Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [80]
“Good,” Patrice said. “I’m behind her one hundred percent—whether you believe me or not.”
“Is Didier serious about wanting to stage a hunt at the ball?” Lydie asked, perhaps wanting to change the subject as much as Patrice did.
“Yes, only call it a ‘shoot,’ dear. In France, it’s very top-drawer to go shooting. They talk about the old days when a safari was really a safari, when you could hide in the brush and kill elephants and tigers instead of circling them in a bus with a bunch of other tourists.”
“Why would anyone want to kill an elephant?” Lydie asked. “What kind of sport is that? They’re as broad as barns.”
“I don’t know. They just did. Isn’t it revolting?”
“Yes,” Lydie said.
“Now, the French, myself included, I’m sorry to admit, take it out on little things like grouse and rabbits.”
“I hadn’t intended to rent any hunting—‘shooting’—costumes or equipment. But Didier does seem very keen on it.”
“He is, but don’t worry. It’ll all be a stage set. Just a chance for you and me and a few selected others to dress for the occasion. Tumner carries this adorable line of shooting clothes for women—calf-length khaki skirts like the ones Meryl Streep wore in Out of Africa, flat brown leather boots, vests with little compartments for shotgun shells, mosquito repellent, your compact … Didier thinks they’ll look so funky with brooches and pendants.”
“We’ve already planned one shot—a woman with the rifle raised, looking through the scope, wearing an enormous marquise-cut diamond ring on top of her leather-gloved trigger finger.”
“I told you—” Patrice said.
“Let’s take a break,” Lydie said. “I have a cramp in my hand, and these cards are getting sloppy.”
“Yours are great,” Patrice said.
Lydie glanced up, surprised. “Mine are terrible, compared to yours. Your calligraphy is beautiful. Where did you learn it?”
“From a master in Tibet,” Patrice said.
“No, really. I’m serious,” Lydie said.
“So am I.” Why couldn’t Patrice accept Lydie’s compliment? She wished she knew. The moment someone singled her out for something, noticed an accomplishment, Patrice ceased to value it. Five minutes ago she had been wishing her lettering was as fine as Lydie’s, and here was Lydie telling her it was even better. Patrice handled it by coming up with a compliment to give Lydie.
“Your cheeks look pinker than I’ve seen them in a long time. Pretty. I think you should go to Michael’s opening with him.”
“Well, thanks for the advice,” Lydie said. Something told Patrice she was trying to be sarcastic. Lydie trying to be sarcastic was pretty funny. She thinned her lips and blinked her eyes. But her tone of voice stayed exactly the same as ever. By first grade Patrice had known more about sarcasm than Lydie would learn in a lifetime.
“You are very welcome,” Patrice said earnestly, as if she thought Lydie’s thanks were genuine. “You come to me anytime and I mean anytime you’re wondering what to do, how to behave, which fork to use. Don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Patrice?” Lydie said, grinning.
“Yes, sweet pea?”
“Piss off.”
What you might call a bolt from the blue occurred yesterday evening at the Tuileries, but I must start the story further back.
—TO COULANGES, DECEMBER 1670
“THIS IS REALLY too emotional,” Bruce Morrison said. Although he was no older than forty, he wore half-spectacles to read Lydie’s petition. She wondered why someone so young and attractive would want to affect such a curmudgeonly persona. He also wore a bow tie and a green tweed vest. She bet that under the vest he wore suspenders instead of a belt. “You see,” he continued, “the government doesn’t care about Miss Merida’s hardships. It doesn’t care that you are extremely fond of her. It cares only that she is indispensable to your business and that her position cannot be filled by a United States citizen.”
“I see,” Lydie said. Her situation here was delicate; she wished to get as much advice from Bruce as possible without telling him the whole truth. His easy manner made her want to talk freely about her connection with Kelly, but she