Men like that weren’t easy to come by.
Despite, or perhaps because of, my own bitterness, I said, “Every girl deserves a grand romance in Paris. Especially you.”
My companion’s voice softened. “But how can I entertain something so frivolous when so many people are in misery?”
“You won’t make anything better by weaving your own misery into the collective shroud. If you find some tendril of happiness, then tug on it. Because a world without happiness isn’t worth fighting for. You’re worthy of love, Emily Sloane.”
Her eyes were teary but grateful. “Oh, I shall be very put out if you turn me into a sentimental girl . . .”
“And I shall be very put out if you attend the opera this evening smelling like hospital liniment—which you do.” I insisted we stop at a perfumery nestled on the Rue Saint-Honoré, between a chocolatier and the baroque Church of Saint-Roch, where, I pointed out, Lafayette’s wife and family had worshipped; given that we’d named our charity after the man, we’d made a game of spouting historical trivia at the slightest provocation.
At the perfumer, I suggested something sultry, with notes of incense and orange blossom. Something I’d worn for Willie years ago. Without asking its price, Miss Sloane said, “I’ll take it. I should also like something for Mrs. Chanler as a gift from me.”
I smiled. “Is it my birthday and no one told me?”
She laughed. “You never tell anyone your birthday, so why not?” Well, she had me there. Still, she was too honest a young lady to keep up the ruse. “It is almost your birthday. I peeked at your passport.”
“Thank goodness I lied on the application like I always do.”
She laughed, thinking I was joking. “I want to give you a gift because—well, in spite of the fact that you are unrepentantly wicked, you are also, to me, like a . . .”
She struggled for a word, so I took her hand and said very sincerely, “Beware that if you say mother, I’ll push you into the Seine.”
“I was going to say a sister! Consider this a thank-you for agreeing to chaperone tonight.”
“I have expensive taste,” I warned.
“My father can afford it.”
She was right about that, so what to choose? Certainly not the scent Willie enjoyed; that would remind me of him, and I was still furious. Whilst the perfumer was boxing up Emily’s purchase, I found a lovely flacon of amber liquid with a heart-shaped stopper and golden tassel. Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue. One sniff and I was enchanted. A soft, mysterious glow of romance at dusk, with notes of powder and pastries. A sweet melancholy of flowers at twilight. In truth, it was like Paris just now—or all of France, really—pushed to the edge of night, but not surrendering to the darkness. And I wanted to bathe in it.
The Chapmans declined to join us at the opera, though Lieutenant de LaGrange tried to convince them. “We’re fighting for our way of life. For our joie de vivre. The Boche want to steal everything from us, but we sing in defiance.”
What a marvelous people, the French! To be able to take up the thread of life in the midst of death and desolation. Still, the Chapmans declined, perhaps because the young baron’s gaze did not leave Miss Sloane’s face for even a moment, and they feared to be interlopers. I feared it too, but Emily was too prim to venture out without a chaperone, and I never could resist an opera.
The opera house, with its gilded ceilings, murals, and embellished red velvet drapes, evoked an era of luxury well at odds with the untold number of wounded soldiers in the ornate balconies, some of the poor wretches missing eyes, arms, legs . . .
The performance was badly sung, but it was music, and we were hungry for it. Then came the militant French anthem dating back to the Revolution. The singer, Marthe Chenal, swept onto the stage in a white gown of antiquity—the skirt of which was cleverly made to fan out into the red, white, and blue of a Revolutionary cockade. I thought her rendition was not so good as others I’d heard before—I could’ve sung it better—but it was so heartfelt the audience was in tears and on its feet, even those who had to reach for crutches in order to rise.
After, the baron offered Miss Sloane his arm. “Won’t you let me treat you ladies to some refreshments at the Café de la Paix before seeing you to your hotel?”
It was the rare café that had permission to be open at this hour, and I knew Emily wanted to go, for in the baron’s presence, she was transported to the paradise reserved for lovers. This was, of course, a paradise from which I had been exiled, but I remembered it well enough to suspect my friend would receive a kiss if only I could absent myself. “I’m afraid, sir, that I wish to retire to write a letter home to my children. I entrust my companion into your care as a true gentleman.”