Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (16 page)

M
AY
28, 1854

Everything in Paris is either boring or ugly. I am weighted down with ennui from listening to Gilbert’s ancient relatives extol the beauty and aristocratic glory of the departed Bourbon regime and deplore the atrocities committed by Napoléon III as he seized the title of emperor last worn by his uncle
—
this while they live in tasteless and thoroughly petit bourgeois comfort.

Gilbert has become a tyrant. He decrees that I cannot go out without Hermine, since he is known in Paris and I must protect his good name. Known? He? Such pretension. Or perhaps it is no more than an excuse to keep me close?

A lavender twilight lay over Paris. It touched the gray, smoke-stained limestone buildings and cobblestones with a purple glaze and reflected amethyst in the puddles of water that lay here and there in the sunken stones of the rear stableyard outside Violet’s window.

She stood at the open casement with her head resting on the glass, watching as a stable lad drawing water from the central fountain flirted with a maid hanging out of a window opposite. The air was damp and cool, and smelled of horses and decay, with now and then a whiff of the Seine that lay not so far away. Somewhere carriages rattled along the streets and boatmen and street hawkers called, but the sounds were muffled by distance and walls. A church bell clanged in discordant appeal, then fell silent.

It had been raining, but had stopped in time for the dull evening to be colored by the sunset. Gilbert had been gone for hours, looking, no doubt, for the perfect rococo mirror or Louis XVI chair. He was becoming fanatic about such pieces, talking endlessly about the stories behind them. He was buying history, he said. Since it seemed to make him happy, Violet did not argue with him.

She had been reading most of the day, the lugubrious
Dame aux Camélias,
by Dumas
fils,
the son of the famous writer and roué Alexandre Dumas. The book had been published some time ago, but had been brought back to popularity by the production of the play of the same name just over a year before, and also by the recent performance in Venice of Giuseppe Verdi’s opera
La Traviata,
which had been based on the story. The tale, a tragedy about a courtesan who gives up the love of a rich and handsome young man to save him dishonor, then dies of consumption and a broken heart, had lowered Violet’s spirits to such a degree that she could no longer continue. It would make a marvelous opera; she could see that, one she would no doubt cry over at the French opera house in New Orleans in some future season, but for now it left her restless and impatient. She was in no mood for tears and self-sacrifice.

Gilbert had not contacted Delacroix. The artist was too elusive, he said. He was also too important; hadn’t he, just the year before, completed the ceiling of the Salon de la Paix of the Hotel de Ville, the seat of government for all Paris itself? Violet, Gilbert said, was very pretty, but this great painter at the height of his fame would certainly not stoop to putting her image on canvas. His darling young wife must accept the disappointment and think of another artist.

Violet refused to accept it.

What would happen if this single avenue of contact between herself and Allain were allowed to wither away? Would the few words of parting they had exchanged in a hotel lobby be final? Would they never look upon each other again?

Perhaps that was what she should allow to happen.

Perhaps this sweet fever in her blood would pass. Perhaps in time she would no longer call Allain’s face to mind, no longer wonder where he was, what he was doing, and if he was thinking of her.

No.

And no again.

Gilbert had been going out at night. He had been dining out with some of his male cousins, so he said, though he had returned to the hotel intoxicated and smelling of cheap wine and cheaper perfume. Violet was not so innocent that she did not realize how he had been entertaining himself. The Théâtre des Variétés where women appeared half-naked, the society of the demimonde, which included courtesans, mistresses to famous men, and other loose women, was talked about in whispers among the ladies of New Orleans. Its attractions were supposed to be powerful; it was not to be expected that a man visiting Paris would ignore the chance to sample them.

Violet had locked her door and pretended to be asleep when Gilbert returned, covering her head with her pillow to keep from hearing his knock. She had claimed in the morning that she had shut herself away because she had been frightened at being left alone. Gilbert had retreated into frustrated and sullen silence.

There had been a time when such silences disturbed her. She had felt them as a punishment, had been anxious to restore ease between her husband and herself, to find some concession she could make to regain his favor. Now she welcomed them.

This afternoon she had put on a gown of silk in rose and green stripes on white, and with nosegays of roses and greenery embroidered between the striping. Hermine had dressed her hair with a mass of ringlets falling at the nape from a high knot and with tendril curls at her temples. A dish of bonbons had been set out.

No one had called. She would have welcomed any visitor, Gilbert’s relatives, his newly made business acquaintances, anyone.

The rain had begun two hours before and continued with thunder and great silver-white streaks of lightning above the chimney pots of the houses. When it had stopped, the streets had steamed.

Violet had watched each slanting raindrop and found a small thrill in every one of them. Rain had become for her an aid to memory.

And she had made a decision.

Now she moved to where a secretary-desk sat against the wall. Seating herself, she drew a thick sheet of paper toward her. She uncapped the inkwell, took up her pen of malachite and gold, and looked at its nib. She sat for long moments with the point of the pen hovering over the paper. At last she began to write.

A few minutes later it was done. She held the square envelope of cream vellum containing the letter by one corner, as if it was dangerous. The impulse to tear it up and retreat once more into apathetic safety rose strong inside her. It was folly, what she was doing; she knew it. More than that, it was a betrayal.

She had never thought she would come to this, seeking for something more than the comfort and stability of her position as Gilbert’s wife. She had never thought she would need it, never thought she could be enticed by the transient excitement of seeing another man. Everything was not perfect between her husband and herself, but there was much to be said for the quiet predictability of their days together, for his generosity, his care for her welfare, the respect and homage he accorded her when they were in public together. If there was no great stimulation for her in their moments of closeness, perhaps it was not all her husband’s fault, perhaps it was also due to her coolness.

Oh, but how could she ignore the turmoil of pleasure only the thought of being with Allain again gave her? She could not. This sweet joy might never come again. It must be seized. She would be discreet; she did not mean to injure Gilbert in any way or do anything that might harm her marriage. A light flirtation, that was all she desired. What could it hurt to speak to Allain, to learn something of him, to grasp at a few, innocent memories to warm the long years ahead? It was such a small thing, really, so small.

For two days there was no reply to Violet’s letter. On the third day there came an invitation for an afternoon visit at the house of Delacroix.

“You wrote without consulting me?” Gilbert said as he stood holding the invitation in his hand.

Violet had been expecting precisely this reaction. “We have spoken of it any number of times, you and I, but you have been so busy. I was thinking of it again the other evening while you were out and I was alone. It seemed we would never know if the great Delacroix would agree to our request unless we asked. To think was to act. I may have been impulsive, but only look at the result.”

He sighed, looking at her from under his thick, iron-gray brows. Finally he said, “You want this a great deal, do you not?”

“Yes.” She let the answer stand without embellishment.

He tapped the invitation against his thumbnail while a frown of consideration hovered about his brow. Finally, when she thought she would choke from holding back all the pleas and reasons she had marshaled to convince him, he spoke. “Well, then, so be it. We will go.”

Sherry and olives together, Violet discovered, made a wonderful blending of flavors, each canceling out the bitterness of the other. These two things were only a small taste of the marvelous food and drink that was served during the late-afternoon salon at Delacroix’s house; there was something for every palate, every nationality.

It was Allain who introduced her to the odd combination. He was able to do it because the rooms where the gathering was held were crowded with people, all of them talking at the top of their lungs about politics and art and philosophy and a thousand other things, and most of them gesticulating like mad people.

Allain also pointed out to her the famous and infamous who came and went: the jovial and wild-haired mulatto Dumas the elder, who had recently published his memoirs in ten amazing volumes; the poet, novelist, and literary critic Théophile Gautier; a number of government officials, several actresses. Then there were the painters, the rebels Corot and Courbet, Daumier and Millet, with also a few of the more correct members of the academy.

Delacroix was a handsome man, Violet found, one who had designed his surroundings to suit his own severe yet exotic personality. He was wearing, on this occasion, a short, open robe of dark blue brocade over a perfectly normal shirt and trousers, while on his head was a drooping turban. He should have looked ridiculous, but appeared magnificent instead, and totally uncaring of what anyone thought of him. He had taken Gilbert in hand, presenting him to many of the more interesting people in the room. Gilbert looked to be a little dazed at the honor.

The evening advanced, and nothing was said about the portrait. Violet began to be a little concerned. She also began to wonder, as she watched the deference with which their host was treated by everyone present, if Gilbert had not been right, if she had perhaps been presumptuous in thinking the artist might consider painting her.

She sat erect upon a velvet-covered divan with lyre-shaped curved arms and tasseled bolsters, watching Delacroix and Allain and all the others as they talked nonstop. They exchanged ideas, each with its own catchwords and phrases, volleying opinions and conclusions at each other as if they were weapons in some demonic war of the minds. She was unable to decide if they really believed the things they said, or if they took a particular stand because it was popular at the moment or gave them reason for a debate.

Allain held his own among them; indeed, he often seemed to be at the center of the most heated exchanges. His arguments were persuasive, with sudden slashing comments that displayed wit and intelligence and more than a shading of humor. He seemed to know everyone, and to be known by everyone, particularly the ladies. All treated him with warmth and friendliness, yet with a subtle deference that seemed as instinctive as it was unusual.

Violet tried not to look in his direction too often. It was difficult. He was so dynamic, so alive, compared with the other men in the room. The warmth in his voice, the bright, shifting laughter in his eyes, was impossible to resist. He was so very attractive in his dark and formally correct clothing and with the fluttering light from the gas jets of the chandelier overhead shining in his curling hair. The slight bronze of his skin, in contrast to the pallid complexions around him, added to his air of untamed vitality.

There was a rustle of silk and a whiff of lily of the valley as a woman moved to sit on the sofa beside her. Violet turned to smile in greeting. It was one of the actresses; she thought her name was Clotilde. The title of actress might have been a polite euphemism for her, however. The afternoon gown she wore was cut so low in front that when she leaned forward, it was possible to see her breasts in their entirety, nestled like two plump partridges in a nest.

The woman surveyed Violet with sparkling curiosity before she leaned forward to speak. “So,” she said, “you are the mystery woman.”

Violet gave a quick shake of her head. “Oh, no, I think not.”

“Oh, yes. Our Allain has not taken his eyes from you for hours, even when he is trying to be circumspect by leaving you alone. We all guessed there must be someone; he has been in Paris again for ages but has not been to the theater once.”

“You — sound as if you know him well.”

“But of course; everyone knows Allain. There is no place in the world where he isn’t at home.”

The woman’s tone and the encompassing gesture she used seemed exaggerated. Violet lifted a brow as she said, “No place?”

“Did you think I meant all the beds in Paris? No, no, I promise you, though it’s possible if it pleased him. But I speak of London, Geneva, Brussels, Rome; he has the entrée to all Europe’s capitals, not to mention their courts. I’ve never quite understood how that is, except that his charm is formidable. Don’t you find it so?”

“Yes, indeed,” Violet said, her voice chill.