Chapter Five

Antoine watched the ball soar through the morning sky and ran across his side of the court to put himself in position. As it fell, he pulled his arm back and swung, hitting the ball right where he wanted to, sending it back to Guillaume. They'd been playing together since they were kids, and this was their third game that morning. Guillaume was getting tired, his late night wearing on him, and Antoine only needed to score one more time to win best of three. He rarely beat Guillaume, but he was going to beat him this morning. With much exertion, Guillaume returned the ball. Antoine met it with a backhand volley, landing the ball just out of Guillaume's reach, and scoring the game point.

"That's it, my friend." He smiled like a wolf at Guillaume, who was panting and seemed ready to collapse.

"Let's go get a drink," Guillaume said as he tried to catch his breath.

Antoine's first thought was that he had to go home and check the post. But he hadn't heard from Charlotte in a few days, and there was no reason to hope today would be different. "How about lunch?"

"I'm in for both." Guillaume Allard was Antoine's oldest friend. His father came from humble beginnings to make a fortune investing, and his mother, who had a vaguely aristocratic background, was a dear friend of Antoine's mother. Like Antoine, Guillaume's family was wealthy enough that Guillaume led a leisurely existence.

They walked toward the showers, stopping an attendant for a glass of water on the way. The summer heat was just taking hold of the day, but the early morning fog had blown off, leaving the blue sky empty and bright. After cleaning up and getting dressed, Antoine was hungry, and Guillaume looked as if he'd make it after all.

The club restaurant was a small affair, an afterthought to the modern courts. But the menu included both sandwiches and American whiskey, so Antoine and Guillaume often found themselves there. They sat at a little table by the window, where they could look out on the green space that secluded the club from the rest of the city.

After the server had taken their order and departed, Guillaume said casually, "Any word from your lady writer?"

"No. And it's been nearly a week."

"It sounds like I should stop asking." Guillaume sipped his whiskey and met Antoine's eyes. He'd been there at the cabaret when he met Charlotte, and he was the only person Antoine had told about their afternoon together.

Antoine nodded. "I believe you should, sadly."

When Antoine didn't hear back from Charlotte after three letters, he stopped himself from writing to her again every time the impulse struck—a thousand times probably. Instead, he'd gotten drunk. He'd played tennis every morning and a few times long into the afternoon. He'd gone to three different cabarets. Everywhere, he kept waiting for Charlotte to appear. She did not. His longing to see her again and talk to her and kiss her was like a physical craving that nothing else seemed to satisfy.

"Maybe she's gone back to the provinces."

"I don't know for sure, but I'm afraid it has to do with the fact that I didn't tell her who I am."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't tell her I'm in line to be vicomte."

"You spent an afternoon with her and failed to mention your title? That must be a first."

"Very funny. I don't lead with my title, Guillaume. It didn't come up. She didn't know. She didn't ask. And I didn't come out and say it."

"And you think she's found out?"

"I don't know. She lives with other women and could have mentioned my name. Someone could recognize it." He sipped his whiskey thoughtfully. "I'm grasping, maybe, but you don't understand. She walked into me on the street. Then she was at Quat'z'Arts. And then she sat down right next to me at Maribelle's. Right next to me, Guillaume. She was everywhere. Christ, her story that everyone couldn't shut up about was in the newspaper. And I've never met anyone quite like her. You'll think I'm a fool for saying it, but there was a connection. A real connection. I've never felt quite like this about anyone. And I know she felt something too. You don't kiss like that if there's not something there. You can't possibly. Now suddenly she's gone. Nowhere. Unresponsive."

"Maybe you misread it. Most women would only be more interested because of the title, not less."

"But she's not most women. And I can't marry her."

"Maybe she came all the way to Paris to become an aristocrat's mistress."

Antoine was fairly certain she had not.

Their lunch arrived. A croque-monsieur for Guillaume and ratatouille and baguette for Antoine. And for a few minutes, they ate without speaking.

Charlotte was exactly the kind of woman Antoine would marry if it were up to him. He would probably never get bored. But that would be impossible. No, Charlotte hadn't come to Paris to be some rich man's mistress. He knew he should feel fortunate for his station and wealth, and he did. He understood, as his father had said so many times, that he'd come to appreciate it more with age. But there was also a particular weight to knowing that he couldn't always have what he wanted because of all those privileges. Not that it mattered now that Charlotte hadn't written him back.

Antoine bit into his bread, which was almost crusty and warm enough to make him forget his woes. Almost.

"Well, then, what about the marquis's daughter?" Guillaume asked after devouring almost half of his sandwich in a few bites. "That's a far less complicated situation, I assume."

Antoine laughed. Far less complicated indeed. But he'd been so preoccupied with thoughts of Charlotte that he'd almost forgotten about Louise. "That ball has been on my side of the court since Mother and I had dinner with them last week."

"You haven't seen her since?"

"No." Courtship protocol meant he should have visited by now. And Louise was fine. Dinner with her family had been fine as well. All aspects of his mother's marriage plans were lined up right in front of him. All he had to do was take the next step. In that respect, it was probably good that Charlotte had brushed him off. Even if his disappointment was so deep that it felt like heartache. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to do so."

"Probably couldn't."

"Not that you'd know anything about it," Antoine said. Guillaume's parents, more nouveau riche than aristocratic or traditional, were much more relaxed about his prospective marriage. They'd never pressured Guillaume to find anyone suitable or titled. When they did ask about his romantic affairs, it was to gauge his heart, not his prospects. Guillaume had no idea how lucky he was that his mother believed love was supposed to go with marriage.

"Ha." Guillaume smiled like he knew exactly how lucky he was. "Your backswing's improved. All your recent heartsick court time shows."

"Then I suppose that's something."

Later that afternoon, Antoine's father returned bright-faced and weary from his trip to their country estate. Antoine spoke to him only briefly when he came in, and then didn't see him again until dinner, which wasn't unusual. Antoine looked almost exactly like a younger version of his father with the same brown eyes and dark hair. But they weren't close or similar in personality. Antoine only expressed interest in the family affairs because he felt like he should. And his father did little to engage him. They both seemed perfectly content to stay out of each other's way.

But once the soup was served at dinner that night, his father, clean and rested, cleared his throat and said, "I have an announcement. A bit of good news."

Antoine looked from one smug parent to the other; whatever his father was about to reveal his mother already knew. "Let's hear it."

"I've accepted an offer on the country estate," he said with a tone of finality.

Antoine flinched. "I wasn't aware it was for sale."

"It's been in the works, you could say."

This was unexpected. Since his brothers' deaths, his parents' grief seemed magnified at the country estate. His was too. But it had been in the family for hundreds of years. It was the land that made them who they are, that came with the title. They had tenants on that property, families that had been linked to theirs for generations. "And now it's done?"

"It is done."

The surprise paralyzed Antoine's brain. He'd heard of other titled families selling out, but his parents were so hell-bent on tradition that he never dreamed they'd do something like this. "So who did you sell it to?"

"A property developer who has grand plans for tearing everything down and building a factory. To be honest, it was so painful to think about that I didn't really ask for much detail."

"Too painful? People still live there. They farm that property. What are they supposed to do?"

"They'll have to move, I suppose. Or maybe help with the building. Whatever they want."

All those people. Even though Antoine wasn't involved in the family estate business, he didn't know the tenants and their families. And Antoine knew exactly what happened to tenants when the landed gentry sold out. Forced out of their homes by some indifferent owner, their way of life rendered obsolete, they ended up in coal mines and slums.

His father took his mother's hand where it was resting on the table, presenting a united front. Then he continued, "By selling, we can buy a smaller country place if we like. And your mother and I will be able to afford to travel more without sacrificing our standard of living."

"Our standard of living? Father, how can you be so obtuse?" A mad heat rose through Antoine's chest. "Those people could starve. They're farmers."

His father squared his shoulders. "Well, adapt or perish. Isn't that what you're always saying? Modernity."

"That's not something you can fairly throw in my face when people are involved. We owed it to them not to sell, especially not to someone who intends to tear everything down."

"What's done is done, I'm afraid," Mother said. "Whatever happens now can't be helped."

Antoine looked down at his soup. His anger spun in his mind until it became self-conscious. He was sitting in an elegant dining room, in the wealthiest neighborhood in Paris, eating with silver utensils off Limoges dishes, in a bespoke suit, while people in slums a few miles away were hungry. It wasn't fair. He thought of Charlotte and her story about the out-of-touch aristocrat and felt ashamed. Ashamed of his parents and who they were and every privilege that had been handed to them. He was part of society's scourge, the exploitive class. He was a part of the problem, and he was too small and comfortable and lazy to fathom a solution.

"I believe I've lost my appetite. If you'll excuse me."

"What?" Mother's mouth fell open. Father's brow furrowed in bafflement.

"I'll be in my room." Antoine got up and left the table, leaving his parents speechless.

?

"Madame Durand invited me to her salon," Charlotte said, beaming from the toile bench in the little drawing room where all of her housemates were gathered and drinking wine.

The women shrieked in delight. Madame Durand was an outspoken supporter of proletarian and women's causes. She was eccentric and flamboyant and had been known to walk a large exotic cat around the park. But she also kept upper-class company. Her ex-husband had been in government, and she had a child with a married aristocrat, according to rumors.

"Does she invite everyone who works for her?" Diane asked, refilling her wine glass. "Maybe I should work there?"

Diane had recently changed jobs, but Charlotte was beginning to suspect that was a frequent occurrence.

"It must be such an amazing place to work," Vanessa said dreamily. "And probably all the important people in publishing will be at the salon."

"I bet everyone will be doing drugs," Nadine said with a mischievous smile.

"I hope not," Charlotte said primly, and Nadine cackled.

"It's a salon, not Moulin Rouge. It will probably be a little dull," Diane said. She was more the dancing type than the intellectual conversation type of woman, not that there was anything wrong with that. Diane was barefoot and draped over the armchair where Madame always sat when she joined them on this side of the house. Then she perked up. "You'll need to go shopping."

"You'll need a fashionable dress. Not just something new, but something that makes an artistic statement," Catherine said, just as gleefully as her sister.

The American sisters had come to Paris largely for the shopping and were always thrilled to have an excuse to do more of it. It was hard not to when everyone in the city was so fashionable. And they were right. Charlotte's Vernon wardrobe wouldn't suffice for an evening at Madame Durand's.

"Something that defines your style, both as a writer and a successful woman," Diane agreed.

Of all her housemates, Charlotte had spent the least amount of time one-on-one with the American sisters because they worked long hours and often danced the nights away at this or that cancan venue. They talked about so many dance clubs that Charlotte couldn't keep them straight. But with their urging, what to wear became Charlotte's most pressing concern. She wouldn't know anyone but Madame Durand, and she needed to make a good impression in a room full of fancy people. But she also needed to remain true to herself. And stay within her tight budget, of course.

The next day Diane and Catherine took Charlotte to their favorite department store. Charlotte had never shopped in a department store before. Countless displays of clothes and hats and jewelry surrounded them, and the place was huge. It was all very convenient and overwhelming at the same time.

She found a ready-to-wear navy blue satin dress that was pretty and versatile enough that she could change the appearance (and get lots of wear out of it) with accessories. When Charlotte tried it on in the dressing room and looked at herself in the mirror, her first thought was of what Antoine might think of it. She quickly dismissed this thought though. He'd stopped writing, and although she couldn't seem to help herself from looking everywhere, she hadn't run into him again. And so she was facing the stark reality that she'd never see him again after all. That a woman like her could only bump into a man like him once or twice. She'd had her chance, and she'd made her decision. And so she pushed thoughts of him away and imagined all the people she might potentially meet at the salon instead.

The dress was too long and more expensive than she'd hoped, but not by too much. And it was the first new dress she'd had in ages. She couldn't keep borrowing dresses, and she'd known when she arrived that she'd eventually need to buy something. Now was the time. She'd just have to be conservative with her money, even more conservative than she was already. And hopefully, she'd sell a story soon. A seamstress raised the hem while they had coffee and a croissant in the store's café.

On the day of the salon, Charlotte put on her new blue dress and her only pair of dangly earrings. Then Catherine helped her curl and pin up her hair. They'd wrapped it in rags that morning, and all day Charlotte had worked with her hair in knots.

"Are you nervous?" Catherine asked, looking for a place to start unwrapping.

"Yes. Well, not about my hair." She watched in the mirror as Catherine pulled away a strip of cloth, leaving behind a coiled tendril of her dark hair.

"Well, smile as much as you can," Catherine said thoughtfully, pulling another coil of hair loose. Her long, blonde hair was braided and draped around her shoulders. She was dressed in one of her many frilly tea gowns. She and her sister had more clothes than Charlotte had ever seen a person own. "You're a lovely, intelligent woman with lots to offer. She wouldn't have invited you if that weren't the case. You'll probably be surprised."

"Thank you. I should write that down so I remember it when I feel like a provincial fool later."

"Ha." Catherine snorted. "I understand why you're nervous. Believe me. I came here all the way from America with only a classroom understanding of the language. It's hard to put yourself out there and go after what you want. And this is your first night out on your own in the city, right? I'd be nervous too. But it's never as bad as we worry it will be. You'll probably meet so many interesting people. And if they're snobs, then don't be afraid to find another wallflower and introduce yourself."

Catherine pulled the last strip of cloth from Charlotte's head, and there was a pile of waves quite different from her sleek, straight hair. With all that volume, Catherine started twirling and pinning it all strategically into a hill on Charlotte's head. When she was done, it looked far more sophisticated and elegant than Charlotte could ever accomplish on her own. She was grateful for the help. Without her friends to help her get ready for this, she probably wouldn't go.

It was going to take an inordinate amount of courage for her to get through the night once she arrived. She planned to talk with Madame Durand for as long as she could without being clingy, meet as many people as possible without clamoring for introductions, and then make a quiet exit. She could be in bed with her book before midnight.

When she was dressed and ready, Charlotte took a cab from Rue de Fortuny to the ninth arrondissement. The short ride carried her past the Palais Garnier, which sat like a cake on a platter in the middle of the city. She tried to think about it instead of how much was riding on this evening for her, career-wise. She needed to make a good impression. She needed to sell more stories. And because this was her first real opportunity to make professional connections in person, she inflated it with an exorbitant amount of importance in her mind. The part that made her most nervous was that she had no idea what to expect. She'd been to salons before, but not in Paris. Not hosted by Marguerite Durand.

When the cab stopped, she paid the driver and double-checked the numbers above the door. Then she took a deep breath and knocked. A moment later, a gentleman who appeared to be the butler opened the door and welcomed her inside.

"Madame Durand is in the drawing room to your right," he said, gesturing with his gloved hand. He had a grandfatherly, stuffy air that revealed little about himself or the house. What could this man have seen and heard, being employed by such an interesting, eccentric woman? "Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you, monsieur." She smiled and stepped inside. The foyer was not much bigger than the entry of the house on Rue de Fortuny, but the finishes and decor were more luxurious. Instead of disappearing into the ceiling, the white marble stairs wrapped up and around the open second floor. Two men were leaning on the banister above, deep in conversation; they looked up when she came in and then went back to talking. An electric chandelier sparkled overhead. Down the little hall, there was another group of people talking. Music played on a record player somewhere and a soft din of conversation and laughter filled the house.

A smartly dressed couple on a settee glanced at Charlotte as she passed on her way into the drawing room, where most of the guest were congregating. There was a table of card players, a drink table where a woman in a black and white server uniform was pouring glasses of champagne, and a large group gathered in a seating area near the fireplace. Madame Durand was holding court in an armchair for a group of mostly women. She was dressed in an elegant red evening gown with ornate earrings and a small feathered clip in her hair. Although Charlotte hated to interrupt what seemed to be a lively conversation, she approached them and presented herself.

Madame Durand cried, "Ahh," upon seeing Charlotte and rose from her seat to kiss Charlotte on both cheeks.

"Join us, my dear," Madame Durand said, waving Charlotte to an open space on a couch nearby. The man sitting there shifted over a little to make room. Then Madame Durand addressed her group. "Everyone, this is Charlotte Deveraux. She's been writing a serial for us, and she wrote that story in Le Figaro that everyone was talking about a few weeks back."

And to Charlotte, she named everyone in the circle. "Monsieur and Madame Aubert are my neighbors and comrades. Monsieur Lefevre is the head of the printers union and my esteemed guest. His wife is playing cards. Severine, my dearest friend and a journalist I'd love for you to know, Charlotte. The best in France. Next, of course, Monsieur Patenaude, who is an editor at Palace Books and whom you should absolutely speak to about a collection of your stories. And, last but not least, these ladies are brilliant actresses: Camille Forche and Genevieve Meunier. Now don't worry, Charlotte, if you forget all of that. We're a friendly bunch. And welcome to society, my dear!"

Charlotte smiled and waved bonsoir to everyone, then took the seat they'd made for her and listened as the conversation picked back up. They were talking about labor laws, a topic Charlotte only knew at surface depth. But they didn't stay there for long. The conversation shifted and flowed as people came and left from the assembled group. Several other people came after Charlotte, presenting themselves to Madame Durand and then either hanging around or wandering off to see who else was at the party.

When the people between them on the couch left, Monsieur Patenaude moved down and held out his hand to Charlotte.

"I liked your story very much."

"Thank you. That's wonderful to hear," Charlotte said.

"Don't tell Marguerite, but I haven't read the series in her paper yet." He winked at her conspiratorially. "But I have all the papers on my nightstand and plan on reading them in the days leading up to the final installment. I do that often when there's a series I know I'll like."

He spoke with an undercurrent of excitement about literature, which Charlotte recognized and appreciated immediately.

"You're very talented, and your work has started a conversation. As a publisher, I'd be a fool not to ask if you have enough stories for a collection."

"Well, no, not yet. But I've been working so much since coming to the city that I'm probably not far off." This wasn't exactly a lie, she hoped. She had three stories, not including the ones from Le Figaro and La Fronde , that she felt really good about. Selling a collection seemed like something she was nowhere near ready for, like a distant dream. But maybe it shouldn't be. Selling a book could help stabilize her income. "How many exactly would I need?"

"Well, that depends on the length, but a book needs a hundred and fifty pages or so to make it worth the effort." He reached into his coat pocket and produced a card. "I'm giving you this before I forget. If you want to put something together, I'd love to take a look at it."

Charlotte, whenever she was faced with opportunities like this, could never tell if it was her hard work paying off or luck. Maybe it was both. "I'll do that, monsieur. Thank you. You have no idea how thrilled I am."

"Well, I'm thrilled to get to you first."

Monsieur Patenaude's petite, bejeweled wife came up to him then. She touched his arm, taking his attention away from Charlotte. "Are you ready to play, dear. It's almost our turn."

While they talked, Charlotte fingered his card and then tucked it into the little pocket on her skirt. How quickly could she get together a hundred and fifty pages of stories? She had the two pieces that were already published. Those should go into her first collections, and her contracts allowed it.

"Charlotte Deveraux, it was a pleasure chatting with you. But the card table is calling me."

"The pleasure was all mine." Charlotte smiled again at the Patenaudes and stood as they left the seating area.

"Don't lose my card," Monsieur Patenaude said over his shoulder as his wife led him away.

Charlotte, finding herself unengaged in conversation and elated by the publisher's enthusiasm for her work, went to the refreshment table. The server had just brought out a fresh pot of coffee, and Charlotte poured herself a cup, thinking she might try to get a cab home as soon as she finished. She'd accomplished everything she had hoped for the evening, and she had a lot of work she wanted to do in the morning.

She was stirring cream into her coffee when a small commotion of guests arriving drew her eye to the door. She hadn't expected to see any familiar faces among them because she hardly knew anyone in the city. But standing there, eyes on her, was Antoine de Larminet.