“He’ll know. Louisette will tell him.”
“Who is this Louisette person?” Agnes asked. “Is she that sour-faced woman who was trailing along behind you?”
“Yes,” Helena answered. “She’s Daisy’s maid, and goes everywhere with her. The problem is that she is rather unpleasant. Certainly she won’t keep a secret for Daisy.”
“I see. Perhaps I could write your father a letter? Charm him along?”
Daisy remained unconvinced. “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure it will work.”
“We won’t know until we try, and I can be very persuasive. I’ll use my stationery with the imperial crest. Have the letter delivered by Vincent himself, in his best livery. That will make an impression. Forgive me for saying so, but you Americans are terribly susceptible to such things.”
“I guess there’s no harm in trying.”
“There you have it. You are all in agreement? Helena?”
“Oh, Auntie A—you’ve already been so generous. It doesn’t feel right to ask anything more of you.”
“Nonsense. It will give me great pleasure to support you in this fashion. Tell me, Étienne, where shall you look? I sense you are the engine driving this scheme.”
“I’ll start in the sixième. We don’t want anything too far from school; otherwise we’ll spend half our lives walking back and forth.”
“Very well. Once you find a suitable space, advise me at once and I’ll have dear Vincent sort out the paperwork. There isn’t a landlord in Paris who can get the best of him.”
ÉTIENNE’S REPORT, DELIVERED on Monday at lunch, was dispiriting. He’d visited half a dozen studios on Saturday, and all of them had been unsuitable.
“I’m certain the first place I saw was being used as a brothel at night. The one on boulevard Raspail looked pleasant enough, but it had an odeur—a stench? is that the word?—of cat urine that was most disagreeable.”
“And the others?” asked Mathilde.
“Too far away, too small, too expensive. But I shall keep looking. There is one place, on the avenue du Maine; my friend Léon told me about it this morning. But it’s expensive—two hundred and fifty francs a month. Would your aunt balk at that, Hélène?”
“I’ve seen her spend that much on a hat without blinking, so I don’t think she’ll mind.”
Agnes may have been happy with the arrangement, but Helena still felt uncomfortable. She couldn’t properly say she was taking advantage of her aunt, for Agnes was wealthy enough that 250 francs a month meant nothing to her; but all the same she wished she had money of her own to pay for the studio. If, one day, she managed to sell any of her work, she would repay her aunt right away, no matter how she protested. At the very least she would buy Agnes a trunkful of stylish hats.
“Shall we go this afternoon?” Étienne suggested. “Otherwise we risk losing it to someone else.”
As soon as their afternoon class had finished they set off, with Louisette trailing five paces behind; as Étienne had promised, the studio was an easy ten-minute walk from the academy. They almost walked past the alley in which it was located, for the entrance off the street was narrow, its archway shadowed by a mantle of ivy, and the cobbles underfoot were thick with moss. The buildings themselves had a faintly ramshackle appearance, as if they’d been constructed from scavenged materials—a hod of bricks, a weathered greenhouse window, an ancient stone lintel—and one or two of the structures seemed alarmingly close to collapse.
Étienne led them to the end of the alley, about seventy yards back, where a red-painted door had been left open.
“Allô?” he called, stepping inside.
“Entrez, entrez!” came an answering voice.
Étienne led them upstairs and introduced everyone except Louisette to the concierge, Madame Benoît, who had been sweeping out the empty studio.
It was a large, open room, perhaps ten yards along its longest wall, its chief appeal a great bank of windows that began at knee height and soared up to the twelve-foot ceiling. Some of the window panes were cracked, and ivy had crept inside a number of the casements, but the light would be wonderful once the glass had been cleaned. Here and there were bits of furniture—a paint-splattered table, a threadbare settee, several wobbly chairs—and Helena was relieved to see a small potbellied stove and a deep porcelain sink.
The negotiations that followed, in which Étienne and Mathilde both participated vociferously, were nearly impossible for Helena to follow, and there was one moment when she feared they might come to blows with the concierge, who was a large lady and perfectly capable of knocking any of them flat with her sturdy broom.
And then, quite suddenly, all was resolved, and Madame Benoît was smiling and shaking her hand, and Daisy’s, too, and with a round of final good-byes they retreated to the alley and the avenue beyond.
“What just happened?” she asked, more than a little bemused.
“We discussed the terms of the lease,” Mathilde explained. “I told her the studio was in a shocking condition and we would certainly not pay two hundred and fifty francs a month for it. She disagreed, but offered to clean it and repair the windows. I said we would do the work ourselves and pay two hundred a month for the first three months.”
“Wait—we have to clean the studio?” Daisy asked.
“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with it that soap and hot water can’t fix.”
“And some whitewash,” Étienne added. “She agreed to pay for that, too.”
“But I . . . I don’t know how to do any of that. I’ve never had to do anything like that,” Daisy protested.
“Then you will learn.”
Chapter 12
The next day, Helena confessed the truth to Mathilde: she, too, had never held a broom, mop, or duster in her life. Servants had always done such things for her, and apart from her paintbrushes and her own person she’d never cleaned anything.
Mathilde bore this news with good grace, and if she was irritated at having to show the other women how to grate soap into hot water so it would dissolve properly, or how to sweep without raising clouds of dust, or how to scrub and wax wooden floors, she never betrayed it.
True to her promise, Agnes had written to Dr. Fields, and whatever she had said in her letter had worked, for he had agreed to Daisy spending a few hours in the studio most days. He had not, however, relented on the matter of Louisette, who continued to shadow Daisy’s every step. She even came into the studio with them, where she perched on a stool in the corner, never saying a word, her gaze as bright and baleful as a raven’s.
While Mathilde, Daisy, and Helena swept and polished, Étienne cut away the ivy that had grown over the windows and replaced a score of cracked and broken panes, fitting the glass as expertly as a glazier. When that was done, he repaired the chairs and settee and steadied the table, and even constructed a set of shelves from some scrap lumber that Madame Benoît had been about to burn.
It took almost a fortnight of work, a few hours at a time, until Mathilde was satisfied. All that remained was an application of whitewash to brighten the space.
It was Friday afternoon, and they’d just finished applying a second, and final, coat of whitewash. At Étienne’s suggestion, they abandoned their usual haunt for the marginally more luxe surroundings of Le Dôme, where the wine was served in bottles, the menu was printed on paper and not scrawled on a chalkboard, and the tables were covered with clean white cloths.
She was poring over the menu, trying to decide between the baked endive with ham or a mushroom omelet, when a group of Americans entered the restaurant. She looked up—even in Montparnasse, where there were so many foreigners, she always noticed when she heard people speaking English—and there he was. Sam Howard.
She blinked, and he was still there, as appealingly tall and handsome as she remembered.
“Sam!” she called out unthinkingly.
He turned, his expression softening into a smile, and came over to her table. “Ellie Parr. I’d given you u
p for dead.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy since I arrived. I hadn’t forgotten my promise, though.”
“Sure you did. But I don’t mind.”
“Hélène, why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” Étienne interjected.
“Of course. Sam Howard, these are my friends from school: Étienne Moreau, Mathilde Renault, and Daisy Fields.” Sam’s eyes widened a fraction when he heard Daisy’s name, but to Helena’s relief he only shook their hands and returned their greeting.
“Sam and I met in Antibes last summer. He works at the Paris office of the Chicago Tribune.”
“We’re old friends,” Sam added, and gave her a pointed look. “Listen, Ellie, I’m here with some colleagues. I should probably go—”
“Why don’t you join us?” Étienne asked. “This table here is empty.”
“Please do,” Helena added.
“Well, then. I’ll ask—they could stand to lap up a bit of culture.” He returned to his friends, said something that set them to laughing, and in a moment they had pushed the tables together and Mr. Howard was seated next to her on the banquette, so close that his shoulders brushed hers as he unwound his scarf.
“Geoff Fraser and Larry Blochman, let me introduce you to Helena and her friends from school—Étienne, Mathilde, and Daisy. Fraser and Blochman are deskmen at the paper with me,” he explained.
“Deskmen?” asked Mathilde.
“We work the rewrite desk at the paper. Wires come in from New York, but they’re short. A few words per story. We fill in the blanks, I guess you could say.”
“Is today your day off?” Helena asked.
“No. Only day off is Saturday. We start in an hour and work till one in the morning.”
“Tell her where they sent you today,” said Mr. Fraser, or perhaps it was Mr. Blochman.
Sam aimed a sharp look at his colleague, but complied. “Gloria Swanson landed in town. I went to a press conference at her hotel, me and a couple of dozen other hacks, to ask her the usual bunkum. How she likes Paris, what her new film is about, are the rumors about her and Valentino true—that sort of thing.”
“What was she like?” asked Daisy excitedly.
“I’ve no idea. I was at the back of the scrum. Couldn’t hear a word she said.”
“How are you going to write your story?” Helena asked.
“I’ll use my imagination, I guess. How’s this sound?
“‘Miss Gloria Swanson, fresh from her recent triumph in Manhandled, was a vision in white at the Hôtel Crillon today. She has come to Paris to begin work on her new film, a romantic romp set at the court of Napoleon Bonaparte. When asked what she thinks of the City of Light, Miss Swanson said that she’s in love with Paris already and can’t wait to see the sights. Judging from the crowds that greeted her earlier in the day at the Gare St.-Lazare, Paris is equally smitten with Hollywood’s most dazzling star.’
“That about right, Fraser?”
“Spot-on, Howard.”
“Earns me a few extra francs, and a byline for my troubles. Not bad for an hour’s work.”
Their waiter had arrived, and Helena was unaccountably pleased when Sam ordered cassoulet for himself and his friends in fluent French. She would have to ask Mathilde or Étienne if his accent was acceptable to their ears, but to hers it seemed just fine. It was silly to care about such a thing, but so few foreigners made the effort to learn French—even she and Daisy had got into the habit of speaking English with their French friends.
Mr. Fraser and Mr. Blochman had begun to talk about horse racing, a topic that Sam apparently found uninteresting, for he turned to her, ignoring his friends entirely, and bent his head so his words rumbled against her ear.
“I lied just now. I did mind.”
“Mind what?”
“That you didn’t look me up.”
“I didn’t forget,” she said, and looked him in the eye. “I was going to send you a petit bleu. Once I was settled.”
“Are you happy? With your classes?”
She almost told him the truth. That she was afraid she’d made a mistake, that she was failing, that she would never get the maître’s attention. That she would not be chosen for the oil painting class. Le Dôme wasn’t a confessional, however, and she didn’t wish her friends to know of her fears, so she couched her answer in the same platitudes she used to calm her aunt.
“I’m enjoying it very much,” she said, loudly enough that Étienne, sitting to her left, would be able to hear. “Last month we were only allowed to draw, but we have classes in pastels and watercolors now. In November a dozen of us will be chosen to work in oils with the maître himself.”
“Not all of you?” he asked. “Don’t all of you pay the same fees? Shouldn’t everyone be entitled to learn?”
“I hadn’t thought of that before,” she admitted.
“You make an excellent point, Monsieur Howard,” Étienne said. “It is most unfair. I shall ask the maître about it on Monday.”
“Oh, don’t,” Helena pleaded. “What if he should take offense? He might expel you from class.”
“I doubt it—you know how he adores me. Even today, when he was in such a temper, he still had praise for me.”
“We have our life drawing class on Friday mornings,” she explained for Sam’s benefit. “Today the model was an ancien combattant, and he had trouble maintaining his pose. Maître Czerny was frightfully rude to him. But Étienne calmed everyone down.”
“Yes, well . . . I’m a peace-loving man. And I could see that Daisy was creating something quite remarkable with her drawing. I didn’t want her work cut short.”
They all looked to Daisy, who was blushing furiously.
“It was lovely. I ought to have said so earlier,” said Helena.
“Thank you. I, ah . . . I spent some time among the wounded,” Daisy stammered. “Years ago, that is. During the war.” Her eyes darted to Louisette, who was sitting at a table near the door, her sharp gaze ever watchful. They were too far away for the woman to overhear their conversation, so why was Daisy so apprehensive?
The conversation over lunch was unremarkable, turning on the falling franc, the League of Nations, and the rising cost of bread. Sam listened, asked questions when the discussion faltered, and ate every scrap of his enormous serving of cassoulet. When his friends progressed from beer to brandy, he instead ordered a café allongé. “Keeps me awake,” he explained. “Was up early this morning.”
Daisy left as soon as she’d finished her soup, fearful that her father would worry, and though Helena was sorry to see her leave it was also a relief to be rid of Louisette. In Daisy’s absence Étienne and Mathilde switched to French, which they spoke so rapidly that Helena could only make out one word in ten. Sam’s friends had moved on from horse racing to baseball, but he ignored this new conversation and simply sipped his coffee.
“Hold still,” he said. “I just noticed something.”
Reaching across the table, to a glass of ice water Daisy had left untouched, he dampened the corner of his napkin and touched it to her temple. “There’s a smudge of paint here,” he explained. “I only saw it now, when you tucked your hair behind your ear.”
“You don’t have to . . .”
“All done. I have to go to work now, but I’m off tomorrow. Will you come to dinner with me?”
His manner was so appealingly open and straightforward, and it really did seem that he wished to be friends. Nothing more; simply her friend.
“I . . . yes. Yes, I will.”
“Do you want me to come to your aunt’s house?”
“You don’t . . . I mean, there’s no need. It’s out of your way, I’m sure. I’ll take a taxi.”
“Fine. Let’s go to Chez Rosalie. Rue Campagne Première. Seven o’clock?”
“Yes, seven is good.”
“Until tomorrow, Ellie. I hope you don’t change your mind—but if you do, send me a petit bleu.”
Chapter 13
H
elena’s taxi turned off the boulevard du Montparnasse onto the dark and narrow rue Campagne Première. Peering through the window, she could just make out CHEZ ROSALIE in faded lettering on an old-fashioned storefront near the corner. A man stood outside, his shoulders hunched against the rain, and though his face was in shadow she knew it was Sam.
“Ici, s’il vous plaît,” she told the driver. She paid her fare and went to open the door, but Sam was there already, taking her arm as she stepped down onto the cobbled street.
“You didn’t have to wait outside,” she chided. “You must be soaked through.”
“I’m fine. The sign’s hard to read at night. Didn’t want you to miss it.” He held up an umbrella, still tightly furled, and made a show of tucking it under his arm. “And this isn’t rain, besides. More like one of your London fogs. Didn’t even bother to put up my umbrella.”
“How very stoic of you. Shall we go in? I can smell something delicious.”
“Everything here’s good. It doesn’t look like much, but I think you’ll like it. Rosalie is a real character, that’s for sure.”
He guided her through the door and several steps down, into an establishment that might charitably be described as modest. Four long marble-topped tables, with room at each for eight stools, took up nearly all the space; at the back, through a single door, came the sounds and smells of a busy kitchen.
A large man, his apron none too clean, was wiping glasses at a bar to their right. Recognizing Sam, he threw down his cloth and came rushing over. He greeted Sam in Italian, which Helena understood only imperfectly, and in short order had seated them at a table, which they shared with six other diners, and brought them a basket of bread and a carafe of red wine.
“That’s Rosalie’s son, Luigi. He’ll tell her we’re—oh, here she comes. Signora! Come estai?”
Rosalie was a short and stout lady, somewhere north of fifty years old, her person enveloped in a grease- and tomato-spattered apron. It was nearly impossible for Helena to follow her and Sam’s conversation, but she was fairly certain that the signora was pleased that he had brought a young lady to dinner, and that Rosalie would bring them the best of everything from her kitchen. Sam said something more, gesturing at Helena as he did so, and this seemed to please Rosalie immensely.
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