“And your ancestor who made the tapestry?” Jeremy asked. “Can you tell us about him?”
“
Mais, oui!
Shall I tell you a nice, sentimental story I heard about my family, and the very first wedding connected to that tapestry?” she asked with a gleam in her eye, as if offering a bedtime tale to youngsters. When we nodded eagerly, she proceeded.
“You see,” she said, settling herself back on her satin cushions, “there were once two boys from Genoa who were great friends. Rinaldo was a glove-making apprentice, and Armand was a tapestry apprentice. They came to seek their fortunes in France, bringing the arts of the Italian Renaissance with them. Rinaldo the glove-maker went to Grasse, and Armand the tapestry- maker went to Paris, where the king wanted the tapestry industry of France to become
le plus ultra
of these high-quality luxury goods.
“The two friends flourished, and each married and had children. The glove-maker’s son Edouard became betrothed to Eleanore, the
tapissier
’s daughter. She and her father were very close, as he had educated her, and she often worked with him. Now, I must also tell you that the tapestry-maker had, as a client, a fine Parisian nobleman named Jean Lunaire.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from squealing with glee. “Is this the ‘J.L.’ on the tapestry?” I asked excitedly. Jeremy, of course, had no idea what I was talking about.
Venetia looked at me with renewed respect. “You’re the first person in the entire family to even ask,” she said. “All anyone ever notices are the flowers, and the couple in bed. The answer is,
oui
, those are the initials and crest of Armand’s patron. Yet, the auction house certified that this particular tapestry was not made for Lunaire, nor even for the king, as Leonora would have you believe. No, it was made for Armand’s daughter Eleanore, from his prison room.”
“Prison!” Jeremy exclaimed.
Venetia smiled, enjoying the effect of her own storytelling.
“Oui!”
“Whoa,” I said involuntarily. “What did he—er, do?”
“Nothing! Really it was all the fault of Armand’s patron, Lunaire, who was arrested for trying to poison the king. Poor Armand was dragged into the mess, accused of being dispatched to procure the poison from his, how would you call it, his ‘herbalist’ friend in Provence.” She paused significantly.
“The glove-maker!” I cried, envisioning all those herbs and flowers in Grasse. What a thought. I supposed it was possible to hide a few odd, sinister plants amidst them.
Jeremy smiled at Venetia, and said, “Well,
did
Lunaire try to poison the king?”
She shrugged. “Who can say for sure? Those were troublesome times, where many conspired against the crown. And, when the police investigated the poison suppliers, they discovered more than they bargained for. They found that quite a few of the poisoners’ clientele were members of the upper classes, who sneaked off to buy deadly draughts and ‘love’ potions. So, many people—including nobility, and especially women—were arrested and tortured into confessing. It was like an epidemic.”
“Like witch burnings,” I said.
“Quite so,” Venetia said. “This spread like wildfire, until finally, the investigations went too high, and they accused one of the king’s own mistresses of trying to poison the king, although, my personal opinion is that she was merely sneaking aphrodisiacs into his wine to, shall we say, revive his ardor, and keep him out of the clutches of other, younger mistresses. This only gave the king headaches, so they say.” Again, that flirty smile.
“But,” I said, “what happened to Armand the tapestry-maker?”
“Well, we know from court documents that he was arrested, even though he protested his innocence. Fortunately, he was such a respected tapestry-maker—and, as I said, this being one of the arts that the king wished to encourage French supremacy in—Armand was not executed, but instead, exiled into house arrest outside of Paris, where he was permitted to keep spinning his tapestries.”
“That was a lucky break,” Jeremy muttered.
“Even so,” said Venetia, “he was not allowed any visitors, not even his daughter, who’d been away visiting her fiancé’s family in Grasse when Armand was arrested. He begged to be allowed to attend her wedding, but his plea was refused. So he asked permission to finish making his daughter’s bridal tapestry, and the request was granted.
“But alas, he died before the wedding, and the tapestry was never delivered to the girl. It vanished into someone’s private collection, and did not surface until 1933, when I, Venetia, who grew up hearing about this mythic tapestry, learned about it by chance when it came up for sale at auction, and my husband bought it for me as a wedding gift. That is all I know.”
I sat back, having been totally enthralled as she wove this tale, and now feeling so sorry for poor Armand.
“And you were married in front of the tapestry?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes,” Venetia said, smiling fondly now at the memory of her own wedding.
“It must have been a beautiful wedding,” I commented.
“Oh, of course! My husband adored me. He was quite handsome, and we made a good couple.”
I glanced at the photos on the bookshelf, but saw no wedding portrait. “Do you have a picture of your husband?” I asked tentatively. I couldn’t help wondering what man would be able to capture such a rare, exotic bird as Venetia. She leaned forward to the nearby table, reached into a black lacquer drawer, and pulled out a framed photo of a very handsome man with dark, pomaded hair, bushy eyebrows, and full sensuous lips. There was undeniable power and vitality in his face.
“Oh, I see,” I said with a smile. “How did you meet?” I asked.
“He was a rich boy but a bad boy, cast out of his schools, so his father sent him to Europe. He became a
balletomane;
that is, a connoisseur of
la danse
in general and an admirer of pretty dancers in particular. But he made his real fortune gambling in the casinos! He came backstage one night in Monte Carlo to meet me,” Venetia said dreamily, “and
Pfft!
That was that, as you say.”
“Were you married in Paris?” I asked, eager to hear about what kind of wedding this glamorous creature would have had.
“My wedding
began
in Paris,” she said proudly, “in the little church around the corner, and then we took the
train bleu
to the Côte d’Azur for our honeymoon.”
“What’s this
train bleu
?” I asked, fascinated.
“Oh, it was a famous train line—quite luxurious—to take kings and millionaires and their ladies in high style and comfort to the Riviera,” she said patiently, as if speaking to a poor, uneducated child. “The cars were each fitted out with a unique, beautiful decor. But ours,” she said with a theatrical flourish, “was the most beautiful of all! My fiancé bought his own private car on the
train bleu
, and had it specially decorated in my favorite colors, to take us to his villa by the sea. Ah, life was beautiful in those days,” she sighed, looking far off, as if remembering every detail. “True luxury, not like now, pah!”
She fell silent. I asked hopefully, “Were you very much in love?”
“
Oui
,
naturallement!
” she exclaimed, “but passionately, darling! Such jealous spouses we were. I don’t mind telling you, in the years to come we both had many affairs, well, that’s to be expected, we were young, yet we remained fond of each other to the very end.”
Nuts
, I thought to myself. Just once I wanted somebody to tell me that their marriage was both passionate
and
loyal. Was that really too much to ask? And parents don’t count.
Venetia yawned and stretched out like a cat, groaning. “Arthritis,
mon dieu!
It’s what happens to old dancers, but, considering the alternative, I am grateful to be alive.”
I knew it was time to go. Jeremy and I rose, and she said, “Well, I wish you both the best on your wedding day. I hope the tapestry brings you luck. Please give my love to
ma petite
Honorine.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, rising. “We loved your stories.”
“
Merci à vous
for your charming company,” she said, eyeing Jeremy speculatively as if thinking of what she might do if she were only younger. “
Adieu!
”
Chapter Seventeen
W
e lingered in the courtyard outside Venetia’s apartment before returning to the streets of Paris. Jeremy had stepped aside, talking into his mobile, looking a bit more mysterious than usual.
“What are you up to?” I asked finally.
“Venetia gave me the idea,” he said; then he held up his hand for me to wait, as the person on the other end of the phone said something to him. Jeremy said triumphantly, “Perfect!” and hung up.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Come with me,” he said briskly. “We are going to dine at Le Train Bleu.”
“A train?” I asked, intrigued.
“No, darling. It’s a restaurant. Very old, right at the Gare de Lyon train station. They built this restaurant to attract visitors during the ‘Universal Exposition of 1900’,” he explained to me as we hopped into a taxi. “It was like a World’s Fair. One of my professors took me there once. It’s perfect for a romantic like you, and you’re in good company—Colette, Cocteau, Chanel used to come here to watch people on the platform, coming and going.”
When we arrived at Le Train Bleu, I immediately saw that he was right. It was just the kind of romantic place I’d make up, but, apparently, I didn’t have to. Actually, it looked as if King Midas had invented it—with gold, gold, gold everywhere, gleaming under the light of spectacular chandeliers. Forty-one beautiful frescoes adorned the salons, and it had those tulip-shaped wall sconces that I adore. The arched doorways had sumptuous portières dividing the rooms, and there were countless rows of leather-and-wood chairs, banquettes and tables, all lined up neatly, with folded- up snowy napkins standing like white miniature Christmas trees on each waiting plate.
Yet as we were led to our table, the most striking impact was not simply of the elaborate decor, nor the speed of the spiffy fast-moving waiters, nor the fabulous food they presented . . . No, above and beyond these sensual delights, I was struck by the great big sound—
Ah-whaaahhh!
—of mingled human voices, like the powerful chanting of Buddhist monks, that drifted upward to the vaulted ceilings, bounced around there, and then reverberated back to my eardrums. It was as if we had walked into a giant golden horn.
We took our seats, and our napkins were snapped open for us by our waiters.
“This restaurant is known for their escargots,” Jeremy informed me.
But there I drew the line. “Snails? No way,” I said. “I had them once, and my father has never been able to get me to eat them again. Nope. I can’t do it. I keep thinking of the little fellow who ate my hollyhocks. Pick something else.”
The waiter had approached us now. “Today’s special is steak frites, because of a visiting American delegation who requested it,” he volunteered.
So, out of deference to my hollyhocks, Jeremy and I ordered the steak frites. Which, I suppose, you could get anywhere in Paris. On the other hand, you never forget a great steak frites. I can remember every single one I’ve ever eaten, and where I was, and who I was with. And I must say, that I can’t ever remember a better steak, a better table, and a better man. Jeremy picked out a nice bordeaux to accompany it, and I pretended that I was a 1920s flapper with a little fur-trimmed coat and a cloche hat and piles of luggage plastered with travel stickers from the four corners of the world.
We would have lingered there, but we had to get back to the hotel and pack. As Jeremy signalled for the check, I went into the ladies’ room. There was quite a contingent of women already clustered around its opulent mirror as they fussed with their hair and makeup, so I slipped in and out as quickly as I could negotiate my way around, and then headed back out for the dining room.
I’d barely just emerged from the powder room, when a short, beefy man came barrelling from the opposite direction with the force of a cannonball, and knocked straight into me, sending me sprawling to the gorgeous floor like a billiard ball that had been hit dead-on.
It was such a hard blow that it took me a full moment to catch my breath. I was so stunned that I didn’t even realize I’d dropped my handbag, until another man picked it up, brushed it off and handed it back to me. The big bull of a man who’d caused this rude shock had already departed, like a speeding locomotive.
I quickly inspected my handbag to ensure that all its contents were still there. I was surrounded by several concerned faces and a cacophony of excited voices, mostly in French, exclaiming about it. One waiter kept asking me in English if I was sure I was all right. Still a bit dazed, I said I was okay, and finally I made my way back to the table.
Jeremy’s back had been to this whole scene, so he didn’t know anything was amiss until I slid into my seat. He told me later that I looked pale, and my hair was a bit askew. “What’s the matter? What happened?” he asked immediately at the sight of me.
I told him, and he fussed over me, finally saying, “Let’s get out of here.”
The maitre d’ had heard about it by now, and as we reached the door he inquired solicitously. It was all very kindly, but the fact is, when you’ve just had a rude shock, the last thing you want to do is spend the next fifteen minutes assuring everybody that you’re just fine, thanks.
After that, I didn’t mind heading out for the soft soothing sun of the Riviera, and a little privacy, peace and quiet.
Chapter Eighteen
W
hen we arrived at our villa in Antibes—which I still can’t help thinking of as Great-Aunt Penelope’s villa—the fountain in the circular front drive was gurgling invitingly. At the sight of the pale peach walls and blue shutters, and the sound of gravel crunching beneath our feet, and the rarefied scent of jasmine from trumpet-shaped flowers on the vine, I felt summer had started at last. I envisioned long, lazy days by the swimming pool in the yard. But our housekeeper Celeste had some rather strange news.