Moonlight Over Paris(27)

The conversation was animated, dominated in the main by her aunt’s stories of adventures abroad with Dimitri. Only when they retired to the petit salon for coffee and petits fours did the discussion turn to their classes at the academy.

“I’m sure Hélène is too modest to tell you,” étienne said in a confiding tone, “but she has done some marvelous work so far. We are all of us in awe at her abilities.”

“I knew it. I simply knew it,” Agnes trilled, clapping her hands in delight. “All she needed was a bit of encouragement and practice.”

“Precisely,” said étienne, and there was something in the intent look he directed at her aunt, or perhaps the way he leaned forward, capturing Agnes’s gaze, that convinced Helena he was up to something.

“Although,” he continued, “it would be so much easier for her if she had a studio in which to work.”

Agnes turned to Helena, her brow wrinkling with concern. “Isn’t the space you’re using upstairs agreeable? I was worried there might not be enough light, but you said—”

“I think the difficulty, Madame Paulson, is that her little garret, or rather her studio, is rather cold. And I’m sure you don’t want her to catch a chill . . .”

“Of course not,” Agnes agreed. “Could I have the furniture cleared out of a spare bedroom? Would that do?” she asked, turning to Helena.

“I suppose . . .”

“I think perhaps Hélène has been too shy to say anything, but the four of us, we have been talking of trying to find a studio to rent.”

Agnes’s face brightened immediately, her relief palpable, and if Helena had been close enough to kick étienne under the table she’d have done so. What was he playing at?

“That’s a marvelous idea. Why didn’t you say anything before, Helena?”

“Well, I . . . I wasn’t sure if you’d approve. It would keep me away from home, and I thought . . .”

“Of course I approve. Why wouldn’t I? Now, étienne, have you begun your search?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” and at this he stared wistfully into his empty coffee cup. “We need to save up. Studio space is expensive, alas.”

“Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but how much is the monthly rental for a studio?” Agnes asked.

“Oh, around two hundred francs? Three hundred at the most.”

“But that’s nothing—I can pay it. I will pay it,” Agnes insisted.

Mathilde, only now realizing what was afoot, shook her head, her mouth twisting into a frown. “I am very sorry, and I do not wish to appear rude, but I cannot accept such charity. I do beg your pardon.”

“I quite understand. Shall we say this instead? I will pay for a studio for Helena, and she, in turn, is free to ask her friends to share it. I don’t believe that could be constituted as charity. I am only seeing to the immediate needs of my niece, you see.”

“I don’t know,” said Daisy. “My father is sure to refuse. He’s so very protective, and—”

“My dear girl,” said Agnes, and she reached out and patted Daisy’s hand. “I have every respect for a parent’s finer feelings. Truly I do. But sometimes it is best that we not share every part of our lives with them. Hmm?”

“He’ll know. Louisette will tell him.”

“Who is this Louisette person?” Agnes asked. “Is she that sour-faced woman who was trailing along behind you?”

“Yes,” Helena answered. “She’s Daisy’s maid, and goes everywhere with her. The problem is that she is rather unpleasant. Certainly she won’t keep a secret for Daisy.”

“I see. Perhaps I could write your father a letter? Charm him along?”

Daisy remained unconvinced. “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure it will work.”

“We won’t know until we try, and I can be very persuasive. I’ll use my stationery with the imperial crest. Have the letter delivered by Vincent himself, in his best livery. That will make an impression. Forgive me for saying so, but you Americans are terribly susceptible to such things.”

“I guess there’s no harm in trying.”

“There you have it. You are all in agreement? Helena?”

“Oh, Auntie A—you’ve already been so generous. It doesn’t feel right to ask anything more of you.”

“Nonsense. It will give me great pleasure to support you in this fashion. Tell me, étienne, where shall you look? I sense you are the engine driving this scheme.”

“I’ll start in the sixième. We don’t want anything too far from school; otherwise we’ll spend half our lives walking back and forth.”

“Very well. Once you find a suitable space, advise me at once and I’ll have dear Vincent sort out the paperwork. There isn’t a landlord in Paris who can get the best of him.”

éTIENNE’S REPORT, DELIVERED on Monday at lunch, was dispiriting. He’d visited half a dozen studios on Saturday, and all of them had been unsuitable.

“I’m certain the first place I saw was being used as a brothel at night. The one on boulevard Raspail looked pleasant enough, but it had an odeur—a stench? is that the word?—of cat urine that was most disagreeable.”