I nodded, feeling lost inside.
“Look, I’ll take the porter and find us a hansom. They do have cabs in France, don’t they? We’ll go on to the hotel, and if you don’t give that man a sound scolding, I’ll do it myself.”
She was making a valiant effort, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that Millie suspected the worst, too. The porter spoke little English, and she had a difficult time making him understand that we wanted a cab. I didn’t trust myself to speak to him, afraid that my voice would tremble, that I might actually dissolve into tears. I knew. Already I knew. I had had a premonition the day he told me goodbye. Now, standing on the platform I felt as though I were in a daze, people moving all around me, laughing, talking noisily, jostling each other. An English-speaking conductor stopped to ask me if I was all right. I smiled at him and nodded my head. He gave me a doubtful look and moved on. Another train left the station, wheels making a deafening metallic clatter, clouds of smoke filling the air and rising to the top of the vast domed enclosure. I smiled again, for no reason, and the smile was still on my lips when Millie returned.
“Come along, luv. A cab’s waiting.”
I moved along beside her past newspaper kiosks and stalls where candy, fruit, and all manner of tempting morsels were sold. A heavy stream of people poured out the great arched doorway ahead of us.
“I had a devil of a time making the cabbie understand me,” Millie said brightly. “He just stared at me as though I were an idiot, and then he began to jabber. The porter wasn’t any help at all. He began to jabber, too. I can’t say I’m overly fond of the French!”
The sky was a darkening gray as we stepped outside. Millie helped me into the cab and repeated the name of our hotel to the driver. A moment later we were on our way, moving down a crowded boulevard lined with elegant shops. A soft blue haze thickened in the air as night drew nearer. Turning a corner, we drove past outdoor cafes where lights were already beginning to glow. The sky was violet-gray now, the haze thicker, and I saw that the chestnut trees were in blossom. The beauty of the city was a part of the dream, vague, unreal, a luminous illusion. Millie no longer made an effort to reassure me. She was silent and her expression was one of grim determination.
“Here we are,” she said as the cab stopped.
Climbing out, she gave me her hand to help me alight. The horses stood restlessly at the curb. The cabbie leaped down and began to speak so fast that I hadn’t the least idea what he was saying. The doorman came to our rescue. He paid the cabbie, collected our bags and handed them to the boy in a red jacket who rushed out to help him. The hotel was sumptuous, white and elegant in the deepening twilight. The lobby was done in shades of blue and ivory, dark mahogany gleaming with a rich luster, polished brass shining like dull gold.
At least, our trunks had arrived the day before, and our rooms were ready. Anthony wasn’t registered. The boy in the red jacket led us up the grand staircase and along a hall on the second floor, opening the door to a spacious suite with lamps already glowing. I saw the letter propped up on top of the mantel almost immediately. Millie saw it, too. The boy put the bags down and told us that Millie’s room was at the end of the hall.
“I’ll stay here with you for a while,” she said.
“No, Millie. You go on.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be all right,” I told her.
She and the boy left, and I stood there for several minutes gazing at the creamy, heavily embossed envelope, delaying the pain. When I finally opened it, my hand was steady. Several pound notes fluttered to the floor as I pulled out the letter. It was written on the hotel stationery and was very short. Anthony came right to the point.
Elena,
The money in this envelope is all that’s left. There’s almost eighty pounds. That should take care of your immediate needs. The railroad shares were fraudulent. I was royally taken in, duped like a greenhorn fresh from the country. I’ve failed you. I don’t know what to say except that I’m sorry.
I came to Paris hoping to arrange the tour before you arrived. That fell through, too. You’ll find someone else to set things up for you. You don’t need me any more, and I know that under the circumstances you won’t want me hanging about, messing things up for you even more. So, I’m bowing out. I don’t know where I’ll go or what I’ll do, but I hope someday to be able to make this up to you.
Anthony
I read the letter over again, and then I folded it up and put it back on the mantel. Moving to the window. I gazed down at the park across the way. It was brightly lighted, and couples strolled to and fro beneath trees with fragile green leaves, moving past ponds and white marble fountains. As one couple paused beside the jets of dancing water, the man took the girl into his arms and kissed her tenderly. Her dress of a pale, soft pink fluttered in the breeze. I watched, the pain sweeping over me, and at last I turned away.
He was gone. The money wasn’t important. I could make more money. Anthony was gone. In a very special way, I had loved him, and now he had left me and I was alone again, just as I had been when Brence deserted me. The anguish was the same, the sense of loss almost as great. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. The tears were locked up inside. It would have been so much easier if I could have cried, if I could have been angry, but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do but accept the facts and pray for strength. I was going to need all I could muster.
XXI
Dumas helped me out of the carriage and escorted me up the steps, holding my elbow tightly as though he expected me to break loose and flee. A servant showed us into an elegant foyer with dull red walls and a rich blue carpet. Dumas let go of my arm, whipped off his top hat, removed his cape, and handed both to the servant. He wore a suit of tobacco-brown broadcloth, the jacket with flaring tails and dark brown velvet lapels. His waistcoat was burnt orange satin embroidered with dark brown flowers, his neckcloth a vivid orange silk. His mood was decidedly playful.
“Confess now, aren’t you glad you came?”
“Not at all,” I said testily.
“I couldn’t let you sit there in your room, pining away.”
“I wasn’t pining.”
“Mooning, then. I’ve never seen such pale cheeks, such forlorn eyes. So your lover absconded, left you flat and flat broke? That’s no reason to fret. You’re the most beautiful woman in Paris, and Paris is eager to welcome you. George insisted I bring you. She’d have been after me with a carving knife if I had come alone.”
I hadn’t wanted to come, but Dumas had insisted, refusing to take no for an answer, practically abducting me. I was still very unsure of myself and not ready to face people. Four days had passed since I read Anthony’s letter. They had been four of the worst days in my life. A strange lethargy had possessed me, and I had been unable to shake it, even though I knew I should be out seeing theatrical managers about an engagement. Then Dumas had come bursting into my suite like a force of nature, impossible to resist.
“Cheer up, little sparrow,” he said. “You’re going to have a grand time.”
“I doubt it.”
“A profitable one, then. Gautier will be here. He’s with La Presse, their drama-critic. He’ll shout your presence in Paris from the rooftops. Once they know you’re here, the theatrical managers’ll storm your hotel the way the peasants stormed the Bastille.”
“I’m really not in the mood to meet people.”
“You’ll feel better in a little while,” he promised. “A few glasses of George’s champagne and you’ll feel marvelous. Come along, let’s go set them on their ears.”
“Let me check my hair first.”
Stepping up to the mirror, I examined myself in the glass. My gown was a heavy, cream-colored satin with large puffed sleeves, a low, form-fitting bodice, and a skirt that belled out in lush, creamy folds. My shoulders were bare, as was a goodly portion of my bosom, and my makeup was subdued, just a touch of pink on my lips, a suggestion of blue-gray shadow on my lids.
My hair was pulled back sleekly and worn in a French roll on the back of my head, my only ornament a large pink camellia fastened over my right temple. My cheeks were indeed pale, my eyes a dark, sad blue.
“You look gorgeous,” Dumas informed me. “It is a pity you’ve decided ours must be a platonic relationship. Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Quite sure.”
He sighed and shrugged. “That is just as well, I suppose. Overly intelligent women aren’t really my style. Too much talk, too little sport. Friendship will be refreshing, for a change. Are you through primping?”
Voices and laughter could be heard coming from the end of the foyer. Dumas clamped his huge hand around my elbow again and propelled me toward the sounds. A moment later we entered a drawing room that glowed with color, rugs a warm red and blue, beige walls, elegant hangings in deep gold. At least thirty people milled about, most of the men in dark formal attire, the women beautifully gowned, all of them talking with great animation. A woman in black velvet hurried over to us, a radiant smile on her lips.
“You did bring her!” she exclaimed in French.
“Have I ever failed you?”
“Far too many times for me to remember, you great lout. Run along now. Elena and I have things to talk about.”
“Is there food?”
“Mountains of food, twice as much as I usually have. I knew you were coming. Wait until you taste the pate. It’s exquisite.”
Dumas bowed obligingly and made his way through the crowd toward the buffet tables, patting many a female bottom along the way. The woman in black velvet took both my hands in hers and squeezed tightly.
“I’m George Sand, my dear. I’ve been so eager to meet you.”
I was at a loss for words. George Sand was already a legend, a notorious creature who was said to dress in male attire, smoke cigars in public, and sweep up any man who struck her fancy. Her real name was Aurore Dudevant, and she had left husband and children to live with young Jules Sandeau in a garret, in order to write novels with him. She used part of his name as her pseudonym, but eventually abandoned him, to have a short-lived but blazing affair with the arrogant and sensual Octave Merimee. She’d left him for the poet Alfred de Musset, whom she was said to have destroyed. And for the past several years she had been living with Frédéric Chopin, the ailing composer over whom she was rumored to have a demonic hold.
The woman who squeezed my hands exuded an overwhelming warmth and seemed to glow with serenity. Middle-aged, slightly plump, she had long raven-black hair, a smooth, pale complexion, and enormous brown eyes that were luminous and lovely. She looked like an amiable, kind-hearted matron, and I found it impossible to associate her with the coarse, heartless, masculine creature I had read about who preyed upon younger men and flaunted every convention with arrogant disdain.
“You seem bewildered,” she said.
“You—you’re not what I expected.”
“You’ve read about me, I see.”
I nodded. “You’re very famous.”
“So are you, ma petite, and you’re not what I expected, either. You’re much younger, for one thing, and there’s a vulnerable quality that doesn’t at all suit the flamboyant, mercenary Elena Lopez.”
“Elena Lopez was created by the press.”
“So was George Sand,” she said. She gave a soft, melodic laugh and squeezed my hands again. “It’s a man’s world, Elena, and any woman who succeeds in it must of necessity be some kind of freak. How else explain our success?”
“I’ve read all your books.”
“And did you like them?”
“They seemed to have been written especially for me. They expressed ideas and emotions and longings I thought were mine alone. I suppose you could say they gave me strength. I was always different, you see. I always wanted … something more. I could identify completely with your heroines.”
“My dear, you have won my heart already! We’re going to be tremendous friends. We’re sisters under the skin. Come, let me get you some champagne. How on earth did you get involved with the noisy Dumas?”
“We met crossing the Channel.”
“And he promptly tried to bed you,” she said, leading me across the room.
“Within five minutes after we met.”
She laughed again. “That’s Dumas! I adore him. He has a heart of gold, you know, as well as a notorious reputation. Generous to a fault, our Alexandre, a rousing scamp who has an incredible facility for rousing fiction.”
Handing me a glass of champagne, she took one herself and sipped it slowly, a pensive look in those lovely brown eyes. I sensed a vast reserve of strength in this woman, and great sadness, too. She had carved a permanent place for herself in literature, but I suspected that the cost had been extremely high in terms of personal happiness. I had heard that her affair with Chopin was going badly, that the two were on the verge of permanent separation. Was that the reason for the pensive look, the sad half smile on her lips?
Taking another sip of champagne, she sighed softly and then set her glass down. She smiled brightly again, leaving that unguarded moment behind her. I was glad it had happened, because I felt I knew her better for it.
“All these people,” she said, making a futile gesture. “I adore each and every one of them, but it is impossible to have a really significant conversation in this crush. I want us to talk and talk and talk, Elena. I want us to become real friends.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“At the moment, I must play hostess. A bore, believe me. I don’t know why I have these soirées. Ah, there’s Lamennais. He’s an unfrocked priest, and he’s been telling me the most interesting things about ecclesiastical authority. He advocates the most astounding reforms. I really must go greet him.”
“Please do.”
A slender, impeccably dressed man with short, tightly curled hair and rather malicious eyes walked past, and George reached out and seized his arm.
“Here’s Eugène. He’ll keep you company. Eugène, this is Elena Lopez, the celebrated dancer. You’ve read about her in all the papers.”
“I certainly have,” he said. “I also saw her dance when I was in London last year.”
“Elena, Eugène Sue. His Mysteries of Paris was a tremendous success, and his new novel, The Wandering Jew, is causing a sensation. He knows the underworld of Paris as intimately as he knows the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He’ll keep you entertained.”
Sue executed a deep bow, his thin lips curling in a wry smile. “I’ll certainly try,” he said.
“He’s an incorrigible gossip,” George warned, “one of the reasons I’m so fond of him. Believe only half of what he tells you. I must go speak to Lamennais. We will have to have a cozy visit soon, my dear, just the two of us.”
She hurried off to greet the priest, and Eugène Sue cocked an eyebrow, the wry smile flickering again as he watched her go.
“That man will be the ruination of her, filling her head with all kinds of political nonsense. He’ll have her out demonstrating in the streets before it’s all over with. George is so susceptible, a revolutionary at heart. She’d like to reform the whole world.” He paused and turned to me. “Have you been in Paris long?”
“Only a few days.”
“You came with Dumas tonight, I notice. How like him to find you first. He’s an amazing fellow. I can’t say that I like his books—his plays, either, for that matter, but then thundering melodrama isn’t my sort of thing. Have you met his wife?”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
“Dumas is extremely casual about it. Ida Ferrier was an actress with an astonishing lack of talent and no particular beauty, but her father was a broker to whom Dumas owed quite a lot of money. In order to avoid going to debtors’ prison, he married the wench. I understand that soon afterwards he arrived home unexpectedly, strolled into the bedroom, and found one of his best friends making passionate love to the lady in question. He stared at the two of them for a moment
and then shook his head in amazement. ‘Good Heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘And he isn’t even obliged to!’”
For the next few minutes Sue continued in the same vein, pointing out guests, identifying them and relating anecdotes about each. He was amusing, malicious, and amazingly well-informed. Word had gotten around who I was, and people were beginning to stare, the men with considerable interest, the women with scarcely veiled hostility. My reputation had preceded me. Elena Lopez was almost as famous in France as she was in England, and even in this gathering of celebrated literary and artistic figures I was receiving far more attention than anyone else. I was relieved when Dumas came over to us, a glass of wine in each hand.
“You’ve monopolized her long enough, Sue!” he announced, handing me the wine. “I hope you haven’t been telling her a raft of lies. Come along, Elena. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Nodding to Eugène Sue, I followed Dumas toward the buffet tables, while everyone in the room watched. Several men smiled at me. One of them bowed. Dumas wore a broad smile, enjoying every minute of it.
“You’re creating a sensation,” he informed me. “I haven’t seen anything like it since Rachel first took Paris by storm. They’re all buzzing about you, you know. There’s not a man here who isn’t dying to meet you.”
“Ah, yes, how tiresome.”
“It’s the price of fame,” he said cheerfully. “I’m upset if they don’t stare. By the way, how’s that little companion of yours?”
“Millie? She’s fine.”
“I’ll wager she’s not mooning. No doubt half a dozen men are trailing after her already. She is a tasty little minx, deliciously put together. I just might investigate, if you have no objections.”
“I don’t. Millie may.”
Dumas guffawed, finished his wine, set the empty glass down on a table and led me over to an artistic-looking man with long brown hair, soulful eyes and a surprisingly mischievous smile. He wore a dark gray suit, white silk neckcloth, and an exceedingly vivid crimson waistcoat.
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