by M. J. Rose
“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” I asked.
“It’s all legend and myth and not very pleasant.”
The sommelier arrived with the bottle of Bordeaux my grandmother had ordered and poured the ruby wine. The waiter arrived with our first course. Placing china bowls in front of us, he ladled out spoonfuls of lobster bisque. Once the waiter had filled the bowls three-quarters full, he sprinkled lightly toasted croutons on the top and wished us Bon appétit.
I tasted my soup. Fragrant and flavorful, the bisque offered the essence of the sea mollified by luscious cream.
“I need to talk about her,” I said.
My grandmother lifted the spoon to her mouth, then dipped it in the soup again.
The sounds of the restaurant made the silence between us all the louder. All around, silverware clinked, glasses tinkled, conversations flowed, guests laughed, waiters recited specials. Only at our table was there such quiet.
There we were, two women, both wearing black silk mourning dresses, while around us were women bedecked in jewel-toned gowns, fanciful lace and ribbons, rich velvets and shimmering satins. My grandmother followed my glance.
“Yes, we’ve had enough black,” she declared, as if she’d been reading my mind. “On your birthday you get a wish, don’t you? Mine is that we stop being so very sad.” She finished off her soup. “None of this moping will bring your father back. Besides,” she said as she laid her spoon down, “I knew my son, you knew your father. He would most certainly not approve of us languishing.”
She was right about that. My father took great pleasure from life. But would changing the color of the silks we wore make us miss him any less?
“Papa,” I said, tying in the last conversation with the previous one, “told me that you knew much more of the story about her than he did. That she was a woman of grand passions.”
“About who?” my grandmother asked.
I knew that she was pretending not to know who I was asking about.
“La Lune.”
“Oh, Sandrine, really. What is there to discuss? She lived over three hundred years ago. She was a very successful courtesan who inspired a few poets and painters and dabbled in painting herself.”
“Did she marry?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did she have children?”
“Yes. She had a son who became an actor and two daughters who continued in their mother’s footsteps, or so the story goes. It seems many of the male children in our family go on to become quite respectable, but the women . . .” She shook her head.
“Are you saying that you aren’t respectable?”
“Well, I’m not a duchess living in a château, am I?” Grand-mère laughed. It was such a wonderful sound. Not a light laugh like crystals tinkling, but a rich, seductive laugh that came from her throat and was tinged with a voluptuousness that, suddenly that night, for the first time, made me envious.
“Papa always said that he could hear your whole personality in your laughter. He said it was all there—your joie de vivre, your refusal to allow life’s troubles to weigh you down. And in the lower notes, he could sense your indefatigable determination.”
Tears sparkled in my grandmother’s eyes for a moment.
“Will it always be like this?” I asked. “Will remembering Papa, even happily, always make me sad . . .”
“No, the sadness will soften, its edges will become less rough. In time missing him will be the way you love him.” She reached across the table and took my hand. Her skin felt like velvet. “You’ve lost a lot. Your mother when you were seventeen and needed her the most, and now your father, and in a way your husband. You speak of him so little, mon ange. We should, you know.”
“I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll answer all your questions about Benjamin and why I am afraid of him coming after me if you tell me what you are hiding about La Lune.”
She shook her head. “I’m not hiding anything. So much time has passed, she’s nothing but a fairy tale.”
The waiter approached and refilled our wineglasses.
“All right. If you want to hear about Benjamin, tell me the fairy tale. It’s been a while since I heard one, and I might quite like it.”
“So stubborn, just like your Papa, aren’t you? And he was so like his father. I wish Albert were still alive so you could spend time with him while you are here. He would be delighted by you.”
“Was he your favorite? Did you love him?”
She shook her head. “I loved only my son. It’s best for our kind never to fall in love and become vulnerable. But I liked his father more than most. Albert was a good friend to me. He taught me about money and how to invest it. And he took care of our son. I have much to thank him for.” She raised her glass to the long-gone lover and took a hearty sip.
Before I could pressure her to tell me about La Lune, two waiters arrived with identical silver domes. One was placed in front of each of us, and then at the same time, with great ceremony, the lids were lifted off. The aromas and perfumes rose up. We had both ordered capon with truffle sauce, and for a few moments we admired our beautifully appointed plates before we began to eat.
“My husband is a very cruel man,” I said finally.
“Clearly, from what you’ve told me, he is certainly a ruthless businessman. Do you mean he is also cruel to you?”
I nodded.
“In bed?” my grandmother asked.
I was startled by her bold question for a moment, but only a moment. She was L’Incendie. Making love was her occupation. Matters of the bedroom were not a subject of embarrassment to her.
“In all ways.”
Since we were seated beside the window, there was no one to my right, and to my left was a party of six, busy conversing and not listening to us, but still I was uncomfortable talking about this at dinner.
“What were his particular persuasions?”
“He is . . . He was very rough—” I broke off. I’d never spoken of what went on between us to anyone.
“Mon ange, there is nothing that a man can want that I have not heard of and probably done for him. You don’t have to be coy with me. Did he hit you?”
“No, no.”
“Did he ask you to perform uncommon acts?”
“I’m not sure I’d know what is uncommon, but I don’t think so.”
“What then?”
“He was violent and quick. It was always very painful, and he didn’t care. Sometimes I thought he even enjoyed my pain.”
“It was always like this?”
I nodded. It would have been difficult answering her questions if we were at home, but it was especially so in a public place. Despite my discomfort she pursued the topic.
Leaning forward, she asked, sotto voce, “Did he ever pleasure you?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No. I said no. Not ever.”
“How long did he take when he made love?”
“Do you we need to discuss this here?”
“I find that sometimes lovely surroundings, wonderful food, and amazing wine make it easier to deal with the unpleasantries.”
“But the more you ask, the more I have to picture him, to remember him, his stench of cigars and whiskey . . .” I was feeling Benjamin’s large, strong hands squeezing my breasts and his fleshy mouth slobbering over me as he shoved himself in between my legs.
“How long did he take?”
“Two or three minutes.”
“Always? From the very beginning, mon ange?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “He told me there was something wrong with me on our honeymoon, and he seemed never to forgive me for it.”
“What do you mean something wrong with you?”
“With how I couldn’t respond,” I whispered.
�
��Did he tell you that you were frigid?”
The word shocked me. Especially said out loud in a fine restaurant. “Yes.” I drained my wineglass. Felt the warmth flood me. The worst part of it had been said. There was some relief in that.
“I knew it was not a love match, but I never suspected that it was so unsatisfying and hurtful. Based on your description of his performance, you can’t assume there’s anything at all wrong with you.”
“But I am sure. I know it. I can feel it.”
“No, lovemaking with a callous brute is never pleasurable.” She looked at me and smiled sweetly. “Until you’ve taken a gentle lover, you can’t know how responsive you are. No woman is incapable of pleasure, but some must be taught. Now, eat a bit more. You’re too thin to be healthy.” She put another pat of butter on my bread plate. “I promise, there’s nothing wrong with you. The women in our family aren’t made frigid.”
I knew she was mistaken. I’d bought illicit books and tried to do things to myself, and I’d failed to coax my body out of its frozen state. But rather than argue I took a forkful of the delicious food and put it in my mouth.
We ate in silence for a few moments more, and I allowed the sounds of the restaurant to lull me into thinking that this was an ordinary night, with a grandmother and granddaughter having a delightful dinner in one of Paris’s most famous restaurants.
“You have only told me a sketch of what happened in New York. Are you certain of what you heard between your husband and father?”
“That Benjamin gave Papa no choice? That it was shame either way?”
She nodded.
“Certain that I heard the conversation, yes.”
I again described walking into my father’s study and seeing him pointing the gun at Benjamin and then hearing what was said. I was calm in recounting the events of the night and how the next morning I had sent the valet to my father’s room, and the poor man returned to tell us why my father was not yet at the breakfast table. But when it came to describing the scene of her son’s death for my grandmother, I could not continue.
Our dinners had grown cold. The waiter removed the plates, and my grandmother ordered us cognacs and coffees without asking me if I wanted one.
“For money,” she said in a sad faraway voice. “All for money.” Her eyes filled with tears, but only for a moment. I had seen her eyes fill like this before, and I marveled at how she could blink away her grief so efficiently.
“Did you know Benjamin was gambling?” she asked.
“Papa had only just told me.”
“Your father was such a good judge of character. I wonder why he never saw through Benjamin?”
I shrugged.
“I think . . . ,” Grand-mère said as the idea occurred to her, “that he didn’t want to believe he could have been so wrong about someone and doomed you to such a life all because of—” She broke off.
One waiter approached with the crystal balloons of brandy and the fine china cups for coffee. Another approached with a plate of pastel-colored petit fours and chocolate bonbons.
“Because of what?” I asked.
While I waited for her to resume explaining, I put one of the chocolates in my mouth. It was darkly suggestive, slightly bitter and lushly sweet all at the same time.
“Because I warned your father so often and so vociferously that love is dangerous for Verlaine women. It leads to heartbreak and tragedy. We are too passionate, and it is a poison for us. I told him to marry you off to someone who would take care of you and be good to you, but someone whom you wouldn’t fall in love with. Philippe made fun of my superstitions, but in the end he listened to me, didn’t he? Or at least he tried to.”
I remembered the letter she’d written to my parents after the tragedy with Leon that terrible spring. She’d used almost the same words.
“A family curse? That’s preposterous.”
She trained her fiery opal eyes on me; her gaze was intense. “No, no, it’s not,” my grandmother said.
I bit down on the bonbon so hard that my teeth pierced the inside of my cheek, and the taste of blood ruined the chocolate.
“Sandrine, quick.” Suddenly my grandmother was standing, shouting at me. “Turn this way, come with me, run.” As I stood, she grabbed my arm and pulled me away from the table just as I heard an ear-shattering crash.
Cold air poured in.
I looked back. We were a dozen feet away from our table, which was now covered in fragments of glass glittering in the candlelight. It was all over our plates. Our seats. We would have been showered by the sharp splinters if Grand-mère hadn’t pulled me away.
“Don’t stop,” she shouted.
A man—either a diner or a waiter—screamed: “It’s the anarchists!”
“It’s a bomb!” another man yelled.
My grandmother kept moving us farther away from the gaping, wounded window. In the pandemonium around us, people pushed over chairs and tables, breaking china and glass as they rushed to get out of the path of what they expected to come.
“It is all right, Messieurs, Mesdames,” the restaurant manager was shouting over the din. “All is fine. It was only a rock. Not a bomb. Not a bomb. Please, everyone. No reason to panic. Brandy for everyone. Take your seats. Please, everyone, please, there’s no reason to panic.”
The guests were becoming aware of what he was saying.
“Not a bomb.”
“A rock? Someone threw a rock?”
“Why?”
People gathered around the manager, peppering him with questions.
“Not a bomb. Just a rock with a note wrapped around it.” He held it up.
Beside me, my grandmother, who was holding my arm, leaned very close and whispered in my ear: “I was warning you just when it happened, wasn’t I? Telling you that we’re cursed. Just at that moment. You see? Just as I was about to tell you that love is what she wants and what you can never give her.”
But I wasn’t thinking about the curse. Wasn’t wondering who she was. My grandmother had grabbed me and told me to get up moments before the window smashed. How had she known what was about to happen?
Chapter 8
I didn’t dream of angry mobs or bombings or men destroying beautiful things. For the second night in a row, ever since I’d discovered the hidden studio in the bell tower at Maison de la Lune, I dreamed that I was a painter. I saw my canvases: dark and mysterious visions of winged creatures and women with bloodred lips and fiery auburn hair. And while I slept, I was happy—happier than I could ever remember being.
I woke the morning after the incident at Le Grand Véfour determined to do something about my dreams. After all, I was in Paris. The mecca of artists from all over the world. The home of Ingres, and David, Poussin, Millet, Georges de La Tour, and more. And now the very capital of impressionism and symbolism.
The finest art school was only blocks from our apartment. Of course I would take lessons. Just because I’d failed during my one try at school didn’t mean I couldn’t learn. Besides, now that the count was back in residence in Paris, my grandmother was too busy for us to spend every afternoon together. Certainly, I could occupy my time reading or visiting museums on my own . . . or I could try my hand at creating something.
When I went downstairs that morning, my grandmother was readying to leave—to visit her milliner, she said, and then meet the count for a shopping excursion.
“What will you do today?” she asked me with a little nervous catch in her throat. I knew she was worried about me.
I could have told her, but I held back. I wanted to find out what the requirements were to attend art school and then surprise her with how enterprising I was. While I was sure she’d be delighted that I had decided to do something with my time, I wasn’t sure she’d embrace my choice. My father had said she had many superstitions about women in our family; one was
about them going into the arts. I’d never thought much about it before, but it made me even more hesitant to tell her my plans until they were a fait accompli.
I left shortly after she did. The day was cold, and carriages crowded the streets. People were moving more quickly than normal; horses snorted white breaths as they pulled their cabs. Heading north toward rue de Grenelle, I made a left onto rue Saint-Guillaume, a right onto rue Perronet, and then a left onto rue des Saints-Pères. The school was around the corner. I had made a mistake choosing this route. It took me right past my grandmother’s house.
As I looked, I saw her emerging through the Maison de la Lune porte cochère. With her was Monsieur Duplessi.
I prayed he wouldn’t notice me, or if he did, not let on that I’d visited the house, met her architect, disobeyed her wishes.
Once they were safely out of sight and headed in the opposite direction, toward Boulevard Saint-Germain, I proceeded to the river and my destination, the École des Beaux-Arts.
Leon had been attending the École, and I’d often accompanied him on his walks to school in the morning. It was a hallowed place to someone who revered art.
The imposing school took up much of the block, and for a moment I was overwhelmed with memories of being that fifteen-year-old girl, so impressed she knew a boy who was studying here.
Then the memories were replaced by intimidation. What made me think I was good enough to attend this institution? I had taken painting classes and shown talent, but not enough to attend the École des Beaux-Arts.
For hundreds of years, France’s most famous artists had studied here—Delacroix, Géricault, Fragonard—and the modern masters, too: Monet, Degas, Renoir, Moreau, and so many more. There was no more august art institution in the world. Two dreams for two consecutive nights, and suddenly I thought I belonged here?
But I did. I was certain of it.
A crowd clogged the large wrought-iron gates. All manner of men and women and even children were gathered. Marching up to a guard, I asked where I might go to talk to someone in admissions to the school. He regarded me with an odd glance but gave me directions.