Madam de Rohan lived as one would expect. Large. In addition to the wonderful art, there were museum pieces of dark, heavy furniture, bright carpets from across the other half of the world, several chandeliers of crystal and gold, bravely holding steady from tall ceiling. Palace of Versailles was probably missing some wallpaper.
A hand maiden in a lovely light-yellow dress, with a delightful yellow belt around her size zero waist, walked in the room with a smile and the mandatory bonjour, before she ushered us in a smaller sitting room. “Madame will be with you shortly. May I get you a refreshment as you wait?” All in perfect English. Bernice smiled and said no to the refreshments. She nodded and quickly disappeared. I’d have felt better if she’d winked. So cute she made the beautiful antique furniture ashamed.
Madame walked in on cue, with a bright smile, a baby blue dress, and enough jewelry to embarrass royalty. Of course I stood up, but held back from dropping to my knees and bowing my head, also skipped kissing her what must have been an eight carrot ring. Beatrice also stood and snapped open a smile.
Before sitting down, Madam de Rohan motioned to Beatrice and said something in French. Beatrice did a little bow of her head and let the hand maiden guide her to the elevator.
Madam sat on the plush white sofa and patted the spot next to her. I sat before I could sing Old Man River. Maybe she was older than I am, but nowhere close to 92 or 96 or whatever. I am in my fifties and she was close to sixty at most. Words sprang out of my astonished mouth before I could calm myself.
“You…..I mean Madam de Rohan….”
“You expected something different…and please call me Helen.”
I was stunned, like an open-mouthed oaf.
“My guess is that Beatrice told you of my tante….my aunt. She is quite old. She struggles these days and sometimes asks for things that are not very delicate”
“I….I was told she wanted….!” And let the rest go.
Helen laughed! “A ninety-five year old woman?”
“I didn’t mean to be ….”
“Of course not,” she said. “I on the other hand would love some company of any sort.” Her smile was close to a laugh. Something in the way she smiled brought a luxurious beauty to her face.
She spoke a delightful King’s English and went on to explain her mother was French and her father was from London. Both had passed away, which was why she lived with her tante.
The maiden brought sparkling wine, which kept the conversation moving at a gentle pace.
“And so, you are a writer and long for the Paris that no longer remains.”
“Well, yes. The 1920s.” How much more of me did Beatrice spill?
Helen, still chatting, led me back into the main room, letting her arms sweep slowly, pointing out details of paintings and furniture, name by name.
My mind was left cluttered and swollen. My god what beauty! What a collection! And to top it off, many of the impressionists had visited this very spot, as well as Picasso and Dadi and Miro.
“Not that I’m old enough to be alive to meet all of them, but I did chat with Picasso and Dadi.”
Hard to keep my attention as I let my eyes wander.
“What if I told you, I would like to take you out for dinner, not only delicacies that will tempt your palate, but with a step back into the Paris you want to enjoy? Not terrifically elegant, but the deep asides of the real Paris.”
She politely excused herself to change her clothes and came back wearing very stylish attire, but not with the elegancy she’d wore earlier. Light brown dress, matching high heels, a dark brown, thin leather jacket. Gold on her wrists, and around her neck, but not nearly the King’s ransom as before. Gone was the glitter of diamonds. I guessed it was her version of dressing-down.
Next to her, anyone would look shabby. Of course I was not. My brown slacks, white shirt, dark brown sportscoat and un-scuffed brown loafers did the job. I’m willing to bet she matched us on purpose. What a stylish couple! I rather liked that.
“We’ll take a taxi instead of bothering my aunts chófer.”
Well dang, I was ready to sit in the back seat of the Bentley, roll down the window and wave to the peasants.
La Belle de Niece filled the bill for me. Maybe it wasn’t a restaurant of elegant for Paris, but it sure as hell wasn’t MacDonalds, or Wild Willie’s Pizza.
The waiter was dressed in a black suit, white shirt with a white bowtie, was about Helen’s age, or at least that’s what I guessed, and he sure made a girl feel special. He blushed to a quick bow, and ushered us to a lovely red leather, rounded booth in a back corner, with spotless white linen table cloth and napkins. The silverware and water glasses sparkled.
“You’ve obviously been here.”
“Yes. My husband and I came here a few times. At other times, he took others here.”
A gentleman doesn’t ask awkward questions, but I had one on my mind.
“Sorry to ask, but I wonder how all of this happened.”
She was about to answer, but gave it up and took a sip of the extraordinary white wine. I should have looked at the label, but the waiter had wrapped it in a white napkin, poured, and, plopped it in an icy silver wine bucket.
She smiled, obliterating my selfish question. “You’d like to know about my husband.”
Well, ok, if you insist, but my eyes met hers and said nothing.
“He was a tall, maybe taller than you. A man of power. What he wanted, he got. But, his heart gave out over ten years ago. And yes, he got a lot of things I knew nothing about, mostly in business, but other things.”
“Did you love him?”
“Did I love him? Hummmmm, yes of course, in a way. He was good to me.”
“Am I digging too deep?”
“This is Paris. He had lovers. I had lovers. Being a man, you want to know if I still have lovers.”
I sighed. Not deep. But it was more than time to move on. “I want to know more about you.”
“I love art. I spend time here and Niece, London, and Rome.”
“And what are your pleasures?”
“Probably just like yours. Art. writing. Travel. I could say lovers, but for me that has been to come and go. These years I’ve become very particular.”
“Beatrice? Also has lovers?
“None that I know of. And perhaps I misspoke. My lover days are a nearly a decade ago.”
She took another sip. “Do I surprise you?”
“So, why am I here, talking to you? I really don’t understand.”
“I am restless. I do my best to help my tante. I have friends. Cocktail parties, Art parties.”
I started to broach the subject in a different direction, but she stepped over me.
“I want a friend. A male friend.”
“Does Beatrice supply male friends?”
“If it weren’t such a good question I’d slap your face!” She laughed. “She introduces interesting men at parties. Beatrice knows a lot of people. But other than a group at cafes, no one has turned up.”
“And for some very odd reason, you find me interesting?
“Yes. You are real, not phony. You don’t want much and you know a lot without being stupid about it.”
“No idea what the hell that means.”
“Mostly old friends, or my late husband’s friend, taking me out to luxurious dinners, to impress. Mostly with other couples. Some pleasant, others thrilled with themselves. And some handsome, but like Louis XV China cups, with chips and cracks.”
The meal and conversation entranced me.
The taxi ride back to her home was silent, but holding hands.
“May I walk you to the door?”
“May I ask you to up for a drink?”
I declined.
She asked, “Shall I see you again?”
“At your pleasure.”
“You are such a gentleman. Especially for …..” She stopped.
“An American?”
“I was going to say for being so kind.”
She kissed me gently on the lips as the doorman held the door.
I was quickly in the cab, and looked back as it pulled away. I saw her wave.
END OF PART 3 TO BE CONTINUED
