"The one who looks like a Minister."

"Yes?"

"He's Jacques de Vauvray, the Minister of Culture. The guy he's standing with-the stumpy one? He's Pierre Dauphin, a sort-of friend of Didier's."

"I think I've heard Michael mention him," Lydie said. She could see Michael now, talking to a man covered with war decorations. By the way he edged back, she knew he had seen her and was trying to end the conversation. "Here he comes," she said.

"Did I say I need to use the ladies' room?" Patrice asked diplomatically, but Michael had already joined them.

"h.e.l.lo," he said. The moment was awkward. He should have kissed Patrice's cheeks, but how could he do that without kissing Lydie?

"It's wonderful," Lydie said of the Salle. "I love that painting." Michael glanced up at Apollo and Daphne Apollo and Daphne. He had had his hair cut for the occasion. Was it Lydie's imagination, or was that hair oil? She had never seen him use it before, but she thought he looked handsome, his wavy hair slightly slicked back, like someone from the Lost Generation. "The painting was my second choice," he said.

He wore a double-breasted pinstriped suit that looked extremely European compared to his usual single-breasted blazers from Brooks Brothers or J. Press. His shoes were not shoes at all, but boots boots. Ankle-high black boots with slightly pointed toes: Italian jodhpur boots. Lydie could hardly believe it. She had a clinical urge to engage him in conversation-like a graduate student doing research to learn how deeply he had changed-but she felt speechless.

"This is the most fantastic information center I have ever seen," Patrice said. "It's beautiful and and informative. I do have one question, though: where's the ladies' room?" informative. I do have one question, though: where's the ladies' room?"

"Through that door," Michael said, pointing.

As Patrice walked away, Lydie resumed watching Michael.

"So, you like it?" he asked.

"Yes-a lot," she said. She knew she should tell him what what she liked and she liked and why why, but she felt totally captivated by his personal affects: hair, clothes, shoes.

"Didier's kept me up-to-date on the ball," Michael said, "but what's happening with Kelly?"

"She'll be interviewed at the emba.s.sy soon," Lydie said. "Can I ask-is that hair oil you're wearing?"

"Greasy kid stuff," Michael said, grinning.

"No kidding," she said. "It looks good."

"There'll be pictures later, and I didn't want to look too American. Give the journalists fuel for their fire."

Now Lydie looked around. She found the Salle very comfortable and harmonious, the paintings well positioned, the information table solid and authentic. "Why are you worried?" she asked. "This place does just what it should do: it provides information in a gallery atmosphere. If there's a long line at the information desk, people can look around at the paintings."

"That was the idea," Michael said. "I'm glad you think it works."

Under cover of social pleasantries, pa.s.sionate looks were pa.s.sing between Lydie and Michael. She felt a burning desire to touch his hand. She wanted him to bend her over backwards in a long kiss. It hit her hard, the fact that everything that had happened might be worth it if they could fall in love all over again. How many couples, after all this time, had the chance to feel the intensity of new love?

"Can I get you something?" Michael asked. "How about a gla.s.s of champagne?"

"Sure," Lydie said. "That would be fine."

As he walked away, Lydie surveyed the room. There, in the corner, was Patrice talking to Anne Dumas. The sight of them, her tall friend and the dwarfish home-wrecker, brought Lydie out of the romantic mist. She watched them, chatting like two old friends, and felt a variety of things: hatred for Anne, fury at Patrice for being civil to her, curiosity for what they were talking about. Michael came back with the drinks.

Lydie accepted the champagne and drank a sip of it. She had known this would likely happen, that the possibility of running into Anne Dumas was strong. She felt her teeth against the gla.s.s.

"Don't let it upset you, Lydie," Michael said, following her eyes. "She works here. I couldn't tell her not to come."

"I know," she said.

"I wanted you to come," Michael said. "You know I did."

"Yes," Lydie said. Here she stood in the Salle des Quatre Saisons, at a celebration of Michael's work-their reason, after all, for coming to France-and she could speak only in monosyllables.

"Let's go over there," Michael said. "I'd like to introduce you to Charles Legendre."

Lydie smiled at him. "I'd rather not meet him right now," she said. "In fact, I'm about to leave." She felt tempted to stay, but sticking to her original plan made her feel more in control.

"Aw, Lydie," Michael said.

She smiled again, at the idea that such a das.h.i.+ng guy, so elegant and European in style, could say "Aw, Lydie."

"You sound just like a country boy," she said.

"I have to stay," Michael said. "I'd like to come with you...where are you going?"

"I'm going to walk home. Will you tell the d'Orignys for me?"

"Yes," Michael said. And although it had been too awkward to kiss her h.e.l.lo, he kissed her good-bye.

Exiting the Louvre, Lydie knew she wouldn't have left if she thought there was a chance Michael would go home with Anne. She wondered what Patrice had been talking to her about. The history of the Marais, probably. Turning right to walk home along the Seine, she discovered that she didn't care. Hardly at all.

Patrice had the uncomfortable sense of not simply praising Anne Dumas's work, but of gus.h.i.+ng. "I'm positively captivated," she said, for measure. She cast a sidelong glance at Michael and Lydie, felt unhappy to see that they were looking in her direction.

"What 'captivates' you?" Anne asked, dimpling.

"Oh, the way you make those seventeenth-century women seem so modern. I feel absolutely d'accord d'accord with them." with them."

Now Anne frowned. "You cannot possibly feel d'accord d'accord with all three. When they were at such obvious odds." with all three. When they were at such obvious odds."

"It's true," Patrice agreed. "The n.o.blewoman, the courtesan, and the murderer. Which is your favorite?"

"Madame de Sevigne, of course. Though I admit to a certain fascination with Ninon de Lenclos. By the age of thirty, Ninon was famous as an intellectual and as an advocate of women's rights. Her opinions in matters of s.e.x and religion were totally avant-garde. Members of the King's court frequented her salon."

"But Ninon stole Madame de Sevigne's husband," Patrice said, watching for Anne's reaction. She could not stop imagining Anne in bed with Michael. She was so adorable, with those tiny features that all seemed somehow upturned: her nose, the smiling corners of her eyes, her bow mouth with the sensual lower lip. Her full hair, brushed up and held in place with a silk headband, was expertly tinted to look sun-lightened. Her rose suede miniskirt was too short for this season, but Anne had the girlishness to carry it off.

Anne waved her small hand in a scoffing manner. "She could have had any lover," she said. "Men were terribly suspicious of Ninon, you know. Louis XIV had her watched by spies-a feminist in seventeenth-century France was dangerous, indeed. Especially one with as many eminent lovers as Ninon had."

Patrice recalled an anecdote presented by Anne in Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais. Cardinal Richelieu offered Ninon nearly a million dollars to become his mistress. She declined "because if he pleased me, the sum would be exorbitant, and if he displeased me, the sum would be insufficient." Patrice felt somewhat daring, like a spy herself, engaging Anne in a conversation about love in the seventeenth century while Lydie was over there talking with Michael. She glanced across the room, to see how it was going, but Lydie was gone.

"Oh," she said, frowning.

"Pardon?" Anne said.

"Wasn't Ninon racy?" Patrice asked.

"I see that you are watching the McBrides," Anne said bluntly.

Patrice looked around, in case she had missed them. But they definitely had left. No, there was Michael, without Lydie, talking to Didier at the buffet table. "I was thinking of joining them," Patrice said, now feeling awkward. With her uncanny perception, Anne reminded Patrice of a cross between a mind-reader and a schizophrenic.

"Isn't he a talented man!" Anne said, dimpling again.

"Well, she's just as talented," Patrice said forcefully, leaving no doubt. "She's staging an incredible ball at Chateau Bellecha.s.se, which, as you must know, is a gem of eighteenth-century architecture."

"Well, eighteenth century," Anne said, scoffing. Her gaze enveloped the Salle, taking everything in. "Now, this this is a marvel. I feel all of the seventeenth century in this room, as concentrated as bouillon. I feel that I can almost drink it." is a marvel. I feel all of the seventeenth century in this room, as concentrated as bouillon. I feel that I can almost drink it."

"It is superb," Patrice agreed. At that instant she made a wish: that Lydie's ball would be superb, that it would outs.h.i.+ne Michael's triumph. Where Patrice had once thought of it only as the "d'Origny ball," she found herself thinking of it more often as "Lydie's ball." What did that mean? Lydie was the artist, but Didier was putting up the money and the jewels. As an only child, Patrice had long found it hard to turn the spotlight on someone else. But she felt she was doing it now: making Lydie s.h.i.+ne. She felt like a magician doing sleight of hand. Illuminating Lydie for Michael and the public while at the same time s.h.i.+elding her from Anne.

Thus, it shocked and dismayed Patrice when, twenty minutes later, Michael reported that Lydie had left. Patrice ate some hors d'oeuvres and made small talk with Pierre and Giselle Dauphin. As soon as she and Didier arrived home, she telephoned Lydie.

"You couldn't even say good-bye?" Patrice asked, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice.

"You were talking to Anne Dumas," Lydie said. "I'm really sorry. I told Michael to say good-bye for me."

"Well, he did," Patrice said, unable to define the source of her disappointment. "You didn't have to leave, you know. It was obvious Michael wants to be with you."

"I couldn't stand seeing her. What were you two so intent on?"

"The seventeenth century," Patrice said. "I was keeping her out of your hair." Then it dawned on her: she had been distracting Anne Dumas, a woman whom she had admired for longer than she had known Lydie, in order to protect Lydie. And she felt annoyed with Lydie for not acting appropriately grateful.

"The seventeenth century, well..." Lydie said. "She must be crazy about the Salle des Quatre Saisons. Isn't it great?"

"Great," Patrice said. "What did you and the architect have to say?"

Lydie was silent, but Patrice could almost hear her smiling. "It's getting better," she said after a moment.

"Lovely," Patrice said, now even more annoyed with Lydie for keeping her conversation with Michael such a big secret. "Should we plan tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Isn't tomorrow our little pilgrim's big day? Her interview?"

"Of course," Lydie said. "Two o'clock? Near Smith's?"

"See you there," Patrice said. She felt deflated. She felt herself collapsing inward, like an empty corn husk. She hadn't harbored a mean thought toward Kelly for quite some time, but here she was wondering what embarra.s.sing thing Kelly would choose to wear tomorrow.

She stretched out on her chaise longue. Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais lay open across the tufted arm. She tried to close it, but it had lain there for so long it seemed permanently divided at page 340 into two sections. Lydie, no, lay open across the tufted arm. She tried to close it, but it had lain there for so long it seemed permanently divided at page 340 into two sections. Lydie, no, events events, had taken away her pleasure in reading it. She thought of Lydie, alone in her apartment, a thrilling little smile on her face. She could imagine Lydie reliving her meeting with Michael, her imagination listening for what he had said, fathoming what he had not. Lydie, Patrice felt sure, was in the throes of love.

"h.e.l.lo, my baby," Didier said in his soft, low voice. He sat at the end of the chaise and commenced rubbing Patrice's feet.

"Hi," she said.

"You look so far away," he said. "What is bothering you?"

"Nothing," Patrice said, then, "Do you think I'm interesting enough?"

Didier frowned. He stopped rubbing her foot, held it lightly in his hand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, am I boring because I don't have work like Lydie's?"

Didier resumed his ma.s.sage, and his face relaxed. "If you were any more interesting, I would have to quit my job. You are the most fascinating woman I know."

He had said that before, but Patrice had never quite believed it. Now, at his obvious sincerity, she felt her throat tighten. Here with her husband in their ancient house, in a foreign country, for the first time in her life, Patrice felt secure. She didn't believe that she was fascinating, but she knew that Didier believed it. She could see it in his eyes, eyes that tended to smile even in repose. She gazed at him, her Frenchman, whose tan and weathered face gave him more the look of a mountaineer than a businessman, and she let him rub her foot.

Lydie and Kelly stood on the rue de Rivoli, scanning the Tuileries. Lydie wore her most businesslike blue suit. Kelly wore a plaid wool skirt and white blouse and a black jacket Patrice had loaned her to go on top.

"Don't be so nervous, Kelly," Lydie said. "She'll be here in a minute."

Kelly glanced over her shoulder, at the armed soldier who stood at the corner of rue Cambon. "But we must go. We should be in line."

Lydie laughed, touched her shoulder in an attempt to calm her. "There will be no line. You have an appointment. We're thirty minutes early." She checked her watch. She herself was beginning to feel a little anxious; Patrice was ten minutes late. But here she came, waving, breaking into a run.

"Whew," Patrice said, kissing Lydie's cheeks.

"h.e.l.lo, Mum," Kelly said shyly.

"Hi, Kelly."

"Shall we run though the routine?" Lydie asked. "Let's sit on that bench."

"I think we should go," Kelly said. "We can't be late."

"It's a two-minute walk," Patrice said, smiling gently, the way a parent might smile at a nervous child. "Relax, okay? Lydie and I want to rehea.r.s.e with you."

Kelly smiled. "I have always rehea.r.s.ed for this day. When I was thirteen my sister and I played American Emba.s.sy."

"Let's rehea.r.s.e," Patrice repeated.

Kelly pursed her lips, but she relented. Lydie had known she would, but it worried her instead of pleasing her. If Kelly could be a.s.sertive with Lydie and Patrice, perhaps she would have a better chance with the consular officer.

"Pretend I'm the interviewer, okay?" Patrice asked. She cleared her throat and made her expression very cross, making Kelly laugh a little.

"Tell me, Miss Merida," she said. "What do you do for a living?"

"I am the a.s.sistant to Mrs. Lydie McBride," Kelly said proudly, her spine erect.

"And what does Mrs. McBride do?"

"She is a shopper. I mean, she is a stylist." Kelly reddened at the mistake, glanced apologetically at Lydie.

"That's all right," Lydie said.