Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [30]
Lydie smiled. “Please—don’t worry.” She wondered what sort of miserable signals she was giving out, that Patrice could see right through her.
“In that case, let’s crash the salon. I could use a nice cigar myself.”
I shall have to tell you in the end: he is marrying, on Sunday, in the Louvre, with the King’s permission, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de … Mademoiselle … guess the name.
—TO COULANGES, DECEMBER 1670
ON TUESDAY, WHEN the Louvre was closed to tourists, Michael walked through the empty galleries with a blueprint rolled in his left hand. He envisioned where the information table would stand; in which direction the signs to bathrooms, the Mona Lisa, and the Way Out would point; the bold print he had chosen for the signs, copied from a seventeenth-century manuscript. This was not major change.
Back in New York he had imagined doing something wild, a design that would remind everyone that the Louvre had once been a palace. But George Reed had gotten the inside word: stay calm, no surprises, remember that the Louvre is a museum, an institution, not a palace any longer. Michael thought of Didier d’Origny, whose mentality was probably representative of the French in general; Didier had liked Michael’s plans. Yet Michael knew the whole thing was political, that some French architect would probably be tapped to succeed him. He could imagine the French press treating it as the victory of France over America.
Footsteps echoed in a far-off gallery. The fact that they belonged to one person, not the hundreds he was used to hearing most days, made him take notice. He wondered whether it could be Anne. He had seen her earlier, heading up to the third floor. In the week or so since her fall, her bruises had faded. She had smiled, waved to him. She had looked pretty, dressed all in white, a ribbon tied in her hair. Seeing her, Michael had wondered why he never tried to talk to her. But of course he knew the answer: talking to her would be the first step toward giving in to his fantasy.
He was mulling that one over when Arthur Chase, a cultural coordinator from the American Embassy, entered the Salle des Quatre Saisons.
“Hey, Mike,” Arthur said, coming forward to shake hands.
Michael noticed his suit, cut in the square, comfortable American style, and felt too informal in his khakis and sports jacket. Arthur was about fifty, a college friend of George’s, and Michael knew George set stock in the way men dressed. “Do American diplomats get instant access to the Louvre?” Michael asked, hearing himself sound too jovial.
“It helps if you know the guard,” Arthur said. “Actually, I’m here for a meeting with a curator, but I wanted to see you first.”
“I’m just pacing out the information center that may never be,” Michael said.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” Arthur said.
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
“I mean our cultural office is talking tough with their cultural office.”
“Listen,” Michael said, holding up the blueprint. “I hate to think their arms could be twisted to accept a design they don’t like.”
“Your plans are not the issue,” Arthur said. “Your plans are fine. This is about not wanting an American architect to do this particular project. I thought George explained that to you. It’s just the French being macho. Vive la France, you see? I think everything would have been fine if the I. M. Pei pyramid hadn’t caused such furor. They’ve been setting you up to take a fall—a very quietly publicized fall, but one that would raise the spirits of legions of young French architects.”
“What has changed?”
Arthur checked his watch. “The curators here are starting to cooperate. Slowly but