The Last Dress from Paris(27)
“Thank you for inviting me.” The conversation pauses, Alice a little lost for anything more to say. “Did your mother enjoy the Dior show?” It’s a convenient question to break the intimacy he is trying to create.
“I guess so. She never buys much, but it seems very important to her to be seen at those things. Such a needless waste of her time, and mine. I get dragged along because she can’t bear to go alone.” He sighs deeply. “I wonder at what age one can stop feeling controlled by or indebted to one’s parents?”
It’s not how Alice would have expressed it, but she perfectly understands the sentiment. The schools she attended, the subjects she studied, the friends she made, how she dressed, whom she sat next to at dinner parties—wasn’t it all closely governed by her own parents? There aren’t many things in life she’s considered doing without first wondering how they might react.
“Whatever the age, I’m not sure I’m there yet,” sighs Alice. “Anyway, your mother is very welcome to come with me next time, if she’d like to?”
Antoine arches an eyebrow like he knows that will never happen. That he wouldn’t want it to and that, very soon, neither will Alice.
* * *
? ? ?
They complete their journey around the chapels, Antoine allowing his fingers to brush against her gloved hand. More than anything, she wants her fingers to link with his, to feel the tension in his grip, but she holds back, caught between the role she has to play and the one she’d like to. They take a few steps back down into the main church, making their way along the opposite-side aisle now.
“Do you live nearby, Antoine?” Alice can’t bear the quiet that’s settled between them, giving her the room to question again what she is doing here.
“Yes, I’m very close. The rue des Beaux-Arts, right here in Saint-Germain. The Right Bank is not for me. Too formal, too official, so cold. I prefer the narrow back alleys and the hidden courtyards of this neighborhood. There is an energy, a creativity here that doesn’t exist in the broad boulevards on the other side of the river.”
“Where I live, you mean?” Alice allows herself a wry smile.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he deadpans.
“Well, maybe you have a point.” They stop in front of a statue and Alice reads the inscription. Our Lady of Consolation. She can’t make her eyes read any further because she can feel Antoine’s face set on hers again, studying her, drawing closer than is probably appropriate, making every muscle in her slender neck tighten. She can feel herself weaken.
“Do you know what makes me so sad about this church?” he whispers.
“Tell me.” His admission of sadness softens Alice. It’s an emotion Albert would never confess to, whether he felt it or not.
“How forcibly muted everything is. Perhaps because of the position it holds, the job it has to do, and the people it has to serve. I’d like to strip it back to its original best because, beautiful and impressive as it is, I can’t help thinking it’s been neglected and taken for granted—and that shouldn’t be allowed to happen.”
Alice can’t speak. It’s such a beautifully observant thing to say, and she feels herself involuntarily drawn toward him, this man who is so perceptive—and unafraid to show it. Maybe she’s reading too much into it, but it doesn’t feel as if his comments are purely aimed at the stone surrounding them. Is there a comparison he is trying to convey? She wants to have this conversation, to know if Antoine can see in her what she hasn’t yet voiced herself. If in their three brief but powerful encounters, he has already understood her veneer, the doubts, the building uneasiness, and the questions she has started to ask herself with alarming frequency. Yes, she wants to have this conversation, but she’s frightened of where it might lead. The conclusions that might be drawn, the actions they’ll lead to. But her silence only makes his questions more direct.
“Do you honestly enjoy living in that building?” He steps around to the front of her so it’s impossible to avoid looking at him. His face is full of concern, and it tugs at something deep inside her that he has considered her happiness.
She wants to be honest with him, to reward his interest with some frankness of her own, but she’s too well practiced at the official line. “The H?tel de Charost? It’s a great honor, Antoine. A position of privilege. We are playing our part in the history books. There is value in that, don’t you think?” Instead she just sounds pompous.
“That’s not what I asked you.” He inches forward, searching for another response, allowing his hand to settle on her shoulder, then brush down the length of her arm. “Talk to me like a human being, Alice, not one of your official visitors. Can the rue du Faubourg ever feel like home? Your home? Do you have any freedom there to be the woman you are?”
He knows; he’s read her perfectly and with such speed. Alice feels as if she is barely one more question away from tears, but she rallies, forcing the emotion back down.
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I? No one stopped me coming to meet you.” What she can’t say is that’s because she never told anyone where she was going or whom she was meeting. Albert will be at his office and won’t think about her day and what or who might be filling it.
Alice turns on her heel and starts to retrace her steps back the way they just walked. She thinks about her home. The imposing gray stone blocks of its exterior. The barred lower windows that look onto the Faubourg. The waist-high black stone pillars that line the pavement outside, each one linked by thick black metal chains. The armed guards’ green century boxes. The official flags. The enormous black lacquered door that she has never seen open. If she was describing the building to a stranger, they might easily think she was speaking about a prison. There are the beautiful gardens on the other side, but they are surrounded by high stone walls, railings topped with spikes and the tallest trees preventing a view in. She stands at her bedroom window on the first floor sometimes and looks out onto the small green park beyond, where local people walk their miniature dogs and elderly men congregate to chat on a Sunday afternoon. Beyond that is the Champs-élysées with its never-ending stream of tourists, explorers, lovers. People having unscheduled, spontaneous fun. The vision makes her long to see where Antoine lives, knowing it couldn’t be more different.