome camera stand under my arm. The sky is overcast now, and it’s cold out. A brisk wind whips my skirts and bonnet ribbons.

All around this area construction for the Exposition
Universelle is going on, but it is the iron structure climbing skyward, of triangular shape and lattice framework, that dominates the skyline. I catch up to Isabelle, who has now reached the bridge that leads to the site of the tower.

“This really is the best place to view it in its entirety,” she says. “But we should cross the river and get closer. I want to see right underneath it.”

I look up in wonder at the structure. “This is the first time I’ve seen it up close,” I breathe. “It really is becoming the colossus that everyone’s talking about.”

Isabelle continues marching toward the tower—the equipment doesn’t slow her down any—and I follow her across the bridge.

“The tower is made of iron,” she explains as she walks. “Like Eiffel’s new bridge constructions, because iron is flexible in strong wind.” Her voice is raised against the breeze. “It’s not rigid, like stone,” she calls back.

“A bridge to the sky,” I say, still gazing upward. “What a vision, to build that high.”

“A feat of modern engineering and mathematics,” she replies.

From far away, the tower always looks as though it’s growing taller of its own accord, but up close I see that there must be a hundred men or more at work—some fearlessly climbing, others on scaffolding platforms and a slew on the ground. The four-legged base occupies far more space than I imagine, and the semicircles formed between the legs look like sections of a railway station facing every direction: north, south, east and
west. The tower narrows as it rises, as though reaching for the clouds, its neck craning. It’s a most extraordinary feeling, gazing up at this iron creature, unfinished and headless.

Below the tower is a work site with great piles of material, iron girders, wood scaffolding and even huts for the workers. Isabelle and I pause some twenty meters from the nearest foot of the structure, and Isabelle paces back and forth, looking up at the different views.