THIRTEEN

You will accompany us to the opening tomorrow night. And you will escort the Countess Olga and her daughter for the entire evening.” Bertha Palmer had summoned Honoré to a family dinner in the formal dining room of the rue de Brignole house. I had noted her great relief, despite her attempts at a stoic demeanor, when I reported on my conversation with Inspector Guillaume. “You will remain in our party for the whole evening, as well.” Her gaze was stony as she pronounced this sentence on her son.

“Another occasion for the ladies to wear their jewels,” her husband pointed out blandly as he was served the fish by a white-gloved footman. “It would be awfully bold for this thief to attack again at another party of Worth’s, but I suppose he must be bold to carry out the thefts he already has.” Potter Palmer had yet to mention the missing pearls, at least in my presence. But there was a wicked gleam in his eyes. “A sapphire was stolen the last time, from what I’ve heard. You must wear yours, perhaps, my dear. Surely having stolen a star sapphire the thief would not stoop to notice the rather plebeian stone in your filigree set, don’t you think?”

“Dear Potter, of course, if you wish it. But I’m not convinced the pearls were stolen, really I’m not,” Bertha said.

“I hope your optimism is rewarded,” he said. “But even if by some miracle your choker should appear before the reception, it would be wise to leave it here in the safe. No sense tempting fate.”

As his father spoke, Honoré shook his head, whether in disbelief or frustration I couldn’t say. Bertha resolutely attacked her plate of fish, determined not to respond to her husband.

Unsuccessful in his attempt to needle her, he turned to his son. “I trust the outing will not result in another visit to the prefecture for you, Honoré. It won’t do for that to become a habit. Being seen in the company of the police too often might lead you to be taken for a police spy and get you barred from the track. We couldn’t have that now, could we?”

Bertha was unhappy with this suggestion, although I saw my husband smirk into his dish. “There’s been quite enough frequenting of the horse track,” Bertha told them. “We came to Paris to enjoy society, not horses.”

Potter raised a wiry eyebrow. “Unfortunately, over here, the equine stock seems better behaved than the humans,” he told her. “You don’t see the ponies banding together to pick the pockets of the spectators, whereas these drawing rooms and palaces seem to have a band of well-disguised confederates just waiting to prey on the necks of the ladies.” He seemed quite satisfied by his comparison.

The following day, I found Bertha at her desk fretting because Honoré had left the house early. However, he was back in plenty of time, and he took a rented carriage out to escort the Countess Olga and her daughter to the evening reception. Stephen and I were both impressed by his gallant behavior towards the Russian women as he made sure their carriage was at rue Brignole by the time the large Victoria was brought for the rest of us. Just at dusk we formed a procession and started towards the fairgrounds.

One of the most popular features of the Exposition was the moving sidewalk, “le trottoir roulant” as the French called it, which circled most of the grounds and was a must for any visitor to experience. We had already taken several turns on the moving platforms—which had a lower, slower level you could hop onto, and then a higher, faster moving level to step up to—on previous visits. On that night we had passes that allowed us to take the carriages into the grounds and right up to the Palais des Fils, Tissus et Vêtements—the Textiles Building. The event called for evening clothes so, once again, I wore the lovely gown with the cherries at my waist and, this time, Bertha had insisted on lending me an evening coat as well. The “sortie-de-bal” as it was called, was a lovely white satin, embroidered with stars and clouds. The sleeves and hem were finished with pleated chiffon and satin ribbons gathering the feathery fabric at my wrists. Bertha was wearing her official gown with the stalks of corn figured in the velvet. The antique lace had been added to the squared-off neckline of the bodice and a thick, black velvet ribbon surrounded her waist. Her evening coat was also of black velvet, figured with flower stems in white and trimmed with white ruched chiffon. We both wore evening slippers that never would have allowed us to traipse through the fairgrounds or ride the moving sidewalk.

Instead, we sat in the spacious carriage, Stephen and I facing the Palmers. We rode through the main entrance on the Place de la Concorde. This was a large arch tiled in white, green, and blue terracotta. At the top was a female figure whose attire had been designed by the couturier Jeanne Paquin. It was very characteristic of the City of Light that the main symbol for the huge exposition would be a Parisienne, a woman of fashion. I had a great admiration for Mme Paquin herself. Mrs. Palmer had pointed her out to me at the opera, where she was surrounded by her models, who wore ensembles she’d designed. I was most impressed by the filmy pastel pink gown that she wore, herself. Another one in pastel blue had shimmering vines embroidered along the hem and, on a third, fur trimmed the sheer black silk. It was a surprise to find that she was a young woman of about my own age. I learned that she and her businessman husband had opened a house of couture next door to the House of Worth, then expanded to London. They were so successful that Mme Paquin was chosen by her fellow couturiers to be the president of the fashion section of the Exposition. It was thrilling to think that a young couple could put their stamp on the world of fashion as they had done. It seemed to me the mark of a wonderful new century that a woman could be so successful.

As we passed under the arch, we were flanked by two giant turbaned male figures who looked like genies. Inside the grounds to our right were the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais, where the all-important fine arts exhibits were displayed. To our left was the Pont Alexander III, which crossed the Seine to the Hôtel des Invalides. But we continued along the banks of the river to the next bridge, opposite the Trocadéro. That led to the prize from the last exposition in 1889, the Tour Eiffel. And, like Chicago’s Columbian Exposition, this exposition had taken electricity as one of its most dramatic exhibits. So, already the Eiffel Tower was outlined in electric lights, and as we passed under it and down the Champ de Mars, we could see, at the other end, the fountains lit up in front of the Palace of Electricity.

But we stopped halfway down on the left, at the Textiles Building. It was one of a series of white fronted, colonnaded buildings constructed for the Exposition. They all led down the Champ de Mars to the fountains backed by the Palace of Electricity. There was a line of carriages waiting to disembark their passengers and, as we waited our turn, I looked up at my husband. Stephen smiled at me. He, too, remembered the night we had walked beside the water of the grand Basin at the Columbian Exposition in Chicago. It was before we were married. It, too, had been illuminated by electric lights in an amazing display and we had been on our way to a concert in the Music Hall, an event that led to an adventure that had brought us together. I couldn’t help but be reminded of that night. How far away it seemed now.

We descended from the carriage and waited for Honoré, the countess, and Sonya to join us before we entered the building. Inside, the high ceilings were formed by the tracery of iron supports. There was an immense space broken up by glassed-in exhibits of weaving and silk making and other fabric related demonstrations. But we were herded past all of these to a wing that was dedicated to modern fashion. I saw the designer Jacques Doucet’s exhibit with headless mannequins in evening gowns. Passing another for Paquin that was similar, we plunged on further into the bowels of the building. Soon, we were relieved of our evening coats at a table in the corridor. Mlle Arquette greeted us and took the lovely coats, patting them with affection and appreciation, like a mother patting her child’s head. She seemed excited. The House of Worth’s staff must have been working all day to get the exhibit finished. There had been a delay, thus its opening was the occasion for this special celebration.

We entered the large room via a reception line where we had a chance to greet M. Jean-Philippe Worth, his brother Gaston, his daughter Andrée, and her fiancé, Louis Cartier. It was a way for poor M. Worth to recover from the debacle at Andrée’s engagement party. When we reached the end of the line, I saw that they were taking no chances. Inspector Guillaume stood by in evening dress, and there were many uniformed policemen stationed around the edges of the room. Surely no thief would be bold enough to try to steal jewels from the guests with all of these policemen watching. The inspector greeted us quietly but I saw Bertha bristle. Her eyes scanned the room until she found a distraction.

“Come,” she said, taking my elbow. “There’s Mary Cassatt. She’s here with her brother and his wife. He’s one of the most powerful men in America these days. He took over the Pennsylvania Railroad, you know.” Mary had spotted us and waved. Bertha whispered in my ear as we traveled across the shiny wood floor to get to the group. “One of the few things that can make Mary really angry is when people assume she’s supported by her wealthy relatives. She’s made her own way by selling her paintings for years and she’s fiercely independent.”

We reached the painter, who was dressed in an elegant Worth gown of pale blue satin with delicate pink butterflies embroidered along the hem and flying up the front of the skirt. A swath of pink tulle lay across her neckline, from one shoulder to the other. Little puff sleeves of transparent tulle capped each arm and a simple string of milk-white pearls hugged her neck. She wore elbow-length kid gloves, with a thin bracelet of tiny sapphires on one wrist. Her ensemble reminded me of an early morning sky at the beach, when the light was still soft. We were introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Cassatt, her tall brother and his rather short wife, who wore a heavy white damask gown that was loaded down with appliques and pearl trim. I recognized the gleam in Bertha’s eye, as she zeroed in on the powerful man. Her husband also recognized a kindred spirit in the railroad magnate.

While they talked, I looked across to Honoré, who had Sonya and her mother on either side of him, clutching his elbows with gloved hands. He was looking in the direction of the Americans. The countess wore a gown that flowed in a gently flowered set of silk panels, open in the middle to a waterfall of pastel chiffon. A swath of chiffon swept across the bodice, emphasizing her collarbones, between which a small sapphire pendant hung. Silk flowers were pinned in her hair. She still leaned on her silver-headed cane. Her daughter wore a bright pink gown with a chrysanthemum pattern in a lighter shade. The voluminous gathered skirt was pulled into her small waist with a band of ribbon, and the large puffy sleeves were topped by layers of lace. They made a lovely pair hanging off Honoré’s arms.

I stepped back and took a look around the large room, quickly spying Lord James. His tall figure stood out from the group of Americans, and I was surprised to see that he was escorting Lydia Johnstone and her mother. Mrs. Johnstone wore a gown of pale satin that was heavily loaded down with fantastical gold-toned circles embroidered all along the hem and covering the bodice. Lydia’s gown was of cream silk with a jade velvet pattern of ribbons and garlands. She stood tall, with her blonde hair piled high and her shoulders bare and thrown back. She was proud to cling to the Englishman. I raised an eyebrow at that but, when the crowd parted and I could see the exhibit of Worth gowns finally revealed, it distracted and amazed me.