"Never!" Kelly said, scowling, helping Sophia set up the next trayful of cups.

The King burst out laughing and said, "Isn't it true that whoever wrote this is a conceited puppy?"

-TO P POMPONNE, DECEMBER 1664 THE ANNOUNCEMENTS CAME nearly simultaneously. Charles Legendre had been appointed curator of the Salle des Quatre Saisons, and a party celebrating its opening would be held two weeks hence. With Charles as curator, all foot-dragging ceased. He proved to be meticulously aware of schedules, of deadlines. Where Michael had once hounded Charles for help in getting things done, Charles now hounded Michael. nearly simultaneously. Charles Legendre had been appointed curator of the Salle des Quatre Saisons, and a party celebrating its opening would be held two weeks hence. With Charles as curator, all foot-dragging ceased. He proved to be meticulously aware of schedules, of deadlines. Where Michael had once hounded Charles for help in getting things done, Charles now hounded Michael.

"An opening in two weeks?" Michael asked. "That's too soon. I still haven't gotten the paintings I wanted..."

Charles leaned against his Marie Antoinette writing desk, managing to express immeasurable self-a.s.surance in his slouch. He c.o.c.ked one eyebrow. "You know the press has already criticized us for lateness in this matter. The Salle should be open to the public by now. Everyone wonders what has gone wrong, whether there has been a design fiasco. Don't you want to kill those rumors?" His eyes seemed focused on a point just above Michael's head; Michael figured he was envisioning an imaginary plaque listing his curators.h.i.+ps. With a few more, maybe he would be Minister of Culture one day.

"First I want to get The Sacrament of Extreme Unction The Sacrament of Extreme Unction," Michael said.

"That is out of the question," Charles said, his lips narrowing, reminding Michael of their original positions, with Michael asking and Charles saying no. "You may hang Apollo and Daphne Apollo and Daphne in the Salle. It is an equally wonderful example of Poussin's work." in the Salle. It is an equally wonderful example of Poussin's work."

"s.h.i.+t," Michael said. Through Anne he had come to learn that in the chess game he and Charles played, Sacrament Sacrament was king and was king and Apollo Apollo was a rook. He knew that for the Salle des Quatre Saisons to attract serious attention, it needed first-tier paintings by Poussin, who had had Louis XIV's support, and by la Tour, who had had Louis XV's. was a rook. He knew that for the Salle des Quatre Saisons to attract serious attention, it needed first-tier paintings by Poussin, who had had Louis XIV's support, and by la Tour, who had had Louis XV's. Apollo and Daphne Apollo and Daphne, lovely and moving as it was, was not strictly representative of Poussin's style. For one thing, it was set outdoors. For another, with its flocks and herds and nymphs, it had a more amiable feel than most Poussins.

"I do understand your displeasure," Charles said. "But it is out of my control."

"You have a lot riding on this," Michael said. "What are the critics going to say if we don't have that painting-or one like it?"

Charles nodded solemnly. But then a little blush crept up his neck, and a smile touched his lips. "It's Pierre, you see. He is so furious. You know, he really expected to be named curator of the Salle des Quatre Saisons. I said to him, 'Pierre, if the tables were turned, I would give you the painting.' He is holding on to it-just for spite! Can you imagine, he told some people that his appointment was a foregone conclusion?"

So, Didier had done more harm than good, Michael thought. It was never wise to flatter the ego of a pompous man. Neil Fallon had taught him that. Michael remembered a story Neil told about a funeral director with a fleet of limousines and hea.r.s.es.

The man smoked Havanas and drove a silver Cadillac and bored everyone with tales of his sons in medical school and his daughter the nun. He was taking bids from repair garages for the chance to service his vehicles. Neil, then a young man, hoped to befriend him and win his favor. He and Julia took the mortician and his wife to Patricia Murphy's for dinner several Friday nights. He sent ebony rosary beads to the man's daughter. He and Julia sat though each dinner listening to the mortician brag about his children and his business. Neil had subjected Julia to dinner conversation about coffins, embalming, hairdos for the dead, bereaved family members unwilling to part with a buck. He had felt confident he was winning the man's trust; years later he told Michael, laughing, that he had believed the mortician was beginning to consider him a son-one who had gone into business instead of medical school. Neil lost the bid.

"Gaston will come with his men tomorrow," Charles said. "To hang Apollo and Daphne Apollo and Daphne. Don't despair-it is a magnificent painting."

"Right," Michael said. He said good-bye and left the office. Usually while visiting the Louvre's third floor he stopped in to see Anne. But today he took the back stairs to the street and began to walk west along the Seine. He remembered coming along here, but in the opposite direction, with Lydie last spring. She had gotten a blister. He reached for his back pocket, where he kept his wallet. He was about to check whether he still had any Band-Aids for Lydie's tender feet, but he let his hand drop. This was the spot where she had stood on her toes to kiss him. Sometimes Michael imagined Lydie kissing someone else. If he ever actually saw her with another man, would it drive him home to her? He pondered the concept of "possession." If another man kissed her, would Lydie be more lost to Michael than she had been for the past year?

He cut through the Tuileries and walked up the rue Royale toward the Madeleine. Its Corinthian columns and clean lines gave it the look of a temple, more properly set in the Roman hills than this glitzy shopping street. He turned into the rue de l'Arcade and found his hotel.

"Bonjour," he said to the surly Algerian desk clerk, who handed him his key without a word. He mounted the stairs. Room 320 looked over a quiet, thoughtlessly landscaped courtyard behind the hotel. Michael loosened his tie, took off his shoes, and lay down on the bed. The voices, now familiar, of two neighborhood concierges drifted up. Michael closed his eyes and tried to block them out.

What was he doing, lying on a hotel bed in the middle of the afternoon? He hadn't slept last night. He had lain beside Anne, blinking into the canopy-swagged darkness, sweating. Yet seconds after he'd thrown off the covers, he'd begun to s.h.i.+ver. This had gone on all night. Somehow he had known he wouldn't get Sacrament Sacrament. Let it be Charles's problem, he tried to tell himself. Soon Michael would return to New York, where everyone would know him as the American who had worked on the Louvre. They wouldn't realize, as the French would, that his authority was insufficient to command the best Poussin to hang in his Salle.

The room was too bright. Michael propped himself up on his elbows, considered closing the room's metal shutters. He felt acutely aware of the fact that he was lying in a hotel room. Everything proclaimed it: the cheap furniture, the thin walls through which he could hear a maid cleaning the adjacent room, the extra towels stacked on the bureau. Michael had never thought he was the kind of guy who would end up living in a hotel. He had thought he was the kind of guy who would end up married to Lydie Fallon until one or both of them died.

Until Anne, Michael had never loved any woman but Lydie. His unrequited love for her had grown, secretly, in high school and ruined him for anyone else. It was a fact he hadn't realized until after he'd left her. Michael had dated many women and even lived with one: Jean-Marie Fitzgibbon. He had considered asking Jean-Marie to marry him. But then he and Lydie had met through work and taken that trip to Was.h.i.+ngton. Michael had then realized what he had been missing all along: Lydie. Not that Jean-Marie wasn't a great girl-she simply wasn't Lydie Fallon.

By sleeping with Lydie, falling in love with her, he had betrayed Jean-Marie. He remembered feeling that he had won something he had wanted for a long time. Lydie loving him made up for all the times she had turned him away in high school. So, on top of the euphoria of new love, Michael had felt like a victor. It was all false; he saw that now. He felt baffled and exhausted, defeated by the simple truth. For as much as he had loved Lydie then, he had wound up betraying her.

Late one afternoon the urge to clean set upon Lydie. She was sitting on the living room sofa, trying to write a letter to her mother, when it hit her: things were in piles all around her. Piles of unanswered and even unopened letters lay on the desk; piles of magazines tilted on tabletops; a pile of unfolded laundry covered the Barcalounger. She gathered the laundry into her arms and carried it into the bedroom.

It had been a white load: sheets, towels, and underwear. Folding it, she noticed straight off that all of the underwear was hers. Her skimpy silk bikini pants, a more substantial cotton pair, her underwire push-up bra-when she had worn that that last, Lydie couldn't begin to remember, figured that it must have been thrown into the wash accidentally. It had been a long time since she had folded white laundry without any of Michael's underwear in it. Yet surely she had washed clothes in the weeks he'd been gone? Suddenly she missed him so acutely she felt dizzy. last, Lydie couldn't begin to remember, figured that it must have been thrown into the wash accidentally. It had been a long time since she had folded white laundry without any of Michael's underwear in it. Yet surely she had washed clothes in the weeks he'd been gone? Suddenly she missed him so acutely she felt dizzy.

Placing the clean, folded things into her dresser drawer, her gaze lit on Michael's letter box. It sat on the dresser top. She couldn't resist tracing its glossy, lacquered surface with her fingertip. She found a couple of drips she hadn't sanded down. She touched the crescent moon and the plum tree, its blossom-stippled branches spreading across the river, and her fingers came away dusted with gold leaf.

It was full of love letters they had written to each other. She shuffled through them, all postmarked "New York." Some envelopes bore letterheads of the company she had worked for then. She opened one from Michael and read it with her heart in her throat.

"Making love last night made me wonder what kind of thrills you get driving a fast car. Is it at all the same? A sense of being nearly out of control while meanwhile staying very steady and alert? But as I write this, I'm answering my own question. It's not the same at all. Racing, you start out fast and stay fast and you have to keep control of the car every second. Last night, the way I remember it, we started out slow and didn't speed up for a long time-and while I remember staying sort of steady, I was at no time in control. But it was definitely more fun than I ever have at the track. All my love, Michael."

Lydie folded the letter, put it back into its envelope. She opened another, this one to Michael.

"It's great writing you a letter while knowing I'm going to see you tonight. Not that I've written any [here a letter that might have been an [here a letter that might have been an m m had been erased just before the "any"] had been erased just before the "any"] love letters before love letters before, but I'll bet there's usually a certain sadness in them. Because if you're writing a letter, it means your beloved is far away, right? I love knowing you're just six blocks uptown. Dad called me at work this morning and asked if I'd bring you home for dinner tonight. I told him no, I'm keeping you all to myself. He obviously thinks you're swell-a factor that has gone against many a boy, but not you! See you tonight-I hope you like our journey to Spain via my experiment in paella. But by the time you receive this, we'll know, won't we? Love, Lydie. but I'll bet there's usually a certain sadness in them. Because if you're writing a letter, it means your beloved is far away, right? I love knowing you're just six blocks uptown. Dad called me at work this morning and asked if I'd bring you home for dinner tonight. I told him no, I'm keeping you all to myself. He obviously thinks you're swell-a factor that has gone against many a boy, but not you! See you tonight-I hope you like our journey to Spain via my experiment in paella. But by the time you receive this, we'll know, won't we? Love, Lydie."

How shallow she sounded, Lydie thought, reading the words she'd written nine years ago. That cheap trick of turning "many" into "any"-she and Michael had been courting back then, and although she had certainly loved him, she had made him wait and wonder. And that business about her father. While it was true that any time he approved of a boy Lydie liked, Lydie would instantly lose interest, she couldn't believe she had tormented Michael with it. And yet, she had to admit, she liked the girl who had written that letter: confident and full of pizzazz.

Lydie had adored beards and long hair on men; her father wanted everyone to look like the Beach Boys. Lydie had a weak spot for unorthodox Catholic priests or men who had abandoned the faith. Her father saved his highest regard for men seen every Sunday at church with their families-as children with their parents, as adults with their wives and children.

Michael had fit none of those categories. He had long hair but no beard, he was a run-of-the-mill Catholic who went to church when he felt like it. Anytime he heard a song with an even slightly sad or wistful melody, he told Lydie it reminded him of her. Most of the songs were about things the singer wanted but couldn't have. "What Is Love" by George Harrison and "I Want You" by Dylan came to her mind. Sitting on their bed in Paris, Lydie smiled as she remembered taking Michael's hands, looking him straight in the eye, and telling him in a serious tone that the only song that reminded her of him was Billy Preston's "That's the Way G.o.d Planned It."

She closed the lid of Michael's letter box and replaced it on the dresser. The urge to clean had left her. Suddenly she wished she could get her hands on a race car. She imagined pulling up at the Hotel Grande Madeleine, honking her horn, opening the pa.s.senger door for Michael. Whipping out the Boulevard Haussmann to the Peripherique, and from there-who cares? Instead she reached for the phone and dialed the hotel's number. It was rather early in the evening, and she didn't actually expect Michael to answer.

"h.e.l.lo?" came Michael's voice after a delay.

"Did I wake you?" Lydie asked, suddenly feeling that unpleasant and recently familiar sense of shyness.

"No," he said. Then, "Yeah, you did. But that's okay. I should be getting up."

Lydie glanced at her watch. "Are you sick or something?"

"Just tired. I've been busy at work. How are you? Is something wrong?"

"No. I just wanted to..." To what? she wondered. "Talk," she finished awkwardly. After a pause she said, "Actually I wanted to take a drive-in a hot car. But I have no idea where to get one."

"You could probably rent one," Michael said.

Lydie laughed. "I can just imagine calling Hertz-'Hi, do you have a regulation Chevy for hire?'"

"Right. 'Forget the unlimited mileage, just point me toward the nearest track,'" Michael said, sounding as if he were waking up.

"Can you believe Le Mans is just about an hour away and I haven't even been?" Lydie said. "I should at least make a visit, to pay homage."

"You should. It would be like a psychiatrist visiting Vienna without a stop at Freud's house in the Bergga.s.se."

"How would you know where Freud's house is?" Lydie asked.

"Didn't you see the article about Vienna in the Tribune Tribune? I thought you'd like the part about the Habsburg b.a.l.l.s. You know, I thought it might inspire you for Didier's."

"I didn't see it," Lydie said.

"Well, I'll send it to you."

Lydie was silent, digesting the fact Michael had said "send" instead of "bring." On the other hand, she had been rejecting his invitations all along. "That would be nice," she said after a while.

"How's it coming-the ball?" Michael asked.

"Really well. But there's still a lot to do for it."

"What'll you do when it's over? Do you have other projects lined up?"

"I'm going back to New York," Lydie said. "I'm taking Kelly Merida with me."

"My time here isn't up till mid-October," Michael said sharply.

What does that have to do with anything? Lydie thought with a certain bitterness. "I'm tempted to say 'So what?'" she said.

"I don't know," Michael said. "Never mind."

"I wasn't even sure you planned to leave," Lydie said. "With your big success at the Louvre and everything else."

Michael laughed. "My big success is not so big. Everything has turned out 'okay,' but just just okay. I didn't get the paintings I want, the new curator is grabbing all the credit and trying to take over the final details. It's a big mess." He laughed again. "After that great lead-in, I have something to ask you. Will you come to the opening? It's in a week." okay. I didn't get the paintings I want, the new curator is grabbing all the credit and trying to take over the final details. It's a big mess." He laughed again. "After that great lead-in, I have something to ask you. Will you come to the opening? It's in a week."

"The opening party?" Lydie said. She felt excited to be asked-how could she miss it, after all? But it was another official event, like the emba.s.sy party, where she'd be appearing as a figurehead wife. "I don't think so."

"I wish you would," Michael said. "I really want you to be there. Come on-"

Lydie hesitated because he sounded like he meant it. "I don't think so," she said again.

"I really thought you would," Michael said. "You call me up talking about a fast car-I really thought you'd go for it."

"Go for what?" Lydie asked.

"I thought you might take a chance. Take a chance and spend an important night with your husband."

"Who walked out on who here?" Lydie asked, her temper rising. "What about the un unimportant nights?"

"Listen, Lydie-" Michael said. "I thought you'd want want to come to my opening. I suppose you're not going to invite me to the ball." to come to my opening. I suppose you're not going to invite me to the ball."

"I haven't decided," Lydie said, although until that moment she had intended to invite him.

"Thanks, Lydie." Long pause, then, coolly, "Are you asking someone else?"

"That's your style, not mine," Lydie said.

"s.h.i.+t," Michael said.

"I have to go now," Lydie said.

"This Kelly Merida thing-" Michael said. "I suppose you're investing all your energy in her now?"

"Not really," Lydie said, surprised by his vehemence. "But what if I were?"

"Your father used to say your own grades went downhill when you started spending all your time tutoring."

"My father was full of s.h.i.+t," Lydie said, hanging up on Michael. She sat there, staring at the phone, all the confidence and good feeling draining out of her, and she knew she was right back where she had been before she opened Michael's letter box and started reading.

I am off to take my little girl to Livry. Don't worry about her at all, I look after her extremely well and I'm sure I love her much more than you do.

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, JULY 1672 PATRICE STUDIED THE place card Lydie had just lettered. Now, why was it so much better than the ones Patrice had done? Lydie's had flair, the way her letters swooped and flowed. They weren't nearly so neat, so symmetrical, as Patrice's, but they were undeniably more distinguished. What a waste, that stupid calligraphy cla.s.s Patrice had taken on Sat.u.r.day mornings at the Boston Y all during seventh grade. "It will come in so handy, all through your life," Eliza had said, obviously having graduation and wedding invitations in mind. Yet this was the first chance Patrice had had to use the so-called art. place card Lydie had just lettered. Now, why was it so much better than the ones Patrice had done? Lydie's had flair, the way her letters swooped and flowed. They weren't nearly so neat, so symmetrical, as Patrice's, but they were undeniably more distinguished. What a waste, that stupid calligraphy cla.s.s Patrice had taken on Sat.u.r.day mornings at the Boston Y all during seventh grade. "It will come in so handy, all through your life," Eliza had said, obviously having graduation and wedding invitations in mind. Yet this was the first chance Patrice had had to use the so-called art.

Well, she wasn't creative; she had never claimed to be. She sat back in the armchair at the head of Lydie's dining table, watched Lydie hunched over the little cream-colored card. They had been tentative with each other since Lydie had made her announcement about Kelly's pet.i.tion. Patrice wanted very much to overcome her hurt feelings and open her heart to Lydie. "I want to be there be there for you," she imagined best friends saying to one another, soulfully, in California. But she and Lydie were just two East Coast girls transplanted to Paris. She thought of the invitation she and Didier had received to Michael's opening and wondered why Lydie hadn't mentioned it. for you," she imagined best friends saying to one another, soulfully, in California. But she and Lydie were just two East Coast girls transplanted to Paris. She thought of the invitation she and Didier had received to Michael's opening and wondered why Lydie hadn't mentioned it.

"Mind if I smoke?" Patrice said.

"Go ahead," Lydie said, not looking up. "This is the third countess I've made a card for."

"Don't I know it," Patrice said. "Didier's inviting all the big guns to this thing. And of course they're all so excited about the media media attention. I mean, I think Didier has led them to believe the photographers will be from attention. I mean, I think Didier has led them to believe the photographers will be from Women's Wear Daily Women's Wear Daily instead of an ad agency. They're bringing their own hairdressers and makeup artists. Give me a break." instead of an ad agency. They're bringing their own hairdressers and makeup artists. Give me a break."

"Actually, that will make my life easier," Lydie said. "I won't have to hire a beauty crew." She set Countess Abelard's card aside, started another.

"You're a regular handwriting factory," Patrice said.

"Only two hundred more to do," Lydie said, laying down the crow-quill pen. "I thought we were going to keep this down. How is Didier's insurance company going to feel about flas.h.i.+ng his jewels around all these people?"

"You know only a select few select few will be chosen to actually wear the d'Origny baubles. Everyone else will mill attractively about in the background." will be chosen to actually wear the d'Origny baubles. Everyone else will mill attractively about in the background."

"I know, but still. I'm getting nervous I won't order enough food."

"Well, make sure," Patrice said. "It isn't like America where the chic party girls just pick at their food-over here they actually eat it."

"Okay."

"Have you heard how Michael's project is coming along?" Patrice asked. It seemed the only delicate way to learn whether he had invited Lydie to the opening.

"It's nearly done," Lydie said. "I'm surprised he hasn't invited you to the opening."

"Well, he did," Patrice said, relieved to have it off her chest. "I've been wondering why you haven't mentioned it. He did invite you?"

"Yes," Lydie said. "I told him I wasn't going, but now I want to. I change my mind every ten minutes."

"What's the problem about going? Why wouldn't you want to?"

"Because I've been to it a thousand times-in my mind. Sometimes I go, and everyone whispers about me because Michael and I are separated and he's there with his girlfriend. Sometimes he's there with her, but I walk in wearing something new by Sonia Rykiel, and everyone scorns him for leaving such a gorgeous creature as myself."

"That's a good one," Patrice said, giggling. She thought of her own favorite fantasy: the moment when President Mitterand pins the Legion d'honneur to her bosom in recognition of her enlightening study, The Fourth Woman of the Marais The Fourth Woman of the Marais, with Didier's sister Clothilde looking on. If Liz Taylor could win one, why not Patrice?

"The reason I'm not going is because of what I really hope will happen," Lydie said. "That I'll walk in and see him with her and at that moment he'll realize who he really loves: me."