Have I relinquished a few things to secure these spoils? Well, yes, but not the thing, though not for lack of trying on the part of these so-called gentlemen! What Aimée and Louise and the other girls in the hôtel do not realize is that the thing isn’t even necessary. Why drop your drawers for every man with a few francs when you can instead offer a sweet, coy romance? I brush up against him in a certain way, protest only meekly when a hand wiggles down the front of my dress. They’re only nipples but can elicit such excitement, such largesse!
Sometimes I let my fingers slide down the front of his pants. Sœur Marie would fall to the convent floor if she heard such a thing! C’est pas si mal. This is not so bad. Really, such fondling is more scientific experiment than anything else. Indeed, after my first handling of a man I was more amazed than the first time I set foot in the Folies. The object no less garish!
Needless to say Sœur Marie did not prepare me for the aggressiveness with which a man’s lower half would come alive with a few touches. Goodness, I have to stop myself from laughing. It is really quite ridiculous, this creature, like one from the bottom of the ocean. I can scarcely hold this pen, I’m laughing so hard. Of course the pen itself calls to mind the width of a few less fortunate fellows. Mon dieu!
Thank heavens I’m a woman.
Now that I’ve composed myself I must say this. Dear journal, lest you think I’m a gal about town like our precious Aimée, I must immediately disabuse you of the notion. The difference between her and me, other than the obvious, le grand acte, is that I deal in romance. My dalliances last longer than one night! Is there anything wrong with being in love? Or at least pretending to be? No matter the size of a man’s fortune (or of his member!), he is like every other man, every other human being, as a matter of fact. We all, every last one of us, we only want to be loved.
A new gentleman came to my station last evening. It’s as though he knew I’d recently become unattached, my most recent paramour having left the country due to a political obligation abroad (his wife the politics, her pregnancy the obligation). This new fellow was a curious-looking man, short of stature and with piles of brown-gray curls whipping around the tops of his ears. He was portly in a way suggesting love of good food and not of booze or sloth. In other words he was a happy fat. And unlike most Parisians he did not have a beard. The smoothness of his skin was almost disconcerting.
“What can I get for you this evening?” I asked.
He ordered a scotch, then wondered aloud why I was behind the bar and not onstage. I pointed an empty glass in his direction and chastised (smiling, winking) the lack of originality. I’d heard the same comment three times that day. And it’d been a slow day.
The man blushed, which pulled a smile from my own mouth. His was not a line but the only thing he could think to say. He was new to the Folies, it seemed. I liked him immediately.
“To tell you the truth.” I leaned across the bar, dipping my chest dramatically. “Behind the bar is the best place to be.”
A lie, this. One I tell the men, one I tell myself. Everyone wants her own show.
“It’s far safer,” I went on. “Plus I’m able to chat with all the handsome customers, such as yourself. I prefer a good conversation to hours of ogling.”
“Ah,” he said, still blushing. “Understood.”
“What’s your name?” I asked as I buffed the glass.
“Burée. Pierre Burée.”
“What brings you to Folies Bergère, Monsieur Burée?” I began to pour. “Are you from Paris? Or are you just passing through?”
“I was born here, but have not been back in years. I live in South America.”
I cocked an eyebrow. It is a common boast these days, but almost never true.
“South America, you say? What part?”
“Argentina,” he responded without hesitation.
“Where in Argentina?”
“The southernmost tip. Near Santa Cruz. Are you familiar with the area, Mademoiselle…?”
“De Florian. Marthe de Florian.”
“So you’ve been to South America, Mademoiselle de Florian? You do look rather Latin: the dark hair, the dark eyes, the olive skin.”
Though M. Burée would later say he meant it as a compliment, his words made me bridle. I am already self-conscious about my so-called olive skin. Pierre thought I resemble a Latin woman, but according to Émilie and Gérard the coloring is closer to Gypsy. Émilie is forever trying to pass her whitewash formula off on me, the alabaster skin tone being de rigueur, and Émilie’s particular brand of paleness the envy of many a dancer. I, too, could have her porcelain skin if only I lathered the thick paste on my face thrice daily. And so I’ve commenced the regimen. It burns, this formula, but only a little.
“No. I am from Paris,” I told him, trying to keep the snap out of my voice. “I’ve never set foot in South America, but it is quite the popular locale. I’ve met many men who say they work there, too.”
I plunked the glass on the counter.
“Well, there is money to be made,” Burée said, completely without guile.
“And how do you make yours?” I asked. “Coffee?”
It is always coffee.
Shaking his head, Pierre drew in a long, slow sip of liquid.
“Bat guano,” he said.
Bat shit? I could not have heard him correctly.
“Pardon?” I said, choking out the word.
“Yes,” he said and took another sip. “It is a rather lucrative industry.”
I knew then that M. Burée was for real. No purported coffee king for this man, and instead bat shit in all its glory.
And so I let Pierre stay on my primary stool, my favorite stool, for the rest of the evening. We are supposed to encourage the men to move on, rotate them quickly through. The more bodies on the seats, the more money everyone makes. But I liked having him near, even if he was a timid drinker and an even more timid conversationalist.
By the end of the night I was seriously considering him for my next romance. There is something gentle and charming about Pierre. You see? Already I’m calling him by his first name! I even contemplated allowing him to escort me home but decided to remain prudent for now. I promise, this will not be the last I’ll see of M. Burée!
On my regrettably companionless walk home I noticed a marked chill in the air. It’s difficult to imagine I’ve been in Paris long enough for the weather to turn from cold to warm and back to cold again. I remain in the same hôtel as a year ago, yet I’ve traveled far. Money is still going out, but now it comes in several times over. Money I’ve earned, money I did not have to lift from a run-down convent.
And so I’ve decided. It is time to upgrade my accommodations. I will miss the girls, especially my darling Aimée, but I cannot abide another winter. It’s true I have more dresses to pile upon me while I sleep, but I aspire to more than “suffering through.” I was born to do more.
Jeanne Hugo may be the envy of Paris, but not for long. One day she’ll have to acknowledge me, and my station. A storm of change is coming. When the winds really start to howl, Jeanne will plead for my attentions, to be invited into my home. Finally she will understand what it’s like to feel spurned, alone, desolate. Madame Daudet will cease to be this city’s darling because, at last, the envy of Paris will be me.
Chapitre XXII
She hadn’t noticed the man standing over her left shoulder.
“‘You can acquire things from the male species.’ Is this true, ma chérie?”
April startled, then scrunched down low as if it were a baseball aimed at her head and not the curious, amused stare of Luc Thébault.
“Madame Vogt? ’Allo? Avril? You are visible, you know. Though the crouching is quite cute. Like a bug.”
“Uh, hello there,” April said, wriggling herself to an upright position. “I’m surprised you could find me.”
April had squirreled herself away in the furthermost corner of the furthermore room, the last several hours spent rec
lined on a celery-colored tufted velvet chaise severely bleached by the sun. With her back to the doorway and feet propped up against the windowsill, April pored through Marthe’s entries. She was hiding from the modern world, a little bit, and hadn’t expected a visit from anyone, least of all Luc.
“You are difficult to miss,” Luc said.
April turned around and rested both hands, and the journals, on the arm of the chaise.
“I am the only one here,” she said.
“Yes. I see that. Is this an invitation or a warning?”
April rolled her eyes, not wanting to give Luc any response he might misinterpret or abuse. Sighing, she placed the papers atop a nearby jaguar-pelt settee as Luc continued to loom above her, both arms crossed over his chest. His wavy hair was still wet from a shower, his stubble thicker than it was the day before.
“Can I assist you with something?” she asked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person so engrossed.”
He smiled wide, perhaps affectionately, treating April to a complete view of his snaggled incisors. Orthodontia was no folly of Luc Thébault’s, but his crowded picket-fence teeth were somehow endearing all the same.
“Well, it’s an engrossing story,” she said.
April flicked her head to the left to remove the strands of hair clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her hair had always been long, pin straight, and fine, not to mention prone to suffer unduly from static electricity. Five minutes of sitting in that dusty nexus made April’s hair look as if it’d spent five years underneath a knit cap.
“I could read these all day.”
She jerked her head again, but the action did nothing other than generate a pinched nerve somewhere in the back of her neck.
“Goddammit! Ouch.”
“Are you all right, Madame Vogt? You seem to be experiencing physical difficulties. A, what do you call it in English? Saisie?”
“I’m not having a seizure.”
April wrapped her hair around the pen she’d been holding, which she swiped from a Dallas Hilton several years before. Large auction, that one. Lots of pieces, all of them wrapped in big Texan grandeur. The seller was 90 percent finished outfitting his twenty-thousand-square-foot tacky Versailles replica when his balance sheet flipped and money ran out.
In came the auction house. April was there because the guy’s wife made a job out of importing pieces from France, not due to any affinity for Continental furniture but because the items were exactly that: Continental, from France. Also: expensive. And she could brag about the hundreds of thousands of dollars in shipping fees. The woman never knew what she had. But she had an auction of her very own.
“Luc, I have some bad news,” April said.
“Oh no! This sounds dire.”
“Well it is to me. There won’t be a separate auction after all. The assets from the estate of Marthe de Florian will be placed with other items. I will still establish dates and time periods and artists, but history is now far less important. I’m not even entirely sure I need the rest of the journals. I’d like to see them, but it’s not absolutely required.”
“Interesting. What you just said.”
“About the auction? I know. It’s hugely disappointing. Marc and Olivier didn’t even consult me on the decision. I mean, not that they had to.”
“No. Not about the auction. ‘Estate of Marthe de Florian.’ You meant Madame Quatremer, non?”
“Sure. Of course,” April said, though she had meant what she said the first time.
“You are upset,” Luc noted as he lowered himself onto the jaguar settee and crossed his legs in the way available only to slender Frenchmen.
“Well, it is their office, their commissions and premiums,” April said. “They’ve determined this is the most economical move so my opinion is somewhat moot. But, yes, I am upset inasmuch as I think she is deserving of her own show.”
“What about the painting?” Luc asked. “The one you three grew so excited over? Bolini?”
“Boldini. That will go into an impressionist collection we are debuting in the fall.”
April sighed. Loudly.
“Tell me,” Luc said, “did you think she should have her own show before you read the journals?”
“Does it matter?” April shrugged. “Anyway, I read the journals pretty early on. It’s hard to separate the reading of them from the pieces. Tying it all together is the entire point of my professional existence.”
Biting her lip in squelched frustration, April began inspecting a traveling domino set that was on a nearby table. She scribbled “carved ivory games casket” in her notepad while silently willing Luc to leave, even as a small part of her wished that he might stay.
“Olivier and Marc are lucky to have you on their team,” Luc said, leaning in toward her.
“You Frenchmen are flatterers. Anyway, don’t feel as though you must stick around here. You’ve been a tremendous help but it seems I won’t need the rest of the journals. The pieces shall be fairly easy to describe without them.”
April stood, slipped her shoes back on, and pretended to take immediate interest in a wire plant stand. No more daydreaming, she told herself. No more visions of cancan dancers or elephants or nipple chandeliers. April was there for the kingwood and mahogany and all the grand, solid pieces she could sell without someone else’s life holding them up.
“Avril,” Luc said.
Ignoring him, she continued.
“I could make some big production about how I should still read the journals,” April rambled. “And part of me wants to. But you’d see right through it, non? You’d quickly surmise what I was up to.”
“Avril,” Luc said again.
“So you’re off the hook! No more meddlesome furniture specialists hounding you about diaries. Quel soulagement! Anyway, your client should be quite pleased in the end, financially speaking. I’ve seen hundreds of furniture collections over the years but nothing like this. I hope you’re getting a share of the pie or croissant or mousse or whatever colloquialism the French use. Not a single piece of junk in the entire flat.”
“Avril,” Luc said a third time, but louder now. Firmer. In command. “Stop speaking and listen for a moment.”
He reached up and grabbed the hem of her dress. Though he held lightly, April felt as though she couldn’t move.
“Did I say loaning the journals was conditional upon the way you planned to conduct the auction?” he asked.
“I’m sure it’s not something you contemplated.”
“Has anyone ever said you speak at a frustratingly rapid clip?”
“No. Never.” She couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.
“You may have the journals if you’d like them,” Luc said. “You may read the rest.”
“Really?” April said, now with eyes wide as she stepped toward him. “But I mean … I don’t really need them.”
“Ah, but did you not say you could drum up an excuse? If you really wanted to? I’m sure you’ll manage to unearth a tidbit or two to aid with provenance.”
“You’re right,” April said. “It … it can only help, yes?”
“Oui.”
April put a hand on Luc’s shoulder. It was the highest level of effusiveness she felt comfortable offering, yet still left her jittery and careening in her heels for the second time that morning.
“I am truly grateful,” she said. “I promise the opportunity will not go to waste.”
Maybe she still had a chance. There was plotting to be done, and when it came to furniture April was an exceptional plotter.
“You are very dedicated to the furniture,” Luc said, as if reading her mind.
He leaned back onto his elbows, falling farther into the settee. The jaguar. April winced. Please be careful with the jaguar.
“You seem very—how do you say it—googly-eyed when looking at all this?” he said. “Except for now. Now you seem nervous.”
“Yes … well … the settee … do you mind?” She w
inced again. It seemed Luc would do only as he pleased.
“You know, this room, this flat—” Luc made a face. “It all seems a little garish to me. A little gauche.”
“Garish? Gauche? Are you joking?”
“I never joke, Avril.”
“Well, as they say, there’s no accounting for taste. Good grief, Thébault, there’s not a garish piece in the entire flat. Look. Here. And there. And over there. There are four François Linke pieces in this room alone. And those are merely the ones I can point to!”
“Linke? Never heard of him. Of course I have not made it my business to keep current with furniture trends.”
“François Linke is no trend. His pieces define the Belle Époque! They are gilded and fancy and whimsical and completely aggressive in their optimism.”
“Optimistic furniture?”
“Look at this armoire.” April reached up and smacked a hand against its side. “The marquetry, the detail on the roses. Does it not say money will always flow? There will be no wars? The good times will last forever? It reflects everything the time period stood for.”
“Sadly, it does not say these things to me.”
“Let me break it down into terms you can appreciate. A comparable piece went for nearly two million dollars at auction a few years back. This is in similar if not better shape.”
“Two million? Why would someone spend two million on an armoire?”
“I guess when you have enough homes and jets, you need to find somewhere else to park your funds.”
“It looks like someone painted on it.”
“Yes, that’s the marquetry.” April exhaled loudly, a sound one could rightly confuse with a scoff.
“There is a golden nude atop the dresser,” Luc said. “This confuses me.”
“Armoire. It’s an armoire. And that’s not a ‘golden nude.’ That’s Minerva, the goddess of wisdom.”
“The goddess of wisdom in the bedroom? How dull.”
“Here, I’ll bet I can find a piece that might appeal to someone lacking a healthy level of optimism, which seems to be your affliction.” April hurdled over several piles of old newspapers. “Yes. Here it is. Even a grouchy solicitor has to appreciate a grandfather clock. He’s exquisite, non? What is that face? Who doesn’t like a grandfather clock?”
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