Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier
the cabin reservations and send a telegram to your parents. As to starting a family, we have not discussed this yet and I’d like to voice my small opinion when we do.” She flicked a crumb of bread from her sleeve and looked up. “I have my own views on that. I presume I will be involved?” She recognized the edge in her voice, lightened it with effort. “Or are you considering an Immaculate Conception?”
Frederick arranged the linen napkin on his lap, so its folds fell evenly on both sides of his legs. Weariness embraced him; he was suddenly exhausted, tired of this dirty city, the language he could not understand and the people who spoke it. He wished he were in Chicago having a drink and desultory conversation with his father. He longed for larger cups of coffee and softer breads, simpler meals of recognizable fares, bigger tables, wide wooden chairs with real seat cushions, and softer toilet paper. Even Easter fatigued him.
He wanted to walk back to the hotel, crawl into the too-small bed and draw the sheets over his head. He wanted to stay there until it was time to return to his country where things were done as they should be.
He took a silent, deep breath. “Easter, there are things one can do, and things one cannot. This,” he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the city, the country, the continent, “this is not real life. It’s a perfectly valid flight of fancy for a few weeks. You can see the sights, sit in the cafés and pretend you’re an artist—”
The croissant and marmalade struck him in the middle of the chest, hung there a moment and slid down to his lap, leaving traces of orange on his white shirt. His mouth stayed opened as his wife carefully arranged the unused silverware by her plate, stood, and straightened her dress.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Frederick, because I believe you’re a gentleman, and a good man, I doubt you know how deeply you’ve just offended me. But at this very moment, I also believe you are a simpleton and a fool with whom I do not wish to spend the day.” She pulled on her gloves, took her purse. Frederick found the croissant in his lap, returned it to his plate.
“Ask the waiter for some warm water so your shirt won’t stain. Then please remain here and finish your meal. I am returning to the hotel to change.”
She smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “I would prefer to do so in privacy. You may have the room for the rest of the day. I should be back early in the evening. I plan to go to dinner and to a show. I understand Charlie Chaplin’s ‘Little Tramp’ is playing at the Théâtre Odéon. You can accompany me if you wish. Or not. Good day, Frederick.” She dropped some coins on the table and swept out of the dining room, an empress.
Her fury carried her back to the hotel, past the concierge to whom she threw an over-the-shoulder, “Bonjour, Monsieur,” into the elevator where her stare burned through the back of the uniformed attendant. In the room, she threw off her dress and chemise, then doused cold water on her face and applied minimal makeup.
She selected a powder-blue two-piece suit matching the Parisian sky, a hip-length cream silk blouse and a large-crowned hat trimmed with silk threads and a silver buckle. Over this she threw a mid-calf cotton raincoat. She feared Frederick might return too early and try to stop her. If he did, she might very well succumb to the inevitable entreaties, so she buttoned the outfit hurriedly, sprayed a small cloud of perfume in the air—a new scent by Guerlain that she had paid a fortune for in the States—and walked through it.
In the hotel hallway, she stopped before a mirror, checked no other guests were present, and assumed several fashionable poses. A wisp of hair escaped and she tucked it back, then pulled it out again. When free, her auburn hair reached her shoulder blades. Stuffed in a bun under her hat, her coiffure was seriously out of fashion. In Chicago, she had resisted the boyish page-boy look both Enid and Charlotte wore and encouraged. In Paris, her longish hair was embarrassingly American.
The concierge was delighted to make an immediate reservation for her at a salon de beauté on Avenue Iena. On her way there, she passed the window display of a small maison de couture. She spotted a smashing black crêpe de chine evening outfit boasting a daringly low scooped neckline. She knew without asking that it would fit her perfectly. She purchased the accompanying shoes, belt, purse and, for good luck, a clever automatic umbrella that opened at the push of a button. The total, in Francs, came to just over $75. She kept the umbrella and had the ensemble delivered to the hotel.
Feeling immensely better, she walked to the Salon Dupêcher and was ushered into a private booth by the owner, a portly lady who cooed, undid her hair, and spoke a torrent of French to an assistant.
Mme. Dupêcher, Easter learned, had spent four years in England before the war, serving as the Duchess of York’s private beautician, a lovely job though the Duchess was tightfisted. As the assistant chopped, snipped, and trimmed, she and Easter compared fashions in France with those in the U.S. Easter, knowing little on the subject, extemporized freely. They spoke of the War, English authors, the war again, husbands. Mme. Dupêcher lifted Easter’s left hand. “You are recently married, yes? Of course. The ring has no scars...”
“Scars?”
“Scratches. I mean scratches.”
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