The Eleventh Year (26 page)

“This,” she said, “is 1922.”

“What will it be in twenty-three? God help us!”

She reddened and looked away. He was stroking her fingers on his arm, saying softly to her: “Come now, sweetheart: I'm only teasing you. But seriously—for my birthday, please grow it out. I should like to see you with it long, straight—” His voice trailed off abruptly, and she looked up again and saw that he was regarding an apparition that had just stepped in. Tall, with a gown of scarlet satin, she was remarkable, and her hair was exactly what he had been describing: long and straight. Princess Egorova.

“La
Casati is wrong,” Lesley remarked. “Among dramatic women there is no advantage to youth. They're born mature, and they never grow old.”

“Are you jealous?” His eyes twinkled at her. He had come to this reception as a political necessity, but it seemed that now that he was here, he was enjoying himself. The Marquise Casati lived in Place Vendôme, which evoked early Paris memories, and suddenly Lesley wished that Jamie were there.

“Jealous?” she echoed. “Of Elena Egorova? Maybe a little. Women like me are ‘amusing,' ‘saucy,' or ‘adorable.' Women like her are ‘unforgettable.' But I like her.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I'm not at all sure that
I
do.”

“You wouldn't,” Lesley remarked. “She's too much of an eccentric. What would she do to your nice, safe decor?”

Just then an elegant man seized his hand and began to pump it. It was the Vicomte Charles de Noailles, whose American wife, Marie-Laure, threw the most fashionable parties in the city. Lesley unlatched her fingers from her husband's arm and moved forward a little, toward a low settee on which three people were smoking and holding a conversation, oblivious to other groups. There was a free space among them, at the very end, and she wanted to sit down without being noticed or hailed.

From this vantage point she could see the whole room. Politicians and artists mingled there. In a corner was Sergei Diaghilev, the Russian impresario, with his monocle and his lock of white hair among the dyed black—an imposing man. The Russians were scattered everywhere, especially when it was the season of the Ballets Russes. There was René Fonck, the aviator, now a deputy in the Lower Chamber of the French Parliament, a colleague of Alexandre's. He was young, attractive, a friend of Paul's from flying days during the war—the breed of flying aces that had moved the nation. So many elected veterans!

The thought of Paul momentarily unnerved her. A maître d'hôtel in severe black tails was coming her way, and she hailed him discreetly. He was passing around a silver tray of champagne glasses and she took a
coupe
from him, her hand trembling slightly. When he had moved on she downed half the contents in swift, small gulps. Now she felt better and could continue to reappraise the room.

There was Prince Yussupov, the handsome Felix. He had become a dealer in antique furniture. Since the revolution White Russians had been flocking to Paris. Some, like this one, wealthy and the toast of Parisian society; others, destitute, driving taxicabs and carrying baggage into the luxury hotels. But Elena Egorova seemed to have made the best of her poverty.

She held her
coupe
to the light, admiring its lovely golden color. Champagne, the liquor of love. She searched the room for Alexandre and didn't see him. She would have to get up, speak to people, be charming. That was what she was liked for: She gave parties that sparkled, where the French and the Russians and some of the Americans, though very few, mingled in spirited conversations and admired her good taste, her
joie de vivre.
The inimitable Lesley de Varenne, who had become one of the celebrated hostesses of Paris.

No different, she thought with sudden depression, from my mother: The clients come to Fifth Avenue and the politicians come to us. She thought wryly that she was, after all, the granddaughter of an English earl, and the daughter of a man who sold his products more successfully than any of his competitors. Finesse combined with salesmanship. One had to sell Alexandre, deputy from Eure-et-Loir. One had to sell Lesley Anne Aymes Richardson de Varenne also. Or else why had she come to Paris? There must have been a reason. . .

There must have been a reason, she thought again, sipping the champagne. And then she felt better. Her head felt lighter, the room seemed brighter, the heat less oppressive. She wished that there were music, that she could dance. Perhaps Alex might take her to a tango place or to a jazz hall after this. The Marquise was an unusual lady, but this kind of evening could get to be a bore, and dancing was more fun.

Elena Egorova was approaching the sofa. “So,” the Russian said, “you're all alone. Have you spoken yet to the Baron Brincard? He's an ardent admirer of yours.”

“What would I do with a banker?” Lesley replied, starting to laugh a bit nervously. She hardly knew Elena, but found her, as did everyone, spectacular. “I'd rather have your own ardent admirer, Yussupov.”

“Felix? A delightful man, and talented. I knew him long ago.”

Lesley saw Elena's eyes cloud over. “Your father was the friend of the prime minister? The one that was murdered?”

Elena nodded. “Yes.”

“And Prince Felix knew you then?”

Elena sighed. “Prince Felix knew me then indeed.…But since that time, many people have fallen into disfavor. The old regime is past. We have both progressed from there,
ma chérie,
and that is life.”

Lesley wondered at the grimness of Elena's tone and shivered. Then she started to feel the champagne, warming her. Elena Egorova had led an enviable life—she was an interesting woman. “You must come to visit me,” Lesley said suddenly. She was noticing the marvelous diamond earrings, the single diamond pendant that fell neatly between Elena's breasts, in the valley of her cleavage. Everything else was red, dark red, and black—red gown, dark hair, dark eyes. Determined eyes.

Jamie had abandoned her, and the others, the Hélène Berthelots and the Marquise Casatis, were fine for an evening of pleasantry, fine for learning more about the flair of being Parisian. But she needed a friend. “Please,” she murmured, putting her small hand on Elena's arm. “Come tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow there is a costumed ball at Etienne de Beaumont's, and you will have to prepare for it. Who will you come as?”

Lesley shrugged. “I don't feel like going at all. There are so many receptions, so many balls. And so little fun, so little life. Won't you please come to visit, Princess Elena?”

Elena Egorova was looking at her very strangely, almost with pity. Lesley didn't want pity. But the Russian merely said: “My dear Marquise—Lesley—I'm bored to tears myself. Jacques-Emile Blanche was going to paint my portrait, but I couldn't care less, and I shall simply tell him that I'm tired. I'll come to you after luncheon. Place d'Iéna?”

Lesley nodded. Then Elena touched her on her bare shoulder and gave her a smile of complicity. She turned and left swiftly, a striding Minerva. Alexandre was somewhere in another room, but now Lesley felt less tense. She was alone in a roomful of strangers, most of whom she knew—a fly trapped in a web of intricate design. How much of this was her own fault? All of it, of course. But there would be a respite tomorrow.

She decided to find her husband. She touched her hair, straightened her posture, looked about her with renewed confidence. In the large dining room he was standing in a group of men, all dressed in tuxedos, all speaking in hushed voices. She touched Alexandre on the elbow lightly. “Ah,” someone said, and it was the Baron Georges Brincard, head of the powerful bank, the Credit Lyonnais. “The most enchanting woman on either side of the Atlantic Ocean. . . .” And he took her hand and raised it elegantly to his lips.

“You are bored, my darling?” Alex asked.

“No, thank you. What were you gentlemen discussing?”

“The German reparations,
chère
Marquise. As you know, your native country and Great Britain are our creditors. They are demanding reimbursement of the war loans. Meanwhile the
Boches
are still not paying
us
—”

“But aren't you asking too high a price?” Lesley asked. She added, coloring: “I mean…given the devastation of Germany today…?”

There was an odd silence. “Our national debt has gone from twenty-eight million to two hundred eight million francs. Public loans cannot carry us through,” Alexandre countered gently. He smiled at her, then at his colleagues, his eyes encountering theirs above her head. She felt as though each one were judging her, thinking her foolish: a woman and a foreigner in their midst.

“One could impose an income tax,” she suggested, her voice trembling slightly. A dead silence answered her. “Is there any
other
viable alternative?” she added, beginning to feel pinpricks of panic.

“Would you
favor an income tax, my dear Marquise?” the baron asked, his voice unctuous with gallantry.

His supercilious smile provoked her. She held onto Alexandre's arm, feeling his support, the steady forearm. “I think so,” she replied quietly.

“Then you would wish us all to go to the devil like the Bolsheviks,” a tall, portly man declared. “Really,
mon cher
Alexandre—”

Her husband raised his shoulders with mock helplessness. “Those are the views of my wife, my dear friends,” he answered charmingly.

They all smiled with him. Lesley looked into all their faces and saw that they had forgiven Alexandre for her
faux pas,
that they liked and respected him. He was one of
Them.

“We must go home, gentlemen,” Alex said, and she knew from the pleasantly distant tone of his voice, from the detached politeness of his voice that he felt she had committed an error by not controlling her words in public. As the Marquise Casati saw them to the door, Lesley felt a wave of regret, for Elena Egorova was just then passing by, two young men trailing in her wake. Lesley raised her hand, Elena responded—and Alexandre, at her side, stiffened.

In the Bugatti she said to him, to break the silence: “The princess is coming to visit me tomorrow.”

“Which one? Murat? …de Polignac?” He yawned absently.

“Egorova.”

He glanced at her with some disdain. “One of the many Russian princesses of Paris, my darling,” he said. “But for the grace of the men who keep her, she would be a salesgirl at Maggy Rouff, or a hat-check girl at the Plaza Athénée….”

“You do her an injustice. She's the most beautiful woman I know.”

“Then, my love, I find your taste lacking.”

She reclined against the leather seat, wondering why she was forever making mistakes. She reached out, laid a hand on his knee. In the dark night, illumined solely by a sliver of moon, he turned to her, all delicate profile. I love you, her expression told him. She said softly: “Forgive me.”

“For what?” he asked, putting his hand on hers. His fingers rose to brush her cheek, lingered there a moment. She shivered, and he pulled the fur cape around her shoulders. Then he took hold of the wheel and began to concentrate on the road. She closed her eyes, exhausted, but knew for certain that she would not sleep that night. Somehow, her actions, well intentioned, had offended him. She felt clumsy and ineffectual.

S
he had changed
. Maybe, he thought, shedding his cravat and slipping out of his trousers and frilled shirt, it had been a bad idea to go into public office. He'd married an American girl, a spirited woman-child. She'd wanted to be a great artist, and he wondered now. She hadn't touched a paintbrush in ages. She went to all the right parties with him, wore all the new styles, and yet she was disheartened. Had he disappointed her?

He was tired, he realized, peering at the gilded brass Camerini clock on the white marble mantelpiece. It was close to one in the morning. Lesley. He wanted to go to her boudoir and make love to her. He passed over in his mind the boudoir, the soft pink silk of the coverlet, the violet of the drapes, the Chinese screen. Her little enclave.

They were different. Perhaps, he thought, rubbing his chin, they ought never to have come together. Yet the notion of being without her filled him with sudden dread. He would go to her. She was the most wonderful element of his life, yet also a woman he wasn't sure he fully understood. She wanted to please him so much that she'd stopped trying to satisfy herself. She yearned to have statesman-philosopher Paul Morand at her latest reception, and treasured personal notes from Paul Valéry, whom many thought to be the greatest existing French writer. She patterned herself after Anna de Noailles, Hélène Berthelot. Yet in so doing she was forgetting the Lesley he had chosen to marry, and he missed that woman.

He'd hurt her feelings tonight in front of those men. He hadn't properly explained to her the urgency to make the Germans pay. She'd spoken her mind as an American, and it was his fault that he had not discussed the issue in detail ahead of time. She was wrong. He'd patronized her like a child, and there
he
had been wrong.