Paris: The Novel

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, reconstituting 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 girlbefore she could resist. She opened it, looked in and saw what she had suspected at once.
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