The Paris Library(28)

“She doesn’t ‘play at’ anything,” I responded, snatching my hand from his and tucking it around her waist. “Margaret’s extremely competent.”

There was a peculiar current in the air. He’d gone from charming to condescending; she’d become wooden. I remembered Maman’s advice to cousin Clotilde: Make the courtship last as long as you can. Once you marry everything changes. Was this what Maman had meant?

“You look handsome.” Margaret spoke the line as if it was from a tired drama she no longer wished to play.

“So do you,” he said distractedly as he consulted his pocket watch. “Shall we? The chauffeur is waiting.”

At the residence of the British ambassador, under the brilliant light of the chandeliers, women in jewels dazzled. Like Lawrence, each gentleman wore a black smoking. It was the kind of party I’d dreamed about. I was dying to hear about the places the other guests had seen, the books they’d read.

Deserting us, Lawrence rushed toward a busty brunette. “If you weren’t happily married, I’d whisk you away.”

“Darling, don’t let that stop you!” She stroked his chest as if Margaret weren’t there.

It’s a vicious circle. Margaret’s remark about diplomatic circles finally meant something. I scowled at Lawrence, furious at him for humiliating Margaret in this way, furious at myself for having been taken in by his generic flattery.

“Don’t let him spoil your evening.” Margaret gestured to a stout matron. “That’s the consul’s wife. She’s in charge of lost souls.

“Mrs. Davies,” Margaret called out. “Lovely to see you. Thank you for your advice to visit the Library.”

“You’re looking better,” she replied warmly.

“Have you met my new and dearest friend?”

“One friend can make all the difference,” Mrs. Davies said. “Yes, we’ve crossed paths at Professor Cohen’s lectures.”

I hadn’t known that Mrs. Davies was an unofficial yet vital delegate of the diplomatic corps, and watched as she greeted each new arrival personally. “How pretty you are,” she said to a pallid lady who blossomed with the compliment. “How are you adjusting?” she asked a lone Italienne who glanced around nervously. “France can be a woman’s dream, but the reality takes some getting used to.”

“We can’t let Hitler steamroll his way across Europe!” Mr. Pryce-Jones said, his opinion echoing through the ballroom like it did at the Library when he and M. de Nerciat argued. “We must band together and fight.”

“Doesn’t he realize it’s a party?” I said.

“War is all he ever talks about these days,” Margaret replied.

“Did you see Othello last week?” asked Mrs. Davies.

Several guests spoke simultaneously, relieved to discuss something other than war. “How queer to see Shakespeare in French!” “Très bizarre!” “Poor Desdemona.”

“France’s army is the strongest it has ever been, that’s what Général Weygand says.”

“Général Weiss says that the French air force is the best in Europe. We’ve nothing to worry about!”

“We must create alliances,” Lawrence insisted. “Italy used to be an ally, but Mussolini’s signed a treaty with Hitler.”

“Does anyone know the name of a reputable dressmaker?”

“You simply must go to Chez Genevieve. Emma Jane Kirby did; her gown is sumptuous!”

“Can you believe that Emma, flirting with a man thrice her age,” Margaret whispered, staring at the blond beauty. “He must be terribly rich!”

“The old goat is lapping it up,” I replied.

“Young Lawrence is right!” Mr. Pryce-Jones said. “We need to observe what’s happening around us.”

“Nonsense. We must appease Hitler,” the ambassador replied.

“Silly old fool!” Margaret whispered.

“Incompetent fool!” Lawrence roared.

“Champagne!” the consul’s wife cried out. “More champagne.”

Fantastique! The last time I’d had a glass was at New Year’s. Popping corks—the sign of celebration, my favorite sound in the whole world—heralded servants who swirled around the room, proffering flutes. Everything was held out to me on a silver tray. Bubbles glistened in my glass, icy rivulets slid down my throat. I was so dazzled, I forgot Lawrence’s boorish behavior, forgot the fighting diplomats. I took in the dewy Turner landscapes on the walls, tasted the caviar that men in white gloves offered. Margaret had all of this, all the time; thanks to her, I had one night, and I meant to enjoy it. A burst of fireworks exploded in the sky. Wanting to watch, I drew her outside, where we joined other revelers on the lawn. The wafting scent of roses surrounded us. High stone walls hid the city from us. The stately residence—its windows lit—glowed. Above, flecks of light soared then fizzled, and a hazy happiness imbued me, all worries of war, of Rémy, of Papa, of Paul forgotten.





CHAPTER 10

Odile




PAUL CAME TO the Library so often that Miss Reeder began referring to him as “our most faithful subscriber.” On the afternoons he was on patrol, he parked his bicycle in the courtyard and helped me with tasks such as ripping through the heavy paper that protected magazines like Life and Time as they made the ocean crossing. Alas, under the nosy watch of Mme. Simon, sneaking a kiss was impossible.