"Ah, yes," Charles had said, his hands folded as he gazed upon the tableau. "Pierre Dauphin counts that among his favorites. Good luck to you, persuading him to let you have it. But of course you must try. Isn't that a charming Wando?"

"It is," Michael had said. But who had ever heard of Wando? The card beside the painting identified Giancarlo Wando as a Milanese who came to Paris in 1672. Michael wanted at least two important seventeenth-century works-by the likes of Poussin and la Tour. At the time he had thought Charles's motives were innocent. Months later, however, the scene reminded him of his older brother Jack, of a McBride family vacation on Cape Cod, when Jack had tried to trick Michael into wanting the second-best bike: "That red one's sharp, isn't it? With the chrome mud guard. You want the red one, Mike?" Later, wobbling down the sandy road, Michael had discovered what Jack had seen instantly: the rear wheel was out of whack, possibly run over by a car.

Now, sitting opposite Charles in his third-floor office, Michael was on guard. Charles believed in his own charm. Even while sabotaging Michael every step of the way, he managed to keep a smile on his handsome, tan face.

"Your plans are marvelous," Charles said.

"That's all they are-plans," Michael said. "When can I start construction?"

Charles shrugged; as he did, he noticed a white thread dangling from his right s.h.i.+rt cuff. He frowned. He grabbed it with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then, holding the thread, he used his right hand to open his desk drawer. He extracted a pair of tiny gold scissors. Carefully resting his right hand on his leather blotter, he snipped the thread. He placed it in his crystal pencil tray for later disposal.

Michael watched the operation, growing hotter and hotter. Fop Fop, he thought again. "Well?" he said. "Can you explain to me why it's taking so long?"

"The Louvre is a museum of many departments, each with its own methods of operation. Additionally, it is an inst.i.tution of the government of France. No less than the a.s.semblee Nationale or the Elysee Palace. You cannot expect to impose your plans on such a place without appropriate scrutiny and discussion." Charles said this with an air of national pride that tightened his nostrils and turned down the corners of his mouth.

"Who's doing the scrutinizing and discussing?" Michael asked.

"I, as curator of seventeenth-century paintings, and as your liaison officer, play a role," Charles said. "The Minister of Culture, of course. Even the Prime Minister. You should be honored that the Prime Minister is considering your plans."

"Why can't I hire the people I need? That way, when the approval is given, they'll be ready to go. I'd like to get a team together."

"Because, Michael," Charles said patiently, as if Michael were an idiot, "you would have to pay these people. Even if your plans are never approved, the members of your team would be on the payroll of the French government. And it would be impossible to ever get them off."

"Okay," Michael said. "I won't actually engage engage anyone. But I've talked to masons and painters, and I'd like to-in a tentative way-ask them to set time aside for me. Just in case I'm told I can proceed." anyone. But I've talked to masons and painters, and I'd like to-in a tentative way-ask them to set time aside for me. Just in case I'm told I can proceed."

Charles shrugged. "I cannot stop you. But I cannot permit you to do this in the name of France and the Louvre. You will have to do it in the name of Michael McBride which, without intending offense, may not be enough to persuade artisans to pa.s.s up other, certain, projects."

"That's fair," Michael said, wanting to draw Charles's significant tie into a tighter and tighter knot and choke the smug smile off his thin lips. "I have another question for you. Why are you holding up the Poussin?"

"Pierre Dauphin will not give it up. If it were up to me..."

"I've been told it is is up to you. You're the curator of the seventeenth century." up to you. You're the curator of the seventeenth century."

"Yes, but it hangs in Pierre's gallery. He is the curator of the Salle Hubert."

What a racket, Michael thought. One guy was curator of the walls, another was curator of the paintings that hung on the walls. George Reed believed that Charles had ultimate control, but he was not certain because none of the French authorities were positive themselves. One minister had told George that if he wanted to be sure, he would have to read Louis XIV's original charter.

"I've heard you have more clout than Pierre," Michael said. "You can give me that Poussin if you want to."

"And where will you hang it?" Charles asked, leaning forward.

"Good point," Michael said, feeling he'd just been beaten in chess. "But when the time comes, will you give it to me?"

"You'll have to take that up with Pierre," Charles said, closing the subject. Michael stood to leave. "You've been enjoying your time in Paris?" Charles asked.

"It's been swell," Michael said. He shook Charles's hand and left.

Michael had had his share of professional disappointments and setbacks, but nothing had prepared him for this bureaucratic stonewalling. He could understand the tangle of rules and personalities and government agencies; he could even accept it. What infuriated him was a deepening belief that the French authorities were enjoying his dilemma. He felt in some ways hampered by the differences of culture; if Charles were American, Michael could imagine talking to him frankly. Yet wasn't that what he had done? Running over the conversation in his mind, he decided that the problem had been Charles's responses.

Charles wouldn't know a frank response if it bit him in the a.s.s. Michael mistrusted any guy who took as long to dress as Charles obviously did. Could his eyelashes be that dark naturally? Walking the corridor that ran the length of the third floor, Michael knew he was thinking like an a.s.shole. He pa.s.sed the offices of other curators; glancing into one open door, he saw windows that gave onto the Seine and the Left Bank. Just before he reached the stairs, he heard Anne's voice.

Michael stopped dead. The mere sound of her voice made his heart beat faster. So this was where she worked. Every day she pa.s.sed him downstairs; they would talk for a minute or two, or wave, and that was all. He tried to see inside, but her door was open only a crack. A male voice answered her. Michael did not think it could be Jean; the accent was too refined. He leaned against the stone wall. It felt smooth and cool, and it stung Michael like an electric shock. He was jealous of a faceless voice. The realization disgusted him, and he hurried down the stairs.

Patrice had harbored a curiosity about Lydie's work since meeting her, so she felt especially eager to watch Lydie in action on what Lydie was calling "the rose project." They strolled together through the Bagatelle. Although it was early morning, the heat flourished. Patrice realized that Lydie had hoped for mist, but what she had was steam. Patrice found the setting relaxing. Songbirds in the trees, roses everywhere. But Lydie moved with such purpose, obviously working, that Patrice didn't want to interrupt her by spouting pleasantries.

"This idea might be a flop," Lydie said, reaching into her bag for an antique doily. She scanned the closest bush for the perfect rose on which to place it.

"Isn't that pretty?" Patrice said.

"Martine!" Lydie called the photographer and her a.s.sistant and spoke to them in French. "Will you shoot this, please? No, into the sun-make it hazy."

"Soft focus?" the photographer asked.

"No, sharp," Lydie said. "Let the light soften it for you."

Lydie arranged the linens, and Martine took pictures of them, angling the shots from above or below, depending on Lydie's direction. Patrice reached for a linen napkin, slightly yellow with age. If it had ever been folded, the creases had been pressed out of it. That made her think of Kelly, of the pile of ironing Patrice had left her to do. When Kelly ironed a sheet, her expression looked as solemn, as intent as Lydie's did now. Yet how could she compare Lydie's job with Kelly's drudge work? Days had pa.s.sed since Kelly's last session on the computer. Patrice sensed, uneasily, that since Lydie's arrival on the scene, she had begun neglecting Kelly.

A rose garden seemed the perfect place for Lydie to be, Lydie with her translucent white skin and fine copper hair. Patrice felt so big beside her, but she was spared a true feeling of insecurity by the knowledge that her own sundress, from St. Laurent, was a bit better than Lydie's, from Tiktiner. She felt that they had just arrived, but Lydie already seemed to be wrapping things up. Yet when she checked her watch, she saw that fifty minutes had pa.s.sed.

"Four rolls of film should be plenty," Lydie said. "Were you bored?" Martine had moved to the shade of an oak tree, to pack her camera cases and drink some orangeade. Lydie tipped the thermos, handed Patrice a cupful.

"Not at all." Patrice surveyed the scene: napkins and doilies draped over buds and roses and leaves. It suddenly struck her as hilarious, grown women arranging linens on rosebushes. She laughed, and so did Lydie. Lydie downed her orangeade so enthusiastically it left an orange smile above her lips, like a milk mustache. Patrice touched her own lips; Lydie got the message and wiped the orange away.

"How did you get into this line of work, anyway?" Patrice asked.

"I started off wanting to be an artist, but..." Lydie said. "This is the closest I could get to it. Sometimes when I'm working I feel like I'm making a collage-but it lasts only until the photographer takes the pictures."

"The pictures last."

"Yes, but they're by the photographer," Lydie said. "As soon as I take these napkins off the roses, that's that."

"I see what you mean," Patrice said.

Now Lydie was walking around, putting the linens away. "Michael and I b.u.mped into someone the other night I think you'd be interested in. She's an historian-working at the Louvre."

"Doing what?"

"Research. It's really extraordinary, and a little bizarre. She's obsessed with one woman in French history. In fact, she's already written about her. Madame de Sevigne. Have you ever heard of her before? Don't say yes, because I hadn't and I felt so stupid."

Patrice smiled, happy in spite of herself to be one up on Lydie in an area besides clothing. "Sorry, honey. I know her well. And she is worth being obsessed by. Most people think she was so loving and sweet, especially to her daughter. I mean, this was long before the days of Freud, and I'm telling you he would have had a field day with those two. Their letters make you cringe-they're more pa.s.sionate than what I write to Didier when he goes away on long business trips."

"Sounds weird."

"What I find amazing is her influence, which was considerable," Patrice went on. "She had the ear of King Louis, that is for sure. Get this: little Francoise-Marguerite wanted to be a ballerina, so Madame de Sevigne convinces Louis to let her dance the role of Shepherdess in the Royal Ballet at the Louvre, with Louis himself himself dancing as Shepherd. I mean, talk about headline entertainment." dancing as Shepherd. I mean, talk about headline entertainment."

"You're an expert on this," Lydie said. "You have to meet this woman."

"If she's typical of people who love Madame de Sevigne, she probably idealizes the mother-daughter relations.h.i.+p. Which explains why she would want to hang around the Louvre, her feet touching the hallowed ground where little Francoise-Marguerite first went on pointe."

"The daughter moved away, is that right?" Lydie asked. "And they never saw each other?"

"Give me a break-she stayed in France. She moved to Provence."

"In the seventeenth century, that must have seemed very far," Lydie said. "I wonder if they ever visited each other."

"Just tell me the name of her book. When I've finished the one I'm reading now, I might go for the sentimental point of view."

"It's Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais," Lydie said, standing on her toes to reach a napkin dangling from the top of a topiary rosebush.

"Oh, my G.o.d," Patrice said.

"What?" Lydie said, turning.

"That's the book I'm reading! It's fantastic, and not sentimental at all. You actually know know Anne Dumas?" Anne Dumas?"

"I don't, really. But Michael does."

"Is she pretty?"

"In a gamine gamine sort of way. Like the young Audrey Hepburn, only short. She is so intelligent, that's what strikes you. And she's charming, but reserved in a sad way. As if something had happened to her once." Lydie glanced over at Martine, who was ready to leave. "Excuse me a second," she said to Patrice. sort of way. Like the young Audrey Hepburn, only short. She is so intelligent, that's what strikes you. And she's charming, but reserved in a sad way. As if something had happened to her once." Lydie glanced over at Martine, who was ready to leave. "Excuse me a second," she said to Patrice.

Patrice sat on a bench. She could not get over the coincidence, the amazing unlikelihood, that Lydie had met Anne Dumas. Patrice had started thinking of her as "Anne," of the time she spent reading Three Women of the Marais Three Women of the Marais as time spent in Anne's company, in a sort of seminar. Patrice slid a pair of gold-rimmed sungla.s.ses from her bag and put them on. She recognized, of course, what she'd been doing: using Anne Dumas the way she used Kelly-to fill a void. She adored Didier; she had adjusted very well to France. But she couldn't deny that until recently, until she'd met Lydie, something had been missing from her life. Lydie was her friend. And as soon as Lydie finished with the photographer, Patrice was going to invite her and Michael for dinner some night soon. as time spent in Anne's company, in a sort of seminar. Patrice slid a pair of gold-rimmed sungla.s.ses from her bag and put them on. She recognized, of course, what she'd been doing: using Anne Dumas the way she used Kelly-to fill a void. She adored Didier; she had adjusted very well to France. But she couldn't deny that until recently, until she'd met Lydie, something had been missing from her life. Lydie was her friend. And as soon as Lydie finished with the photographer, Patrice was going to invite her and Michael for dinner some night soon.

You want to know how we live, my child? Alas, like this.

-TO F FRANcOISE-MARGUERITE, SEPTEMBER 1689 IT WAS S SAt.u.r.dAY afternoon, and Kelly was peeling cloves of garlic to scatter around the leg of lamb. Didier liked a lot of garlic. Tonight Lydie and her husband were coming to the d'Orignys' for dinner. Kelly's back ached. She felt a little sad. Tonight would point out to everyone the differences between Kelly and Patrice and Lydie. The differences were, of course, already understood by all, but tonight they would be crystal clear. Kelly had seen the dress Patrice was going to wear because Patrice had laid it across her bed for Kelly to iron. It was beautiful: a sheath of rose silk. Just touching the dress with one hand as she pa.s.sed the cool iron with the other had brought tears to Kelly's eyes. afternoon, and Kelly was peeling cloves of garlic to scatter around the leg of lamb. Didier liked a lot of garlic. Tonight Lydie and her husband were coming to the d'Orignys' for dinner. Kelly's back ached. She felt a little sad. Tonight would point out to everyone the differences between Kelly and Patrice and Lydie. The differences were, of course, already understood by all, but tonight they would be crystal clear. Kelly had seen the dress Patrice was going to wear because Patrice had laid it across her bed for Kelly to iron. It was beautiful: a sheath of rose silk. Just touching the dress with one hand as she pa.s.sed the cool iron with the other had brought tears to Kelly's eyes.

"That garlic smells heavenly," Patrice said, startling Kelly.

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

Patrice leaned against the sink. She started munching some haricots verts that Kelly had already trimmed. She wore a white tennis dress; her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, but her makeup was perfect.

"Did you have a good tennis match?" Kelly asked.

"Yes, we did. We beat the s.h.i.+t out of the Dulongs. And it's so beautiful outside. Nice and hot. Summer's coming on, even if you'd never know it in here. This building holds on to winter until mid-July, doesn't it? Aren't you chilly, Kelly?"

"I'm fine, Mum," said Kelly, who was sweating.

"At least we don't need air-conditioning. Those ancients really knew how to insulate a place. Are there places as old as Paris in the Philippines?"

"Oh, yes," Kelly said, thinking of one street in her province said to be older than Christ.

"When you were born and raised in America, you think a place two hundred years old is practically medieval."

"Is America really modern?" Kelly asked, surprised by how wistful she felt. She would trade old for new any day.

"In some ways, yes," Patrice said. "But the att.i.tudes can be as backward as anyplace else. Listen, speaking of backward att.i.tudes," she said, standing up straight, "I came to tell you that Didier wants you to wear your uniform tonight. It's here, isn't it?"

"Yes," Kelly said. She had already planned to wear it.

"Do me a big favor. Press it and have it on when Didier comes downstairs."

"Okay, Mum," Kelly said, placing the knife in the sink, wiping her hands on the linen towel. Patrice left the kitchen. Kelly could not hear where she went. The ma.s.sive stone architecture kept sound, like heat, from penetrating the walls. Garments she had yet to iron hung in a small closet off the kitchen. Taking down her uniform, Kelly realized that of all her household ch.o.r.es, she disliked ironing most. And she realized the irony of that dislike, considering the pleasures ironing had given her in her early life.

When she was young, five or six years old, the whole family worked for Pan Am. The great American airline hired Kelly's parents to launder their linen. White napkins, tiny pillowcases, ap.r.o.ns, summer-weight cotton blankets. Kelly's father and brothers would drive to the airport in Manila to pick up the soiled linen and deliver the clean; the women would wash and iron it.

Sometimes they worked inside the house, but more often outdoors, under the hot blue sky. She remembered the three large iron cauldrons boiling over coal fires, steam wisping into the hot air. Annette and Ingrid had charge of stirring the laundry with clean sticks. Marie-Vic, Darlene, and Sophia would wring it out with their bare hands and pin it to clotheslines. In the rainy season they strung lines inside the house and fanned it with paddles.

Along with Pan Am's laundry they washed large white sheets to lay on the dirt-the floor of their house and their entire yard had been dirt then. Kelly's sisters would toss the clean linen on one sheet, and her mother would sit cross-legged on another, a large pillow on her lap. And she would iron on that pillow. Kelly had loved watching her.

Absently Kelly lifted the iron she was now using, to test its weight. How light it felt compared to that iron of her mother's! Her mother's iron was enormous and round, hollow and filled with coal. She had to constantly change hands, because it was so heavy. After work, Annette would rub her mother's shoulders with eucalyptus sap. Everyone would be lying on the sheets then, resting and talking. Her older sisters would tell about college, about nice American servicemen they had met: topics that would please their mother, who would smile and say everyone had to work hard to earn money so they could all move to the States and open a fish market.

Kelly finished ironing her uniform. The white collar was starched stiff as cardboard, just as Didier liked it. Unplugging the iron, she remembered the best part of ironing Pan Am's laundry. At the end of the day, after the iron had cooled, Kelly's mother had let her blow the coal ashes out of it. She remembered blowing into the tube, watching the silver ash fly out the trap door. She remembered the gritty, twinkly feeling of ash on her cheeks and in her eyelashes. And she remembered how, every time she did it, her mother would smile and call her "Tinkerbell."

Didier d'Origny gripped the champagne cork with a white linen towel, twisted, and let a wisp of vapor escape the bottle. He filled four gla.s.ses, turning the bottle as he poured, to avoid spilling a drop. The room was silent except for the sigh of air as the cork was removed, then the bubbles fizzing in the gla.s.ses. The evening was off to a festive start. Lydie glanced over at Michael, tried to see him as the others would: lean, thirty-five, curly brown hair that needed to be cut, a mouth that smiled easily, and eyes that took everything in.

"To health," Didier said, raising his gla.s.s.

"Health," said Lydie, Michael, and Patrice in unison, smiling, clinking gla.s.ses, and drinking.

"So," Didier said, setting down his gla.s.s. "Have you explored the Champagne region of France?"

"We spent one of our first weekends there," Michael said.

"I loved those underground caves, where they age the wine," Lydie said, remembering walking down one hundred steps into a dim, damp clay-walled chamber lined with racks of champagne.

"Marvelous caves," Didier said. His expression was kind, but a little distant. His blond hair receded slightly from his broad forehead, and he had the sort of weathered skin that made Lydie wonder if he was a skier.

"So, you two were childhood sweethearts," Patrice said, smiling at Michael.

"Actually, I missed my first chance with Lydie," Michael said. "In high school I cared more about the hoop than girls."

"'The hoop'?" Didier asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Basketball," Michael said.

"I don't know how I missed him," Lydie said. "He looked so great in shorts." She could see him now: driving to the basket, his legs long and muscled, running faster than anyone else. She watched how he grinned at Didier in a way he never would at a woman. One athlete to another, Lydie thought.

"Yes, you know it's a shame," Didier said. "It was the same for me-soccer, shooting, skiing. I went to a boys' school. I didn't know about girls until I was twenty-three."