Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [44]
Lydie laughed. “You’re convincing me. She’s not nice.”
“Keep that in mind.”
“Okay, but you act nice. I mean it. It’s only a month out of your life, and someday you’ll regret it if she leaves on bad terms.”
“Lydie, I’ll do it for you,” Patrice said.
“It’s only fair,” Lydie said. “I want to give back a little of what I’ve learned from you.”
“That’s me, a fountain of knowledge,” Patrice said, lifting her eyebrows in puzzlement. “What am I missing here?”
“I’m thinking about you and Didier. You two are really on your own. Where I come from, a marriage comes complete with two entire families. Especially when there’s a problem, like in my family. It seems to take up so much time.”
Patrice smiled. “You mean we’re good influences on you and Michael.”
“On me, anyway,” Lydie said. “Michael didn’t have any trouble breaking away, coming to France.”
“Of course not, my dear,” Patrice said. “Over here he gets you all to himself.”
Lydie laughed. Wasn’t it nice to think that way? Then Eliza returned, excited, saying that she had just run into an old business acquaintance of Patrice’s father in the lobby, a handsome man visiting Paris with the wife to whom he had been married for forty years: so unusual for a marriage or the parties involved to survive so long! Then the waiter brought plates of coquilles St. Jacques, warm, on a bed of sauteed leeks; the maître d’ poured wine and offered his deepest apologies; Patrice began to relax. She smiled at her mother. She inquired about her aunts and about her godmother, Eliza’s best friend. Lydie watched Patrice, knowing she would miss her terribly when she went to Saint-Tropez. Patrice had a different way of looking at the world, and Lydie was happy to absorb some of it. Mainly, she was happy to have such a good friend in Paris.
Michael stood behind partitions that roughly defined the space that one day would be the Salle des Quatre Saisons, making a list of people to call: cabinetmaker, stonemason, electrician. He had lined up workmen and artisans, and the French government had finally issued papers authorizing the work to be done. He yawned; the pen felt heavy in his hand. The sleepless exhilaration that came with being in love was taking a slow toll. At night he would lie awake beside Lydie, thinking of Anne. Remembering what had passed between them that day, and not only lovemaking: the expression in her eyes when she smiled up at him, the thrill he’d felt at lunch yesterday when she’d reached under the café table to take his hand.
A guard came around the partitions. His navy blue uniform looked vaguely military, with its insignia and silver buttons, and it reminded Michael of what Charles Legendre had said, that the Louvre was not only an art museum but an institution of the French government. He knew, also, that the guard would never wear his uniform on the street. No one did in France. Nurses, sanitation workers, gendarmes, waiters all wore street clothes to work, changing into their uniforms upon arrival. Thus, on the Métro, it was impossible to tell doctors from street sweepers, bourgeois matrons from waitresses. Perhaps that was why the French set such stock in distinguishing marks: Légions d’honneur rosettes, school ties, Orders of Merit, all signs indicating that the wearer belonged to a certain class.
“Monsieur d’Origny wishes to see you,” the guard said.
“Show him in,” Michael said.
Didier entered a moment later, grinning, shaking Michael’s hand warmly. “Hello, my friend,” he said.
“What’s a busy guy like yourself doing at the museum on a Wednesday morning?” Michael asked.
“You know I’m the patron,” Didier said with an exaggerated patrician accent.