Secrets of Paris (38 page)

Michael’s face hardened, like a man taking his punishment. But then his expression turned humble, melting a little of Patrice’s anger. “She’s thinking of her father,” Michael said. “She didn’t like holding that gun this morning.”

“Oh, because of her father!” Patrice said, suddenly realizing what it must have meant to Lydie to lift that rifle.

Then Lydie and Didier came toward them, across the lawn. “I
think we should dress for the ball,” Lydie said. “Guy wants to take some pictures at sunset …” She checked her watch. “And it’s not that far off. Michael, do you know where they put our bags?”

Patrice listened to her sweet, defeated little voice. She knew exactly what to do. A lifetime as the daughter of Eliza Spofford had trained her how to whip a party into a party. “I know where they put your bags,” Patrice said, “but that’s beside the point. I’m having Marcel switch everything around. Girls dress in one room, boys dress in another.” She linked arms with Lydie. “We’ll be just like brides—they can’t see us till the big event.” Lydie smiled at her, but it wasn’t enough. Patrice tickled her under the chin. “Come on, honeybunch,” she said. “Let’s have a ball.”

Both Didier and Michael were laughing at Patrice’s act; in addition, in Michael’s eyes, Patrice saw a fervent wish for Lydie to let her sorrow go.

“Okay,” Lydie said, laughing along.

Dressing turned out to be some fun. Patrice said the jewels should be put on last. She had commandeered a bottle of champagne from the kitchen. Weeks ago she and Lydie had decided to wear real silk stockings with garters. Lydie’s garters dangled from a rather splendid lace undergarment, and she couldn’t get them snapped to the stockings.

“The last time I tried this was in tenth grade,” Lydie said.

“They let you wear underwear like that in Catholic school?” Patrice asked.

“Are you kidding? I wore the most demure little garter belt you ever saw,” Lydie said. “White elastic, like a bandage.”

Patrice glanced down at her own garter belt, shimmery pink silk and lace, and thought it symbolic of the carefree girlishness
she hoped to feel with Lydie but instead could only mimic. They were being swept along by what they ought to feel at a ball, but in the background lurked the facts: that Lydie’s father had shot himself, that Kelly wasn’t going to America, that Lydie was. Patrice sighed.

“What?” Lydie asked.

“Can we do ourselves a favor?” Patrice asked, pushing a glass of champagne at her. “Can we drink a really festive toast?”

“Here’s to the d’Origny ball,” Lydie said, raising her glass over her head. Light poured through the tall window, making her bare arm look pearly white.

“Here’s to you and me. Best friends forever,” Patrice said.

“Here’s to that,” Lydie said, drinking.

From then on, things veered uphill. Lydie used an ivory buttonhook to do up Patrice’s buttons, stopping now and then to shake her arm and complain about lactic acid buildup. “My arms feel as if they’ve just done fifty chin-ups.”

“Press on, only a hundred more to go,” Patrice said. Their jewels sat across the room in little velvet cases, and as the time drew near to put them on, Patrice felt more excited. She strode around the room, feeling velvet swish over her silk stockings.

Lydie’s dress was made of rich green satin; against it, her pale skin glowed like porcelain. When she turned around, stepped back to let Patrice look at her, Patrice could see that she felt beautiful. Her golden hair fell to her shoulders, brushing the satin. Smiling at her, Patrice wondered if this was how a mother felt, watching a daughter dress for her wedding. Yet Patrice and Lydie were the same age, or practically. What gave Patrice the feeling of seniority? She knew, of course: a marriage that had been happy and loving.

“Michael’s going to fall in love with you all over again,” Patrice said to Lydie, feeling a little sad because in saying it she was
relinquishing Lydie to Michael and America. She opened one jewel case and ceremoniously removed Lydie’s ruby-and-diamond necklace. Lydie smiled, staring at the necklace. She lifted her hair as Patrice clasped it around her neck.

“It’s beautiful,” Patrice said.

Lydie touched the stones with one hand. Then, saying nothing, she went over to the bureau and removed Patrice’s necklace from its chest. Patrice turned her back, waiting for Lydie to clip it on. It felt slightly unreal, to be decked out like fairy princesses for the d’Origny ball. As the clasp was fastened, Patrice felt the stones’ weight tug at her neck.

“This is the real me,” Patrice said to her reflection in the cheval glass. “I am never giving these back.”

“They’re great on you,” said Lydie, who couldn’t stop touching the large ruby dangling from her pendant.

“And they’re great on you,” Patrice said, smiling in spite of the superstitious shiver she felt at the sight of her best friend wearing rubies.

P
ATRICE HAD ALREADY
told Lydie that the name on everyone’s lips that night was “Lydie McBride.” Patrice said she had intoned it a thousand times, in answer to all Didier’s crowd from Saint-Tropez, his business associates, his sister Clothilde, asking who had done the fantastic job. And only about half the guests had arrived so far. Lydie had to admit the ball had an air of glamour and mystery, with an orchestra playing and flashbulbs going off in everyone’s eyes. She had lined the château’s drive with votive candles, hundreds of them in paper bags. Wooden chandeliers, each full of fifty tall white candles, hung from ropes in the trees. Beneath them was a dance floor bordered by long tables covered in white cloths.

There was Patrice, adjusting her diamond tiara, taking a sip of champagne. She gripped the ebony wand and directed her black-sequined mask to her eyes. She surveyed the crowd. Lydie touched the ruby tiara Patrice had insisted she wear, and at that instant Patrice caught sight of her. “Oh, Your Majesty!” Patrice called to Lydie.

“How do you think it’s going?” Lydie asked, feeling impossibly anxious. Wondering why Michael hadn’t come downstairs yet.

“It’s ugly, everyone’s having a terrible time, and it’s going to rain—
give me a break!
” Patrice said, hugging her. “It’s fantastic. Have you ever seen so many great masks?”

The men wore white tie. Many wore their decorations: war medals, Légions d’honneur, heraldic sashes and medals. Most of the men wore plain black masks, but one wore a splendid lion’s head. The women’s gowns evoked the eighteenth century; several, including Lydie and Patrice, wore ones Lydie had borrowed from the costume museum. Their masks were feathered, sequined, of silk and satin, trailing streamers. Clothilde wore a special d’Origny creation: a full-face mask of the sun, made of thin, hammered gold.

“You look gorgeous,” Patrice said, and Lydie felt it, in her full-skirted green dress and ruby pendant. She could do without the tiara.

“Guy should be taking more pictures,” Lydie said. “I wish everyone would arrive so we could serve the banquet.” She spoke fast, her eyes flicking across the scene.

“Where’s Michael?” Patrice asked. “Has he seen you yet?”

“No, not yet,” Lydie said. “I thought he’d be downstairs by now.”

“Isn’t that always the way?” Patrice asked. “They complain about how long we take, but men are a hundred times worse than we are.” She gave Lydie a knowing look. “Listen, any misgivings
or
guilt
I had about arranging for you to wear rubies are gone now. You’re beautiful, and your night is a triumph.”

“Thanks, Patrice,” Lydie said, standing on her toes to kiss Patrice’s cheek. Both she and Patrice turned, startled, toward Guy’s flash.

“Two queens kissing,” he said, grinning.

“I want a copy of that one,” Patrice said.

“I’ve come to ask my wife to dance,” Didier said, in a formal manner. He stood tall, elegant in his evening attire.

Patrice grinned at him. “Charmed, I’m sure!”

“Listen,” Didier said to Lydie, “this is the best party I’ve ever seen. You’re a genius of style.”

“Thanks,” Lydie said. “I wish my husband would get down here, to hear you say that. I guess he’s still dressing.”

“I’ve just been defending your husband to some assholes,” Didier said with a glance over his shoulder. “Laurent Montrose hates the Salle des Quatre Saisons, says Michael’s design is not innovative. I told him the Salle is fantastic, everyone thinks so.” He lowered his voice. “Of course, Laurent hates Americans on
principle.
”

“Here comes Didier’s World War II theory,” Patrice said.

“It’s no theory—it’s the truth,” Didier said, a bizarre combination of innocence and fury in his eyes. “Everyone knows Laurent’s family made the Nazis very welcome in their
pâtisserie
at Cabourg.”

“What were they supposed to do?” Patrice asked. “Refuse to sell them eclairs and get their kneecaps shot off?”

“I may have been too young to join my father and brothers in the Resistance,” Didier said, “but I saw what the bourgeoisie in small towns would do to stay on the Germans’ good side. When their
duty
was to refuse them any help at all!”

“Why do you say he hates Americans?” Lydie asked. She had been under the impression that the French felt grateful to
Americans for the part their country had played in liberating France during the war.

“Simply that people like Laurent carry around
tremendous
guilt for helping the Germans, and that makes them hate and envy any American. Cowards always hate heroes.”

“He’s right,” Patrice said, edging closer to Didier. “People in France still judge each other by how they behaved during the war.”

“Laurent wants to find fault with Michael McBride’s work just because he’s an American.” Didier smiled. “Of course, so are you, but Laurent cannot find any fault with this ball because it is perfect.”

The orchestra playing old-fashioned music, the candlelight, the mention of war, made Lydie feel she was reeling, traveling back in time. She swallowed, stared at a chandelier swaying in the breeze.

“Shall we dance now?” Didier asked Patrice.

“I’d better check the kitchen,” Lydie said, glad for the chance to be alone.

Lydie made her way through the crowd, saying hello to acquaintances, keeping her eyes open for Michael. She passed Clothilde with Léonce d’Esclimont, discussing changes at the Louvre. She hung back for an instant, listening for Michael’s name, then moved along without hearing it.

Lydie walked into the château, along a corridor, into the kitchen. Kelly, in her black uniform with its starched white collar, caught sight of her, tried to escape through another door. They had already faced each other today, true, but in Patrice’s presence, which was another matter entirely. Something about Patrice encouraged best behavior.

“Kelly!” Lydie called, hearing herself bellow. Kelly stopped short, turned shyly.

“Hello, Lydie,” Kelly said. She wouldn’t meet Lydie’s eyes.

“Are you okay?” Lydie asked.

“I am fine,” Kelly said. Chefs and servers bustled around them; the air crackled with oysters being opened, vegetables sliced, crab claws cracked, roasts sizzling. Saying nothing, Lydie put her arm around Kelly’s shoulders and led her down the long hallway, into the back room where boots and guns and the morning’s grouse were hanging.

“I apologize for failing,” Kelly said when they were alone.

“But
you
didn’t fail,” Lydie said, astonished. As she spoke, she realized that neither of them had, that it was a failure, or perhaps, worse, a triumph of bureaucracy.

“I did, Lydie. I failed in my interview. I am not qualified to be an alien of distinguished merit. I am not of the caliber to live in the States.” Her face was ashen, her eyes blank.

Lydie thought of what Patrice had said, that Kelly would feel bad tonight, better tomorrow. She stared at Kelly, wanted to believe it was true. “Oh, Kelly,” she said, helpless.