the rue Le Peletier brothels on a nightly basis (God bless you, Aimée, Je t’adore !), they are not exactly virginal. There are special rooms. There are special women. There are not-so-special men who go with these women into these rooms and come out looking rather pleased.
I asked Émilie about this once. She demurred and pretended to not know. After baiting her multiple times (the dresses, they cannot afford those dresses on their wages, and what about the jewels? The rubies, the pearls, the diamonds!), she finally told me they were not prostitutes but instead demimondaines. Les demimondaine s. I am not sure precisely what this means but I aim to find out. It is a rather lovely word, isn’t it? Demimondaine. It sounds almost regal.
Part Deux
Chapitre XIX
Though April knew she was running late, she was still surprised to find Olivier already at the apartment. In Paris, New York City, and many less glamorous locales, April was always the first one in the office. Not that Marthe’s was merely a place of business , but April was a first-to-arrive-last-to-leave kind of person. Then again, it was rare for her to have jet lag, a mild hangover, and a century-old journal on loan so maybe these were somewhat extenuating circumstances.
“Bonjour,” April said as she tottered in on too-high heels. Given her questionable physical state and the jittery sugar rush, April should’ve stuck with her trusty flats. “How is everyone this morning?”
April extracted a napkin from her bag and set it, and her third coffee of the morning, atop the least-special-looking table in the room.
“Bonjour, Madame Vogt,” Olivier said. “Comment allez-vous?”
“Bien, et vous?”
“Bien.”
April glanced around and somehow, in the light of a different day, with a full night’s sleep behind her, the apartment appeared even more unwieldy. Yesterday April saw boundless treasures. She still saw the treasures, but they were mired in an impossible amount of work. Marthe must’ve quickly learned what a demimondaine was and put the knowledge to good use. April was not standing in the apartment of a barmaid.
“You look alarmed, Madame Vogt.”
“April. Please. Alarmed, no. It’s all a bit overwhelming, though.”
“Yes,” Olivier said. “We have a lot to accomplish.”
“To say the least. When do you plan to transfer the items to your office?” April flipped open her notepad. “What delivery service do you use? There’s one I used years ago; they were top-notch. I’ll have to see if they’re still around.”
Olivier shook his head.
“We won’t move anything until just prior to the viewings. We haven’t the room. Quite an astronomical number of things have come in over the past few months, and we don’t have space for Madame Quatremer’s belongings, too.”
Marthe’s belongings, April wanted to say. These were Marthe’s things. Madame Quatremer never wanted them, not for a single moment in all of seventy years.
“All right,” April said, unsure if this was good news or bad. “I guess we work here.”
The flat was beautiful, but haunting, inspiring, yet distracting. April was probably better off in the basement of an auction house, a place that did not have chandeliers upon which her brain might project areolas. Still, inefficiencies notwithstanding, April found she wanted to stay in the apartment as long as she could.
“If we’ve not expressed it before,” Olivier said. “We are quite grateful you made the journey over. We value your help. You certainly understand Continental furniture better than anyone in our office.”
“Merci beaucoup.” April said. “I’m glad to be here.”
Despite the compliment, April frowned. Distraction whirred around her head like crickets. Something was off. April’s brain felt thick, muddled, confused.
“Is it just me,” she started. “Or is the flat weird in some way…”
April looked over her shoulder and realized the problem with a jolt. The Boldini. It
I asked Émilie about this once. She demurred and pretended to not know. After baiting her multiple times (the dresses, they cannot afford those dresses on their wages, and what about the jewels? The rubies, the pearls, the diamonds!), she finally told me they were not prostitutes but instead demimondaines. Les demimondaine s. I am not sure precisely what this means but I aim to find out. It is a rather lovely word, isn’t it? Demimondaine. It sounds almost regal.
Part Deux
Chapitre XIX
Though April knew she was running late, she was still surprised to find Olivier already at the apartment. In Paris, New York City, and many less glamorous locales, April was always the first one in the office. Not that Marthe’s was merely a place of business , but April was a first-to-arrive-last-to-leave kind of person. Then again, it was rare for her to have jet lag, a mild hangover, and a century-old journal on loan so maybe these were somewhat extenuating circumstances.
“Bonjour,” April said as she tottered in on too-high heels. Given her questionable physical state and the jittery sugar rush, April should’ve stuck with her trusty flats. “How is everyone this morning?”
April extracted a napkin from her bag and set it, and her third coffee of the morning, atop the least-special-looking table in the room.
“Bonjour, Madame Vogt,” Olivier said. “Comment allez-vous?”
“Bien, et vous?”
“Bien.”
April glanced around and somehow, in the light of a different day, with a full night’s sleep behind her, the apartment appeared even more unwieldy. Yesterday April saw boundless treasures. She still saw the treasures, but they were mired in an impossible amount of work. Marthe must’ve quickly learned what a demimondaine was and put the knowledge to good use. April was not standing in the apartment of a barmaid.
“You look alarmed, Madame Vogt.”
“April. Please. Alarmed, no. It’s all a bit overwhelming, though.”
“Yes,” Olivier said. “We have a lot to accomplish.”
“To say the least. When do you plan to transfer the items to your office?” April flipped open her notepad. “What delivery service do you use? There’s one I used years ago; they were top-notch. I’ll have to see if they’re still around.”
Olivier shook his head.
“We won’t move anything until just prior to the viewings. We haven’t the room. Quite an astronomical number of things have come in over the past few months, and we don’t have space for Madame Quatremer’s belongings, too.”
Marthe’s belongings, April wanted to say. These were Marthe’s things. Madame Quatremer never wanted them, not for a single moment in all of seventy years.
“All right,” April said, unsure if this was good news or bad. “I guess we work here.”
The flat was beautiful, but haunting, inspiring, yet distracting. April was probably better off in the basement of an auction house, a place that did not have chandeliers upon which her brain might project areolas. Still, inefficiencies notwithstanding, April found she wanted to stay in the apartment as long as she could.
“If we’ve not expressed it before,” Olivier said. “We are quite grateful you made the journey over. We value your help. You certainly understand Continental furniture better than anyone in our office.”
“Merci beaucoup.” April said. “I’m glad to be here.”
Despite the compliment, April frowned. Distraction whirred around her head like crickets. Something was off. April’s brain felt thick, muddled, confused.
“Is it just me,” she started. “Or is the flat weird in some way…”
April looked over her shoulder and realized the problem with a jolt. The Boldini. It
Similar Books
