Early one morning when Brigitte was adding the finishing touches to the painting of a flower merchant on a street corner, Fortune came in and stood behind her. “How about April?” he asked.
Brigitte put down her brush. “What are you talking about?”
“I think you're ready for your vernissage. How about April? That gives me two months to plan the event. I have to prepare the guest list, contact the media, and select your best paintings…”
It was the moment Brigitte had been waiting for. Suddenly she was terrified. “I-I don't think I'm ready. Maybe we should wait until…”
“I've invested a small fortune in getting you ready. Now it's time you earned me some of that money back. You're as ready as you'll ever be.”
Nothing she said could dissuade him. In two short months Brigitte was to have her vernissage. Brigitte only hoped the art world would not tear her apart.
* * *
On the appointed evening, Fortune rushed about like a nervous host, making sure all was perfect. He added lighting until the entire room was bathed in brightness. In one corner, a line of waiters in tails stood by a long row of ice buckets filled with magnums of champagne. In another corner, a string quartet played softly. Across the room stood a small podium, next to which was a large photograph of Brigitte. The photo had been taken a week earlier. It showed a self-assured Brigitte in a deep décolleté. In prominent display on every wall were Brigitte's paintings—bold, energetic oils that commanded attention. People were already gathered in front of them in small, admiring groups. Fortune breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, everything is perfect.
He hurried to his office where Brigitte waited nervously. “I'll come and tell you when it's time. Now wish me luck,” he told her and ran out again.
“Merde!” she called out as the door closed behind him.
Fortune looked through the glittering crowd, noting with satisfaction the presence of enough stars to guarantee the evening’s success. There was Louis Malle. Brigitte Bardot and her new husband, Jacques Charrier, had even shown up. Romy Schneider and Nobel Prize winner Albert Camus were in deep conversation. In a corner, with his bejeweled wife, was Doctor Armand Hammer, chatting with the ever dowdy Hélène Richoux and her new, young and handsome husband. A photographer hovered nearby, snapping pictures madly. Fortune was ecstatic.
Not only had the gallery never looked so dramatic, but le tout Paris was there. Even Simon Fleuret, Fortune's archrival. “I must say, I’m looking forward to meeting this Dartois. You certainly have been keeping her well hidden,” said Fleuret, his eyes furtively searching the crowd for his competitor's new protégé.
Fortune laughed. “If you're thinking of trying to steal Dartois from me, forget it. She's mine. I have an iron-clad contract with her. Besides, you have Cigogne.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Tell me, is there any truth to the stories I hear about Cigogne having a dry spell?” The look on Fleuret's face was all the answer he needed. Fortune walked away, silently congratulating himself. I wouldn't take Cigogne back even if he crawled here on his hands and knees—not even for a quick tumble in bed, he told himself merrily.
An hour into the evening, it was obvious that Dartois' works were a huge success. Comments of, “brilliant,” “explosive new talent,” and “original vision,” flowed about the room as abundantly as the champagne.
Fortune was beside himself with excitement. Dartois will make me rich. Who needs Cigogne? He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty. It was time for Dartois to make her entrance.
In Fortune's office, Brigitte paced nervously in her evening gown. “You will look beautiful in black,” Fortune had told her as he gave her instructions for the evening, and right he was. With her hair swept up into a simple twist and her makeup lightly but impeccably applied, Brigitte looked more like a movie star than an artiste. Nevertheless, she was as nervous as an ingénue. “How do I look?” she asked Fortune when he came in.
“Enchanting, my dear. Absolutely enchanting. Ready?”
“I'm ready.” She smoothed down the folds of her black chiffon gown and smiled brightly.
“Okay, here goes.” Fortune blew her a kiss and stepped out.
A moment later, Fortune's voice came on the microphone. “Et maintenant, Mesdames et Messieurs. The moment we have all been waiting.” Brigitte heard her name called out. “I present to you, Dartois!”
She stepped out of the back room and for a moment was blinded by the lights. The applause was enthusiastic. For the next hour, she was swept into a whirl of introductions and handshakes.
“Mademoiselle, your paintings are wonderful,” one affable gentleman told her.
“You are so talented,” said another, his lips grazing her hand.
“Where have you studied? Rome? Athens?”
“You are brilliant, just brilliant.” The compliments abounded and Brigitte hardly had time to answer one question before the next.
“Bonjour Mademoiselle, it is a great pleasure to meet you.”
Brigitte smiled and shook the man's hand. Suddenly her heart skipped a beat. The woman standing next to him was Hélène Richoux. He must be her new husband. I wonder if she knew about… No, she couldn't.
The man continued. “I am very impressed with your work.”
Hélène tapped her husband on the shoulder. “I see the Thompsons over there.” Her voice was like ice. Without waiting for his reply, she walked away.
Hélène Richoux's handsome young husband blushed. “I'm terribly sorry.” He turned and chased after his wealthy wife.
Before Brigitte had a chance to think, another man stepped in front of her. “You are so young for such a great talent. Tell me, how did you…” Brigitte lost herself in the conversation.
Men flocked to her in troves. From a distance, Fortune watched as Brigitte was surrounded by admirers.
She's fantastic, he rejoiced. Her beauty alone…
Suddenly his mood changed. This could be a disaster, he realized as he noticed the angry stares from a group of wives. How could I have been so stupid? Immediately he called over one of the waiters and gave him a few brief instructions. The garçon nodded. Moments later half a dozen waiters hurried through the room, carrying magnums of champagne and began to pour fresh glasses for all the guests. Fortune signaled to Brigitte and she hurried over. “We have a problem on our hands,” he told her.
“What?'
“I don't have time to explain now, but whatever I say, just keep smiling. Trust me.”
He picked up the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” The crowd slowly gathered. Brigitte stood smiling as instructed. “Tonight is a very special night for me. Not only have I had the pleasure of introducing to you an artist who will have a major influence on the art world.” He paused for a moment and looked at Brigitte. “I also have the great pleasure of announcing my engagement. Ladies and gentlemen.” He grabbed Brigitte's hand. “I present to you, my fiancée.”
Brigitte stared back at him with a frozen smile on her face. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“I'll explain later. Just trust me,” he whispered back.
* * *
Fortune escorted the last of his important guests to the door. “I'm so glad you were able to come. I'll call you next week to book a private appointment.” Then he turned back to the deserted gallery.
Brigitte stood in the middle of the empty room, fury on her face. “What kind of a stunt was that?”
“You saw the way those men were looking at you.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just think for a minute, Brigitte! Every one of those men has an older wife, not nearly as attractive as you are. I saw the way those women looked at you. They wanted you dead.”
Brigitte remembered the way Hélène Richoux had turned away when they were introduced. Could she have known about Marcel? Should she mention anything about it to Fortune?
Fortune
continued. “To be truly successful, an artist needs to be socially prominent. Wives control the social life in this city. Don't be so naïve. As a single, attractive female, you will get nowhere. On the other hand, as my wife…”
“You can't really expect us to get married!”
Fortune laughed. “You flatter yourself. At the risk of offending you, my dear, I have no interest in becoming your husband, or for that matter, your lover.”
“No offense taken, Fortune, the feeling is mutual,” replied Brigitte, laughing. “How long do we need to play this charade?”
“For as long as we have to. Will this cause any problems in your personal life?”
Brigitte laughed. “In my personal life? None. None whatsoever.” Again she giggled.
* * *
“You've got to be joking!” Réjeanne stood, hands on hips, with a shocked expression. The shock slowly mellowed into a smile. “You're engaged to Fortune? I had no idea. I'm so very happy for you. How long has this been going on?”
Brigitte shrugged and smiled secretly. “You see, all that time you were worrying about my personal life? You had no reason to worry.”
In the doorway, David stood in his pajamas his eyes filled with wonder. “Does that mean I'm going to have a papa?”
Later, after Brigitte had put David back to bed and explained to him that Fortune would always be a good friend but would never be his father, she felt terrible. David had seemed so very happy at the thought of having a daddy.
* * *
The next morning, the first reviews of the vernissage appeared. “Dartois, genius!” cried the headline of one article. “New talent applauded,” lauded another.
“This deserves a celebration,” declared Fortune. That evening, he took Brigitte to Maxime's. Seated comfortably in the elegant restaurant, Fortune ordered a bottle of Château Margeaux. “Now that we are engaged—” He winked. “—we need to be seen together occasionally. I want you to find yourself a new apartment,” he told her. “Get a housekeeper and buy yourself a new wardrobe.” He pulled out his checkbook, scribbled fast, and handed the check to Brigitte.
She glanced at the sum and gasped. “Don't you think we should sell a few of my paintings first?”
“Selling is my job. You, my dear, are my fiancée. And as my fiancée, you must have the right clothes and the right apartment for your new social level. You are about to start entertaining. Don't worry about the money. The money will come.”
One week later, Brigitte found a six-room apartment on the Avenue Foch. The first time David saw it, the four-year-old ran from room to room until his mother managed to calm him. “You mustn't run around in here. There are people living downstairs.”
David continued to jump up and down. “Are we rich now? Can we buy a car?”
Brigitte laughed. “We're not rich, sweetheart. But we don't have to worry about money anymore.”
Soon Brigitte’s art covered the walls, and she carefully selected a few good pieces of furniture. The master bedroom had a small sitting area, which she transformed into a mini studio for herself. The second bedroom she filled with books and toys for David. “But I want an easel and paints like yours, Maman,” he said. So the toys were stored under the bed and a child-sized easel took center place in his room.
The third bedroom was furnished in a classic, feminine style. When the last detail was in place, she placed a beautifully gift-wrapped box on the bed. Then she invited Réjeanne for a visit.
Réjeanne walked around the apartment in awe. “Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful apartment!”
“You like it?” asked Brigitte smiling.
“Of course! Oh Brigitte, I'm so happy for you.”
“Wait till you see this,” said Brigitte as she opened the door to the third bedroom.
“Oh my!” exclaimed Réjeanne as she walked in. Her eyes immediately focused on the large gift-wrapped box. “What's that?” she asked, a smile creeping on her face.
“Why don't you open it and find out?”
Réjeanne tore through the wrapping and pulled out a mink stole. “Ah, mais c’est pas vraie! Is this real fur?”
Brigitte laughed. “It is. And it's also a bribe. I'm hoping you'll agree to live with David and me.”
“Me? But what about my house?” The pudgy woman's eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Can I keep the mink even if I say no?”
“Réjeanne, I've given this a lot of thought. You'll be living here rent free and I'll pay you to keep house and mind David. In the meantime you’ll have one more apartment bringing in rental income. Please say yes. There's nobody else I trust to take care of David.”
Réjeanne wasn’t sure why she was hesitating. Her financial situation continued to be a worry. Her mortgage was high, and even with the income from the second apartment she still had to dip into her savings every month to make ends meet. She was fast approaching her fifty-fifth birthday and often worried about outliving her small inheritance. Brigitte's offer was the solution to her problems. “I don't know what to say.”
“Please say yes, Réjeanne. You are like family to us, and we need you. What do you say we give it a try?”
Réjeanne nodded slowly. “Yes. I'd love to.”
Brigitte threw her arms around the older woman. “That's great Réjeanne. I'm so very happy.”
“So when do I move in?” asked Réjeanne, suddenly excited.
“As soon as you can.”
Ten days later, Réjeanne moved in and, incredibly, Brigitte's life was suddenly wonderful. For the first time since David's birth, money was no problem. Réjeanne was a wonderful homemaker and took great pride in her housekeeping and her cooking. Even the arrangement with Fortune was perfect. The two enjoyed each other's company, and Brigitte found, to her immense surprise, that she enjoyed the respectability of her new position as Fortune’s fiancée. Everywhere she went, people treated her with regard. It was the kind of courtesy she was unused to receiving, but which she happily accepted. There really is something to be said for being treated with respect. I will never again go back to being a nobody.
Strangely, happiest of all about the engagement was Réjeanne. “I knew it was just a question of time, but I must admit, I had imagined you with someone…well…different. At least you're not alone anymore. You're going to have a husband. You must be so happy.”
Brigitte laughed. “I'm very happy. Fortune is perfect for me.”
Over the next few months, Fortune concentrated on promoting Brigitte's name with an enthusiasm he had not felt since discovering Cigogne. Newspapers regularly published articles extolling the talent of his new protégé. Yet, Brigitte's paintings were not selling as fast as Fortune had expected. It's time to involve her socially, he decided. He thought for a moment. Thérèse Martel, that's whom I should call. She loved the Dartois collection at the vernissage. I'm sure I can convince her to give a small party in Brigitte’s honor.
He picked up the telephone and dialed. “Thérèse, ma chérie! I want you to do me a small favor. I would be eternally grateful if you would give a small diner party for Brigitte and me. Nothing large! Only fifty or so people. And of course, I will show you my gratitude by letting you pick any of the Dartois painting you like for a very good price. Would you mind?”
There was a pause before the social queen replied. “Fortune, mon amour. This is so very embarrassing. You know how much I care about you, don't you my dear? What I have to tell you is for your own good and in the strictest of confidence. Do you remember Hélène Richoux's first husband, Marcel Latreille? Well my darling, did you know that…” She proceeded to tell Fortune the entire story.
The next morning, Fortune made one of his rare appearances in the studio where Brigitte was busily painting. “Brigitte, I want to see you in my office right now!”
A few minutes later Brigitte breezed in, filled with excitement. “Fortune, wait till you see the oil I'm working on.” She saw the anger on Fortune's face and stopped. “What's wrong?”
Fortun
e walked around the desk until he stood inches from her. “Why didn't you tell me about yourself and Hélène Richoux' first husband?” he asked, his voice icy.
Brigitte struggled to stay calm. “Because there's nothing to tell.”
“I wouldn't say that having a man's bastard child is nothing,” Fortune shouted, his fury suddenly exploding. “You've made me look like a fool. I've spent thousands of francs trying to promote the mistress of a man who was married to one of this city's most important social figures. Do you realize that Hélène Richoux is probably the most powerful woman in France? You are finished in this town. All that money I've spent on you is gone, vanished—money thrown down the drain. I'm never going to see any of it again.” Brigitte wanted to cry. She stood rooted to her spot while Fortune went on. “How could you use me that way? Why didn't you tell me about Latreille and yourself?”
Scorpio Series Boxed Set Page 17