When at last he stopped, Brigitte spoke softly. There was no arguing to her voice, only defeat. “Before you listen to gossip, I suggest you get your facts straight. For your information, nothing happened between Marcel Latreille and me. He did no more than help a young girl in trouble. Marcel Latreille is not David’s father.” She turned and closed the door behind her.
* * *
“I never did like him,” said Réjeanne, conveniently forgetting how the very previous day she had called Fortune the nicest man she had ever met. She stirred her café au lait. “I can't believe he broke it off with you. Just like that. No explanation. No nothing. Don't worry ma chérie. You'll meet somebody else.”
Brigitte hesitated. She had not told Réjeanne the entire story. “Meeting someone else is the last thing I'm worried about.”
“Of course you can't think of seeing other men right now, my poor chérie. Your heart has just been broken, but you will be able to love again. Time has a way of mending broken hearts.”
Before Brigitte could think of anything to say, the doorbell rang and Réjeanne hurried over. “Oh, Monsieur Fortune,” she said loudly, for Brigitte to hear. “We were just talking about you. I don't think Brigitte wants to see you right now.”
From the kitchen, Brigitte called out. “It's all right Réjeanne. I can see him,” she said and came out. To her surprise, she saw that Fortune was carrying a bouquet of yellow roses.
“I'm afraid I owe you an apology,” he said. “I shouldn't have judged you without hearing your side. If you don't mind, I think I'd like to hear the whole story about you and Marcel Latreille.”
Réjeanne looked from Fortune to Brigitte. “Marcel Latreille? Who is Marcel Latreille? Will someone please tell me what's going on?”
* * *
Long into the night, Brigitte, Réjeanne, and Fortune sat at the kitchen table, drinking cup after cup of coffee and talking. It was the first time Brigitte had ever divulged the full story about Marcel Latreille to anyone. She avoided any mention of David's real father, choosing instead to allude vaguely to a youthful mistake.
Réjeanne shook her head in disbelief. “You poor child. You truly went through hell.”
Brigitte looked nervously at Fortune. “So you see, nothing happened between Marcel and me. I left suddenly because I came to realize that he was hoping for more than a platonic relationship,” she said. “It was foolish of me to think that a grown man would help a girl the way he did out of nothing but the kindness of his heart, but I was frightened out of my mind. Fortune, please don't abandon me now. Look at all that money you've invested, and all the work you've put into promoting me. I think quitting now would be a mistake. The critics applauded my vernissage.”
Fortune shrugged. “If you're blackballed by Hélène Richoux, it won't matter what the critics say. In this town you will be a pariah.”
Desperately, Brigitte tried another angle. “Maybe this time you won't be creating an overnight success. Maybe it will take a few years before I'm accepted as a serious artist. In all honesty, I never expected it to be any other way. In the meantime, you could diversify.”
“What do you mean diversify?”
“I don't think it's a good idea for you to concentrate on only one major artist. Maybe you should find other talented artists and carry a variety of styles. That way you'll be covering all your angles. When one artist leaves, you will always have a backup. If one takes longer to become profitable, another will be covering your overhead. Your business will only be stronger for it.”
Fortune swallowed the last of his coffee. “Any more left in the pot?” he asked.
Réjeanne jumped up and poured him another cup.
For a long time, Brigitte and Réjeanne waited while Fortune thought quietly. “This is what we'll do,” he said at last. “You will start giving dinner parties. They will be small, very elegant and very exclusive. Never more than eight people at a time, but eight very select people. I'll organize everything. In no time everyone will be dying to get an invitation from you.” He sat back and smiled, happy with his new plan.
“Oh, I think that's a wonderful idea,” exclaimed Réjeanne. “Didn't I tell you Brigitte? Fortune loves you. He would never let you down.”
The next day Fortune drafted the guest list for the first dinner party. Cornelia and Leopold Thompson from New York were in town, Lord Merriweather, the art collector and his wife, and Olivier Terrebonne, the famous Ferrari racecar driver and the international beauty, as well as Lausanne, Olivier’s girlfriend. It was the perfect mix of old money and flash which made for interesting dinner conversation.
Then he prepared the menu. Langoustines à la fine champagne, followed by Faisan au nid. Next would be the Salade de pleurote, and desert would be a spectacular Soufflé au cognac flambé.
“Oh my goodness, I've never cooked anything like that,” exclaimed Réjeanne when Fortune listed the menu. “Wouldn't you like me to make coq au vin? I make it very nicely.”
“Indeed not! I was planning to hire a chef to prepare the meal and a professional waiter to serve.”
Brigitte mentally calculated the costs of such an evening. “Do we really have to go to such expense?”
“Absolutely. It's the only way. And of course, we need flowers.”
After he left, Réjeanne shook her head. “I still think my coq au vin would have been a good idea,” she said. “As if some chef with his fancy menu could make you a famous artist.”
“Fortune only wants what's best for my career.”
“Sometimes I wonder about him. Are you sure he's the right man for you chérie?”
“Réjeanne, you've always wanted me to find a man. Now that I have one, don't start criticizing him.”
Long after she had gone to bed, Brigitte lay awake worrying. Fortune was taking everything so seriously. He planned everything: where she lived, what she wore, how he wanted her to live. The thought of anyone exercising so much control over her was uncomfortable. Would she have any time left for herself and David? It was hours later that she finally pushed those worrisome thoughts aside and fell into a fitful sleep.
On the morning of the party, Brigitte was in a state of barely controlled panic. The florists arrived with flower arrangements the size of funeral wreaths. I hope this is not a bad omen, she thought.
“Where am I supposed to put those?” asked Réjeanne.
“I don't know! Anywhere,” Brigitte answered as she struggled with the table extension.
Five minutes later the chef arrived. Réjeanne showed him to the kitchen.
“Do you really expect me to prepare a meal in this broom closet?” asked the portly man, as he stood in the large, fully equipped kitchen.
“No, you can go and prepare it in the courtyard if you’d rather,” snipped Réjeanne. She returned to the dining room where Brigitte was setting the table. “Did you hear what that insolent man just said?'
“Not now, Réjeanne. David just knocked down the centerpiece.”
On the floor, dozens of flowers lay scattered in a puddle of water and broken glass. A few feet away, David stood looking frightened. He shrugged his shoulders. “I only wanted to smell them.”
What next? Brigitte asked herself as she went for the mop.
The first hint of ‘what next’ came at seven-thirty, when Lord Merriweather called. “I'm so terribly sorry. I'm sure you'll understand. I just spoke to Madame Richoux. She is considering selling her Rembrandt. I have been trying to get my hands on that painting for years. She's willing to negotiate tonight. Tomorrow, she's off to Zurich. You understand, don't you?”
“Of course I understand, Lord Merriweather. I would do the same myself,” answered Fortune, who had taken the call.
Minutes later the phone rang again. Brigitte handed the receiver to Fortune. “It's Cornelia Thompson,” she whispered.
“Fortune, mon chéri, please forgive me. I'm still in New York,” said Cornelia, her voice sounding suspiciously clear for an international call.
“
I guess it will be diner for four,” Fortune told Brigitte as he hung up the telephone.
At eight-thirty, Olivier Terrebonne and his girlfriend arrived. Brigitte greeted them at the door and Fortune handed them a glass of Perrier Jouet. Five minutes later, the chef stormed out of the kitchen. “Monsieur, Madame, I am sorry but I cannot cook in these conditions. The counter is too small. The stove is not gas.” He pulled his chef's hat from his head and threw it to the ground. “The faisans, they are ruined!”
* * *
The next day, in his office, when Fortune opened the newspaper, the first thing he saw in the society column was an article about the wonderful party given the previous night at Bellevue, Hélène Richoux’s country home. The accompanying photo was of a frumpy looking Madame Richoux wearing a king’s fortune of priceless emeralds and rubies, almost unnoticeable amid the glitter of her sequin dress. Standing next to her and her young husband were two of her party guests, the Thompsons from New York. Fortune crumpled up the paper and threw it away in disgust.
“This is just not going to work!” he muttered to himself.
* * *
No matter how hard Fortune pushed to establish Brigitte socially, Hélène Richoux exerted a continuous and equal effort to prevent it. After a few months of unrewarded efforts, Fortune called Brigitte into his office. “I've decided to take your advice. It makes no sense for me to represent only one artist. I think you already know Jérome.”
Shock was quickly replaced by fear. Would Fortune's next move be to dump her? She smiled. “Welcome, Jérome. You must be very talented. Fortune has impeccable taste.” She then excused herself with a gracious smile. “I have to get back to work. I'm halfway through another piece. I’m really excited about it.” She hurried back to work, wondering if this would be the last time she would be allowed in Fortune's studio.
Over the next year, Fortune continued to follow Brigitte's advice, and signed on a number of other promising artists. For every new 'discovery' of his, Fortune would throw himself into promoting his new 'genius' with the same enthusiasm he had shown Brigitte in the first few months of their association. Every time, Brigitte was convinced that Fortune was about to wash his hands of her. Slowly, however, with every new artist Fortune adopted, Le Gallet's reputation rose even higher, and as Fortune's première, Brigitte's credibility increased along with the gallery’s. Over time, a few influential people began to buy her work, and gradually, Brigitte developed a solid and enviable reputation as one of Paris's leading artists.
One evening, as Brigitte was about to leave after a long day's work, Fortune called her into his office. He sat on one of his Brillo pad chairs and invited her to use the other. “I think it's time we talked,” he said. “I see you're still wearing your engagement ring.”
Brigitte looked down at the third finger of her left hand. She had become so used to it in the last two years it almost felt like a part of her. “Yes, of course. It's what you wanted, isn't it?” she added nervously.
Fortune looked fiercely serious. “You won't have to wear it anymore.”
“W-what?”
Fortune smiled. “Don't look so worried. We don't have to pretend anymore. Your reputation is solid now.”
“B-but what happened to make you…”
“Le Monde is sending over their top journalist to interview you tomorrow. This is the perfect opportunity for us to announce that we are no longer engaged. You can simply say that we both care a great deal about each other, but that we have decided that we will be happier as friends.” He paused for a moment and smiled. “We couldn't continue the charade forever, now could we?”
“I suppose you're right,” she said, then asked in disbelief. “Le Monde? Really? Why would they want to interview me?”
“They're running a series on influential women. One of their subjects is a politician, another is a business woman, and you are the artist. The interview will be on you as Brigitte Dartois the person, rather than the artist. That's why I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to end our little charade.” Fortune smiled. “So, should I confirm the appointment?”
Brigitte smiled. “Of course. But can I still keep the ring?” she asked with a teasing glint in her eyes.
* * *
Chapter 19
Every city has a personality all its own. When Alex stepped off the Air France Boeing 707, Paris was under the sway of Charles de Gaulle, who only three years earlier had been voted president of France by a landslide. The cinema of Brigitte Bardot, whose film And Man Created Woman, forever changed the standards of female beauty. It was home to the incomparable voices of Edith Piaf and Maurice Chevalier, who more than any others, romanticized Paris as the city of love. There, the designers who dressed rich and famous women from every country transformed Paris into the fashion capital of the world. More importantly, it was a city full of elegance and beauty, a city graced with an almost magical atmosphere. Paris was the city of love, the city of light, and for Alex, it was the city of inspiration.
Although his per diem allowed for a generous hotel budget, Alex registered at La Petite Tuillerie, a small family-ran auberge minutes from the offices of Modern Architecture & Design. The auberge had eight tiny rooms and provided minimum services. The only meal served was breakfast, which consisted of coffee and brioches. Even the low price for the chamber sounded ridiculously high to the ever-frugal Alex.
Alex stood in the doorway and mentally assessed the size of the room, debating whether the space was worth so many of the large colorful bills called Francs. There was a narrow bed with no more than two feet to either side, one small dresser, a mirror, and a window through which Alex could see the street inches away. It made even his New York apartment seem large. If that were possible.
“Alors, je n'ai pas toute la journée, monsieur. Vous la prenez, ou vous la prenez pas. Make up your mind,” said the landlady, gesticulating as she spoke.
Alex pulled a wad of francs from his pocket and counted out enough to pay for three days in advance. It's still only a fraction of what I would be paying at any hotel. I'll bank the rest.
“Merci.” She bowed as she backed out of the room, her smile as sudden as it was wide on her homely face. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur. Breakfast is served every morning at seven. Café et brioches. After eight, no more room service.”
At midnight that night, as Alex read his tourist-information book, the lights suddenly went out. Alex climbed out of bed, fiddled with the switch and they turned back on. Three minutes later, they turned off again. For the next half hour, he obstinately kept turning them on, only for them to turn back off again moments later. At last he gave up and put his book away.
The next morning, the water had barely started in the shower when it stopped. What is going on? He dressed quickly and went searching for the owner.
“In France, electricity is very expensive,” explained Madame Durand. “It's the same everywhere. Hot water and electricity in small hotels are on a timer.”
“I have work to do at night.” He explained the project he was working on, and the amount of night hours he would need to work in order to finish the plans.
Madame Durand thought for a moment, and then she snapped her fingers. She rushed away and reappeared minutes later with a dusty old oil lamp. “Voici monsieur. With this you can work all night,” she said, wiping it with a corner of her apron.
All the comforts of home. A cold shower in the morning, an oil lamp at night, and a bed in which I’ll never sleep a wink. He laughed. There was no denying it. He was happiest when the work was hard and his bank account was full. Now, thanks to his per diem, not only would the amount he saved on the hotel go straight into his account, but so would his entire salary. Someday soon, very soon…
* * *
The first meeting with France’s Modern Architecture & Design was three days away. Until then, Alex walked the streets of Paris. Never had he felt such a sense of the exotic as he did trying to familiarize himself with the French capital.
> He strolled along the Champs Elizée breathing in the crisp fall air. As he window shopped, people watched. He climbed the Eiffel Tower and peered down at the Lilliputian city below. He visited the Louvre and walked through the gardens of the Tuileries. Standing at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe, he was suffused with the wonder of actually being there. Everywhere he went, his senses were assailed with fascinating sights and smells and sounds.
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