From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  She sighed and moved toward the magnificent entry hall, with its black-and-white tiles and elaborate wood-paneled walls. How she had admired it all when she had first walked through the front door. How she had complimented Henry. Now, she felt as if she had behaved like a fool. Like a young American ingenue.

  Green palms in brass pots were dotted about the vast space, and gilt-edged chairs sat about, waiting for something to happen. Louisa’s shoes clattered as if mocking her for being the only one there.

  She moved into the family’s private salon, struggling with thoughts about whether Henry could have let her know she would be dining alone. Part of her still hoped that he simply wanted her to rest. The other half of her was irritated that this was her first night in Paris. The least he could have done was be at home. In the salon, yet another candelabra lent the room a ghostly, shimmering air. As Louisa sat down in one of the red velvet chairs, she gazed at the portraits on the walls.

  Ancestors.

  Lines of people.

  She was going to be one of them too.

  She drew her arms around herself. Henry had hardly uttered a word to her throughout the entire journey to Paris. When Louisa had tried to chatter about things that she thought might interest him, he had replied in monosyllables and pulled out a book.

  A servant appeared in the salon holding a silver tray. He moved over to where she sat. “A letter, Madame. From Hong Kong.”

  “Oh!” Louisa gasped, delight blending with an ache for Samuel—and for something else that she could not define.

  She took the letter and the brass opener from the tray, slitting the thick cream envelope with a satisfying rip, her fingers delving, searching for the folded paper inside.

  Samuel sent congratulations, asked her to promise him that she would always ensure Henry was up to the mark once they were married.

  Louisa laid the letter aside and closed her eyes. Samuel wrote for the remainder of the letter about his life as a China trade merchant—he was being mentored in the tea business by a local trader. He told her of the Cantonese table of hand-carved rosewood that he was sending back to their mother, along with a Chinese lantern decorated with peacocks, which were the symbol of good, healthy living in that country.

  She stood up, took a look around the room that was stuffed with such treasures, wondered, in the end, what they all meant, if anything, and turned toward the doorway.

  She would retire.

  She and Henry had separate rooms, as they would in Ashworth. So far, he had only kissed her once. While this had bothered her somewhat, and she had found it most odd, she could hardly initiate things with Henry. She put her hand on the warm wooden banister and made her way up to bed.

  Louisa woke the next morning as her maid pulled open the shutters, throwing warm, bright light into the room. Her room was decorated in pale blues and gold brocade—a largesse of gilt-edged opulence. Clocks and vases adorned with gold filigree sat atop the white marble mantelpiece, and the parquet floors were laden with soft, pale rugs.

  She sat up, ate her breakfast, lay in the bath while the maid washed her back, held out her arms like a young child while she was dressed, had her hair done, and was sprayed with perfume.

  Now what?

  She wandered out of her room and down the grand staircase to the first floor. And stood in the entrance hall.

  Henry would not be up for hours.

  She wondered what on earth she had done.

  That evening, Louisa tried a different tack. Henry was pacing about in the salon. She had thought about what to say to him all day.

  “Are you planning on going out this evening?” she asked. A question seemed a good place to start.

  Henry stopped near the window, adjusting his shirtsleeves. He was dressed formally and his hair was slicked back as it had been the night of the ball.

  One of the footmen had brought a nightingale in a cage into the salon that afternoon, for Louisa’s amusement, so she had been told. The solitary bird had sung for hours. His whistles and clear calls had resonated through the family apartments. Now, he hovered on his perch, his brown eyes still, watching. He had given up his flurry of sad notes.

  “Yes. I am going out.” Henry faced the window. He leaned both hands against the sill. “Do you know anyone in Paris?”

  Louisa allowed the tight smile that was forming on her lips to reach fruition. “You know the answer to that question,” she said.

  Henry’s voice was low, controlled. He didn’t turn to face her. “I could contact some friends of Mama’s if you like. That might amuse you while you are here.”

  Louisa took in a breath. She had to reach through to him. Somehow, someway. “Do you remember the first conversation we ever had?”

  Louisa stared at the ramrod straight line of his hair that was cut in a perfect parallel with the unswerving top of his white shirt.

  “Remember what you told me about Paris?” she asked. “I want to see what it is that fascinates you so much. Please, show me.”

  “You do not want to come to Montmartre. I can’t possibly take you there.”

  “Why not?” She stared, resolute, at Henry’s back. “Perhaps I want to take an interest in what you do. You told me that Montmartre was . . . life. Henry, goodness knows I want to see that. I want to see modern. You know I’m not entirely . . . traditional.” She would have to tread with soft footsteps. Be clear about what she meant. She had not broached her views on women’s rights with Henry. She had planned to save that conversation for when they were surrounded with modern life here in Paris. The idea had made sense to her. She assumed he would be up-to-the-minute in his outlook here. Now, she chose her words with care. All she wanted tonight was not to be left in this vast mansion all on her own again. “I did not come here to stagnate, Henry.”

  “Montmartre would be unthinkable.” He almost cut her off.

  But Louisa fought irritation, and anger. “So. What am I expected to do, Henry? You sleep all morning. You spend the afternoons riding out with your friends. Your evenings at dance halls!”

  “I expected that you would have things to do. I’m so sorry. It’s just what I do here. I thought you would enjoy other aspects of Paris. Like my mother does. Like respectable women do.”

  Louisa took in a breath. “I am not suggesting that we live in each other’s pockets. But, I should like to come with you.” She struggled with the desire to speak out. “I am not like other women. I assumed that was why you married me. I have, Henry, my own ideas and thoughts. And I do not wish to be left here alone. Surely, you understand that.”

  She saw Henry’s knuckles tighten and blanch white as he leaned on the sill. “What is it you want, Louisa?”

  For the ten thousandth time, Louisa fought the sickening idea that he had simply made a marriage of convenience with a wealthy American. She thought he saw her as different. She thought he saw her as unique. She simply had to get through to him. She had done so before; she was sure of it. Or had she? She pushed that question right out of her head. “I want us to have a partnership that works. I want us both to be free to live our lives, but I want there to be things that we share, together,” she said, barely maintaining control.

  He stood motionless, still staring at the trees outside. Louisa glanced at the nightingale. It was staring straight ahead too, as if at nothing.

  “Henry.”

  Still he did not turn around.

  Louisa closed her eyes. “Henry,” she said. “I am coming out with you tonight. I want to see it. I want to see these artists and writers that you talked about.”

  He turned then, to face her.

  She felt ill at his expression. It was cold, yes, but there was something else lurking as well. And if she were really pressed, she would almost say that he looked as if he despised her.

  Louisa stood up suddenly and flurried across to the open door. She was not going to give in, not now. She must not be left, a doormat, to be walked on when Henry felt he would, and stepped over when Henry thou
ght he would ignore her. She remembered what Charlie had said—she must have a role in the family. She must not let herself be neglected. She stopped in the doorway.

  “I will get my cape,” she said.

  Henry muttered something, but it was too hard to catch.

  Ten minutes later, Louisa climbed into his carriage.

  Henry stared out the window at the narrow street. “I can’t believe you are doing this.” Darkness did not begin to describe his tone. He was a thundercloud. Louisa reached out and placed a hand in his, only to abruptly pull it back when he moved away from her.

  “Irish and American Bar,” Henry told the driver, his voice tight.

  “Sounds interesting,” Louisa said.

  “Interesting’s the word.” Sarcasm exuded from his voice.

  There was a silence.

  Louisa opened her mouth and closed it again. The carriage rolled forward with a small jolt.

  Henry let out a sigh. He turned to her then, his face tortured. “Look, Louisa, what goes on in the places that I go to is not going to work for you. It’s not what you are looking for, believe me.”

  “I want to be a part of your life,” she said.

  Henry stared out of the carriage window to the street.

  Several minutes later, the carriage rolled to a stop on the grand Rue Royale, outside what looked like a public house. Louisa craned her head to peer at the long wooden bar inside the window. Men, dressed in the typical garb of the working class, were seated at it. Several of them turned at the sight of the grand Duval carriage.

  Henry had his hand on the door. The footman had jumped down and was about to open it for them. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the young man, suddenly. “Take us to Le Chat Noir.”

  The clientele at the Irish and American Bar stared at them through the murky glass panes.

  “I can’t take you in there,” Henry muttered. “I just cannot do it.”

  Louisa chewed on her lip.

  Twilight lingered over Paris as the coach travelled on. The glittering lights from the restaurants, theaters, and clubs flashed through the windows. The farther they moved away from the Seine, the narrower the streets became, the smaller the buildings. They were no longer grand, but crowded, their old bricks painted with simple whitewash. It couldn’t be more of a contrast to Haussmann’s grand boulevards—the Paris of Louisa’s imagination. She stared at the seedy cafés and nightclubs, at the women on the streets, clearly disreputable, lingering in lurid shop windows and at the entrances to unmarked buildings. These were Paris’s maisons closes, she supposed—houses for prostitutes, infamous the world over. Louisa gawped at the women’s faces painted in garish, tacky colors. And a big part of her couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them.

  There had to be better ways for women.

  Surely, Henry mixed with writers, with poets and artists; that was what he had said. But what did he think about the streets? She was shocked at what was going on out here. “Louisa.” His voice came from beside her, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the scene outside. “You have to understand. All the classes mix in Montmartre. Entertainers, courtesans, dandies, artists, writers—everyone is here. It is the ability to shock that is the key to success in Paris. It’s the opposite from everything at home. Montmartre isn’t about holding one’s ancestors in some sort of esteem. You come here, you see all walks of life in one small community. And that’s what concerns me. You seeing it.”

  Louisa drew her cape around her body, but she didn’t turn away.

  Henry was leaning close now, looking out the window with her. “These streets are the new stage. In Montmartre, shop assistants, milliners, and les cocottes are thrown into contact with the old elite. Everyone wants to pose. The lines of identity between the classes have blurred in Paris.”

  “I suppose it is good that you don’t find this threatening.” She turned to look at him, and his expression was unreadable in the gathering darkness.

  “To the contrary, just as I told you, I feel far more at home here than I do at Ashworth. It is freedom for me, coming here. Freedom from the endless cycle of the same sorts of people, of the expectation that I must be one of them. We all need to work out who we are. But at the same time, we are all labeled from birth.”

  Rue Victor Massé was so narrow that the carriage had to slow down in order not to clip the crowds on the sidewalks. Noise swelled from the buildings that crammed each side of the road, and an even more extraordinary array of people wormed their way up the impossibly narrow footpaths. Louisa took in the women’s mocking faces, their hair dressed as if in cheapened copies of what was fashionable. Gaudy, filthy feathers sat atop their heads, while their ill-fitting clothes either pressed tightly into their bursting busts or hung on emaciated, unfed frames.

  The footman, his eyes diverted from everything, including Louisa, held the carriage door open for her to step outside. As soon as she did so, she was assailed with the squalid stench of cheap perfume blended with human sweat and the rank, turgid odor that emanated from every restaurant in the unbearably warm street. She lifted the hem of her dress instinctively, tried not to look too superior, too interested, or too shocked at the sight of number twelve in front of her.

  Le Chat Noir was three stories high, with a row of dormer windows running across its top floor. It was not a large building—there was no room for such a thing here—but largesse pulsed out of it as if it swelled with its own singular life force. The solid sound of brass band music belted into the street. Raucous conversation and laughter escaped into any space that was left in the air.

  “Welcome to the Cabaret Artistique, Madame,” a woman shouted in English at Louisa, flashing a row of hard black stumps that made do for teeth; her hair was a gaudy mess of clown-like fervor.

  Louisa fought turmoil. She felt confusion and empathy for these poor, desperate creatures, but she could not evict her own revulsion and fascination at the entire scene.

  A man dressed as a Swiss Guard waved them through the entrance to Le Chat Noir. Louisa stopped just inside the door. A vast ironwork sculpture of a black cat loomed over the entrance hall, its head portrayed in front of a silhouette of the sun. Beyond this, at the entrance to the cabaret theater, she stared at a canvas of another imperious cat on its hind legs, holding a red flag.

  Henry moved ahead.

  Louisa followed him.

  The theater beyond the entrance hall was decorated like a gaudy medieval palace—heavy oak tables were stuffed with guests who drank from pewter mugs, while suits of armor lined the walls, along with tapestries and more stained glass designs.

  And then Louisa stopped. Several people pushed past her, shoving her aside while she simply stared. Henry had moved into the center of the room. He stood right between two tables, kissing a woman full on the lips, his own mouth lingering on hers. The woman was beautiful. Her thick, luxurious, henna-dyed hair framed a stunning face. Her large, clear brown eyes rendered her almost ethereal. For a moment, Louisa wondered if this might be a lady. Relief fought with confusion, but only for a moment.

  The woman’s manner of dress, while exquisite, showed far too much creamy décolletage for any lady of taste. And yet she held herself like a dancer—the tilt of her chin was distinguished, her look haughty. Her eyes caught Louisa’s and she frowned, turning back to Henry, whispering something into his ear that obviously amused him. He laughed, his features lighting up in a way that Louisa had never seen before, and leaned down again, replying to her comment, placing a hand on her elegant, straight back.

  Louisa stood alone. She sensed people, other guests, staring at her. She knew their laughter was indiscriminate, but she felt with acuteness that it was directed at her.

  The extraordinary woman handed Henry her own drink, filled with some sort of concoction that was half-green and half-purple. Absinthe? Louisa couldn’t move from the spot. She watched, fascinated, yet horrified, while Henry, the man she had married, her husband, tipped his head back and soaked up the lot in o
ne long draft. Then he handed the glass back to his beautiful accomplice, and she raised it to her own lips, taking in the last few drops of his drink, running her tongue over where his lips had been to lap up any drops he might have left, her eyes locked on Louisa’s the entire time.

  A dancer appeared on the stage. Henry’s companion linked her arm with his, and they stood there, their backs to Louisa, intertwined, watching whatever performance this was. After a few moments, the music stopped. The sounds of conversation, bawdy laughter, and jeers shot through the room unaccompanied by any loud music, and then the musicians picked up their instruments again.

  Now, a seductive, lone trumpet performed a slow fanfare while a new female performer, who was dressed in nothing but a couple of slivers of silver gauze covering her breasts and the lower half of her body, writhed about on the stage, waving oversize white feathers. The sensuous music swelled into a fast, intense rhythm, and the woman kept up with her body. She kicked up her heels and twirled in never-ending circles while the entire band joined in. Everyone in the room seemed hypnotized by her dance.

  Louisa, feeling dizzy with heat and noise and faint at Henry’s brazen antics, took a step back, moved toward the entrance again, and passed the Swiss Guard, who shouted, “You didn’t like La Goulue, Madame?” and laughed at her in a torrid, raucous sort of way. She made her way out into the fetid night air, where her arms were stroked and her skirts were pulled at as she bustled her way up the street.

  And stopped.

  What was she going to do?

  And then, thank goodness. Henry’s carriage was parked halfway up the street. Solid, its navy blue presence was like some sort of relief from the gods—whatever gods presided over a place like this.

  Louisa pushed her way through the prostitutes and past the pimps, and when she arrived at the carriage, she looked up at the footman and the driver, who were smoking on their seat.

  Her eyes, she knew, told them everything. She didn’t need to speak French. The footman jumped down, crushed his cigarette butt into the pavement with his highly polished shoe, took Louisa’s elbow, and helped her back into the carriage.