Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [113]
The men wore white tie. Many wore their decorations: war medals, Légions d’honneur, heraldic sashes and medals. Most of the men wore plain black masks, but one wore a splendid lion’s head. The women’s gowns evoked the eighteenth century; several, including Lydie and Patrice, wore ones Lydie had borrowed from the costume museum. Their masks were feathered, sequined, of silk and satin, trailing streamers. Clothilde wore a special d’Origny creation: a full-face mask of the sun, made of thin, hammered gold.
“You look gorgeous,” Patrice said, and Lydie felt it, in her full-skirted green dress and ruby pendant. She could do without the tiara.
“Guy should be taking more pictures,” Lydie said. “I wish everyone would arrive so we could serve the banquet.” She spoke fast, her eyes flicking across the scene.
“Where’s Michael?” Patrice asked. “Has he seen you yet?”
“No, not yet,” Lydie said. “I thought he’d be downstairs by now.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” Patrice asked. “They complain about how long we take, but men are a hundred times worse than we are.” She gave Lydie a knowing look. “Listen, any misgivings or guilt I had about arranging for you to wear rubies are gone now. You’re beautiful, and your night is a triumph.”
“Thanks, Patrice,” Lydie said, standing on her toes to kiss Patrice’s cheek. Both she and Patrice turned, startled, toward Guy’s flash.
“Two queens kissing,” he said, grinning.
“I want a copy of that one,” Patrice said.
“I’ve come to ask my wife to dance,” Didier said, in a formal manner. He stood tall, elegant in his evening attire.
Patrice grinned at him. “Charmed, I’m sure!”
“Listen,” Didier said to Lydie, “this is the best party I’ve ever seen. You’re a genius of style.”
“Thanks,” Lydie said. “I wish my husband would get down here, to hear you say that. I guess he’s still dressing.”
“I’ve just been defending your husband to some assholes,” Didier said with a glance over his shoulder. “Laurent Montrose hates the Salle des Quatre Saisons, says Michael’s design is not innovative. I told him the Salle is fantastic, everyone thinks so.” He lowered his voice. “Of course, Laurent hates Americans on principle.”
“Here comes Didier’s World War II theory,” Patrice said.
“It’s no theory—it’s the truth,” Didier said, a bizarre combination of innocence and fury in his eyes. “Everyone knows Laurent’s family made the Nazis very welcome in their pâtisserie at Cabourg.”
“What were they supposed to do?” Patrice asked. “Refuse to sell them eclairs and get their kneecaps shot off?”
“I may have been too young to join my father and brothers in the Resistance,” Didier said, “but I saw what the bourgeoisie in small towns would do to stay on the Germans’ good side. When their duty was to refuse them any help at all!”
“Why do you say he hates Americans?” Lydie asked. She had been under the impression that the French felt grateful to Americans for the part their country had played in liberating France during the war.
“Simply that people like Laurent carry around tremendous guilt for helping the Germans, and that makes them hate and envy any American. Cowards always hate heroes.”
“He’s right,” Patrice said, edging closer to Didier. “People in France still judge each other by how they behaved during the war.”
“Laurent wants to find fault with Michael McBride’s work just because he’s an American.” Didier smiled. “Of course, so are you, but Laurent cannot find any fault with this ball because it is perfect.”
The orchestra playing old-fashioned music, the candlelight, the mention of war, made Lydie feel she was reeling, traveling back in time. She swallowed, stared at a chandelier swaying in the breeze.
“Shall we dance now?” Didier asked Patrice.
“I’d better check the kitchen,” Lydie said, glad for the chance to be alone.
Lydie made her way through the crowd, saying hello to acquaintances, keeping her eyes open for Michael. She passed Clothilde with Léonce d’Esclimont,