Secrets Of Paris Part 25

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 gla.s.s. "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 superst.i.tious shiver she felt at the sight of her best friend wearing rubies.

La Brinvilliers has gone up in smoke...her poor little body was tossed, after the execution, into a raging fire, and her ashes scattered to the winds! So that, now, we shall all be inhaling her! And with such evil little spirits in the air, who knows what poisonous humor may overcome us?

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, JULY 1676 PATRICE 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 a.s.sociates, 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 chateau'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. 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 a.s.sociates, 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 chateau'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, Legions 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 guilt I had about arranging for you to wear rubies are gone now. You're beautiful, and your night is a triumph." 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 a.s.sholes," 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. 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 n.a.z.is very welcome in their patisserie patisserie at Cabourg." 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 duty was to refuse them any help at all!" 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 tremendous guilt for helping the Germans, and that makes them hate and envy any American. Cowards always hate heroes." 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 h.e.l.lo to acquaintances, keeping her eyes open for Michael. She pa.s.sed Clothilde with Leonce 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 chateau, 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 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. 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.

"Don't feel sorry for me, Lydie," Kelly said sternly, the same tone Lydie had heard her use months ago, when she had told Lydie the story of crossing the border in the trunk of a car.

But Lydie felt worse than sorry for her. She believed she had brought Kelly to this point in her life, where dreams came to nothing. She felt intense sorrow. What's happening to me? she wondered, panicked, as if the feeling came from an outside force instead of circ.u.mstances of the night.

She turned to Kelly, who stared stonily into the distance. Kelly, who had represented hope to Lydie, had none of her own left. Again Lydie thought of the young Fallons, Julia and Neil, leaving Rosslare Harbor, and she knew she had Kelly to thank for making it possible to imagine her parents as hopeful people starting off on a long journey. And feeling tears well up in her eyes, Lydie wished all three journeys hadn't ended in despair.

The open door gave onto the lawn. Lydie had an impulse to run out and not look back. She gazed at the crowd, laughing and brilliant in costumes and jewels. The orchestra struck up a waltz. Hordes of guests poured onto the dance floor. They whirled around, under the canopy of chestnut leaves and flickering candles. She felt hypnotized by emotion, by the movement and music. The area around the dance floor was practically empty, and her eyes took in the few people standing there.

Michael stood apart, whispering to a woman in period dress. Lydie started toward him, but she held herself back. She peered at Michael, in his white jacket, and at the woman, very tiny. The woman wore a wig that might have been lifted from the head of a mannequin in the Louvre and a black velvet dress full of silver thread; Lydie recognized the style as seventeenth-century.

"That's Anne Dumas," Lydie said out loud.

"What?" Kelly asked. She started toward Lydie, but Lydie was backing away.

Lydie b.u.mped right into the wall, stood there for a moment staring out the door. She felt her lips moving, and she knew the words they were saying were a form of prayer. She felt a breeze move her full skirt; it might have been the pa.s.sage of ghosts. Not eighteenth-century ghosts from the chateau, but recent ghosts. Ghosts of people she had loved, from two years ago and from today, begging Lydie to lay them to rest. The solution came to her like a gift, in a flash.

Trembling, tears running down her cheeks, Lydie lifted Didier's gun off the rack. She aimed it at Anne and Michael, just the way Patrice had taught her. Her finger was on the trigger. She wedged the stock into her armpit. Her heart pounded like wild horses, and she heard her own breath.

She looked through the scope, saw nothing but darkness. Then she found Michael's head, so close to Anne's that both their faces were in the sight. Magnified, the faces looked angry. They were arguing. But they faded away, and what Lydie saw instead was a cozy Village apartment with family photos on the flowered wallpaper and a young dark-haired woman lying on the bed. Instead of the orchestra, she heard the drone of a television and the voice of a two-year-old girl playing in the next room.

"Lydie..." Kelly said. She touched the back of Lydie's hand, so softly she might have been afraid of setting something off.

But the shots had been fired more than a year ago. Lydie lowered the gun but continued to hold it as if testing its weight. She found the spot where it was perfectly balanced in the palm of her hand and let it totter there while continuing to watch Michael and Anne with the avidity of a theatergoer waiting for the final curtain. She felt peculiar, as if she had been given permission to feel joyous. She no longer felt sorrowful; she no longer felt the presence of ghosts-neither the young, dark-haired woman nor the handsome, grinning Irishman. Somehow she had laid them to rest. She glanced at Kelly. "Excuse me," she said. She walked onto the lawn.

"What are you doing here?" Michael heard Lydie say in the calmest voice possible.

He stepped toward her, put his arm around her shoulders. "It's all right, Lydie," he said. "She's just leaving."

"Your decorations are superb," Anne said, dimpling. "And the chateau, well...if only it were not built in such an unfortunate epoch."

"What are you doing here?" Lydie repeated, her shoulders tense under Michael's arm.

"I was invited, of course," Anne said. She tucked a loose curl under the wig, smoothed the line of her skirt.

Lydie looked up at Michael. Her face was blank, as if any expression was suspended pending Michael's explanation. "I didn't invite her," he said.

Anne laughed, a gentle trill; she whipped an ivory fan from her reticule and held it to her face. She gazed into his eyes, seeming to implore him to take her side. "'I conjure you to speak out on what you know about all this. I cannot have too many friends on this occasion.'" She spoke, as she had since Michael had encountered her tonight, in her Madame de Sevigne voice.

"Your name wasn't on the guest list," Lydie said. She turned to Michael. "Did you invite her?"

He shook his head no. He knew there had never been so flagrant a case of bad timing in the history of romance. All he wanted was to be with Lydie: court her, watch her in action at the d'Origny ball, dance with her, kiss her on the banks of the Loire. Yet here was Anne, spoiling it all. Not because of his old feelings for her, or even because Lydie seemed devastated by her presence-she didn't; he felt Lydie press closer to him. But because he didn't know whether Anne was acting or whether she had lost her mind.

"'She has a charming tone of voice,'" Anne said to Michael, tilting her wig toward Lydie. "'She is fair, she is clean ...'"

"What are you talking about?" Lydie asked.

"I think she's..." How to say it? "Quoting Madame de Sevigne," Michael said.

"Where can I find Madame d'Origny?" Anne asked. "I must thank her for her kind invitation."

"Patrice invited her?" Lydie asked, her head snapping around.

"I don't know," replied Michael, who had wondered all along how Anne had learned the ball's location.

"I want you to leave," Lydie said to Anne.

"'The wife of Monsieur Monsieur is outraged. A snag has developed in her marriage. Her tears flow, as from a fountain. Her great b.o.o.b of a husband is not very loving,'" Anne said. is outraged. A snag has developed in her marriage. Her tears flow, as from a fountain. Her great b.o.o.b of a husband is not very loving,'" Anne said.

At that, Lydie's face turned white, and her shoulders tensed. Michael wanted to protect her, to get her away from Anne. He shook Anne's arm. "Shut up," he said.

Anne spit on his shoe and walked away.

Lydie and Michael stood together, watching her go. Michael held his breath, waiting for Lydie to say something. He glanced at her, wondering why her expression was suddenly serene.

Patrice interrupted them, clearing her throat. "I guess when you throw a party at a castle, you have to expect an evil fairy. What's Malificent doing here?"

"Anne Dumas?" Lydie said. "She said you invited her."

Patrice's mouth flew open. "I did not! The most I did was mention mention it to her at your opening, Michael. I can't believe she said I it to her at your opening, Michael. I can't believe she said I invited invited her-I was keeping her occupied, keeping her out of your hair." her-I was keeping her occupied, keeping her out of your hair."

Lydie reached over to pat Patrice's cheek. "I know. Of course you didn't invite her." But Lydie's eyes were distracted, as if she were discussing something as unimportant as cake batter.

"What's wrong with you?" Patrice asked, frowning. She leaned close to Lydie, looking into her eyes like a school nurse checking the pupils of a student suspected of drug use.

Michael felt Lydie swaying, and he held her steady. "Maybe we should leave," he said.

"But this is her big night," Patrice said. "She's the star of the show."

"I'm fine," Lydie said. "Have you ever had a moment when you know for sure your life's about to change?" She backed away from Michael, and from Patrice. She was receding from both of them, from the ball, into some private sphere of her own. "I'm going to check on Guy," she said, giving Michael a last glance that held a tiny smile.

"What got into her?" Patrice asked. "She's my best friend, and I don't have a clue. I should never have let her wear those rubies."

"She'll be okay," Michael said, fascinated by his own wife. He believed that she had just experienced something so strong and private that she had to get away, off by herself for a while.

"It must have been some shock, coming upon her husband and his mistress, then finding out the only reason she's here is because I told her," Patrice said, adjusting her tiara.

"That's part of it," Michael agreed, but he didn't feel worried. He couldn't take his eyes off Lydie; he watched her walk the ball's outskirts. She had her mind on more than Patrice telling Anne about the ball; more, even, than catching sight of Michael with Anne. Any chance for the romantic night he had hoped to have with Lydie was gone, but Michael felt excited by whatever the alternative was going to be.

At one point it seemed that everyone was dancing. Lydie felt Michael's hand on the small of her back, and they whirled through the crowd. The dance floor was a pillow of billowing, full skirts. Lydie hadn't told him what had happened with the gun; she had had neither the chance nor the inclination. After making sure all the jewelry had been properly photographed, after overseeing the kitchen to make sure the banquet would go off without a hitch, Lydie was loving the chance to dance with her husband.

Every so often Patrice in scarlet waltzed past, and she or Lydie would wave or touch fingers. When the music changed to a cha-cha, Patrice cut in on Michael, leaving Lydie with Didier. But after one dance Michael reclaimed her. His breath on her neck, the pressure of his hand on her lower back, the way he seemed to be watching her every time she gazed up at him: it all reminded her of falling in love.

Anne Dumas seemed to be everywhere. If Lydie glanced over her left shoulder, Anne was dancing with someone near the orchestra. If Lydie looked straight ahead, there was Anne doing the minuet with Leonce d'Esclimont. Yet Anne never seemed to look in Lydie's and Michael's direction. She wore a small intense frown, and Lydie had the wild fantasy that Anne had been plucked from the leaves of French history just for these months, and it required all Anne's concentration to attend this twentieth-century dance. But Lydie had already dispatched two ghosts tonight; even such a hateful one caused her no great anxiety now.

A gong sounded, then sounded again and again until the orchestra stopped playing. Everyone stopped dancing, to wait for something to happen. Even Lydie, who had planned this moment, felt expectant. Two boxwood hedges formed a path to the kitchen, and she focused on the spot where it joined the dance floor.

Here came the parade of food to the banquet table. People lined up to watch servers bearing roasts, salads, fruits de mer fruits de mer, and gratins gratins, and they exclaimed as each dish was carried past. Kelly carried a tray of spider crabs, red and spiky. She smiled; she looked almost happy to hear the crowd's reaction. With rehea.r.s.ed precision the chef directed each server where to place each dish. When all was in place, he began to carve the capon. Didier stood aside, grinning, next to his masked sister Clothilde.

"It's fantastic!" Patrice said, running over to Lydie. Marcel helped the guests form a line while Guy took pictures of the untouched food. In this scene the only d'Origny pieces were the carving set, silver and vermeil serving pieces, and sterling silver boars, porcupines, and pheasants decoratively set around the banquet table.

The line began to move. People filled their plates, then went to find seats at white-clothed tables under the chestnut trees. The food smelled delicious, but Lydie wanted to wait until everyone had been served. Clothilde and Fulbert approached her. "C'est magnifique," Clothilde said from behind her gold mask. "Vraiment," said Fulbert. Clothilde leaned forward to kiss Lydie's cheek, but instead of lips Lydie felt only cool metal. She smiled at the mask, an astonishing disk of thin gold with rays that wavered and made Lydie think of Medusa.

"I'm so glad you like it," Lydie said. "Did Guy take some pictures of you? That mask is incredible."