Chapter Seven

Charlotte entered the park at the gate next to the Rotunda on Rue de Prony. The trees rustled in the breeze overhead as she walked along the path. As soon as she came around the little bend toward the lake, Antoine was there. His slim, dignified form leaned against the concrete bridge railing, right where he said he'd be. Antoine was unexpected for an aristocrat. He wasn't a snob. He wasn't small-minded. He wasn't dull. He didn't act superior or dismiss people. He was curious and intelligent. But there was something vaguely regal about the way he carried himself. His manners were refined and at times almost laughably polished. Watching him eat at the café had been a marvel. An etiquette guide come to life. Like he was not only raised to think he was better than everyone else, but he was also born in a body that behaved that way.

Charlotte wasn't a peasant, but she came from a working-class home. People in her family put their elbows on the table. They didn't pay attention to silverware placement. Antoine may have been standing there, waiting to meet her. But they were from different worlds. In her daydreams, she'd imagined herself as much more than friends with him. From a courtship to the bedroom to a deep love that they would undoubtedly form… only in her dreams. She knew better. But her heart sang in his company. Standing next to him set off wildly inappropriate urges like a flame catching and creeping up through her. Everything he said delighted her. She longed to feel his mouth on hers again. And so here she was, meeting him because he'd asked her to, even though doing so only stoked the flames. It was like she couldn't help herself. She fussed with her dress and then fanned her face as she walked.

Her eyes fell on the monument to Guy de Maupassant as they always did when she passed it. It was her favorite one in the park, not only because she loved de Maupassant's short stories, but because she liked the way the sculptor had added the young woman lounging on a pillow below the bust. Her gaze is cast out toward the distance, like an aloof lover or maybe a contemplative fan of the writer. Supposedly, the woman represented a character from Maupassant's novel about a working-class artist recklessly falling in love with a countess, an irony that made the sculpture somehow symbolic this afternoon.

Antoine turned then; he must have heard her footsteps approaching on the gravel. He lit up with a smile, truly delighted to see her. And Charlotte was once again trapped in his charming net. He came toward her and took her hand. Raising it to his lips, his eyes met hers for a moment before he kissed her. His breath on her bare skin sent a shiver up her arm.

"It's such a pleasure that you've come." He was dressed in a navy blue morning coat with a white carnation on his lapel. The rich smell of his soap or whatever it was he'd applied to his body made her head light.

"Merci."

"I thought we could walk." He offered her his arm.

She took it and fell into step with him as they climbed the stairs on the footbridge over the water. The smooth fabric of his jacket and the sturdiness of his arm were a pleasure to hold. Being on this man's arm was unlike any other she'd experienced. It elated her with temptation.

"It's a lovely afternoon."

"And I was thrilled to receive your letter." He smiled down at her.

"You mentioned that in your response."

"Well, I mean it." The way he was looking at her brought that word from the gossip column to her mind—rapt. He beheld her with his eyes, regarded her with such open affection. No one had ever looked at her like that. And he wasn't the only one rapt. His presence set her adrift on some current of delight and desire. The edges of her arguments blurred. Her thoughts slowed and focused only on this one man. Rapt, indeed.

"How could I not write after such a gift? It seemed impolite not to." All morning, she'd admired the typewriter there on her desk and kept finding herself gazing at it even while she was doing other things, like getting dressed or brushing her hair or even reading. The keys were cool and ready under her fingers, and the sound of them hitting the paper as she worked became the sound of her thinking. And it made her feel like a real writer, like she was really doing it here in Paris. Perhaps even more so than seeing her name in print. Oddly enough.

"Ha. I should have sent the typewriter earlier then, is that what you're saying?"

What was she saying? Certainly not that there would be any more kissing now that he'd sent a present. What she couldn't say, couldn't ask, was about his intentions. As unlikely as a real courtship between them would be, as much as she'd written off the possibility, it wasn't impossible. For a moment, as they passed out of the trees, the sun framed his profile and the curve of his hat in a light that reached into her soul. She didn't want to be friends with this man; she wanted to be much more than that.There was a chance he would consider her. Maybe if they fell in love? Her words caught in her throat.

When she didn't answer, he patted her hand where it held the crook of his arm. "No problem. The air is cleared between us, right? That's all that matters."

"I suppose. It was a lovely token of friendship." She stepped wider than she had been to put a few inches between them. "Friendship."

He nodded. "That sounds better than acquaintance. Though friends is not quite what I'm interested in."

"I do have another reason for wanting to speak with you, though." She ignored his insinuation.

"What's that?"

They were walking along the water now, and the path was more crowded with people. No one seemed to notice them or be paying them any mind, but apparently, it could be hard to tell. Would any of these people recognize him? Or her? Charlotte steered him off the main path onto a more secluded one, and when they were several paces away from the traffic, she asked if he'd seen the write-up of Madame Durand's salon.

He pulled his mouth into a line. "I believe I did."

"My housemate showed it to me, otherwise I might have never known." Although her feelings on it were complicated and mixed, they depended ultimately on his reaction. "I've never had my name mentioned in a gossip column before."

"It's not the sort of thing I usually pay attention to. My mother saw it, though."

"What did she say?"

"Not much. But she made it clear that such write-ups could jeopardize her plans."

"What plans?"

"Her designs for my marriage." He said this with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if whatever his mother's plans for the most important decision of his life were, they weren't relevant.

But suddenly Charlotte's throat felt like it might close up. "She's designing your marriage?"

"Well, she's found someone she thinks is perfect. We've met a few times now, and she's not a bad choice. She meets my mother's demands for sure. Now she's pushing for a commitment—my mother, not Louise."

"Louise?" Charlotte couldn't believe it. After everything—the serendipitous meetings and the life-altering kiss and the breakup and the apology and the typewriter and fighting her feelings—there was another woman. A woman he intended to marry.

"Yes. But what's the rush, you know? I'm not in any hurry. Especially since meeting you." He put his hand on hers again, and it was so warm and comforting, even as everything coming out of his mouth sounded so awful.

"Antoine." Charlotte pulled her hand away, releasing his arm and putting distance between them. "I'm not sure what to make of any of this."

"Well, I had an idea." He spoke with the same earnest care that she found so compelling. "And maybe it's crazy, but what if we spend more time together? Let the papers see us. Let everyone talk. An attachment to you will delay things, put my mother off for a while. And it will give us a chance to get to know each other. To see if we could be more than friends."

"But not a real attachment? Because you're marrying someone else."

"Yes. Eventually. Not anytime soon if my plan works."

"I must say I don't see the point."

They'd reached an empty bench, and he gestured toward it. He took her hand again as they sat and turned to face her. His eyes glimmered flirtatiously. "Charlotte, I think about you every waking moment, and being here with you now is a thrill unlike any I've ever known. I want to spend time with you. I want to know everything about you. Everything, my dear. Without the distraction of a marriage. At least not yet. Charlotte, you have enchanted me."

"But you're not interested in marrying me?"

"I can't marry you, Charlotte. I'm my parents' last, only hope for a society marriage. It's important to them, and so it's important to me. I want to do it for them."

"Do what, exactly?"

"Marry someone from the nobility. Carry on the tradition."

His words sounded like a cruel joke, and Charlotte's stomach churned like she'd be sick. It was true that she wanted to be more than friends. But all her little fantasies about the handsome wealthy man sweeping the everyday girl off her feet really had been childish fairy tales. Reality was far more unseemly. But this was how it was with the upper class. They arranged marriages to appear respectable, but those marriages were open and non-monogamous. But monogamy was important. Charlotte's parents were in love and happy even in humble circumstances, and she wanted that for herself too. She could get used to being an aristocrat's wife in a proper marriage. But she wouldn't be an aristocrat's mistress while he married someone else. It had to be the fairy tale or nothing.

"Well, Antoine, as tempting as that is, I must decline." She scooted away from him and pulled her hands into her lap. "The tradition in my family is marrying for love, regardless of class or wealth or status. And I refuse to have my name sullied in the papers only so you can go on to marry another woman."

"I hardly see how an association with me would sully anything."

Her mouth dropped open. "You shameless man! I am making a name for myself as a writer. As a talented observer of the human condition. As a critic of outdated societal ideas. And becoming known as your mistress runs counter to everything I want to be known for."

His face reddened and he swallowed hard. "You're right. I'm sorry. I've embarrassed myself."

"You have. Appearances are important. You of all people should know that."

"You're right. I do know."

They sat quietly for a moment, facing the park. A little troupe of young women riding bicycles passed in giggles. The breeze rustled the trees and a chorus of birds sang from their discreet perches. The lush green grass spread out before them. But the natural beauty couldn't draw her away from her thoughts. The pictures in her mind of what their lives could be like together were so clear and perfect, and yet there was no way any of it could ever come true.

"I meant everything I said. That you've enchanted me. That kiss in the carriage haunts me."

"I like you too, Antoine. That's why it's hard for me to learn that you're so… stupid about our situation." That was the only word for it. Marriage for status was stupid. She'd never understand it. If two people were in love, why did class or birthright matter? Not that she was in love with him. That would be a disaster.

"Can we still be friends?" Antoine asked.

"I suppose." She wanted to remain friends, and so she hid her disappointment behind a smile.

"No kissing, though?"

"No kissing."

"I can introduce you to everyone I know with even the slightest connection to publishing."

"My career could use the boost, Antoine. But I still can't kiss you again."

?

The rejection hit Antoine like a kick in the heart. It was a foolish idea to see her as a way to stave off his inevitable marriage. But he had been so blinded by the promise of spending more time with Charlotte that it had, at least for a moment, made sense in his mind. She was right. Appearances mattered. He did know that better than anyone.

"I should be going," Charlotte said, rising from the bench. "I want to write a little more before dinner."

"I see." Antoine stood with her. "And so my plans to spend the rest of the afternoon with you have been foiled by none other than the present I sent."

"Ha! You've no one to blame but yourself, it seems." She hadn't lost her humor, but she had cooled toward him. His proposition had shifted something between them.

"I'll walk you."

She looked at him wide-eyed and said, "That's quite all right, Antoine. Madame is adamant that her house is not a brothel. Supposedly she threw the last woman who lived in my room out when she became the mistress of one of the lawyers at the firm where she worked, and I need a place to stay."

Brothel. That definitely wasn't what Antoine had intended. "Then I'll walk you to the edge of the park. Surely that will be acceptable."

"Yes. That's fine."

Antoine held out his arm for Charlotte, and she took it. But she didn't walk as close as she had before, held herself a little farther away. All he could think about was how to pull her back in. He couldn't marry her, but he didn't want to live without her either. He could carry on as friends for now, but he couldn't stop asking her for more. Presenting it as an opportunity to delay his marriage perhaps wasn't his best idea.

They were walking back toward the water when someone said Antoine's name. Thomas Colbert, who frequented his parents' dinner parties, was coming up the path toward them. He had a dressed-up woman on his arm who wasn't his wife. And not his usual mistress either.

"I thought that was you," Thomas said as they reached each other.

"Ah, Monsieur Colbert. We missed you at dinner last week." Charlotte dropped Antoine's arm so he could extend his hand to Thomas. Antoine had recently received an invitation to Madame Colbert's birthday party. But he shouldn't mention a man's wife in front of the woman who was quite obviously his mistress. "Where have you been?"

"With me," the woman said boldly. "I'm Leah, his favorite way to pass the time."

Antoine kissed her hand. Then he turned to Charlotte, who was watching the scene unfold. "And this is my friend Charlotte Devereaux, the esteemed and gifted writer."

Charlotte gave him a suspicious look and allowed Thomas to kiss her hand. Leah nodded pleasantly and kept a hand on Thomas as if he might get away if she stopped touching him. Antoine disliked the idea of gauging a person's character based on their clothing. It didn't matter how people dressed. But Leah's gown seemed ostentatious for a walk in the park. Her lipstick a little too bold. Judging by the diamond necklace she wore, Thomas expressed his affections with elaborate gifts as well. Antoine asked about Thomas's mother instead of his wife's party.

"As fit as ever," Thomas said. Leah squeezed his arm and raised her eyebrows to signal that she wanted to go. Thomas got the hint. "But we won't keep you. We can catch up properly at dinner next week."

"Let's do that."

As they walked away, Antoine offered Charlotte his arm again. But she either didn't see it or ignored the gesture, expanding the distance she'd been keeping by another several inches.

"How do you know that gentleman?" she asked when the other couple was out of earshot.

"Oh, from around. His mother has been friends with my mother for some time, and I suppose I've always known Thomas."

"I take it his favorite hobby Leah is not his wife."

"No. She isn't. His wife is named Genevieve. She's a lovely woman; much more subdued than Leah seems to be."

"I see." Charlotte, if she'd been cool after his botched proposition, was icy now. Antoine's disappointment deepened. He had come to see her in the highest of hopes, and now she was upset for reasons that were surely complicated and likely valid. When he commented on the statuary, she said nothing more than, "Huh."

At the gate where they would part ways, Charlotte said, "Thank you again for the typewriter. And although I love it and fully intend to keep it, please don't send any more gifts."

"Charlotte, Thomas Colbert is a fool, and I'm sure that woman is too."

"‘That woman.' You mean of course his mistress. The woman he sees outside his marriage."

"I hardly see what Monsieur Colbert and his mistress have to do with us."

"Oh, Antoine. I saw how you looked down at her. You think less of her because of her position. Because she is that man's mistress."

"I didn't think that."

"Well, the face you made suggested otherwise. And his face was just as embarrassing."

"If my face revealed anything, it had to do with the invitation I recently received to Thomas's wife's birthday party. I wasn't sure if I could mention it or should mention it in his mistress's company. I was trying to be sensitive to the situation."

"I see. Because it was an awkward situation, you're admitting that. Uncomfortable even."

"I suppose it was."

"Well, I won't live my life like that. I won't have your aristocratic friends looking at me like I'm some kind of possession or worse an interloper." Her chest heaved as she spoke, and her words came out strained. But then, as if she remembered herself, she straightened her back and took a deep breath. She scowled and then turned to leave him. And before walking away, she called over her shoulder, "Thanks again for the typewriter. And enjoy the rest of your day."

She hurried across the street, and then a broad delivery wagon blocked his view. When it moved out of the way, she was gone.

Antoine stood there on the sidewalk. What just happened?

When an empty cab rattled past, Antoine raised his hand to hail it. He got in, and as they pulled away, he searched through the grimy window for Charlotte's blue dress and dark hair. Her rejection and dressing down stung. But at the same time, everything up until that moment when he posed his question had been like a dream. She was always so wide-eyed and agreeable. So interested. Her heart seemed to be as stirred by him as his was by her. The visible signs of growing affection could not be faked or truly hidden. Had he ruined his chances? Or had he merely lost one battle?

The cab turned down Champs-élysées and slowed with the heavier traffic. The sidewalks bustled and the world clicked on. The newsstands and hawkers conducting their business. People moving in and out of shops on errands. Antoine admired their sense of purpose. The commerce happening, making the world go around. He'd never had a job. His father oversaw work, but didn't do much of his own. Antoine didn't have anything like that in his life. Aside from his growing stack of books to read, he didn't have a project. He didn't have a career or aspirations like Charlotte did.

Charlotte. No wave of affection had ever hit him so hard. Seeing the pleasure on her face over the typewriter had charmed him. She was so excited. So delighted. And all over a machine to do more work. Antoine was almost jealous of her.

But he wanted to bring her that level of delight again. He wanted to make her life easier. He wanted to make her happy. No matter how they looked to everyone else, his intentions were honest and driven by pure affection. Love could win outside the bounds of a marriage and traditional domestic and romantic arrangements. And even though she was mad at him and she'd refused him, by the time the carriage rolled to a stop at the gate of his house on Quai d'Orsay, Antoine was only more determined to keep showing Charlotte Devereaux how much he liked her.

He paid the driver and walked around the corner, along the gate that surrounded the family mansion, to the service entrance on the side. A work carriage was parked there with the phone company logo painted on the side of the tool cabinet. The two surly-looking draft horses that were attached to the front of it pawed at the gravel as Antoine passed. He made a wide arc around them and hurried to the door.

Inside, the voices of the men at work echoed through the hall. A wire wrapped from somewhere up in the house to somewhere down into the kitchen and moved as if someone were tugging at either end. Antoine followed it.

His father was in the hall upstairs, watching a man in coveralls tinkering with something along the baseboards of the floor. A shiny new telephone, with a dark wooden stand and round black receiver, stood on the sideboard like a flag. Either the modern world had colonized them or his parents were surrendering.

"I thought I heard you come in, Antoine," the old man said. He puffed out his chest with pride, obviously chuffed with his new toy. "You're just in time to step into the twentieth century!"

"Say it isn't so." Father had never once mentioned to Antoine anything about a telephone, though they'd been speaking even less than usual since the sale of the family property. Probably one of his friends got one and so Father had to get one too. "You're awfully joyous so far ahead of cocktail hour. Have you started early?"

"Bah. I thought you'd be thrilled."

"I'm only surprised. You and Mother are such staunch supporters of the olden days."

Father scowled and then ignored the barb. "We'll be able to call anywhere in the world before long, right from here."

Antoine almost asked if Father planned on making friends outside of Paris society, but he didn't. Pushing the point would only be cruel when the old man was in such a good mood, so Antoine headed upstairs to his room, where he would write to René to double-check that Charlotte had been invited to the party. As he reached his door, a tight ringing sound came from downstairs followed by a whoop of joy. If only Father would also modernize his ideas about how the world should work.

The next morning, Antoine was sprawled across the leather chaise in his room when a commotion carried up from somewhere in the house. Even though they'd finished yesterday, as far as he knew, he assumed it was the workmen returning to the telephone installation job and kept reading his book. It was Zola's latest, one Charlotte recommended, and he'd had trouble putting it down since he started it after breakfast.

Then something about the way the voices rose in pitch got him up. When he opened the door, a man was shouting downstairs. And was that a child crying?

Antoine followed the sounds of the commotion down to the service entrance, where the butler and his father were engaged in an argument with a man and his family. They were dressed in faded and mended clothing, their faces tan from outdoor work. It was the DuPonts, farmer tenants who'd stayed on their property since before Antoine was even born. Monsieur Dupont's father and grandfather had farmed there too. One of the most productive farmers on the estate.

"We've nowhere to go!" Monsieur Dupont shouted and threw up his hands. "They're forcing us out and we've nowhere to go."

"Surely you must have family somewhere," Father said. He looked absolutely dumbfounded by Monsieur Dupont's complaint. "Or you can rent a place in the city? There's work to be found here, surely."

"What do you know about work, monsieur? Not a thing!" Madame Dupont spit these words. Then her wild eyes landed on Antoine. As he realized what was happening, his brain and mouth couldn't form words that felt adequate.

"My children will starve, while yours is a layabout who won't have to work a day in his life. What a life you all must lead here in your fancy house."

"What is it that you want?" Antoine said.

"What do we want?" Madam Dupont screamed. Her handsome, weathered face reddened. "We want our livelihood. We want credit for the work we've done on that land for all these years. Generations of labor, and you've taken it away because of some royal decree made hundreds of years ago that makes you better than us. We want our dignity!"

"Please. Come in and let us serve you coffee. And something to eat," Antoine said, gesturing for Emile and his father to step aside. To wide-eyed Emile, he said, "Please see that the kitchen sends up a few trays to the drawing room."

He brought the Duponts inside. Even though seeing the mansion in all its splendor could offend the Duponts' sensibilities, Antoine risked it and took them to the same room where they saw all esteemed guests. The rich velvet drapes and brocade tapestries contrasted starkly with the patched, rough fabric of their workwear. And their wide-eyed survey of the room suggested they'd never seen anything like it.

"How much time do you have before they're forcing you out?" Antoine asked when they were seated and served refreshments. Although they were the ones who'd come, the Duponts weren't the only ones being turned out. Other families would be in the same dire straits.

"The end of the month," Monsieur Dupont said solemnly. The child seated at his side sniffed and wiped her tears on the back of her hand.

"Then let us come up with a solution," Antoine said, trying to sound confident. "Please, give me some time to figure out how to help."

They had to do something. He didn't know what, but surely Father would agree. He and Mother stood wordlessly aside through the duration of the visit. After the Duponts had aired all their grievances, and Antoine had soothed them with genuine promises to do better, they went on their way.

When they were gone, Father finally spoke. "I don't know what they expect. And you'll regret making promises to them like that."

"So you intend to do nothing."

"There's nothing to do." He turned and led Mother down the hall. So much for the twentieth century.