“You should be in bed,” Cait said.
“I can’t lie there for a moment longer,” Alice said. “I think I’m fossilizing.”
“How are you?” Cait asked.
She nodded and helped herself to a piece of toast. Cait sipped her cup of tea. When she looked up, tears were splashing from Alice’s chin onto the china breakfast plate.
“I need to see Gabrielle,” Alice said. “She hasn’t answered my letters and I need to know why.”
For a moment Cait was silent. Didn’t Alice realize what Gabrielle had done? She had broken their trust, she had let the count take advantage of her, she had ruined her.
“Alice,” she began.
“I know what you’re going to say,” said Alice. “But no, she was only trying to help. I believe that. Something must have happened to her. She would never have asked for that money if she wasn’t going to give it back.”
“You gave her money?”
Alice’s eyes brimmed. She nodded once.
“It was a loan, that was all. She’s a friend. Please don’t judge her, Mrs. Wallace. I just need to speak to her.”
Alice was staring at her, her eyes pleading. How could she refuse?
“Where does she live?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I thought you wrote to her?”
“She has a postal box. I know that sounds strange, but she explained. She has moved around a lot and it’s more convenient for her that way. I know which post office she uses, though.”
It was late on the third day, just as Cait was about to give up, that Gabrielle visited the post office. She was dressed in black, her bustle gathered into a low drape and her hat angled over her eyes. Cait left the café where she had been and set off behind her. Gabrielle walked fast, almost breaking into a run. She turned right and headed toward the river. After twenty minutes, she reached the Chinatown that surrounded Gare de Lyon, then turned into a lane of Oriental shops. At the far end she knocked on a door and was instantly admitted.
Cait wandered past the stalls that sold fresh fish and vegetables, colorful kimonos and paper lanterns. Unlike the others, a blind had been drawn down across the window of the last shop. She peered through the door, and after a few moments, it swung open and a Chinese man invited her inside. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and something else, something sweet, like resin. He ushered her along a hallway to a large room without a window. A row of wooden bunks had been built into the wall, draped in curtains and fine shawls. A few of the occupants were inhaling smoke through pipes. Gabrielle was lying in the last bunk on the left with her eyes closed and her arm dangling over the edge.
“You want smoke?” the Chinese man said. “Ladies like smoke.”
46
____
AN ARROW OF GEESE flew south over the Île de la Grande Jatte, so low you could hear them chattering softly to one another, the sound of their wings beating the air like butter in a churn. The sky was overcast, the clouds were heavy with rain; in the fields across the river all the cows were lying down. Émile had crossed the narrow iron bridge an hour before and had sat, waiting, on one of the benches that looked out at the Seine.
Two days earlier, Émile had positioned his new camera on the second platform looking south toward Montparnasse. The fourteenth arrondissement had been swallowed by the fog, fading into white like an overdeveloped image. He was aware of someone breathing heavily behind him. It was a man he’d never seen before, a groom. He handed him a letter.
“What’s this?” Émile asked.
“Open it,” the man suggested.
It was from the count. As he read it, Émile started to laugh.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
The groom shook his head.
“Well?” he asked. “Will you be there?”
“What will happen if I’m not?”
The groom scratched his ear. Clearly the idea had never occurred to him.
“You are a man of honor?” he asked.
“Of course!”
“Then I have my answer.”
The meeting spot was a site at the uppermost end of the island, in a small wooded area. Since duels were illegal, the island was a perfect spot, accessible and yet hidden from the main roads. On weekends the island was a popular destination for a stroll. In his painting, Seurat had captured the afternoon crowds, the barking dogs and the crying children, the sunlight falling dappled through the willows. But there was nobody around now, not so early in the morning on a Sunday.
There would be pistols, he expected, and then one shot each, to “death or first blood.” Even the terminology sounded outdated and melodramatic. It was a game, surely, a game of bravado played by aged schoolboys. And he suddenly saw his life as if from afar. It was as if he were spinning in a cocoon of his own making, from one bad decision to the next, from Gabrielle to Cait, from regret to grief, in an ever-tightening spool. Maybe, Émile decided, this is what he deserved. For everything he’d ever done, for every transgression and selfish decision, for every act of spite or indifference. To be killed with a single metal bullet was a fitting end to a man who spent his days using metal rivets to fix things together.
He heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel and stood up. It was the count with the same young man who had delivered the letter. This time he carried a large wooden box.
“Where’s your second?” the count asked. His breath smelled of alcohol, his clothes reeked of sex.
“I don’t have one,” Émile replied.
They turned and consulted in sharp whispers.
“Your loss,” the count said.
The box was opened. Inside lay two pistols. Émile chose one. It was cold and heavy in his hands.
“My second will load,” the count said.
“How many paces apart are we?”
The count stared at him, his mouth curling with amusement.
“Oh dear,” he said. “A novice.”
“I will make the marks,” said the groom. “And remember, don’t step off or your opponent may shoot.”
Émile watched as the groom scratched out a cross in the gravel with the heel of his boot. And then, as he was instructed, he took up his position.
“He might accept a verbal apology,” the groom said softly to him. “It’s worth a try.”
“No, thank you,” said Émile.
He sighed and glanced quickly at the count.
“He’s good, you know,” he said. “The last man lost an arm.”
Émile tried to push away the image of an empty coat sleeve fastened to his side with a pin. His mouth was dry, a buzz had begun in his ears. All he wanted to do was get it over with.
“I’m ready,” he said. “Let him shoot first.”
It was surreal, Émile thought as he stood on his cross, watching another man raise a gun and aim at him. At least he would die with his honor intact. And yet there was a lightness in his chest that shouldn’t have been there. He stared at the count, willing him to do it. He’d seen the same look in his eyes in the winter garden. The count was scared of him.
“Fire!” yelled the groom.
With an almighty blast and a puff of smoke, the count’s pistol fired. Émile closed his eyes. He heard the whistle of the bullet and a sting on his neck, but when he opened his eyes again he was still standing upright.
“You missed,” he said.
It was his turn. He raised the pistol. The count stood on his spot, his arrogant chin raised, his hands in his pockets.
“Ready?” asked the groom.
Émile nodded.
“Then fire.”
He focused on the count’s chest, where his heart, he knew, was pounding at more than twice its usual speed. And he thought of Alice in the artist’s studio. He imagined the count unlacing her, roughly, quickly, stealing her trust, her reputation, her virginity, as casually as if he were unlacing his own boot.
“Fire!” the groom yelled again.
The weight of the pistol mad
e his arms ache. He had the count’s head in his sights this time. He was precise, he was exact; accuracy was his job. And yet he had never fired a gun before and his index finger trembled on the trigger. The smell of gunpowder and smoke filled his mouth.
“Fire, sir!”
A blackbird started to sing on the tree next to the river. An image slipped into his mind unbidden; the Arrols’ garden in the springtime. He steadied the pistol and without even looking, he fired. The count staggered back and fell. Blood bloomed on his left shoulder. A hit.
The count yelled something; the groom, something else. Émile threw away the pistol and began to walk back to the metal bridge, back to the main road, back to the life he would not give up, not yet. He would not marry Alice Arrol. He would not work for Gustave Eiffel. And today was the day to tell him so.
He heard the sound of a gun reloading. A shot rang out that ricocheted along the length of metal bridge beside him. I’ll bring my children here one day, he thought, and we’ll look for the mark of the bullet on the iron and this day will feel so long, long ago.
He hailed a cab on the boulevard Bourdon.
“The Champ de Mars,” he called out to the driver.
“To the tower?” the driver asked. “It looks as if it is almost finished.”
“Yes,” replied Émile. “It almost is.”
“What happened to you?”
He reached up and touched his neck. It had been closer than he realized. The count’s bullet had grazed him, leaving a small comet tail of broken skin.
47
____
THE PRIVATE OPENING CEREMONY of La Tour Eiffel took place on March 31, 1889, at five p.m. Later that evening, after a French flag had been raised at the top, there would be a party for workers and dignitaries, for friends and supporters, celebrities and socialites. At 324 meters, the tower was now the tallest structure in the world, higher than the cathedrals of Rouen or Cologne and taller than the skyscrapers of New York and Chicago. On the first floor, where everyone gathered, a small press conference was taking place.
“When did you finish?” someone asked.
“Yesterday!” said Eiffel.
“And are you satisfied?” another asked once the laughter had died down.
“It would be impossible not to be. Not only is she magnificent, the view from the top is without equal in the world. So who’s coming up, who wants to watch me raise the tricolor?”
The elevators had been switched off for the opening, and as it was a long way up, only around two dozen people opted to climb the spiral staircase all the way to the summit. Evening light streamed through the iron latticework, the higher reaches as slender as a woman’s limb. The tower rose above the rooftops and at the end of every boulevard, solid and yet transparent, elegant and yet algebraic, visible from almost anywhere in the whole of Paris.
Alice and Cait stood near the refreshment stall trying to hold on to their bonnets in the wind. Below was the site of the World’s Fair, where construction had started on the pavilions and the Gallery of Machines, the villages and parks. They would miss its grand opening in May. Their passage home was booked for the following day. Their trunks were packed.
Although the last two months had been difficult, Alice had made a complete recovery and was looking forward to going home. She had started corresponding with Mr. Hogg again. He still, he uncharacteristically expressed, had a spot reserved for her in his heart. But first, before they left France, they would attend the tower’s opening.
“For Jamie,” Alice said. “So we can tell him all about it when he gets back from Panama.” And she forced her face into a smile.
No one had heard from him. There was a rumor of another cholera epidemic. But until they heard the contrary, they would assume that the reason for his silence was nothing more serious than a combination of his laziness and a poor postal system.
The first floor was packed. There, among the swish of skirts and the light breath of a spring wind, was the steady thrum of a vertiginous kind of excitement. In Paris on that particular day it was the place to be, to look and be looked at. People pointed and gasped and smiled and tried to stand as still as they could for the three photographers who would record the event.
“Do I look all right?” asked Alice.
She was wearing a white dress and carried a pink parasol. She looked sweet, fresh, younger than her years again.
“You look very nice,” Cait replied.
Alice squinted into the sunlight and then leaned a little closer.
“But do you think people know? Can they tell?”
Cait took her hand and held it.
“No one knows,” she said. “And no one ever will. I promise.”
Émile Nouguier was standing on the southern side, staring out. Cait’s eye ran from the top of his head down his shoulder to the length of his arm. People kept their distance from him—there were dozens of versions of his dishonorable behavior circulating. Cait had overheard several accounts; he shot the count, he jilted a young girl, he had been fired from his job. Yet here he was at the opening, unrepentant.
“Mrs. Wallace!” said Alice. “Come over here.”
Shortly after Cait had discovered Alice’s predicament, Émile had stopped all contact. Had be gotten wind of Alice’s condition? Or had he finally realized that it was hopeless? What would have happened if he had continued courting Alice? Cait couldn’t have borne that. And as for the count, Émile had only done what many men would have done if they’d had the chance. The wound, apparently, wasn’t fatal.
A group of ladies moved forward to look over the edge and blocked Cait’s line of sight. She leaned her head to the side until she could see him again. Émile stood back, he adjusted his collar, and then he began to walk up the stairs to the second floor, around and around, higher and higher, moving farther and farther away.
Cait was aware of Alice only when she took both arms and physically turned her around.
“Mrs. Wallace! I’ve been saying your name over and over.”
“A moment,” Cait said, watching him finally disappear.
“Look at me,” Alice insisted.
Cait finally looked. Alice’s face had flared scarlet. In an instant it seemed as if everything had suddenly become clear to her.
“It’s him,” she said. “All along it’s been him. He didn’t come to court me at all but to see you.”
Cait felt winded, empty of breath, concave with loss.
“Why?” Alice said.
She shook her head. Why? Why had it happened?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.
Cait closed her eyes. It didn’t matter anymore. He was gone.
“Because,” she whispered, “there’s nothing to be done.”
“What are you talking about?”
Alice’s voice was raised. People were turning around. Two elderly men and their wives tripped toward the Anglo-American bar. They fell silent as they passed them.
“I can’t give him what he wants,” she said softly once they had passed.
“I don’t understand you,” said Alice. “What are you talking about? He came to see you!”
“Let’s go down,” she said. “We have an early start.”
“No! I’m grown-up,” said Alice. “The last few months have proved that. Besides, you’re not only my chaperone, you’re my friend. What can’t you give?”
Cait took in a breath and let it go. The weight of what she had done, of who she was, of what she had set in motion rolled inside her like a heavy gray fog.
“My husband,” she said.
“He died,” said Alice. “Tragically.”
Cait nodded.
“Before . . . he pushed me down some stairs,” she whispered, “I was expecting a child.”
Cait used to be haunted by the children she had once dreamed of having. The weight of them as heavy as stone. But recently, their weight had lightened and one by one they had floated away. Alice was staring at her, her eyes widened.
>
“There was a procedure, a medical procedure to stop the bleeding,” she went on. “And now I can’t have any children.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Alice said. “You could try—”
Cait placed her hand on Alice’s arm. “To accept it,” said Cait, “is to let it go.”
For a moment they stood in silence and looked out at the city as the shadows lengthened. Soon they would be gone. Soon these days would be over. Soon Émile would be nothing more than a memory, a half-remembered glance. A band started to play. A man started to sing. The confession hung in the air between them, solid now for being spoken. Alice’s gaze drifted from Cait’s face upward, to the higher platforms.
“You know what, I’m going up,” Cait said suddenly.
Alice blinked and then gave the smallest of nods.
“Will you be all right here? I won’t be long.”
“Of course. Don’t remain on my account.”
Cait could hear the other people’s footsteps high above her on the metal stairs as she climbed. The spiral staircase curved slightly inward as it rose to the second floor. She didn’t look over the edge; she didn’t let her gaze waver but fixed her eye on the step in front. With so much air and so little structure, she could feel the wind in her hair and spots of rain on her face; she could feel the air sharp in her lungs and the chill whisk beneath her skirts. It was like levitation, rising up without proper support, an ascent into an impossible space.
Although her legs soon began to ache and she became breathless, although her corset was too tight and her bustle cumbersome, she kept going, one step, then another, and then just one more. Finally, she stepped out onto the second platform over a hundred meters high. As she caught her breath, she held on tight to the railing, so tight her knuckles turned white. She had done it.
Émile wasn’t there. She had walked around twice. There was only one place he could have gone. Another set of spiral staircases wound its way up to the third level.
“Heading up to the top?” a man asked her as she hesitated at the base of the stairs. “It’s only one thousand one hundred and thirty steps.”
She would do it now, quickly, before she changed her mind.
To Capture What We Cannot Keep Page 28