kept moving us farther away from the gaping, wounded window. In the pandemonium around us, people pushed over chairs and tables, breaking china and glass as they rushed to get out of the path of what they expected to come.
“It is all right, Messieurs, Mesdames,” the restaurant manager was shouting over the din. “All is fine. It was only a rock. Not a bomb. Not a bomb. Please, everyone. No reason to panic. Brandy for everyone. Take your seats. Please, everyone, please, there’s no reason to panic.”
The guests were becoming aware of what he was saying.
“Not a bomb.”
“A rock? Someone threw a rock?”
“Why?”
People gathered around the manager, peppering him with questions.
“Not a bomb. Just a rock with a note wrapped around it.” He held it up.
Beside me, my grandmother, who was holding my arm, leaned very close and whispered in my ear: “I was warning you just when it happened, wasn’t I? Telling you that we’re cursed. Just at that moment. You see? Just as I was about to tell you that love is what she wants and what you can never give her.”
But I wasn’t thinking about the curse. Wasn’t wondering who she was. My grandmother had grabbed me and told me to get up moments before the window smashed. How had she known what was about to happen?
Chapter 8
I didn’t dream of angry mobs or bombings or men destroying beautiful things. For the second night in a row, ever since I’d discovered the hidden studio in the bell tower at Maison de la Lune, I dreamed that I was a painter. I saw my canvases: dark and mysterious visions of winged creatures and women with bloodred lips and fiery auburn hair. And while I slept, I was happy—happier than I could ever remember being.
I woke the morning after the incident at Le Grand Véfour determined to do something about my dreams. After all, I was in Paris. The mecca of artists from all over the world. The home of Ingres, and David, Poussin, Millet, Georges de La Tour, and more. And now the very capital of impressionism and symbolism.
The finest art school was only blocks from our apartment. Of course I would take lessons. Just because I’d failed during my one try at school didn’t mean I couldn’t learn. Besides, now that the count was back in residence in Paris, my grandmother was too busy for us to spend every afternoon together. Certainly, I could occupy my time reading or visiting museums on my own . . . or I could try my hand at creating something.
When I went downstairs that morning, my grandmother was readying to leave—to visit her milliner, she said, and then meet the count for a shopping excursion.
“What will you do today?” she asked me with a little nervous catch in her throat. I knew she was worried about me.
I could have told her, but I held back. I wanted to find out what the requirements were to attend art school and then surprise her with how enterprising I was. While I was sure she’d be delighted that I had decided to do something with my time, I wasn’t sure she’d embrace my choice. My father had said she had many superstitions about women in our family; one was about them going into the arts. I’d never thought much about it before, but it made me even more hesitant to tell her my plans until they were a fait accompli .
I left shortly after she did. The day was cold, and carriages crowded the streets. People were moving more quickly than normal; horses snorted white breaths as they pulled their cabs. Heading north toward rue de Grenelle, I made a left onto rue Saint-Guillaume, a right onto rue Perronet, and then a left onto rue des Saints-Pères. The school was around the corner. I had made a mistake choosing this route. It took me right past my grandmother’s house.
As I looked, I saw her emerging through the Maison de la Lune porte cochère. With her was Monsieur Duplessi.
I prayed he wouldn’t notice me, or if he did, not let on that I’d visited the house, met her architect, disobeyed her wishes.
Once they
“It is all right, Messieurs, Mesdames,” the restaurant manager was shouting over the din. “All is fine. It was only a rock. Not a bomb. Not a bomb. Please, everyone. No reason to panic. Brandy for everyone. Take your seats. Please, everyone, please, there’s no reason to panic.”
The guests were becoming aware of what he was saying.
“Not a bomb.”
“A rock? Someone threw a rock?”
“Why?”
People gathered around the manager, peppering him with questions.
“Not a bomb. Just a rock with a note wrapped around it.” He held it up.
Beside me, my grandmother, who was holding my arm, leaned very close and whispered in my ear: “I was warning you just when it happened, wasn’t I? Telling you that we’re cursed. Just at that moment. You see? Just as I was about to tell you that love is what she wants and what you can never give her.”
But I wasn’t thinking about the curse. Wasn’t wondering who she was. My grandmother had grabbed me and told me to get up moments before the window smashed. How had she known what was about to happen?
Chapter 8
I didn’t dream of angry mobs or bombings or men destroying beautiful things. For the second night in a row, ever since I’d discovered the hidden studio in the bell tower at Maison de la Lune, I dreamed that I was a painter. I saw my canvases: dark and mysterious visions of winged creatures and women with bloodred lips and fiery auburn hair. And while I slept, I was happy—happier than I could ever remember being.
I woke the morning after the incident at Le Grand Véfour determined to do something about my dreams. After all, I was in Paris. The mecca of artists from all over the world. The home of Ingres, and David, Poussin, Millet, Georges de La Tour, and more. And now the very capital of impressionism and symbolism.
The finest art school was only blocks from our apartment. Of course I would take lessons. Just because I’d failed during my one try at school didn’t mean I couldn’t learn. Besides, now that the count was back in residence in Paris, my grandmother was too busy for us to spend every afternoon together. Certainly, I could occupy my time reading or visiting museums on my own . . . or I could try my hand at creating something.
When I went downstairs that morning, my grandmother was readying to leave—to visit her milliner, she said, and then meet the count for a shopping excursion.
“What will you do today?” she asked me with a little nervous catch in her throat. I knew she was worried about me.
I could have told her, but I held back. I wanted to find out what the requirements were to attend art school and then surprise her with how enterprising I was. While I was sure she’d be delighted that I had decided to do something with my time, I wasn’t sure she’d embrace my choice. My father had said she had many superstitions about women in our family; one was about them going into the arts. I’d never thought much about it before, but it made me even more hesitant to tell her my plans until they were a fait accompli .
I left shortly after she did. The day was cold, and carriages crowded the streets. People were moving more quickly than normal; horses snorted white breaths as they pulled their cabs. Heading north toward rue de Grenelle, I made a left onto rue Saint-Guillaume, a right onto rue Perronet, and then a left onto rue des Saints-Pères. The school was around the corner. I had made a mistake choosing this route. It took me right past my grandmother’s house.
As I looked, I saw her emerging through the Maison de la Lune porte cochère. With her was Monsieur Duplessi.
I prayed he wouldn’t notice me, or if he did, not let on that I’d visited the house, met her architect, disobeyed her wishes.
Once they
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