‘I love this damned place, by God I do – but I think it’s heading for trouble. It’s like a powder keg just waiting for the match. La Pavia wears a million francs worth of jewels on a single dress while men, women and children die in poverty outside her door. Half the city’s been torn down to make way for Haussmann’s boulevards – for shops, and gardens and homes for the rich. And the displaced poor have nowhere but the gutter to lay their heads. The whores of the rich feed their cats on caviare while the children of the poor starve.’ He tossed back the contents of his glass, shook his head. ‘It can’t last.’
‘But isn’t it like that everywhere? Hasn’t it always been?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You honestly think there’ll be revolution in Paris again?’
He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘What would you do?’
He appeared to consider the question seriously. ‘Sit here, drink absinthe and watch,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘And paint pictures of it of course.’
‘Of course. Which reminds me – you’ll be going to the Exhibition, won’t you?’ ’
‘Oh yes, as soon as I can.’ It was time to go. She reached for her gloves, stood up.
He took her arm to escort her through the crowded bar. ‘Let me know when. I’ll introduce you to my own little corner of it.’
She turned to stare at him. ‘You’re exhibiting? At the Exhibition?’
He grinned, tousled his hair in that boyish gesture she so well remembered. ‘Hardly. The Establishment hasn’t softened to that extent! No—’ He pushed open the swing door, stood back for her to pass through it. Joining her on the pavement he tucked her arm into his. At their feet a man worked with pastel chalks upon a paving stone, creating a masterpiece that would be washed out by the first shower of rain. ‘Have you heard of something called the Salon des Refusées?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I have. Charles mentioned them. A group of artists, weren’t they, who set up their own exhibition when the Salon refused to exhibit them? Didn’t the Emperor give them some money or something?’
‘That’s right. Well – that same group is setting up a salon outside the main Exhibition. Manet already has his own pavilion. So has Le Courbet. A group of us, not so well known, have decided to do the same. Who knows?’ He winked down at her, laughing. ‘I might even sell something. And if I do—’ He caught her elbow and swept her across the busy street at peril to both their lives. ‘We’ll drink our next absinthe at the Maison Dorée, and that’s a promise!’
* * *
On the first of April 1867, in inclement weather, the Great International Exhibition of Paris opened its doors to an enthralled world that found beyond the Grand Entrance of the great glass and iron structure that had blossomed on the Champ de Mars on the Left Bank of the Seine a wonderland of the arts, the sciences and of modem technology. There were exhibits from all over the world – everyone, from France’s close neighbours Britain and Germany to the far-flung countries of Japan and China, had contributed something of their art, their culture, their way of life. There were gardens from Persia, a Chinese tea kiosk, a fire engine from Turkey. There were machines that wove cloth, that made hats, gloves, shoes – indeed it seemed that for every human requirement there must surely in the vast sprawl of kiosks, pavilions and mock factories be a machine. The Americans, their young giant of a nation struggling to recover from the civil war that had so recently devastated it, sent amongst other things a complete field service, or ‘ambulance’ as it was coming to be called – an exhibit that aroused at the time little or no interest. The Prussians, on the other hand, were presented with an award for their prize exhibit – the biggest object the world had ever seen; Herr Krupp’s gigantic fifty-ton gun was capable of firing a shell that in itself weighed as much as two small cannon. The Parisians smiled politely, yawned behind their hands, unsurprised that their bombastically militaristic neighbours had produced something of such little taste, and moved on.
On that same day Kitty Daniels’ first performance in Paris was received rapturously by the first-night audience of the Moulin d’Or. Within twenty-four hours all Paris was talking of her; it was fashionable to be English, and Kitty was English; it was even more fashionable to be novel, and in her dashing masculine clothes, with her boyish long-legged figure and her swinging short hair she was certainly that. There was not a ticket for her performance to be had in all of Paris. Charles was ecstatic, Genevieve complacently pleased. Kitty was quite simply astonished – astonished, and of course delighted. The hard work had paid off, she was a success. For now she could stop thinking about a future that to her at that moment seemed so unclear that she could neither plan nor worry. For a few short weeks she could drift on the tide of this happy success. Then she would see.
As she had promised, she visited Jem and his friends in their cramped little pavilion on the Avenue Bosquet. She came to them straight from the main Exhibition, the scale and splendour of which had stunned her.
‘Have you seen it?’ She had thrown herself into the proffered chair and kicked off her shoes, wincing as she wriggled her cramped, silk-clad toes. ‘It’s the most fantastic thing I’ve ever seen! There’s food and drink from just about every country in the world! And there are factories, and houses – and the Kaiser’s sent the most enormous gun—’ She stopped for breath. Jem was openly laughing at her. She pulled a childish face at him. ‘And I’m going up in one of M’sieu Nadar’s balloons if it’s the last thing I do! They say you can see the whole of Paris—’
Jem sketched a small, gallant bow. ‘From what I hear, Mam’selle, the whole of Paris is queuing to see you!’
‘Oh, nonsense!’ But she was pleased, and he could see it, and they smiled at each other in friendship.
She glanced around the crowded little room. ‘God, I’m tired! My poor feet are—’ She stopped, ‘Jem! Did you do that?’
Lucette looked down from the canvas, vibrant and full of life, love in her slanting eyes and the sweet curve of her mouth.
‘You like it?’
‘Oh, it’s lovely! It’s every bit as good as those pictures you showed me the other day – the ones by that famous friend of yours—’
He laughed. ‘My dear Kitty – that famous friend was Claude Monet, and whilst I appreciate the compliment I doubt its foundation in truth. But I’m glad you like the picture.’ He grinned, mischievously. ‘You wouldn’t like to buy it, would you? Only a hundred francs—’ He had shaved and trimmed his hair. The few good meals to which she had managed to treat him and the silent Lucette over the past few days showed in his face.
She did not reply for a moment. She stood, looking thoughtfully at the picture, the germ of an idea moving in her mind. ‘I might at that,’ she said, lightly. ‘I’ll see.’
Returning to the apartment in the Rue de Rivoli an hour or so later, she hurried to Genevieve’s elegant sitting room. ‘Is Charles around? There’s something important I’d like him to do for me.’
Genevieve, rising, kissed her lightly on both cheeks. ‘Sit down, chérie. Charles will be back soon. And I’m perfectly sure he will do anything you ask. And when you look at this’ – she waved the piece of paper she had been reading when Kitty had entered the room – ‘then you’ll see why.’
‘What is it?’
Genevieve pulled a pretty, provocative face. ‘Guess.’
Kitty dropped her shawl onto a chair, slipped her foot from her shoe and bent to massage a blistered heel. ‘I can’t. Tell me.’
Genevieve, making the most of her secret, struck an imperious pose. ‘You’ve heard of course that His Imperial Highness the Czar of All the Russias is visiting our small Exhibition?’
‘Of course.’ Kitty divested herself of her other shoe.
Genevieve said nothing, but stood waiting. Kitty lifted her head, and at the expression on her friend’s face her stomach, as it lately so often had, gave a small queasy lurch.
‘He comes to th
e theatre next week,’ Genevieve said. ‘He has taken all the boxes. To see you.’
Kitty’s hand was at her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’
Genevieve threw her arms about her and hugged her, hard. ‘What did we not say, chérie? Is not Paris the place for you?’
* * *
The Czar’s visit was the first of many by the rich, the famous and the aristocratic who had flocked to Paris for the Exhibition. Le Gamin, as a popular newspaper had dubbed her, was one of the main attractions of the city during that spring and early summer. Broadsheets of her songs were sold all over Paris, her likeness in her striking masculine clothes on every cover. It was even said that at one of the fabulous costume balls held at the Tuileries Palace, Madame Gorschakoff, a close friend of the Emperor and Empress, appeared dressed as an extravagant Dick the Dipper and spent the evening inexpertly relieving the highest in the land of their pocket watches and jewellery; a compliment of the highest order, as Genevieve pointed out. Kitty herself of course was barred both by her profession and her birth from entry into these dizzy social circles as anything but an artist, though she found herself many times invited to appear at private balls and salons. The splendour of the hotels and apartments she visited on these occasions never failed to astonish her. It was as if all the wealth of Europe were concentrated on these few glittering square miles that were Paris. Inevitably she found herself the centre of a great deal of not always welcome attention. After a particularly trying episode with a corpulent German count she tried to make sure that she was always escorted, sometimes by Charles and Genevieve, but quite frequently by Jem, though he, smilingly stubborn, resisted her idea that she should pay him for the privilege. In fact on the one occasion that she managed to force a few francs upon him she arrived at her dressing room next day to discover it looking even more like a hothouse than usual.
‘Jem!’ she protested, exasperated. ‘Flowers? When you don’t know where your next meal’s coming from?’
He shook an unrepentant finger repressively under her nose. ‘Don’t you know it’s very bad form to discuss a gentleman’s financial affairs? Smell the roses and shut up.’
By utilizing the idea that had come to her when she had first seen Lucette’s portrait, however, she did – deviously – manage to put some money in Jem’s pocket. At her request Charles arranged for a friend of his, a stranger to Jem, to profess a passion for the ‘new art’ – and in particular for the portrait – and to buy the picture for a thousand francs, a sum Jem would certainly never ever have accepted from Kitty herself. The stupefied Jem was delighted. Kitty had a great deal of trouble in dissuading him from spending a large part of his unexpected fortune at once by giving them all dinner at the Maison Dorée.
‘Jem, don’t be ridiculous! Get yourself – and Lucette too – some new clothes. And some food. Buy the canvas you need.’
He lifted a finger and pushed her nose like a button, mockingly. ‘What a bore you’re becoming in your old age, Kitty Daniels! Le Gamin indeed! The latest rage of Paris is nothing but an old stick-in-the-mud.’
She laughed, but shook her head nevertheless. ‘Don’t squander it, Jem. You need it.’
He shrugged. ‘I still think the Dorée’s a better idea.’ He sobered a little, looking at her. ‘And God, girl – you talk about me! You look as if you could do with a good square meal yourself. What have you been doing? You’re working too hard. You’re losing weight.’
She turned away from him, apparently studying a half-finished painting that was propped against the table. ‘I’m all right. It’s tough, that’s all, and I’m not getting much rest. But it’s only until October. Then’ – she hesitated – ‘then I thought I might take the winter off. Go away somewhere. Rest a little. Do some thinking. I can afford it now.’
Watching her, understanding in his eyes, he pulled a funny, rueful little face. ‘My dear Kitty, don’t be absurd. None of us can afford to think—’
* * *
Lovely spring moved into summer. The weather became steadily warmer, the life of Paris established itself outdoors in the shaded pavement cafes, in the Bois and in the gardens. Everywhere, it seemed to Kitty, there was music-pavement orchestras, military bands that marched, the Emperor’s bright toy soldiers in the Champs Elysées, strains of Strauss and Mozart in the parks and gardens of the city. She had been in Paris for two months, and then three, and her popularity showed no sign of waning.
Breakfasting one morning in the sunlit dining room of the Parisots’ apartment, Genevieve frowned a little as she watched Kitty sip black coffee and eat nothing at all. ‘Kitty! I insist that you eat something! Are you not well?’
‘I’m fine. I’m just not hungry.’
‘But you’re never hungry! Last night at dinner—’
‘I had already eaten at the theatre,’ Kitty lied.
Genevieve looked unconvinced. She leaned back in her chair, her elegant silk morning gown draped about her statuesque body in pale folds. Her eyes were fixed worriedly upon Kitty’s face. ‘You’re too thin, chérie,’ she said, bluntly.
Kitty shook her head, exasperated. ‘For heaven’s sake – you’re as bad as Jem. I’m always thin.’
‘But not as now. And you have shadows, here—’ Genevieve drew her manicured fingers beneath her own dark eyes. ‘Charles!’ she added, as her husband entered the room, ‘you’re working Kitty too hard. I believe she is not well.’
‘Oh?’ Charles glanced sharply at Kitty, concern in his face.
Kitty put her cup down very precisely upon the table, and stood up. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, firmly. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Just a little tired, that’s all. Please do stop fussing me.’
Charles, with characteristic readiness to be reassured, beamed. ‘But of course, my dear.’ About to sit down at the table, he stopped, a hand upraised. ‘Oh – I almost forgot. That strange little girl – what’s her name? Your American friend’s’ – he hesitated, shrugged in Gallic fashion – ‘friend—’
‘Lucette?’
‘Ah yes. Lucette. She has come with a message for you. Something about a sketch for a poster—?’
‘Of, of course. Jem promised to let me see it today. I had forgotten—’ Kitty turned to the door. ‘Lucette’s in the salon?’
Charles, pouring himself a cup of fragrant, steaming coffee, shook his head. ‘I sent her up to your rooms. I did not realize that you had already – Kitty? What is it—?’
The apartment was on two floors. Gathering her skirts about her knees Kitty took the stairs two at a time, stopped abruptly at the top. Lucette stood like a statue at the open door of her little sitting room, watching her.
‘Lucette!’ Kitty said, urgently, ‘please – don’t tell him? He needed the money – you know he did. I couldn’t think of another way to get him to accept it—’
In the two months since they had met Lucette had addressed hardly one direct word to Kitty. From the very first Kitty had sensed, and had been utterly unable to appease, the other girl’s resentment, her total misconstruction of the strong bond of friendship that lay between her American lover and this affluent, unwelcome interloper from England. Kitty did not even know just how much English the other girl understood and, her own sketchy French having for the moment deserted her, she stood helplessly now before the implacable and bitter dislike that showed in the slanting eyes and thin face.
‘Lucette – please – you must understand—’
Lucette made a small, unpleasant and contemptuous sound. Then she spat very precisely upon the shining waxed floorboards at Kitty’s feet and, with no word, brushed past her and ran swiftly down the stairs to the front door. Watching her go, Kitty’s anger was tempered by understanding. Lucette’s relationship with Jem was, they all knew, already sadly one-sided. She adored him. To him, however, although he was truly fond of her, she was just one of many who had come and gone in his life since he had come to Paris. He neither expected nor wanted permanence in their relationship. She was a warm body, a willing drudge, a free mod
el. And that, despite poor Lucette’s devotion, was about as far as it went. Kitty wondered now how Jem would take the news that Lucette had for him. Silently she cursed herself for not hiding that damned picture.
She went into her room. The portrait of Lucette that she had so deviously purchased stood propped against the wall. It was ruined, the canvas ripped and slashed. Beside it on the floor lay a small pencil sketch of herself, the one presumably that Jem had done as part of the poster layout and had asked Lucette to deliver. It too was torn, straight across the middle. Kitty sighed, and dropped dispiritedly into a chair. In the mirror on the opposite wall she saw her own tired pallor, the shadows beneath her eyes that Genevieve had mentioned. She sat so for a long moment, staring at the white-faced image in the mirror. Almost she had decided to speak to Jem – confide in him – ask his advice. She sighed again. The likelihood of a sympathetic ear seemed slight now. She closed her eyes for a moment, leaning her head against the back of the chair. Then, with a determined movement she stood and made for the bedroom, her dressing table and the cosmetic box wherein lay the means to disguise all ills. For the moment at least.
* * *
She did not, as she had half expected, hear from Jem that day, nor the next. With some difficulty she restrained herself from rushing across the river to the Latin Quarter to discover if his silence bespoke anger, indifference or perhaps even ignorance. The hope began to grow in her that Lucette had not, after all, betrayed her secret. Then, on the third day, he turned up at the theatre after the performance, very much the worse for wear, his face doleful.
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