The statement to the press was remarkably frank. The owners felt that, after years of brilliant success, they were in danger of getting stale. Rather than see the business descend toward mediocrity, they were going to close it. They hoped that Joséphine would be remembered as a work of art. After her initial shock, Louise decided that the choice was rather admirable. How many stores and restaurants lived on the reputation of their past, when they would have done much better to close?
The space was soon rented to another enterprise. Two months later, Louise saw a small notice in the newspaper that Marie had married the Vicomte de Cygne.
So when she opened L’Invitation au Voyage, Louise tried to follow a parallel course with her own business. Several of the best Paris brothels had exotic rooms and some staged erotic entertainments, but in Louise’s house, every room had a theme. Some, she realized, should not change, because customers asked for them again and again. But seven of her rooms were changed at regular intervals. She not only had an English room, a Scottish room, even a Wild West room, but she would decorate the rooms to evoke particular moments in history. She began to deal in fantasies of every kind, and it amused her to think of fresh ones with which to surprise the men who came there. I should ask Marc Blanchard to help me, she thought wryly. He’d be good at it.
But she didn’t really need any help. She was discovering a rich imaginative vein in herself that she’d never knew she had.
She spent considerable sums on every redecoration, but she kept a sharp eye on the profits and the cash, and found that she could charge more for the quality of service she was providing. As for the girls, they loved dressing up to suit the part, whether Egyptian princess, Roman slave or any of the many roles that fantasy, light or dark, might demand.
There was always something new at Louise’s brothel, and it was done with style. She hoped that her Blanchard family, if they had known, would have been pleased.
After the prospective girl had gone, telling her staff that she would not be back for several hours, Louise left for Jacob’s gallery. It was less than a mile and she decided to walk. She walked west to the Place des Victoires, crossed behind the Palais-Royal, and up through the district near the Bourse that she knew so well. She was in a good mood as she entered the rue Taitbout.
Monsieur Jacob was delighted to see her. His wife was visiting the gallery. Her plain dress and pale skin suggested that, as Louise had always supposed, the Jacob family were strictly observant. She had a baby girl with her, of whom Jacob was obviously very proud.
“Your first?” she asked with a smile.
“Oui, madame.” He beamed.
“Her name?”
“Laïla.”
“A beautiful name.”
She suspected that Jacob himself knew what she did. He might have told his wife, or he might not. The younger woman seemed a little reserved, but that might just be her manner. She did not touch the baby, but she congratulated both parents on having such a pretty child. Then mother and daughter left.
“So what have you for me?” she asked Jacob.
“Something different, madame. Drawings.” He went to a plan chest and returned with a portfolio containing a number of charcoal and pencil sketches on thick paper, which he placed on a table. “I remembered that you had taken an interest in the work of Marc Blanchard,” he continued, “and I was at his place the other day.”
“Ah. He is well?” She was careful not to sound too interested.
“He is getting old, madame. But I asked him if he had any other work for me—for I have sold a number of his paintings, you know. And he told me that the only thing he had was a portfolio of drawings that he hadn’t looked at in years, and that I was free to take it away and see if there was anything of interest.”
He showed her three. One was a rough sketch of Paris seen from the hill of Montmartre, not especially interesting. Two others were very incomplete life drawings, one of a man, the other of a middle-aged lady in a hat.
“They’re all right …,” said Louise, without much enthusiasm.
“I agree,” said Jacob. “I don’t find them interesting. But then I came upon something else.” His small face gazed at her seriously. “Do you remember that you once made an inquiry about a portrait of a girl? Quite good, we both thought. You asked the identity of the sitter, and I did inquire, but the artist did not tell me.” He produced another sketch. This was a pencil drawing, quite detailed, and he laid it in front of her. Louise recognized it at once.
“It looks like a sketch for that portrait.”
“Exactly, madame. I still have the portrait and I placed them together. There is no question. As a collector, you will well understand that to possess both the portrait and the artist’s sketch is highly desirable. I should certainly wish to sell the two together.”
“Naturally. Though we still don’t know the sitter’s identity.”
“No, madame. At least, not quite.” He reached into the portfolio. “But there is a third item, madame, a charcoal sketch, unquestionably for the same picture, and on this there is a name—as you see.” And he placed the charcoal sketch on the table. At the bottom, quite clearly, the artist had written a single name.
Corinne Petit.
Louise stared. And then, quite suddenly, she felt her throat contract, and before she could do anything about it, tears came into her eyes. There could be no further doubt. The coincidences were too many. Marc was her father. And she was looking at her mother.
She kept very still, hoping the little dealer had not noticed.
He stood up.
“I will bring the portrait in, madame, if I may,” he said, moving to the door at the back. “It’s interesting to see all three pieces together.”
He was gone several minutes. By the time he returned, she had fully recovered herself. But she felt sure that he had noticed, and that his absence was tactful kindness.
“You see, madame.” He hung the portrait on a blank wall, and adjusted the lighting. Then he held up the two sketches, one in each hand, beside the portrait.
“A set of three,” she said. “They look wonderful together.”
“I hoped you might say that. I think so too.”
“The painting was for someone else originally,” she lied. “But I might take them for myself. I remember you quoted me a price for the painting. But that was some years ago. What would it be now, with the drawings as well?”
“The same, madame. You are an excellent client.”
“You are kind, Monsieur Jacob.”
“If you will permit me, madame, I should like to get the drawings framed, and then we can arrange delivery.”
“Excellent, monsieur. Meanwhile, I shall choose a suitable place to hang them.”
When the transaction was complete, she prepared to leave.
“There is just one thing, madame,” Jacob said. He was gazing at her kindly. “The artist may ask me who bought the painting.”
“Just tell him that a private collector has the work.”
“You are sure, madame? He might like to meet you.” His voice was very soft.
He had guessed. She was sure of it.
“No, monsieur, I do not wish to meet the artist.”
“As you wish, madame.” He opened the door and bowed, as she stepped out into the street.
She took a taxi back. She was eager to spend a little time alone in her apartment thinking about the best place to hang the picture and its accompanying drawings.
She also couldn’t help reflecting that it was sad that she couldn’t make herself known to her blood relations—to Marie, whom she liked, and Marc who, whatever his faults, had talents to be admired, and to her dear old grandfather down at Fontainebleau. Might she and Claire, whom she’d seen only from a distance, have become friends? Or would they have rejected her, as her mother’s family had done? She didn’t intend to find out.
But unknown to them all, with the purchase of the portrait, she was piecing together her family, her true identity, reconstitut
ing a past and a truth that would otherwise have been lost.
For a few moments, her thoughts turned to Luc. He was the one who had set her upon this path that put a moral and social barrier between herself and her real family. Most people would say he had corrupted her. But if she felt a resentment over the fact, she told herself that it was useless. She had chosen her path too. Had she chosen another, she might have found a respectable husband. Perhaps. But then she’d have had no freedom. There were no other paths to fortune that were open to a woman. Whereas, after a few more years of this, she’d be able to retire as a lady of independent means.
Only one thing was missing from her life now.
A husband? Truly, she wasn’t sure she wanted one, and certainly not the kind of man who’d want to marry a brothel keeper. But she would have liked a child. And time was passing on. She was thirty-six.
It could be arranged. She could surely find a rich lover again, a man of some interest, perhaps. She needn’t tell him her intention. If he wanted to help the child, good. If not, she could provide. Perhaps, she thought, as the taxi reached the rue de Montmorency, this would be the next step forward in her life.
She paid the cab and went swiftly up to the door, letting herself in with her key. The hall was empty, as was the salon on her right, but from the morning room at the back, some low voices told her that one or two girls had already arrived. She was just about to mount the stairs when she heard a man’s voice, speaking softly. She frowned. Surely this wasn’t a customer. They were always kept in the salon. Then she realized it was Luc’s voice. Perhaps he had wanted to see her.
She went quietly to the door of the morning room, and opened it.
The two figures sprung apart. It was Luc and Bernadette. The girl went pale. But they weren’t breaking from a lovers’ embrace. She could tell that at once. It was something else. The girl was holding a small handbag. She had clipped it shut as she moved back. Louise came into the room and closed the door behind her. She ignored Luc, but went straight toward Bernadette.
“Open your bag,” she commanded.
“But those are my things, madame,” the girl protested.
“Give it to me.” She didn’t wait. She took it from the frightened girl before she could resist. She opened it, looked in and saw what she had suspected at once.
Two little packets of cocaine. She took them, satisfied herself that it was what she thought and handed the bag back to Bernadette.
“Madame …,” the girl began, but Louise cut her off.
“You know the rules. Get out.”
“Madame?”
“Don’t come here anymore. Tell your cousin we can’t use her either. Now get out.” She turned, opened the door and indicated the way out. The girl looked at Luc, expecting him to intercede.
“But it’s not necessary, Louise …,” he began.
“We always agreed,” she answered. “You can’t go back on it now.” She turned to the girl again. “Go,” she commanded. And this time Luc was silent.
After the girl had gone, Louise turned to Luc. She was no longer angry, but she was sad.
“How could you betray me?” she asked.
“It’s not so important.”
“It is to me. How many others were there? I need to know.”
“Only Bernadette. She has been using cocaine for years. She’s not addicted. She’s all right.”
“So you’ve lied to me for years.”
“It’s only Bernadette.”
“I can’t trust you, Luc.”
“You can trust me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I can’t.” She sighed. “Don’t come here anymore, Luc. Don’t come near my girls.”
“Don’t talk to me like that, Louise. You need me.”
She paused. She didn’t need him at all, but she didn’t say it.
“Whatever I owed you was paid long ago,” she said. “You have hurt me very much. I don’t wish to see you anymore.”
“Just don’t forget to pay me,” he said quietly.
“I’m not going to pay you anymore.”
She saw his hand go toward his side. She remembered that he sometimes carried a stiletto. But his hand did not go farther, and she decided it was just an automatic reaction when he was crossed.
“You pay me,” he said, “or you will regret it.” Then he left.
Now, she thought, she had two new girls to find.
After the rapid ending of the strikes in June, Max Le Sourd and his father had seen little of each other. Through the long summer and into the autumn, they had each gone about their business. Each Sunday afternoon, Max would look in at his parents’ apartment in Belleville. His mother would be there, but his father would always go out. In due course, Max supposed, he’d find his father there, but it hadn’t happened so far.
For Max it was a painful time, not only because he felt the separation from his father, but because by the time that summer was over, it was beginning to look as if his father had been right.
True, at first, the party strategy had seemed to be wise. The strikers had accepted the terms of the government’s settlement, and gone back to work. Even the employers had praised the parties and the unions for showing such responsibility. Moreover, the new working conditions were a huge improvement. “This is historic progress,” the unions could claim. They had won respect.
But would it last? Within weeks, the employers started to whittle back the benefits the strike had won. As he looked forward, it was clear to Max that he would soon see more of the same.
Outside France itself, the Spanish military and Catholic right had launched a massive counterattack on the leftist government in July. Spain was now in a state of civil war. Fascist Italy and Germany were sending support to the military. In France, Blum’s socialist government was dithering over what to do. Was Spain about to fall under a fascist regime?
And in the month of August, the Nazi regime in Germany had staged the Olympic games with a magnificence that the whole world had watched and applauded. A token German athlete with a Jewish father had been allowed to take part. But while all the world’s press and thousands of visitors had only to look around them in Berlin to see what the Nazi regime was really like, the splendor and beauty of the games had overpowered their imaginations. As his father had perceived, they didn’t want to know. Hitler’s fascist regime had scored a huge propaganda success.
So what had been achieved? Max asked himself. The answer: nothing. The Marxist cause had been betrayed, the chance of revolution lost, its enemies stronger than ever.
He had been wrong. His father had been right. The question was, what could he do now?
On the first Sunday of October, the fourth day of the month, Max went as usual to his parents’ apartment. His father was not there, so he talked to his mother as usual. But instead of leaving at the end of the afternoon, he remained there.
It was six o’clock when his father came in.
“Oh,” he said, “you’re here.” But he didn’t leave.
“I came to say good-bye,” said Max. “I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye to you.”
“Leave?” His father frowned. “Where are you going?”
“They’re recruiting international brigades to fight against Franco and his fascists in Spain.”
“I’ve heard.”
“I went for an interview on Friday. Paris is the main recruitment center, as you know. Being a Communist Party member, I was accepted at once. All the others have to be interviewed by a Russian intelligence officer.” He grinned. “I would have enjoyed being grilled by the NKVD, but it was denied me.”
His father registered faint disgust at the mention of Russia, but made no other comment.
“Why don’t you go as a war correspondent, for L’Humanité?” his mother asked.
“Not needed. Anyway, I want to fight.”
His mother said nothing. He turned to his father.
“I have to go, you know.”
“I kno
w.”
“This summer, I was wrong. You were right.”
“There was nothing you could have done yourself, in any case. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No. But all the same …” Max shrugged. “I wanted to say I was sorry.”
His father gave a brief nod. Then, rather stiffly, he hugged him.
“Come back,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-four
• 1794 •
It was the age of hope. The Age of Reason. The dawn of Freedom, Liberty, Equality. The time for all men to be brothers.
And now it was the time of the Terror.
In France, when the eighteenth century began, that grim, magnificent autocrat the Sun King still sat upon the throne. The long reign of his successor, Louis XV, had brought a financial collapse, it was true, but there had also been a gilded luxury that would be remembered with pleasure for centuries to come.
And the Enlightenment, and the Romantic spirit: these too, Frenchmen could say—for they claimed both Voltaire and Rousseau as their own—had been born in France during that mighty century. Voltaire had taught the world to love reason; Rousseau had taught the natural goodness of the human heart.
Hadn’t these ideas inspired the American Revolution? Hadn’t French support, and French arms, made possible the independence of the grand new country in the huge New World?
Now, in the reign of Louis XVI and his not-very-popular Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette, France itself had begun its own revolution. But where the American Revolution had promised an honest freedom from oppression, this French Revolution would be something altogether more radical, more philosophical, more profound. After all, it was French.
In France, a new world age would be born.
First they had stormed the Bastille. Then they had taken the king from Versailles to Paris, and made him obey their will. And when he had tried to flee, they had cut off his head. And after that?
After that, the world had turned against them, and they had argued among themselves.
And now, it was the time of the Terror.
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