Authors: Michelle Gable
“Hmm,” Olivier said with yet another half-shrug. “Feel free to keep reading the journals. I guess we can revisit when you get through them all. Alas, seems like a lot of work for nothing.”
He was placating her and any promise to “revisit” was made only to get April off his back. She would let the matter drop at that moment but would not let it go entirely.
“Merci beaucoup,” she grumbled. “Excuse me while I tackle the remnants of the dining room.”
Eyes stinging (good grief, this really wasn’t her day!) April returned to the dining room. Only a small gaggle of cut-rate objects greeted her, mostly a collection of low-value mirrors with a few feathered hats and one umbrella stand thrown in.
April pulled a mirror from its pile. It looked all right, maybe worth a few hundred, possibly a grand if there was some goddamn provenance involved. She turned the mirror over and ran a hand along its backing. April saw nothing that connoted historical significance. A few hundred only if Marthe had her own auction. Otherwise zero. This wasn’t good enough to be filler. It could not stand alone.
As April went to stack it against an empty wall, a corner of white slipped from behind the mirror’s backing. With a fingernail she dislodged the paper from its hiding spot. It was small, the size of a business card. April’s breath caught as she read the name.
Georges Clemenceau.
Not a business card but a calling card, from the onetime French prime minister.
Suddenly giddy, April checked behind the other mirrors and found ever more cards. The names were instantly familiar: Marcel Proust, Robert de Montesquiou (the pistachio-suited dandy), and at least a half-dozen from Georges Clemenceau. She scrambled into the next room, and every room after that. April inspected the undersides of tables and the loose batting of old chairs. Soon her hands were full, fingers stretched and cramping as she tried to hold them all.
“Olivier!” she yelled, jogging into the kitchen where Olivier now stood. “Have you seen these? I found them hidden in some of the pieces.”
She scattered the cards on top of his tablet.
“Ah, yes, the proliferation of calling cards,” he said and pushed them aside. “We’ve found hundreds.”
“You have?”
“Oui. When we started moving the pieces they positively rained out from the furniture, even the artwork.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see any of them.”
“No one did. Not until our transport gentleman turned a desk upside down—”
“He turned it
upside down
?”
“Oui. Upside down. When the first one came out, Marc immediately inspected the other pieces. He pulled off sides and false bottoms and found hundreds more.”
“Marc pulled sides off the furniture?” April went woozy.
Olivier smiled and shook his head. “Guess the old hag was quite popular.”
“‘Old hag,’ nothing. She was young once, too,” April said, a little addled, as if she’d been the one tossed on end and not Marthe’s desks and chairs.
“
What were you planning to do with the cards?”
“File them, I suppose?” he said. “Though they are fun to read, I’m not sure they’re particularly relevant.”
“But did you see the names? Georges Clemenceau, for one.”
“Yes I saw the names.” He looked up from his tablet and chuckled. “I didn’t expect you to be so interested in calling cards. Seems Monsieur Thébault was correct.”
“Monsieur Thébault?”
“My apologies.
Luc
, as you call him. I mentioned filing them. But he said you’d object, that you’d want to see them first. We thought, no, of course not, what does April want with calling cards? She is a furniture expert. But he was right. ‘She will object. She will object mightily and at high volume.’”
“He said that.”
“Oui. The cards are right here.” He opened a box. “If you’d like the rest. They were monstrous to collect.” Olivier slapped the cover of his tablet closed. “I shall return to the office. Do you mind locking up?”
“No, of course not.”
“Merci beaucoup. Madame Vogt.” He shook her hand formally, no double-cheek Continental kiss with the fellow this time. “Until tomorrow.”
Olivier flipped around, coat flying out behind him. April waited, listening as his stride turned from pound to patter and then disappeared completely. A chill ran across her arms.
The place still boomed, though no living thing moved. From the corner a stuffed ostrich’s tail feathers waved. In another room, in another apartment, someone played a piano. As April trekked from one room to the next, she continued to shiver. Wind howled through the walls.
“I’m sorry, Marthe,” she said, though April wasn’t sure for what.
Finally she lumbered into the untouched second bedroom. A dozen pieces, she decided. She would get through a dozen pieces. Assuming she kept distractions to a minimum, April could have the lot descriptions drafted before she left. Work faster, not longer. That was April’s motto, her own personal calling card. Then again, when it came to Paris, longer was not necessarily a bad thing.
Chapitre XXXII
’Allo?” April said, phone tucked against her shoulder as she tromped down the stairs of Marthe’s apartment.
It was not Troy, she knew this. Neither was it Birdie, who could call back at any time to fulfill a very specific request (“Find two similar pieces sold for vastly different values due to provenance”). No, this caller was not based in New York. This one was local.
“April Vogt à l’appareil.”
Was it someone from the Paris office? The management company she was renting the apartment from? Did the bistro find her sunglasses?
“Avril,” said the voice, smoky and rich and erasing all questions.
April paused at the second floor landing, heart racing though she was going down the stairs and not up them.
“I’m pleased to have reached you.”
Luc. How did Luc have her number? It wasn’t unreasonable that she might have offered her business card at some point, but she couldn’t recall. It seemed more likely that Olivier played a role, or that his assistant had fallen victim to Luc’s smooth charm. Still, it felt intrusive, though not necessarily in a bad way.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Thébault. I’m surprised to hear from you. Thank you again for the journals. Actually, there were some interesting developments in the apartment today.” April paused, picturing the calling cards, quickly followed by Olivier’s half-shrugs. “I thought so anyway.”
“Brilliant. I’d love to hear more. When do you leave work?”
“Now, actually,” she said. “I’m done for the day—more or less.”
“Already finished? What a surprise. I feel as though I only just left you in the courtyard.”
“Are you questioning my work ethic, counselor? Because usually you say I work too hard.”
“Not questioning, only concerned you’re losing your American industriousness to Parisian sloth. The woman I know is supposed to put in twelve-hour days instead of”—April imagined Luc checking his watch, a big titanium Cartier
—
“approximately two? Maybe you
are
more fun than your brethren.”
“No, I’m not,” April said. “Well, I mean, I’m not less fun. Or more. I’m … I worked in the office this morning and have more to take back to my apartment tonight. Are you accusing me of slacking off, Monsieur Thébault?”
April’s voice echoed against the ancient stone walls. Its levity surprised her, especially given the heaviness April felt most of the day.
“Non!” Luc said. “I’d never accuse you of slacking! But, now, taking work home. That sounds like a genuine, blue-blooded American.”
“Red-blooded.”
“My apologies. Red-blooded American. The rich ones are the blues. You are the reds.”
“I’m neither.” She shook her head. “I mean I’m American, but it has nothing to do with blood … and … anyway … You said you were trying to reach me?”
“Yes. Are you at the apartment now?”
“I am.” April peeked through the window on the landing as if to be sure. “I’m on my way out, though.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’m downstairs. Are you available?”
“‘Available.’ What do you mean, exactly?”
“Ah, ma chérie. Don’t get excited. Tu viens boire une coupe avec moi?”
“A drink—”
“Oui. At La Terrasse, I’m thinking. It’s atop the Galeries Lafayette. Glorious views.”
“I don’t know,” April started. “I have a ton of work to get through tonight.”
“A ton? You Americans love your exaggerations. Come. It’s nearby, and they close early anyway. You’re not obliged to suffer my presence for much time at all.”
“All right,” April said as she made her way down the last set of stairs. “I suppose I have time for one drink.”
“Or three. Ah, I see the top of your head.”
April pushed out onto the street, and there he stood, shirt pressed and partially unbuttoned, khaki pants slung low, shoes buffed to their shiniest. She couldn’t stop from smiling, mostly because Luc already was.
“Bonjour,” she said and found her body trembling in spite of itself.
“Twice in one day. What a treat.”
Luc led April down the sidewalk, where they maneuvered their way through people returning from work and those already home, now walking their pets. It was a veritable carnival of desk jockeys, dog walkers, and shoppers out there, more reminiscent of Calcutta than Paris, but April didn’t entirely mind the fracas. It meant there was no reasonable manner in which to engage Luc in conversation. Socializing “over drinks” was a stressful enough prospect, and April didn’t want to fritter away any of her middling conversational topics while leaping over teeming piles of crap.
She’d been to the Galeries Lafayette many times. A few skips from the famed Opéra de Paris, the Galeries were, at their heart, a department store, which was probably why Chelsea scoffed at the thought. But it was a department store only in that it housed a collection of shops beneath one roof. This was no suburban mall, no Westfield Shopping Town. The Galeries could easily hold court to the Opéra’s splendor.
Created in 1893 with much attention to gilt and aesthetic drama, the ten-floor behemoth had at its center a stained-glass-and-steel dome, its waterfall of colors forever dancing on the shoppers below, not unlike the Folies chandelier, April guessed. The Galeries Lafayette was a tourist trap as Chelsea said, but this fact did not make it any less stunning. For April it remained an everyday representation of its era, of Marthe’s time, the Belle Époque. Because it was built in the so-called beautiful age, it was much more than a place to buy Louis Vuitton or get ostracized by condescending salesclerks.
For all the splendor of the building, its rooftop deck was surprisingly ordinary. La Terrasse was a simple-enough restaurant, with a smattering of high metal tables and white square umbrellas. But the view easily beat anything golden or flashy on the floors below. From where she and Luc took a seat, April could see most of Paris, including a straight shot to the Eiffel Tower and a prime look at Sacré-Cœur with its imposing white domes and spires. Inside the church was the largest bell in France, its ceiling mosaic the grandest in the country.
“Have you been here before?” Luc asked as he scooted in his chair. “On the rooftop. Of course you’ve been to the Galeries.”
“Yes,” April said, sneaking a glimpse at the menu. “I came to the observation deck a few times when I lived here. I’m not sure better views exist on this planet.”
April browsed the menu a second time, trying to appear casual, as if perhaps she
could
eat but she didn’t
have to
eat, when have to eat was actually the truth. At that hour it was too late for lunch yet too early for dinner. She’d managed to miss out on a day’s worth of food yet again, and didn’t think she could hold out until the normal Parisian dining time.
Luc signaled the waiter. He ordered two glasses of champagne. Before he could walk away, April quickly added macaroni au fromage to her order. It was merely a fancy way to say mac and cheese, but April figured if ordered on a rooftop in Paris it could hardly be considered bourgeois.
“Do you need to get that?” Luc asked.
“The macaroni?” April said, blushing again, always blushing when she was around this man. “Um, well, I’m kind of hungry. I’m sorry I don’t subscribe to your French sensibilities. You know how we Americans are, gorging ourselves every hour of the day.”
“No.” Luc snorted. “You should eat. You’re rather thin. I’m speaking of your purse.” He gestured to the chair between them. “It appears to be ringing.”
“Oh. Oh!” April grabbed her bag and fumbled for her phone.
“It’s amusing you have a BlackBerry. Everyone else has smartphones, yes?”
“I’m a relic, I suppose.”
TV3.
April silenced her phone.
“I can deal with that later,” she said, slightly bewildered by her own reaction.
“All right.” Luc shrugged.
April reached for her glass, but it was not yet there. When she pulled her hand back April noticed it was shaking.
“So, you had something to discuss?” she said, voice as shivery as her arm.
“Yes. I spoke to Madame Quatremer’s heir today,” Luc told her. “About the journal entries, the things in the apartment, all your questions. And I have some news.”
“‘News’?” April tried not to show her alarm. “What is it? Does she want the journals back?”
“Nothing about the journals,” Luc said. “Patience, Madame Vogt. First things first. While we wait for our champagne, I think you should read this.”
Chapitre XXXIII
Paris, 12 April 1892
I went to Boldini’s studio today and, scandal of scandals, not during the four-to-five!
Every proper society matron (or maiden) knows never to visit a man’s home other than during this special hour. To arrive at half past three would be uncouth, nay, salacious. You’d be shunned from society at three forty-five. But at four o’clock, why, saunter right in! Leave again at four thirty, hair a-fuss, dress crumpled. This, an acceptable arrangement.
Truth be told, I do not understand this sixty-minute window, but perhaps the shroud of dusk covers impropriety. More likely it works because everyone’s agreed to philander at the same time thus no one gets caught!