Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [90]
Anne and Michael looked at the ground, and it was true; fragments of thread and fabric lay there.
“That dress is three hundred years old,” the man said, growing red in the face.
“I repeat,” Anne said calmly. “It does not belong to you.”
“What happened?” Michael asked her.
“This man was kind enough to assist me in my research, by showing me, at my request, some antique clothing,” Anne said.
“Then it’s true?” Michael asked. “That the dress is three hundred years old and belongs to the Louvre?”
“Yes,” Anne said. “To the Louvre, not to him.”
“I work in the Department of Material Culture,” the man said. “Here at the Louvre. Now, I insist …”
“He is just an assistant,” Anne said. She faced the man, who was approximately her height. “I am doing important research. I need this dress.”
“Oh, my God,” the man said, wiping sweat off his brow. “I should never have let you into the storeroom. It is absolutely against regulations …”
“He’ll get into trouble, Anne,” Michael said. “Give him the dress.”
“This—from you?” she said, glaring at Michael. Then her lower lip began to quiver. “Fine, I will take off the dress.”
“Oh, thank you,” the man said, clasping his hands.
“Wait in your office,” Anne said haughtily. “I shall bring it to you as soon as I am ready.”
“Okay,” the man said, still nervous but now hopeful, backing out of the room. Michael felt amused and embarrassed. He had never seen Anne play-act so publicly before. She stood before him, pouting slightly. The contrast between her skin—smooth and pink, so healthy, and the fabric—stiff and decaying—seemed almost obscene.
“I had thought you would admire it,” she said.
“I do,” Michael said. “But I also see his point.”
She waved her hand, dismissing the man. “He is a functionary. Don’t worry about him.”
“Anne, you are going to return the dress, aren’t you?” When she didn’t answer, Michael touched her cheek. “Where would you wear it?” he asked.
“I wish I could wear it all the time,” Anne said, two big tears spilling out of her dark eyes. “I have never felt so whole as I do now. Or did, before he spoiled it. Standing here, in the Salle des Quatre Saisons …” She looked around, taking in the paintings, the table. “This room is truly a masterpiece, and I wanted to pay homage to you—its creator. On this, the day of its opening.” Standing on her toes, she kissed his lips. Michael stood stiff, afraid to touch the dress. Was that his imagination, the sound of it tearing?
“I’m glad you like the Salle so much,” Michael said, wondering how Anne’s mind worked, whether at that instant she was Madame de Sévigné.
“How I would love to see you dressed in clothes of the day,” she said, smiling again, drawing herself to her full height, as she always did when preparing to quote from Madame de Sévigné, “ ‘Find out something, my bonne, about what the men will be wearing this summer. I shall ask you to send me a pretty fabric for your brother, who implores you to turn him into a fashion plate at minimum cost …’ ”
Michael chuckled nervously. Had Anne already found him a seventeenth-century suit? He could imagine her begging him to dress up with her, how difficult it would be to say no. But he would say no. He had made up his mind; he wanted to be with Lydie. At that moment he felt a bizarre reversal of guilt, for being with Anne when he wanted to be with Lydie.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to live in the Louvre, even for one night?” Anne asked. “I think of how it must look in the middle of the night, in the darkness, with moonlight coming through the windows …” She lowered her voice, took Michael’s hand. “Let’s do it! Let’s spend tonight right here in the Salle.”
“Anne, there are guards …”
She waved a dismissive hand. Her eyes glittered with excitement. “We’ll be quiet as mice. We can stay upstairs, in the attic storerooms. Beds are there—even nightclothes from every epoch, including our own …”
“No, Anne,” Michael said, knowing that “our own” epoch meant the seventeenth century.
“Oh, you are