The Eleventh Year (21 page)

The pavilion where she lived she called the Temple of Friendship. But unlike Gertrude Stein, she was more wary of men than of women, and opened her house to welcome those who might be added to her gallery of artistic friends. Her family, in Bar Harbour, had known the Richardsons. And so Lesley, filled with a new desire to see all and indulge her hunger for new experiences, declared that she and Jamie had to pay a call on Natalie Barney.

She played with outfits, decided finally on a dress of soft yellow, made of crêpe de chine by the Caillot sisters. She put daisies and buttercups in her hair, sticking them through combs. And then she dressed Jamie, discarding the severe pleated skirt and sailor top and instead selecting an aqua-toned cotton dress, belted with gold and turquoise braid, that showed off the voluptuous curves of her body. She was angry because Jamie still refused to cut her hair. Jamie was altogether too modest, not sufficiently with the times. Jamie wanted to live contained within her writing. Lesley felt that the world was waiting outside, and one had to see it.

Twenty, rue Jacob was like a small enclave of pastoral life. They entered through a garden, and Lesley stopped, enchanted. Voices floated through the opened windows and birds sang of spring. Paris, it seemed, had been left behind, but this was merely an illusion. They were in the heart of the city. The girls were let in through a hall with a three-paneled mirror, where hung portraits of the hostess as a young girl. The salon was walled in pink damask.

This time the young women were noticed. Natalie Barney remembered Lesley's mother, seemed somewhat surprised that she could have had a daughter like Lesley. “I thought you would be like the other one,” she announced unceremoniously.

Lesley laughed, delighted.

“You are a dream—a red and green vision.” Natalie was tall, with thick, straight brows, a stunning woman. She ran her eyes appreciatively over Lesley, then over Jamie, who turned red with confusion. “Your friend is shy,” she stated.

Then she introduced them to her other guests. One was a dark beauty called Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, a poet, whose doctor husband had translated the
Thousand and One Nights
into French. Another was Elisabeth de Clermont-Tonnerre, whom Natalie affectionately called Lily. She was a writer, daughter of the Duc de Gramont. Intelligence shone from her strong features. And there was Romaine Brooks, sitting at a small table speaking to a tall, attractive man in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and the demeanor of a dandy from the
Belle Epoque.
“This is Bertrand de la Paume,” Natalie said.

“We've met,” Jamie stated, regarding him with some timidity. She had seen him once or twice when Paul had taken her to some public gatherings. Lesley had only heard of him. He now took one girl's hand, then the other's. He had an ironic smile that was somewhat disconcerting. A wave of embarrassment washed over Jamie. Naturally, he knew everything. He was Paul's mentor, his best friend.

Of course he, the art dealer, would be talking to Romaine. She was a painter. Lesley, unaware of Jamie's uneasiness, sat down and listened. They were discussing new openings, galleries that they both shunned or cared for. Romaine was also an American, and she spoke to Lesley about painting, about her plans. “I wish that I were more original, bolder,” Lesley said. She was twisting her emerald on her finger. She didn't want to say that she was going to be married. In this sitting room, such mundane happenings seemed out of place. Jamie noticed but didn't comment.

And then a flurry at the door; a familiar voice sent thrills through Jamie. Paul de Varenne, splendidly clad in creamy beige, entered, and Jamie steadied herself on the back of Lesley's chair. He hadn't seen her, was making introductions. On his arm hung the dark beauty who had once addressed them in the lobby of the Ritz. “Princess Elena Egorova,” he was saying, and now Jamie recalled the name. Lucie Delarue-Mardrus was kissing Paul on the cheek. All the
literati
of Paris seemed to know him.

The voice, so unmistakable, had interrupted the conversation among de la Paume, Lesley, and Romaine. At first Lesley felt a coldness at the bottom of her spine. Then she looked up cautiously. At precisely that moment Paul's eyes rested on her. He raised his brows, smiled. The woman next to him was magnificent, an ebony statue, black silk dress with black velvet cape flung over her square shoulders. He whispered something to her, and they both came to the small group. “So,” Bertrand said. “You decided to join us after all.”

“Certainly. I brought you Elena. Elena, my dear, this is quite a select company we have here. My sister-in-law-to-be, the lovely Lesley Richardson; her equally enchanting friend, Jamie Stewart; Madame Brooks; and my holy patron saint, Bertrand de la Paume. This,” he added very proudly, “is Princess Elena Sergeievna Egorova, of St. Petersburg.”

“I share the same hotel with Miss Richardson and Miss Stewart,” the dark woman said, and she inclined her head. She was truly a spectacle of beauty. But it was an unusual beauty, Olympian, foreign. Lesley remembered the encounter vaguely. She smiled, not quite at ease. And Jamie's heart kept pounding. She hadn't told Paul she would be there. He had brought another woman, one far more splendid than she. Suddenly she felt ugly, provincial. Cincinnati couldn't possibly compete with St. Petersburg.

“I brought Elena along especially to meet you, Bertrand. She's new to Paris. I met her at a friend's. She wants to know the heart of Paris, its intellectual pulse. What better guide than you?”

De la Paume nodded. “You yourself?”

Paul smiled. “Ah. But Princess Egorova is too sophisticated for me.”

“Indeed? Then she must truly be worthy of your praise. Princess—a cup of tea, perhaps?” And the chevalier, his eyes twinkling, bowed once to Romaine and Lesley and made his way to the woman in black. They moved off to another side of the rose-damasked room and Lesley thought that an odd drama had just taken place, one she hadn't quite understood. But Paul was still with them.

Jamie waited, positioned behind Lesley's chair. She felt vaguely humiliated by the presence of the woman in black, but he had made the introductions in such a casual fashion that she might in fact have been a mere friend. She could remember that at the Ritz, Princess Egorova had hardly noticed her but had looked at Lesley with a great deal of interest. She glanced at her friend, saw her furiously engaged in conversation with Romaine Brooks. Lesley had turned her head away from Paul, chin resting on palm, elbow on the arm of her chair. Finally Jamie stepped forward.

“Do you come here often?” she asked Paul somewhat awkwardly.

“Oh, now and then. They're amusing too, these women of Lesbos. They find most men a threat.”

“I don't agree. They simply prefer a company of women. Not all of them are—Lesbians, anyway.”

“You find the word offensive, Jamie? Or merely the concept?” He was amused and made her blush.

“I don't find anything offensive. I just didn't agree with you, Paul.”

For some reason her level gaze, her tone of quiet rebuttal, annoyed him. “Jamie. It doesn't matter who is what and with whom—right? Then there's no cause for disagreement between us.”

She blinked. There was a coldness to him today that was so different from the way he spoke to her when they lay entwined together in her bed, or in his. She had read him sonnets she had written, and he'd played lightly with her hair while she read aloud, an expression of rapt attention on his handsome features. Now he appeared bored, irritated at finding her there. Suddenly she wanted to leave.

“We've been here long enough,” she murmured, awkward again. If only she didn't love him so much, so devastatingly much, and if only she could know for sure who this princess was!

“You want to leave already?” Lesley asked, bewildered. Then her eyes once again were met by Paul's, and all at once she understood everything. She was angry. Jamie should never have been subjected to this.

“You're right!” she exclaimed, holding out her small watch that was pinned to the yellow dress. “We're going to be late.” She turned to the surprised Romaine Brooks and added: “I'm terribly sorry. We'd made another appointment—”

“I quite understand. You'll come again—both of you?”

“Of course. And thank you.” Lesley looked around for their wraps, saw them in a corner, and walked over. Paul raised his eyebrows questioningly at Jamie and laughed, a light, low laugh. Then Romaine Brooks asked her something and Jamie was forced to answer her, turning away from Paul because she had to.

In one gay corner stood Elena Egorova with Bertrand de la Paume and Lily de Clermont-Tonnerre, and in another Lesley holding their shawls. Paul walked deliberately over to her, so that she could not escape. He held her white knitted shawl out, letting the gold threads fall gracefully into place, and, without a word, positioned it around her shoulders. She stood stiffly for him.

“You don't hold sisterly feelings toward me,” he chided her. “Why is it you dislike me so?”

“Because you're a hypocrite,” she whispered back, not looking at him. “And because you're going to hurt Jamie.”

“Oh? What makes you think that? What if I were in love with her?”

“If you were, you wouldn't show up at a well-known salon with another woman.”

“Ah…so it is Elena that bothers you. Elena is Elena. She is nothing to me but an acquaintance.”

“Have you mentioned this fact to Jamie?”

“Jamie isn't jealous, as you are, dear little sister,” Paul said lightly. “I didn't find it necessary to dot my ?'s.”

“Then perhaps you should reconsider. And leave her alone from now on. She doesn't need someone like you!”

“She
feels she does. Are you your friend's keeper?”

“I should be.”

“And should I be my brother's? Alexandre would find it bizarre that you and Jamie go from salon to salon all day long, and that you find Madame Brooks so fascinating. Or perhaps it's the enchanting Natalie. Romaine, at least, is faithful; but Natalie's roving eye is more than rumor.”

Lesley finally looked at him, and her pallor struck him. Quickly he peered around, saw everyone engaged in animated discussions. She was standing close to him, defiant, her green eyes wide open, angry, her small determined chin pointed upward. With one quick movement he bent down, pushed her face back, and found her lips with his own. He parted them, thrusting a strong tongue into the cavity of her mouth, and then let her go. She was so astounded that it took her breath away.

“Jamie Lynne should have found Alexandre,” he whispered, and walked away. Still she stood in the corner, holding Jamie's wrap, her cheeks devoid of color. She saw him walk toward Romaine Brooks, saw him raise Jamie's hand to his lips, watched as he escorted her to the door, holding her gently by the shoulders. Lesley was so shocked that she could not even move.

“I'm so sorry you must leave now,” Lucie Delarue-Mardrus was saying to her, and then, at last, Lesley reacted. She smiled perfunctorily, said a few words, and left as quickly as she could. Paul was at the door, grinning at her.

As she closed the front door behind her, she heard Bertrand de la Paume telling Elena Egorova: “Then it's all set. Tonight,
Tartuffe
at the Comédie-Française. And then supper at Weber. The Beaumonts will join us. You'll like them both….”

Lesley strode through the pretty garden, her cheeks aflame. She wanted to scream, to tell Jamie, to tell Alexandre. And yet, of course, she knew that she could not, would not. Jamie was waiting for her by the postern, and she looked forlorn. Lesley's heart softened.

“It's all right,” she heard herself say. “Our princess from the fallen empire has just made a rendezvous with Paul's boss. They appeared quite thrilled with each other.”

“Thank you, Les,” Jamie replied softly, taking her wrap from her friend. She couldn't meet Lesley's eyes. As they walked away, Lesley wondered, brutally, how far she would have to go to protect Jamie from Paul.

I
t was
one morning at dawn, stealing down from Lesley's suite of rooms where he had just left Jamie asleep, waiting for her roommate to return from a weekend in Beauce, that Paul de Varenne ran into the most startling woman he had ever seen. He was still half asleep after a night of lovemaking, his hair still rumpled. In the front lobby was a woman of his own age, sitting, reading the early-morning edition of
Le Matin.
She was alone, perfectly content in the enormous lobby by herself. She seemed to sit like an Egyptian queen, Cleopatra without her entourage. He stood by the elevator cage and literally stared at her.

At length, like a feline, she sensed his presence and raised her eyes to meet his. What eyes! Large, slanted at the corners, almost Oriental—and of the deepest, most disturbing black. Her face was white, her hair black, long and straight. He couldn't concentrate on what she was wearing. It paled next to her beauty. He wanted to approach her but dared not.