First tango in paris, p.12
First Tango in Paris, page 12
If Brigitte were like this consistently, it wouldn’t bother Eva so much. She’d write Brigitte off and concentrate on the other members of the group. But yesterday afternoon and this morning, Brigitte’s careful attention and probing questions had made Eva toss words around like pebbles skipping over the surface of a lake.
She needed to learn to ignore Brigitte’s mysterious disappearances and disregard her as a viable member of the tour. But that meant she’d have to also ignore her vibrant presence, her questions that sparked Eva’s brain like steel on flint.
She gazed out the window at the rain that had started to pepper down. It was time to head to Revolution Square, where Marie Antoinette’s story ended. If only the entire tour were scheduled to end today. Brigitte’s erratic behavior was driving her crazy.
*
As the group filed onto the street outside the Conciergerie, the sight of the sun beginning to peek out mitigated some of the chill Brigitte had experienced in Marie Antoinette’s cell and helped her return to her normal self. They paused there on the street and huddled together, looking back at the grim building as Eva described the final stage of Marie’s life.
Eva spoke so quietly Brigitte had to strain to hear her, and she appeared so upset and almost defeated that Brigitte wanted to grasp her arm and reassure her that the tour was going just fine. She wanted to explain to Eva that her presentations didn’t bore her, that these unexpected hauntings were preoccupying and worrying her. That is, if Eva had even noticed her strange state in the cell.
“They sentenced Marie to death after an hour’s deliberation, which was quite long for the time period,” Eva said.
“What on earth did they accuse her of?” Clover seemed outraged.
“Conspiracy, treason, and allying herself with the enemies of France both in and out of the country,” Eva explained. “But they eventually dismissed several of the charges, including the one that accused her of having sexual relations with her eight-year-old son.”
“How ridiculous.” Brigitte spoke up, and everyone nodded.
“I agree,” Eva said. “Marie stood up to the Tribunal, beginning her defense with these words: I appeal to all mothers. She even convinced the market women who despised her that she was innocent on that count.”
“Good for her,” Clover said.
As Eva told them about Marie Antoinette’s final hours, Brigitte looked back at the Conciergerie and envisioned them. Someone had helped the doomed queen down a steep spiral staircase and finally allowed her paper and a pen and ink. Exhausted from her trial, which had concluded late that evening, she wrote a letter to her sister-in-law and, at four thirty in the morning, left a note for her children in her prayer book. Neither was ever shown to the intended recipients, which saddened Brigitte.
Her heart clenched as Eva recited the words of the note. Brigitte had never had children, never wanted them. But clearly Marie Antoinette was a devoted mother to have written the words they never got to read: My eyes have no more tears to cry for you, my poor children; adieu! adieu! Having your mother beheaded would be as difficult as having her desert you as a baby. No. Worse. She could always fly to California and try to reconcile with her own mother. Marie’s children had lost her forever.
The breeze cooled by the recent rain gave Brigitte goose bumps as Eva asked, “Would you like to walk the route Marie would have traveled to the guillotine? It’s a little more than a mile and a half and would be a fitting way to end our time with the queen.”
Ryan glanced down at his shoes; he’d chosen more sensible ones today. Though he nodded reluctantly, Brigitte and the others readily agreed to the plan, so they headed over the bridge from the island where the Conciergerie stood and walked along the Left Bank.
Brigitte strolled alongside Eva, who looked almost gratified when she asked a question. She tried to act extra enthusiastic. It bothered her for Eva to appear so downcast. “So we’re returning to the Tuileries, where Marie Antoinette began her horrible downward spiral after leaving Versailles?”
“Yes.” Eva glanced at her. “You seem to have mastered the geography of Paris.”
She nodded. “I have a lot of spare time and love to wander these streets. They’re so full of history.”
“I wasn’t able to visit New Orleans when I traveled in America. Does it resemble Paris?”
Brigitte grimaced. “In some ways. The street names, the French heritage of many of its residents, the food, the appreciation for the arts. I’d say it’s one of the more liberal cities in the US in some ways, but it’s much younger and cruder than Paris.”
Eva took a deep breath and smiled, her mood seeming to lighten. She appeared sincerely interested in the differences between the two cities. “I’m glad you like Paris so much, though I’m sure New Orleans is worth a visit.”
“Yes. A visit. But it can be a difficult place to live and work in. Old streets like these take me into another time, almost another place, and you’re helping me paint a much fuller picture of this wonderful city and its past.”
Eva flushed. “Why, thank you. I’m still wondering if, at times, my presentations bore you. You never answered my question yesterday at Versailles, but today at the Conciergerie you acted like you did there—almost…absent.”
The blood rushed to Brigitte’s face and warmed her in spite of the chilly wind blowing across the Seine. She wasn’t ready to confide in Eva, but strangely, she was relieved that Eva had observed her lapses of attention and pleased by her concern that something strange was happening to her. The remarks made her feel almost like Eva cared about her, and the very thought transfixed her. “Absent? The queen’s drastic change in status overwhelmed me. I have quite an imagination, so don’t worry if I seem to get caught up in my own little world at times.” She was embarrassed that Eva had perceived her unwelcome fantasies. Had the others noticed too? As always, she was different, though she was trying so hard to be normal. She sped up and joined Emily and Leigh, who were strolling hand in hand.
As they continued along beside the river with its constant boat traffic, she began to worry. She’d thought she’d learned to control herself, but for some reason, here in Paris she couldn’t keep herself from suddenly inhabiting the thoughts and feelings of a long-dead person. Hopefully Eva wouldn’t say anything to the others about her peculiar behavior. After all, her ability to withdraw from her body had been a real plus during her career in New Orleans. She didn’t want it to harm her chances of creating a new life here.
*
Eva chatted with Clover and Ryan, who was beginning to sweat as they strolled beside the river, filled with barges and sightseeing boats. Clover asked about a pungent-smelling metal pissoir that they passed and nodded in seeming surprise after Eva explained that public urinals were common in Europe and kept men from peeing on the sidewalk or in the gutters or the street. Ryan pulled out a cigarette and puffed on it as they walked along, then flicked the butt into the ornate iron grate encircling a tree growing in the sidewalk. Eva was glad none of the women on the tour smoked too. As they finally neared the Place de la Concorde, they all lapsed into silence.
What had just happened with Brigitte? The word absent had caused her to react visibly, but Eva didn’t know how to interpret her reaction. She’d blushed, half smiled, and obviously lied, then appeared almost frightened before she dashed away. What was going on? Surely she wasn’t being coy. Something real was troubling her, and that possibility affected Eva more than it should.
She shook her head. They’d almost reached their final destination for today, so she tried to clear her mind and sped up her pace. After four more days together, she and Brigitte would never see each other again, so she needed to step back and be a tour guide, not a counselor. It was time to bring down the curtain on the first third of their tour.
She gathered the group near the Luxor Obelisk and explained that approximately thirty thousand guards had been stationed throughout the crowd that mobbed the route they’d just taken. Friends had tried to rescue the queen while she was in prison, and the Tribunal that had sentenced her to death were determined that wouldn’t happen.
“I bet she had to duck a lot of rotten vegetables and eggs on the way here,” Ryan remarked, “if the people had any food to spare.” He rubbed his hands together, almost seeming to enjoy himself, until everyone else glared at him. “Hmm. Sorry. But the French people were obviously really angry at her. By the way, how many people were beheaded here?” He lit another cigarette.
There’s always one in every group, but Eva threw a few figures from her storehouse of statistics at him. “The estimates range anywhere from thirteen hundred in one month to between eighteen and forty thousand during the entire French Revolution. No one kept exact records.” There. That should satisfy him.
Brigitte seemed to have recovered her composure after her sudden retreat, because she asked, “Marie Antoinette would have been able to see Tuileries Palace from here, wouldn’t she? What do you think went through her mind as she took her last look around?”
Eva appreciated her intervention. “Reputedly, she acted very calm and dignified and didn’t ask for help when she climbed out of the demeaning cart and up the steps to the guillotine.” As she pointed to its approximate location she noted that Brigitte was paying strict attention to her words now.
Emily looked around the site with sad eyes. “Marie Antoinette was a lady until the end, wasn’t she? If I’d been around back then, I’d have tried to rescue her too. She wasn’t guilty of anything but wanting to have a good time and some privacy, though she evidently was quite a spendthrift.”
“Aren’t we all?” Brigitte murmured, and everyone chuckled.
Eva was grateful for the change in mood. She led them to their waiting van. On the way back to the tour office, even Ryan seemed subdued, which made her think maybe she’d shared the life and death of one of the most famous women of Paris successfully. She looked forward to tomorrow, when they would begin to become acquainted with their next famous figure, George Sand.
Perhaps her work with this group would enable her to communicate effectively with a jury, someday. And during the rest of this week, maybe she could figure out what was wrong with Brigitte and help her instead of constantly alienating her. She felt as noble as the queen had been when she faced death.
After they returned to the office, Eva told her charges, “Don’t forget we’re leaving at eight in the morning to drive four hours south of Paris. Bring your toothbrush, sleeping clothes, fresh clothes for the next day, and, as always, comfortable shoes. I think you’ll enjoy visiting Nohant, George Sand’s estate.”
She was looking forward to the peace and quiet of the countryside after two days of trekking all over Paris. And maybe the fresh air would help Brigitte cope with whatever her mysterious problem was.
Chapter Fourteen
Eight o’clock! In the morning? Brigitte was worried about how early she’d have to get up to be ready to leave Paris at such an ungodly hour. Why had she signed up for this tour?
When her alarm rang at five thirty, she’d felt like Marie Antoinette being awakened to prepare for her final hours. Well, maybe that was an overstatement, but she wasn’t pleased.
By the time she’d showered, carefully applied her makeup, fixed her hair, and pulled on the casual clothes she’d chosen the evening before, it was already seven fifteen. She ate only a croissant at the coffee shop downstairs in the George V, but it took three cups of coffee to wake her from what felt like a bad hangover. By then it was twenty minutes till eight, so she dashed upstairs for her overnight bag. It was so heavy she had to call a bellhop to carry it for her and place it beside her other piece of luggage, then arrange for a cab…and she was late.
The group members were already seated in their idling minibus, and Eva, waiting outside it, glared at her. Damn. If Eva was going to be such a tight ass, why had she signed on to be a tour guide? People were late all the time, especially this early in the morning, and this was supposed to be a vacation, not a job.
The driver left the minibus running and took Brigitte’s bags from the cabbie, then finally managed to wedge them into the back on top of everyone else’s. Fortunately they hadn’t needed to pack as much as she had.
“We’re just planning to be gone overnight, Brigitte,” Eva muttered, as if to herself. Judging by Eva’s appearance, she’d simply run a comb through her hair, jerked on the first pair of slacks she saw, and slung on a shirt. And even then, she looked charming.
“Just because we’re going to the country doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be fashionable,” Brigitte murmured back out of spite, just loud enough for Eva to hear her and tighten her upper lip and shoulders like a prissy nun. Only that full, plump lower lip redeemed her in Brigitte’s eyes.
To make matters worse, Ryan and Clover had claimed the seats in the very back, with Emily and Leigh in front of them. Damn. Brigitte had wanted to sit in the rear of the bus and perhaps sneak in a small nap or two on their way south, but now she’d have to sit beside or behind Eva. Either way, she’d be forced to pay attention and pretend to participate in whatever discussion or lecture Eva had planned for this morning.
Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the tour so far, but when she was sleepy like this she definitely preferred to let her mind wander.
Eva started talking as they wove through a sea of blue, white, and gray cars, with an occasional red or black one for color. “Aurore Dupin was born here in Paris in 1804, just eleven years after Marie Antoinette was beheaded. Many people consider her the first modern liberated woman. When she was thirty-one, she successfully divorced her husband and managed to maintain custody of her children, which was almost unheard of during her day.”
Who the hell is Aurore Dupin? Brigitte wondered. How could such a significant figure have escaped her notice?
Eva continued her presentation. “If you’re wondering why you’ve never heard of her, during her life, she was known simply as Aurore, though today we recognize her by her pseudonym, George Sand. She’d already written two famous novels when she was in her twenties and continued to be a prolific, popular author until her death at seventy-one.”
That explained it. Some of the information Brigitte had read earlier in the library was coming back to her. George Sand had scandalized Paris by wearing men’s clothes because, as she said, they were better made and more comfortable than women’s. But had that been before or after she took a man’s name?
Brigitte snuggled back into the comfortable plush seat. She’d let Eva worry about that. She was sure Eva would reveal all soon enough.
She closed her eyes and let Eva’s words about Sand’s great-grandfather being a Polish playboy who fell for an actress wash over her. Perhaps she’d take a nap after all, though all that caffeine should have wired her. Why would Eva think they wanted to know anything about George Sand’s great-grandparents?
She focused on the sound of Eva’s voice. Sometimes it had a pleasingly deep, rich tone, especially when Eva was discussing a subject she seemed to care about. But right now it sounded almost strident, strained and higher than usual. It was shredding Brigitte’s nerves. Why didn’t Eva calm down and focus on Sand herself, instead of providing such detailed background information about Sand’s childhood spent mostly on her grandmother’s elegant country estate, Nohant?
She sat up and stretched her back. The old planation house she’d lived in with her own grandmother had probably been elegant a hundred years ago. But when she was growing up, the carpet on the grand staircase inside was worn almost through. Her grandmother had done everything she could to keep up appearances, but it was never enough.
Eva glanced around at her, gauging her attention level with those blue-green eyes, so Brigitte closed her own eyes while Eva continued to lecture. All right, so she did find it rather interesting that George Sand’s grandmother had first married when she was fifteen—a bastard son of Louis XV who died and left her some money—and that she later married a man twice her age, who spent most of her money. Eva’s voice quality had lowered a tinge, as if she was beginning to lose herself in her story, forgetting she was onstage.
Brigitte listened more carefully now. She wanted to discover how her own grandmother compared to the great George Sand’s. It sounded like they had quite a bit in common.
“Tall, fair, slender, calm, aristocratic,” Eva said about Sand’s grandmother.
Amazing. Hers had been somewhat similar. Her great-grandfather had owned the plantation and passed it down to her grandmother, even after she married a handsome speculator. Of course, her new husband had squandered her inheritance and sold off most of the surrounding acreage. After he left her and her infant son, her grandmother had managed somehow to pay the taxes and raise her only child, only to have him marry a lower-class woman from New Orleans and then get killed.
Brigitte opened her eyes and gazed out the window at the ivy-covered buildings they were passing. With their dark roofs, cream-colored exteriors, and wooden shutters, most of the structures she saw on their way out of Paris looked similar. Were most people’s childhoods similar too? Her mind strayed to her own father. Would her life have been different today if he hadn’t been killed when she was an infant?
She came to attention when Eva mentioned that Sand had lived with her parents in Paris until her father died in a riding accident when she was young. Odd coincidence. At least George Sand had known her father for a while.
Then Eva explained how different Sand’s grandmother and mother were and how the future novelist had lived with her grandmother in the country more often than with her mother in the city, and Brigitte impulsively put her hand on Eva’s shoulder and asked, “What was her mother like?” It was almost as if she were hearing her own life story.
Eva flinched from her touch as if from an electric shock, and Brigitte jerked her hand back, though she’d enjoyed touching Eva. Her shoulder felt strong yet delicate, rather like Eva herself.
