Moonlight Over Paris(70)
ALTHOUGH HELENA WANTED nothing more than to hide away and lick her wounds in peace, there was no time, for she and Mathilde still hadn’t finished their costumes for the ball everyone was attending that Saturday night. And there was no question of not going, for Auntie A and the Murphys and nearly everyone else in her circle of friends would expect to see her there. Everyone apart from Sam, of course. She had no idea if he was going, though it seemed unlikely. Sam wasn’t the sort of man who would feel at home in an outlandish costume.
As she and Mathilde hadn’t felt inclined to spend much on outfits they would only wear once, they’d gone in search of inexpensive frocks that might be easily transformed. The sale racks at Printemps had yielded a pair of sleeveless shifts in an inky blue artificial silk, and with only a little effort over the course of several days they had turned the plain garments into quite inventive costumes.
The theme of the ball was “Soleil et Lune,” and with that in mind Mathilde decorated her frock with starbursts of sewn-on silver and gold sequins, since she planned to remove them and use the garment for Sunday best thereafter. Helena, who could afford to be a little more cavalier with her clothing, painted hers to resemble Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. Though the cheap fabric of her frock had gone a little stiff and scratchy once the paint had dried, the overall effect was very striking.
It was a little lonely getting ready on her own, but Mathilde and étienne had balked at the expense of a restaurant meal that cost more than two francs, the going rate for dinner at Rosalie’s, and had said they would meet her at the ball around ten o’clock. Instead, she and Auntie A were dining with the Murphys, who never passed on the chance to attend a costume ball.
So Helena borrowed her aunt’s gramophone and listened to Bessie Smith as she made up her face, put on her frock, buttoned up her new dancing shoes, and decorated her chin-length hair with diamanté hairpins. By the time she was ready to join her aunt downstairs, her mood was more buoyant than it had been for weeks.
Although it had been Agnes’s idea to go to the ball, her aunt had refused to wear an actual costume. Instead she had unearthed a gunmetal-gray ball gown from before the war, which looked marvelous on her, and draped enough jewels about her person to make Cartier himself weak at the knees. In her hair was a towering diamond tiara in the Russian style, a wedding gift from Dimitri, and about her neck she’d hung ropes of baroque pearls, cabochon sapphires, and diamonds, some of the jewels as big as a gooseberry. Her wrists were covered with stacks of bracelets, too, and she’d pinned an enormous stomacher-style brooch to her bodice.
“You’ll be the belle of the ball,” Helena told her aunt, “but aren’t you worried about thieves?”
“Not in the least. My real jewels are in the safe at my London bank—these are paste. Not inexpensive, mind you, but nothing like as valuable as the real thing. Shall we be on our way?”
The Murphys were staying the night at their pied-à-terre on the quai des Grands Augustins, only yards away from the restaurant where Helena had spent that dreadful evening with Jean-Fran?ois d’Albret in January. Fortunately both Sara and Gerald had suggested another restaurant for dinner, one across the river on the avenue des Champs-élysées, and Helena had been spared the ordeal of a second visit to Lapérouse.
The exterior of Fouquet’s was that of a perfectly ordinary Right Bank café, its masses of tables and chairs crowding the pavement outside. It would be a pleasant place to pass an hour or so, not least because of its excellent view of the Arc de Triomphe only a quarter mile away.
Inside, the restaurant was true to its Belle époque origins, with starched white tablecloths, polished brass fittings, chairs upholstered in oxblood-red leather, and waiters who looked to have been working there since the dawn of the Third Republic. The Murphys had already arrived and were seated at a large, round table in the center of the dining room.
Cheeks were kissed, they took their seats, and Helena belatedly realized that her friends were dressed in a perfectly conventional fashion. But Sara, always observant, reached across the table and patted her hand reassuringly.
“Gerald designed our costumes, and as you can imagine they’re a little too outré to wear to dinner. We’ll dash home and change after dinner.”
“Are we expecting anyone else?” she asked, noticing there were two empty places at the table.
“We, ah . . . we ran into the Fitzgeralds earlier today,” Sara explained. “And they asked if they might come to dinner.”
“It’s already half past eight,” Gerald said. “Let’s not wait for them. Waiter? We’re ready to order.”
Helena had a difficult time choosing from the menu, for reading through the list of first and second courses and plats principaux was enough to set her stomach growling. After dithering for several minutes she finally settled on terrine de campagne to start, with turbot in béarnaise sauce to follow and coq au vin for her main course.
As their various choices for a first course were being served, a commotion started on the street outside and quickly moved to the foyer of the restaurant.
“That must be Scott and Zelda,” Gerald said, not even looking up from his foie gras.
“It is,” Agnes said. “Making a grand entrance. As usual.”
Mr. Fitzgerald was arguing loudly with the restaurant’s ma?tre d’h?te. It was hard to make out what they were saying, as his half of the discussion was conducted in very bad French, but it seemed to have something to do with his automobile, the unacceptable location in which it had been left, and his unwillingness to have it moved.