The Nightlife: Paris (The Nightlife Series) (5 page)

Chapter 6

“I was born Michelle de Mornac in the Château La Fontaine on
January 21st 1915.”

As she spoke, a pathway opened to her mind.  She clasped his
hands tightly and held his gaze with her entrancing, emerald stare as she
revealed the secret depths of her soul.  He caught cloudy images of the Château
in her mind’s eye.  A great, beautiful manor house surrounded by a picturesque
pastoral scene, in the wine country near Bordeaux.  Magnificent elm trees
created a domed canopy over the dirt road leading up to the Château.  Walking
with her down the lane to the Château, the experience felt so real, as if he
could reach out and touch the leafy branches.

Time whisked forward, to Michelle as a young girl in the
rolling fields of grapevines.  His hands became her hands as she plucked the juicy
orbs of fruit.  His hair became her hair as the breeze trailed a strand across
her face that she tucked back behind her ear.  He/she smelled the scents of the
field and savored the memory.

“I loved this place.  My life began here, but Paris will
always be my true home.”

He/she merged, becoming one and the same.  He/she relived
flashes of her life, hazy half-remembered moments filled with detail,
sensation, and emotion.

* * * *

I roamed the hills of the vineyards of Bordeaux for hours as
a young girl.  I had it so very good, a simple country life.  Oh, the glorious
freedom back then.

In the Château, the servants bustled here and there
constantly.  My home was a vast mansion of rooms and hallways to manage, but
our carpets and furnishings were always immaculately clean.  My mother, ever
vigilant, ran a tight household.  Père called her “Napoleana,” and it was true.
 Never a lazy servant in my mother’s employ.  She stayed busy, and I stayed
away, roaming the fields, a free spirit.

Père said I inherited mother’s feisty attitude, but my smile
was all his.  Père’s powerfully charismatic grin lit up every room he entered. 
At least it did for me.  I loved him dearly.  His only child, he lavished
attention on me.

He said more than once, “I gave you my blond curls.”  Then
he would ruffle my hair, pat his belly and chuckle.  “But the lord in his
wisdom gifted you with your mother’s grace and figure.  And thank heaven for
that. 
Tu es ma petite fille
.” 
You are my little girl
.

I didn’t understand the power of my beauty, or the things
men would do to taste that power.  I remember the workmen staring at me whenever
I passed by.  I smiled and nodded as they weaved my name into their sly songs
when my father wasn’t around to catch them.  Of course, some of them simply saw
me as a means to get their hands on the vineyards.

Père soon noticed.  “Stay away from the men, Michelle.  You
know not what men do to girls with smiles such as yours.”  He was very
protective, and I suspect he didn’t consider them good enough.  He had such
hopes for me, for my life.

The servant girls teased me, “Monsieur de Mornac will have
you married to a baron or a marquis!”

They filled my mind with epic sagas of romantic love, and it
wasn’t an impossible dream.  The red wines of our vineyard brought our family financial
independence.  Père, Jacques de Mornac, rapidly gained social status alongside
the inherited titles of the few remaining gentry that survived the French
revolution.  Ours was the industrial revolution, when fortunes and reputations
could be forged, birthing a new nobility arising from affluence, rather than
breeding.

Père harbored great plans for my future.  “To keep my jewel polished
and gleaming, I must take you to Paris.  To be a true lady of France, you must
be
Parisienne
.  The
country life is not enough, Michelle,
ma belle
.”

I have often wondered what could have been if Père hadn’t
insisted I be educated in Paris.  How happy I might have been as a rural wife
to a husband raising children in the Château.

Instead, at the age of fifteen, I left the luscious bounty
and simplicity of the vineyards for Paris.  I would never return to the country
life.  I went to live with my mother’s older sister, Tante Agnes Silvane, a
mousy woman of good humor.  At times she seemed so old, but really only in her
fifties.  Her husband died on the battlefield in World War One, 1918, and she
never remarried.

Tante Agnes welcomed me with open arms and gave Père precisely
what he wanted.  She baptized me in the life of a
Parisienne
– theater, film, cafés and all the
premier designer dress shops a girl could want.  We did it all from a modest
but charming loft apartment with a wonderful view of the River Seine, and Père
paid for everything.  Such happy days.  Agnes became my second mother, my
Parisienne
mother, teaching
me the ways of the metropolitan lifestyle.

Naturally, I fell in love with the city.  The music in the
streets, the posh way they spoke to each other, and the fashions!  Oh, how I
loved the fashions.  They were so elegant, bold and sexy, yet still
conservative.  This was before the war, before all those drab colors and horrid
heavy fabrics.  I begged Agnes to help me convince Jacques to let me study under
the popular dressmakers.  I dreamed of designing those exquisite gowns with
draping silk folds and plunging necklines, wonderful clothes that make you feel
like the most beautiful woman in the world for one special night.

Then the following winter, mother died of pneumonia.  I
couldn’t believe it.  I hadn’t seen her in over a year and now she was gone. 
Tante and I took the first train south, only a few hours ride.  I could have
visited home any time, even for a weekend, but I’d been having too much fun in
the city to pay attention to my family.  A horrible guilt claimed me.

Agnes comforted me with a shoulder to cry on and words of
wisdom.  “Your mother’s time has passed.  Honor her memory with your life.”  Tante
helped me through those dark hours.  I don’t know what I would have done
without her.

My father held up well under the circumstances.  But he
wouldn’t allow me to stay at the Château after the funeral.  He insisted Agnes
and I return the next day to finish my studies.  I wanted to stay with Père, but
the Château reminded me constantly of my mother.  And so I left, secretly happy
to return to the bustle of Paris.

Jacques visited rarely.  The thriving vineyard business and
the Château required his full attention.  He gave free reign to Agnes for direction
of my life, and for me to pursue a career in fashion design.  I became
obsessively immersed in all things fashion, studying diligently under several
different dressmakers.  I had become fully
Parisienne
.

By my mid-twenties, Paris touted me as “the up-and-coming
new designer for high fashion.”  My career hit full swing by 1940.  At
twenty-six, men were no more than a pleasant distraction.  Agnes didn’t
pressure me to marry.  She thoroughly enjoyed the all-expense paid arrangements
and hoped it would continue indefinitely.  Père saw things differently.

On his rare visits, Père always suggested an eligible suitor
who met his criteria for marriage, usually a middle-aged man of wealth with a
proper title of nobility somewhere in his lineage.  Despite his self-made affluence,
Jacques’ sights were set on ensuring his future grandchildren were brought up
the proper way, with a
man of good stock
.

He pressured me constantly.  “
Ma chérie
, you should not be alone, you are so
beautiful. 
Ma belle
,
I wish you would marry.”

“
Oui,
Père, someday.  There is no hurry.  When the time is right I will marry for
love.  I have not met a man I can imagine spending every day of my life with.” 
The excuse grew old, as did I.

Jacques was not known for his patience.  “You are not getting
any younger.  Soon you will be too old.  No decent man will want you!  And what
of children?  Your mother and I married when she was seventeen.”

“Père!  That is just like you.  So
bourgeois!
”

“Would you have me die of old age without knowing my grandchild? 
My health is not so good!”  A blatant lie.  The man was healthy as a horse, but
he had no scruples about using emotional blackmail to get what he wanted. 
“I’ll not live forever, you know!”

“And why have you never remarried Père?”

“You know I am too old, too set in my ways.  What woman
would have me?”  A half-truth.  His beautiful blond hair, expressive green
eyes, and strength acquired from long days working in sun made for a handsome
man.  But I didn’t envy the woman who might attempt it.  My mother’s strength
of character had been tested daily by his imposing nature.

These conversations always left me torn.  I wanted to please
my father, yet I knew I would be far happier pursuing my dreams.

Then he changed tactics.  He found the Parisian hotel-mansion
for sale, an obvious ploy to tempt a suitor.  He showed it to me right away.  I
despised the opulent extravagance.  It seemed such a colossal waste of space,
squatting on most of a city block.

“Père!  I’ll not marry some
connard
you can bribe with this monstrosity!  Do
not expect me to live here.  This is not a home, it’s an institution.”

“
Ma chérie
,
you are killing me!  I die a little more each day you are alone.  Look at all I
do for you, my only child.  Is it so horrible to marry a man who will take care
of you in this wonderful home?”

“I don’t want a man who wants your money.  I will marry for
love.  I want nothing from a man whose affections are for sale.”

“Fine!  I’ll sell it!  You can live in a shack!  You can
live with your Tante Agnes!  A pair of old maids bickering at men walking by on
the street!”

I cried in frustration.  I couldn’t make him understand how
I felt without offending him.  And though I would never admit it, I was quite
spoiled.  I spurned my father’s wealth and yet enjoyed a very sheltered,
comfortable life with his money.  I did not want my life to change.

The seller of the mansion was a Jewish banker with the
uncanny wisdom to smell the smoke of anti-Semitism before the fires of
prejudice consumed Europe.  He sold out his banking interests, all possessions,
and his magnificent home he’d converted from a hotel.  He made his timely
escape to New York, and Jacques caught a very fair price, taking full advantage
of the man’s desire to leave quickly.

Upon closing the sale in February 1940, Jacques refurbished
the entire house, sparing no expense.  The few times I visited him at the
mansion I simply sat and stared in awe at the lavishly flaunted decadence.  It
was a perfect home for a wealthy upper-class Parisian family, but I had other plans.

I preferred to avoid arguments, so I stayed at the loft and
buried my life in high fashion ball gowns.  I was a modern woman, independent,
motivated and goal-oriented.  I had several wealthy clients who enjoyed my dresses
and I planned to open my own storefront within a year.  Père’s designs on my future
had little bearing on my direction and dreams.

In the early summer I met the man who would forever change
the course of my life, Julian Gautier.  Had Père encountered Julian first, he
surely would have introduced him to me.  Julian had a regal bearing.  He fit
right in with the gentry of Paris.  His fashionable cut of suit spoke of
money.  At six foot one, pale and thin, he was not overtly attractive, but
there was something about him, a
je
ne sais quoi
.  I didn’t understand at the time, but much of his
attraction was due to the “
Magnétisme
Animal
” of vampires.

* * * *

Chapter 7

We met in the doorway to a local dress shop selling my
latest designs.  He walked in as I prepared to leave.  Somewhere in his late
twenties or early thirties, he moved gracefully, with panache.  A man
comfortable in his own skin. 
Maître
de tout ce qu'il contemple
–
the master of all he surveyed
.  He
had a receding hairline and a rugged, hawkish nose to stare down as his boyish
curls of dirty-blond hair cascaded off to the right.  His gaze bored into my
soul, sending a chill down my spine – a premonition, perhaps.  He needed a
haircut, a flaw that made him seem more approachable, and I hesitated, suddenly
loathe to leave.

“
Bonjour,
Madam,
pleased to make your acquaintance.”

His smooth voice caressed me, silk sliding over my body.  I
flushed in embarrassment.  I had been staring.

“We cannot be acquainted, Monsieur.  I have not told you my
name.”  I tried to regain my composure.

“Oh but you will.”

His smile, so arrogant and assured, made me giggle like a
little girl.  What was wrong with me?  He glanced at me repeatedly as he
addressed Noelle, the shop owner.  I stood there, an
imbécile
staring at him.

He inspired a confusing blend of fear, attraction, repulsion,
and embarrassment.  I simply couldn’t pull my eyes away from the man.  Noelle obviously
worshipped the ground he walked on – she flirted shamelessly.  He let up on me
and focused the power of his gaze on Noelle as they transacted business.

Julian had apparently ordered a dress for a ‘lady-friend’ and
was there to take delivery.

Noelle noticed my interest.  “Come meet Julian Gautier, he
buys many dresses.  I am beginning to wonder at his business.”  She pawed at
him, holding his hand.  “You can trust him, Michelle.  He always pays his
accounts on time.”

She gave me the perfect opening.  “Would you like to order
one of my special creations, Monsieur Gautier?”

“
Oui,
Madam,
I would like that very much.”  His eyes said so much more than words.

I discussed his requirements for a dress and took
measurements from Noelle’s records, trying my best not to stare.  We exchanged
calling cards as he paid a generous deposit.

“I knew you would tell me your name.  It was fate that we
met.”  He pecked my cheek and whispered.  “
Au
revoir, chérie
.”  He not only had my full name, he had my home
address on the calling card.

The following night, Agnes and I received a surprise visit
from Julian at the loft.  A little strange, perhaps, but I invited him in.

He got down to business quickly.  “I came to verify you have
everything you need for my order.”

“Yes, of course.  And was that all?”  I decided I liked
him.  I didn’t want him to leave.

“I must go, but I will see you soon,
chérie
.  Very soon.” 

In and out the door so fast, he left me a confused mess of
arousal and curiosity.

“How handsome!”  Agnes wiggled her eyebrows.  “The tall ones
always have more to offer.”

“Any man with a full set of teeth is handsome to you.”

“Oh, but I saw you watching him.  There is something
different about him, and you noticed.”  She had that knowing smile.

“Yes, I noticed.”  I could not deny it.  The first man to
seriously catch my eye, he set my pulse racing.

I completed his order, ready to deliver several days later. 
I passed by the address on his calling card, a two story townhouse painted in
dark ochre, windows heavily shaded.  It looked to be his residence.  No one
answered, so I left a friendly note at the door.

The next day the radio brought news the German Blitzkrieg
had passed the famed Maginot Line on the eastern border of France.  Complete pandemonium
broke out city-wide.  Noelle and I watched from her store window as her 
resident neighbors crammed their cars with suitcases and scampered like rats
before a flood.  I could hardly cross the street on my way home without cars
overcrowded with people and their belongings threatening to run me down in
their frenzy.  A mass exodus of Parisians clogged every road leaving the city. 
They fled by cars, buses, trains, motorbikes, bicycles, and even on foot.  Sheer
insanity.  Like locusts devouring everything in their path, all forms of
transportation, fuel, foods, and consumables ran out within hours.  The veneer
of civilization fell away to reveal desperate animals, humanity at their worst.

I returned to the loft to find Agnes hysterical, her face
pale and sweaty, hands shaking.  She begged me to leave with her immediately
and bawled in relief when I agreed we would go together to the Château in
Bordeaux, far to the south.

I tried to reassure her.  “Surely we will be safe there,
what would the Germans want with rural wine country?”

We raced off to flee like all the others.  We went to the
home of Tante’s cousin, Jean-Luc Tremaine, the only family member who owned a
private car.  He was packed and heading out the door.  Perfect timing, with the
exception of one small detail.  He had room for only one more passenger, and
this by removing two suitcases filled with non-essentials.  Agnes was beside
herself with anxiety.  Her eyes held the wild look of a deer in a forest fire,
flames nipping at its tail.  I calmed her with promises that I would take the
train and meet them at Orléans.  Agnes finally agreed to the plan.  I stood in
the street and waved goodbye as they drove off.

I attempted to hail a city taxi.  Vehicle after vehicle
passed by, horns blaring.  When I stepped into the road, frantic to stop
someone, anyone, a driver swore at me, “Get out of the way,
putaine de merde!
  Get out of
the way!”  With tires screeching he swerved, barely avoiding me.  The rear
bumper caught my skirts and I fell sprawling in a rending tear of material.  My
luggage strewed over the street.

“
Mon Dieu!
 
Will no one help me!”

No one helped me.  I gathered my soiled clothing and wiped
my tears.  After an hour of walking, legs aching and hands bloody from my fall
in the street, I tied a length of material around my case and dragged it to the
train station cursing my stylish half boots.  Hundreds milled around the entrance
gate to the trains.  I struggled through the shouting masses to arrive at the
barred, locked gate and the sight of an empty, deserted platform.

I turned to the young man next to me, “Monsieur, I don’t
understand?  Where are the trains?  Why is the gate locked?”

“Those
canards!
 
The soldiers, they take everything, all the trains, and condemn us to death at
the hands of the Germans.”

“But we can take the next one? 
Oui?
  There will be another.”

“You foolish girl.  There will be no more trains!”

With that devastating news ringing in my ears, I dragged my
case through the dangerous crowd rioting in front of the station house and out
to the street.  Sliding down the brick wall of a building, I sat on the
cobblestone and sobbed.

My long trek home took me past closed, shuttered shops and
deserted streets. Ghostly silence descended on my vibrant, gay Paris, and then
I heard the rattle-grind of the mechanized tanks – German tanks.  Strange
sounds of distant booms, machinery, and the occasional shout echoed in the vacant
streets.  Terror lent wings to my feet despite my exhaustion.

At home, I locked the door and shoved the rosewood china
cabinet up against it.  Barricaded in, I headed to the bath.  Oh the wonders of
a hot bath.  I soaked away the aches from my long walk.  The useless radio
broadcast nothing but crackling static.

“I have no food.”  How long before I am forced out onto the
street to search for food?  What will happen if the Germans find me?

We had all been so foolishly overconfident, deluded.  Only
days before the men on the streets bragged of the impenetrable French military defenses
in WWI. 
The fools
.  The world had changed much in two decades.  New
military technology, mechanized weaponry, and massive machines of iron were
near unstoppable. 
The German engineers are so much better at manufacturing
killing machines.

A loud knock on my door aroused me from a nap. I sat bolt
upright.  My heart pounded in my chest like a little rabbit. 
Mon Dieu!
 
The Germans!
 
Reluctant to open the door, I called out, “Who is there?”

“It’s me, Julian.”  I slumped in relief at his familiar
voice, I badly needed a friend.

“Come in.”  I shoved aside the cabinet and ushered him in
the door.  “Do you not fear the Germans?  I heard them on the street not long
ago.”  As he entered, a rat-tat-tat sound of machine gunfire echoed in the
distance.

“
Oui
. 
Everyone has left the city.  I was concerned about you.”  I looked in his hypnotic
eyes as he moved in close, pinning me against the counter.  “I am so very
delighted to see you.  Are you here alone?”

His weight pressed me into the table. 
He should not be
this close.  This is wrong!
  His eyes bored into my soul demanding a
truthful answer.

“The trains … I couldn’t leave …”

“How unfortunate.”  He smiled.  Oversized canine teeth flashed
either side of his mouth.  I gasped.  He looked like an animal.

* * * *