Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Eve

Paris, May 1946

Blackmail is a ghastly business. It leaves you trapped between two worlds – your inglorious past and your now uncertain future. I knew that it was probably better not to give into a blackmailer’s demands because if you did, they would always come back for more. But if you didn’t, what then? The overhanging threat was so present in my mind that it didn’t matter if Lucile and I were dining on roquefort or brie, a soufflé or a quiche, I couldn’t taste the difference. My attention to detail narrowed to one single focus – would Martin La Farge carry out his threat to reveal my origins?

So when on the last day of the month a letter arrived from Martin, asking Lucile and me to come view a new American artist by the name of Joan Mitchell that he had set aside ‘exclusively’ for us, I did what my mother used to do whenever an eviction notice arrived – I hid it in my desk drawer and pretended I’d never seen it.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Lucile asked while we waited in the luxurious fitting room of Cristóbal Balenciaga on Avenue George V. The place smelled of lilies and our feet sank deep into the plush silver-grey carpet. ‘You’ve been distracted all week.’

I could not afford to make Lucile nervous at this point, not now she had spent a fortune on our gowns for the Fouquets’ ball at my insistence. Balenciaga was a temperamental Spaniard and a perfectionist who did not like to be hurried, and yet he’d agreed – at a premium price – to give us what we wanted in time for the ball.

‘I’m only thinking how splendid you look,’ I told her, ‘and how I should organise your first soirée as soon as possible.’

The dress Balenciaga had designed sat perfectly on her frame. He was not simply a designer but a master couturier who understood clever cutting and minimal seaming and darting. The result was a steel-grey dress with an empire line and azalea pink sash that made Lucile look regal. My dress was equally as stunning. Drawing on his Spanish roots, Balenciaga had given me a skirt of glistening white satin veiled in black tulle with a matching ruffled top that was a nod to a flamenco costume. But I felt like I was walking a fine line, and if Martin decided to push me over the precipice, I might never get to wear it.

After the fitting, we went to dine at the Ritz. The atmosphere of the hotel was so bright and breezy it was difficult to imagine that it had been occupied by the Luftwaffe during the war. Indeed, while Hermann G?ring might have been in prison at Nuremberg awaiting his sentence for war crimes, the French fashion designers, industrialists and journalists who had collaborated with the Germans were still in attendance, eating caviar and Chateaubriand béarnaise. As we were led to our table we passed a spectacular floral arrangement of orchids, lilies and moonflowers that must have cost a few thousand francs.

As the smartly uniformed waiter took our order for sole poached in white wine and asparagus in Hollandaise sauce, I looked around me and began to calm. People were glancing in our direction and admiring us. From the blush that pinched both her cheeks, it seemed that Lucile had noticed too. She was transformed and she knew it. I hoped her gratitude might cement her attachment to me in the event Martin chose to reveal my identity. With her loyalty, we might weather the storm together and even find it to our advantage.

Then Lucile did something unexpected. She pulled out a small velvet box from her purse and pushed it towards me.

‘It’s a gift for you. For your birthday,’ she said.

‘My birthday?’ I repeated with surprise and saw that the box was embossed with the gold logo of Fosco jewellers. It was my birthday, but I had hardly paid attention to the date. I’d never celebrated it, even as a small child. It hurt too much to have a mother who raised my expectations of cake and other delights, only to disappear into an alcoholic stupor when the time of the proposed celebration arrived.

I opened the box. Inside was a platinum ring set with rosecut diamonds. It was exactly to my taste and Lucile must have gone to a great deal of effort to choose it.

‘It’s lovely,’ I said, feeling flushed and a little emotional. I hadn’t expected such a gesture from Lucile. I put the ring on and showed it to her. She smiled with delight.

‘You don’t have a family and my own siblings don’t care about me,’ she said. ‘But you and I have each other. You’ve become very dear to me.’

‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. ‘That was very kind of you, and I feel the same way.’

The gesture seemed to signify a change in the nature of our relationship, and that I meant more to Lucile than a mere paid companion. The sick feeling I had been carrying around vanished. I would tell her about Martin’s threat, but I would do it after the Fouquets’ ball when she wasn’t so nervous. Then together we would decide on a strategy of how to respond to any revelations that Marthe or Martin might divulge.

We stood up to leave and as we walked through the foyer, we passed a man reading Le Monde . The front page of the newspaper was dominated by one headline:

Lost Botticelli Masterpiece found: To be returned to France.

It sounded like important news. I would have to ask Serge about it when I next saw him.

*

None of the mansions I had visited as a junior draper – and many of them had been grand – had ever been as palatial as the Fouquets’ mansion on Avenue d’Iéna.

Lucile and I strolled down the red carpet with Georges between us. I was almost afraid to look at the magnificent Italian Baroque fa?ade or at the dozen servants waiting for us dressed in fine livery. It was a reception worthy of Emperor Napoleon. The grand hall was hung with art from every era. When we entered, my eye settled on a painting that, from its subject matter of a servant girl wearing a scarf of the most extraordinary ultramarine, I took to be a rare Vermeer. My gaze travelled upwards to a Genoese chandelier large enough for twenty-four lights and heavy with crystal drops. It cast sparkles over the gilded mosaics on the walls.

‘It’s quite the show, isn’t it?’ Georges whispered in my ear. ‘I’ve heard that on one of the upper floors there is an indoor swimming pool fashioned in the style of a desert oasis.’

I nodded, wondering if I had been gaping. After being formally welcomed by the Fouquets – he, a distinguished-looking gentleman with a handlebar moustache, and she, a birdlike creature exquisitely dressed in a sequined gown – we were directed up a marble staircase like we were a procession of courtiers from Versailles: the women in tulle dresses and dripping with diamonds; the men in white tie with ribbons and sashes. Indeed, as I looked around me, I recognised the faces of comtes and comtesses I had only ever seen in the society pages.

A thrill of triumph tingled in my veins. Despite all Martin La Farge’s hints at my demise, I had not given into him, and here I was, a part of it all.

After an aperitif of Perrier-Jou?t champagne, we were led into a dining room with walls of pale turquoise and gold mouldings. An Aubusson rug with an ostrich-feather design covered the floor. Lucile was seated close to Madame Fouquet, and Georges next to a woman with the striking brunette looks of an Italian. I was delegated the least important seat at the long table, but I didn’t care. My place setting was as beautiful as anyone else’s with sterling-silver flatware and monogrammed plates. Down the length of the table wove pink Juliet roses set on gilded branches. I looked around me, wanting to commit every detail to memory.

The elderly man opposite me leaned across the table. ‘Do you know the music for this evening was specially composed by Francis Poulenc?’

I had noticed the strains of a flute and piano sonata. Something graceful but bittersweet.

‘Poulenc is one of my favourite composers,’ I told him, at the same time imagining how wealthy one would have to be to have a world class composer create music for your party.

The dinner was woodcock accompanied by Romanée-Conti, the most expensive and sought-after wine in the world. I lifted the crystal glass to my lips and savoured my first taste. Flavours of violets and sweet cherries burst on my tongue.

The man across the table must have noticed my pleasure. ‘They call it velvet and satin in a glass,’ he said.

‘That’s a perfect description.’

The woman next to him, dressed fantastically in a gold brocade gown with a puff of flaxen hair framing her face, joined our conversation. ‘The wine comes from the C?te d’Or where the soil has more limestone and less clay, and the grapes receive the perfect amount of sunshine for ripening. But the vineyard is small and cannot be expanded. And so, only a limited amount of bottles are produced each year.’

‘That means most people in the world will die without ever tasting this sublime offering,’ the man said.

After the dinner, the sound of the musicians tuning their instruments came from the ballroom, and the ladies, Lucile and myself included, went to Edith Fouquet’s boudoir to fix our hair and dresses before heading to the ballroom. I stood still for a moment dazzled by the intricate furniture with mother-of-pearl inlays and the cherub fresco on the ceiling.

‘May I help you, mademoiselle?’ a maid asked.

It took a moment for me to realise that she was speaking to me and that I was a guest in her eyes, not a servant. I had stepped into a whole new life and I didn’t want to go back to my old one.

When we were all ready, we met with the men on the landing and linked arms with those who had been our dinner partners, before heading down the stairs to the ballroom. The other guests were arriving, and a great thrum of voices rose up from the entrance hall. The ballroom was even more beautifully decorated than the dining room, with great pyramids of topiary roses and pots of white gardenias. The scent of the flowers mingled with the odours of fine perfume and expensive cigars.

I saw Marthe arrive with Cyrille and our eyes locked for a moment. She would have heard by now that Lucile and I had been invited to the Fouquets’ exclusive dinner while she hadn’t. I was sure it infuriated her, but it was too late for her to reveal what she knew about me. To do so now would only cause the Fouquets embarrassment.

The string quartet accompanied the guests who danced waltzes and foxtrots. The beautiful couples glided past me, their feet barely touching the gleaming floor like floating characters in a Chagall painting. An elderly gentleman I recognised as the British ambassador asked me to dance and gallantly steered me around the dance floor. I spotted Lucile waltzing with Basile Fouquet himself! Then I spied Marthe talking with a group of people but constantly glancing at Lucile with undisguised envy.

Well, that look makes up for all the years you taunted her , I thought, with a certain satisfaction.

‘May I have this dance, Mademoiselle Archer?’ came a familiar voice from behind. I turned around and smiled at Georges.

‘You certainly may, Monsieur Camadeau.’

I let Georges steer me around the dance floor in a slow foxtrot.

‘How are you enjoying the evening?’ he asked.

‘I am enjoying it very much. I’ve never been to such an extravagant ball before.’

‘And yet you dance so beautifully. You’ve taken to Parisian society like a duck to water.’

We performed a pivot and feathered to a less crowded corner of the dance floor where we could hear each other better.

‘What is it you truly desire, Eve?’ Georges asked. ‘A bright young woman like you can’t possibly want to stay with Aunt Lucile forever?’

‘What do I desire?’ I replied, gesturing around me. ‘I want to live like this every day. In a beautiful house with beautiful music and beautiful things to look at.’ But then remembering what it was like to live in a dingy house with broken furniture, I added, ‘But I don’t want to be an outsider looking in. I want to belong.’

‘Well,’ said Georges, as we turned and weaved, ‘from the admiring glances of several young men who have been watching you all evening, including the very, very wealthy Hubert Thirard, I would say you’d have a number of volunteers willing to provide that lifestyle for you.’

‘You know as well as I do, men like that don’t marry young women like me.’

‘Like what? Heiresses from some exotic place across the other side of the globe?’

I squeezed his hand a little harder. ‘You must know that story isn’t true. In fact, I regret letting Lucile convince me to tell it. You see, I don’t want to be provided for by a man. I want to succeed on my own terms. I don’t think it’s shameful at all to work your way up in the world. But now she’s made me tell it, I’m in a rather precarious position if that lie ever gets found out.’

‘I see,’ said Georges, twirling me in another change of direction. ‘What if you met a man who didn’t give a toss whether you were a descendant of the French Sun King or not, and wanted to support your dreams simply because he liked you and believed in you.’

‘Like Madame Chanel’s Boy Capel, you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

I thought about Georges’s idea. Boy Capel had set Chanel up in business but had married someone from his own class. That sounded uncomfortably like my own unequal love affair with Anthony, and I was not going to put myself through that heartache again. I shook my head firmly. Whatever I did, I would do it on my own.

The music changed to a waltz, and a young man requested the next dance with me. Georges graciously took his leave. My new partner introduced himself as Hubert Thirard, and I realised he was the wealthy heir Georges had mentioned. He was attractive and extremely courteous, but his deferential manner made me realise how much I enjoyed bantering with Georges.

After several more dances with gallant young men, I needed to cool down. I noticed two women were going up a staircase to the next floor. I remembered what Georges had said about the indoor swimming pool. I discreetly followed them, but the women disappeared down a corridor and I realised they were most likely house guests of the Fouquets and were going to their rooms. I looked around, hoping no one had seen me. I was about to go back down the stairs, when I noticed a glimmer of light coming through the gap of a door that had been left ajar. I caught a glimpse of luscious silk drapes that invited me to take a closer look. I pushed the door open and discovered a room with a Venetian Rococo desk at the centre. A porcelain lamp sent a soft glow over the blue-green walls, the shade of which made me think of verdigris. The Savonnerie rug was soft under my feet as I approached the desk and cast my eye over the sterling-silver pen and the ivory letter-opener. From the tray of monogrammed writing paper, I imagined it was where Edith Fouquet wrote her correspondence and gave out the orders to the servants for the day.

Laughter spiralled up the staircase from the party downstairs, and I was about to leave when I heard someone come in behind me. I turned to see Marthe standing in the doorway.

‘So, you think you have won, do you?’ she asked, stepping towards me. ‘You think you have transformed Lucile from an ugly duckling into a magnificent swan, and yourself from a shopgirl to a society princess? I assure you, that is not how this world works. Everyone has a place they are born into and “rising in society” is nothing more than a myth.’

Confident in my Balenciaga gown and fortified by fine wines, I stood my ground. ‘What you say might have been true before the war, but it’s not true anymore. There are too many former collaborators in French society for them to put on such airs now.’

At that moment, the lights went out. I could hear cries and gasps from the ballroom.

‘Another blasted blackout,’ a man said. ‘Get the candles,’ a woman’s voice called.

To be in complete darkness was unnerving, but it was also a welcome interruption from Marthe and it gave me time to think. I tried to remember exactly where she was standing. If I could pass her and get to the door by the time the lights returned, I could avoid her for the rest of the evening. But then the lights came back on, and I blinked. It was no longer Marthe standing before me but Cyrille.

‘Mademoiselle Archer, we are alone at last,’ he said under a wheezy breath.

The glow from the lamplight did not flatter him the way it did the room. It made him seem ghoulish. I tried to skirt around him towards the door, but he closed it before I could reach it.

‘I would like to go, Monsieur de Villiers,’ I said, feigning a composure I did not feel. ‘Please stand aside.’

But he remained in the doorway and fixed a look on me that gave me the chills.

‘I don’t understand what you want. Where did your wife go?’ I asked.

Then remembering the effect Marthe’s name had on him that last time I’d seen him, I shrunk back a little. But this time he simply smiled.

‘She’ll be downstairs, I imagine,’ he said. ‘Doing what she does best. She’s given me her blessing, you know. She understands that a man has his desires. In fact, she told me to give you this.’

He fiddled in his pocket before producing the white gold and diamond necklace I’d seen Marthe wearing at Lucile’s birthday party. Then noticing the horror that must have shown on my face, he added, ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like it? It’s worth a fortune. Here try it on.’

He lurched towards me as the full gravity of the situation bore down on me.

‘Now listen,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what game you and your wife are playing but it has gone far enough. There are a lot of people downstairs, and they will hear if I scream.’

As if to mock me, the dance orchestra at that moment switched to a swing band. Nobody was going to hear me over the sound of trumpets and trombones.

I moved towards the door again, but Cyrille placed himself between me and it.

‘Why are you in such a hurry? I saw the way you let Georges Camadeau look at you when you danced with him. Georges is a young man who hasn’t come into his full inheritance yet. He doesn’t have even a pinch of the money I do. Marthe said that’s what young girls like you want.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out some notes and tossed them in the air, laughing as he did. ‘It’s a bargain you see, you get money and I get you.’

‘You are out of your mind,’ I said, making for the door again. But this time Cyrille grabbed my arm. His high-coloured face and increasing confidence were so terrifying they got the better of me. I could hardly get the words out loud enough when I tried to shout, ‘Let me go!’

Any worry about a scandal left my mind. All I wanted was to be out of Cyrille’s grasp and back at Lucile’s apartment, warm and safe in my bed. I didn’t care if I never went to another ball again.

The smell of alcohol on Cyrille as he pressed himself against me brought me back to my senses. I struggled against him with all my strength. We knocked into the walls, then got caught up in the flowing drapes, before crashing into the desk and sending the fine stationery scattering over the floor. To my horror, Cyrille landed his slobbery mouth on my lips.

At that moment, the door flung open. A woman screamed. I turned to see three figures in the threshold: Edith Fouquet, Marthe and Lucile.

‘ Mon Dieu! ’ Madame Fouquet cried.

Marthe smiled and then burst into fake sobs.

But it was the look on Lucile’s face that was worst of all. She had gone deathly pale. Her eyes rolled back as she brought her hand to her head. Then her knees buckled and she fainted.