The next morning dawned with a sleepy sky, blanketed with clouds. I woke early, dressed, and slipped out of the hotel before Clara had stirred. I’d committed to taking a morning walk of the city each day, determined to enjoy every single moment while in Paris, even if the weather wasn’t the best.
A pervasive damp chilled my skin as I strolled alongside the silvery waters of the Seine. I rubbed the goose bumps from my arms as my thoughts turned to Clara. Our argument the day before had cut me deeply, her words too close to the truth. Poor little Madeleine, always trying to keep up. . . . You make it impossible for people to love you. Maybe I did make it impossible for people to love me, but only because if I let them in they eventually betrayed me. It seemed I was too difficult, that it was too hard for people to understand my brashness and unconventional ways.
I listened to the lonely cry of a mourning dove, its song echoing through the quiet streets. As I walked over a bridge dotted with ornate iron lanterns, I thought about Charles Hancock’s unscrupulous business dealings, and the troubled tenement neighborhoods in lower Manhattan. I’d been disgusted to discover what he was up to, and wondered how many other less-than-ethical dealings he was trying his hand at. I also wondered what Clara would say if she knew. Perhaps it was time to tell her.
On the other side of the bridge, I turned south, past a tabac that sold cigarettes and candies, and newspapers. The headlines that morning were troubling. Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg was running Austria more or less like his predecessor, as an autocrat, but he was emphatically anti-Nazi. In fact, he’d staved off more than one coup, or so the article I skimmed seemed to say, yet he was still playing nice with Hitler—and also with Mussolini to the south.
“What a mess,” I murmured to myself, paying the vendor with the correct combination of the little franc coins, and tucking the newspaper under my arm. It all made me anxious. Anxious enough, in fact, that I began to scrutinize faces in the street and couldn’t help but look over my shoulder when a policeman passed or someone acted, to my mind, suspiciously. It was absurd, I knew, but I was beginning to feel a little on edge. Perhaps I shouldn’t read the news for a few days.
I tried to bridle my thoughts and enjoy the rest of my walk.
After warming myself with a chocolat chaud, I took the Métro to Montmartre. Clara had questioned my intentions to go to the seedier side of the city and cautioned me about how unsafe it was for a woman to go alone. Admittedly, Montmartre was run-down and known for its pickpockets, but I wanted to see this village of struggling artists and dance halls for myself. At last, she’d given up, and said she would let me make my own poor choices. She planned to visit the Jardin du Luxembourg that morning to work on a collection of portraits she’d begun of our travels, and which she intended to give to Violet. It was a shame we couldn’t experience more of the city together, that each of us pulled in a different direction, but it wasn’t a surprise. Sharing a hotel suite and eating together was far more than we’d managed in the last twelve months.
When I emerged from the Métro into the daylight, I chose a table on the sidewalk, ordered a café crème and a crêpe au jambon, and watched the colorful Parisians and artists hawking their wares. Everyone was less polished here, humbler, more unique and distinctive than those I’d seen along the Champs-Élysées. As always, I was looking for inspiration, to find something—anything—newsworthy.
After a while, I opened my journal. Sheets of typed pages were stuffed inside, the contents of which I knew by heart: polite rejections from the New York Post, the New York Times, and The New Yorker. Exhaling, I gathered them into a neat stack and thumbed through them once more.
We regret to inform you . . .
Your article isn’t right for our publication.
We aren’t accepting unsolicited articles at this time.
I sighed and read a more encouraging letter from Ladies’ Home Journal.
While this article isn’t right for our publication, we’re currently seeking new writers for our Home Advice column, and would like to extend an invitation to submit your résumé and a sample.
I hadn’t applied. Domestic advice columns weren’t the sort of thing I wanted to write, and though Billy-the-Traitor told me I was foolhardy to turn down work, I couldn’t stand the thought of answering questions about things of which I knew little—motherhood, cookery, linens. Family. I wasn’t qualified for any of it, nor did I want to be.
But a more recent letter from the New York Herald Tribune had given me a real glimmer of hope:
Miss Sommers, you write with authority and a style befitting our publication. Though we aren’t able to place your article at this time, we invite you to submit again. Please direct your inquiries specifically to me, Gerald McDougal, at this address.
I felt a surge of determination every time I read it. I could do this. I would keep trying until I got the yes I was looking for.
There was another letter among the others: Edward’s letter to Clara. I still hadn’t talked to her about it, still hadn’t decided how to get myself out of the awkward situation I’d gotten myself into by taking it in the first place. Not wanting to spoil my morning by worrying about it, I slipped it back inside the journal, and tried to forget about it.
I cut a piece of crepe with my knife and forked a steaming bite into my mouth. I sighed as the melted Gruyère paired perfectly with the cured ham and tangy onion. Even the simplest of foods in Paris were better than any extravagant meal I’d been served back home. I savored every mouthful and silently thanked Violet for sending me to a city that tasted so damn good.
Energized, I strolled through the village past the majestic Sacré-Coeur, down the hill to a row of shops showcasing their wares on rotating racks: scarves in lavender and dove gray, lemon yellow and pale pink, and a collection of change purses printed with images of Marie Antoinette and the Eiffel Tower, and little French phrases I’d learned in school. Vive la France! C’est bon. La Ville Lumières. I continued on, winding through the narrow streets. Notably absent were the elegant boutiques and lace-covered strollers I’d seen on the other side of Paris. Here, beggars squatted on benches or hunched beneath the overhang of a doorway. Women with a cigarette dangling from their lips and in too-high heels rushed to some questionable establishment that looked as if it only came alive at night. The infamous Moulin Rouge appeared empty, at least for now, but I suspected that wouldn’t last for long. I was glad I’d ventured to the part of town Clara considered seedy and dangerous. It had character all of its own.
I stopped to peer over the shoulder of an artist as he worked diligently at his easel. Impressed by his work, I bought a small painting of the Sacré-Coeur for Clara, as a peace offering, and a replica of a Toulouse-Lautrec dancing girl for myself. As I pulled out a crisp bill of twenty francs to pay for my purchases, the artist smiled, revealing a large gap between his two front teeth.
“Merci, mademoiselle.”
As he handed me the change, I said, “Non. C’est pour vous.” I didn’t need the money as much as he did. I returned my change purse to my coat pocket. The artist thanked me several times, and wrapped the portraits in brown paper.
I tucked them under my arm and continued on my way. As I took a left down a narrow side street, someone behind me whistled loudly. I turned to see a man in brown workman’s slacks and boots, and a filthy dark coat. He whistled again and shouted in French, but I didn’t understand him.
I picked up my pace, heading to the end of the street where I knew I could find a taxicab, but as the man called out again I turned, and in that instant, I felt a tug on my pocket. Before I had time to react, another man sprinted away.
“Stop!” I shouted. “That man stole my money!”
A few people glanced in my direction but went about their business, no doubt used to seeing this sort of thing all the time, so I took off to chase the thief myself. He must have watched me buy the paintings and seen me slip my change purse into my pocket. The whistling man was purely a distraction. I cringed at my naivety and continued to chase the thief to the end of the street, but he was too fast. He ducked behind a building, and disappeared.
I gave up, bent over to catch my breath, and then started to laugh. I’d gotten the proper French welcome after all.
* * *
I RETURNED TO the hotel resigned to the loss of the hundred francs I’d foolishly kept in my change purse and made my way to the lounge for a much-needed drink. I knew I shouldn’t sit at the bar if I were any kind of lady, especially in Paris, but I didn’t care. My feet were sore and I wanted a glass of hard liquor, tout de suite.
There was only one other customer at the bar, a man sitting alone. I offered a friendly bonjour as I smiled at him—and did a double take.
“Daniel?” I said, my eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”
“Madeleine!” He stood up from his stool, a broad smile on his face. “I’m staying here, too. Didn’t Clara tell you? We bumped into each other yesterday.”
“No. She didn’t mention it. It must have slipped her mind.” I wondered why she hadn’t told me. “But anyway. What a surprise! Of all the hotels in all of Paris!”
“Well, the George V is the only place to stay, isn’t it?” he replied with a playful wink. “But it’s a happy coincidence.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” I asked. “I could really use a drink.”
“Please,” he said, pulling out a stool beside him. “I could really use the company.”
I set down my purchases on the bar and ordered a brandy.
“Good choice. You look like a woman with Paris running through her veins. France clearly suits you.”
I smiled. “I like it here. I spent most of the day in Montmartre.”
He looked surprised. “Alone? I’ve heard it can be a little rough there.”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I decided not to bring up the pickpocketing incident, especially if he was crossing paths with Clara. “I passed the Moulin Rouge earlier. Did you see your show there yet?”
He shifted on his stool and took a sip of his drink. “Not yet. That end of Montmartre is the worst. The beggars and nightclubs and all of that.”
I felt myself brighten. “I’d love to go back at night, go to a club. Drink absinthe with the literary set.”
At this, he laughed. “I’d be very happy to accompany you.”
“Clara would be horrified.” I grinned. “Let’s do it!” I took a warming sip of brandy as soon as the bartender placed the glass in front of me.
“It would certainly give you something to write about,” Daniel continued. “What is it that you write, exactly? You never really said.”
“I write news articles that are mostly never published, except for one. I had a few ideas stolen by a so-called friend, or should I say, ex-friend. He’s built up an enviable reputation now, while I continue to receive rejection letters. The curse of being a woman trying to make a name for herself.” I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My cheeks were rosy from too much sun and the light spray of freckles across the bridge of my nose had deepened. To my surprise, my hair was still pinned into a relatively neat knot for a change.
“Have you ever considered writing under a male pseudonym?” Daniel asked, his dark eyes on mine. “You might have better luck. I know we’re supposed to be living in progressive times, but I’m not sure all that much has changed for women in the last few years.”
I stared at him a moment, both intrigued by his suggestion and impressed he should take an invested interest in women’s rights. “You might be right,” I said at last. “The Brontës did it. George Sand. Even Colette for a time. Auntie Nellie used a pen name, though it was still a female name.”
“Auntie Nellie?”
I laughed. “Not technically an aunt. More of a family friend. You probably know her as Nellie Bly. Elizabeth Cochran was her real name.”
“You knew Nellie Bly? Well, that’s quite the claim to fame. Was she as brazen and outspoken in real life as her reputation would have us believe?”
“She was worse, in the best way possible! Nellie didn’t leave anything left unsaid. She was a friend of my grandmother’s. She’s part of the reason we’re making this trip across Europe.” I paused. “And she’s one of the main reasons I’m a writer.”
He nodded. “We all need role models. My youngest sister has struggled to find work as a mathematician, even in Boston where things should be a bit easier than in a small town. It’s a crime, really. She isn’t the type to be confined to the home. You remind me of her a little, actually, only taller.”
Daniel was a little on the short side, barely reaching my height. He was broad rather than lanky, but he moved with a certain confidence and grace. It struck me how little I knew about him, even though I felt as if I’d known him for some time.
“I’m serious,” he went on. “You should consider a pen name. You’re an intelligent and capable woman. Once you remove the female stigma, I’m certain you’ll have more luck.”
A stigma indeed. It infuriated me. I finished my brandy and placed the glass on the bar.
Perhaps I should consider using a man’s name, or even my first initial and last name. M. Sommers. Journalist. No one would know whether the M stood for Mark or Michael or Madeleine, and frankly, it was none of their business. As a man, they’d have one less reason to turn me away. A sudden lightness came over me. Now, if only I had a great pitch.
“Care to join me in another?” Daniel asked.
“Why not.” As the bartender poured another brandy for me and a Lillet for Daniel, my eyes strayed to the folder on the bar top. “Working on something?” I asked. “A review of a show?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, no. It’s—”
“Let’s see,” I said, pulling the folder toward me without waiting for his permission. The alcohol had gone straight to my head.
“They’re drawings,” he blurted, his ears going red. “I’m fascinated by architecture, you see. Buildings and structures in Paris range from Roman times to Gothic, to the more modern style as they call it, from the early nineteenth century. And then there’s Art Deco. The skyline is so open here compared to New York. Paris is preserved in time, really. I’ve enjoyed studying them and thought I’d sketch a few.”
“Are you an artist, too?”
He looked a little embarrassed. “In a way, but not like your sister. She has a real talent. I just . . . dabble.”
I flipped through the drawings, noticing the dimensions listed in the margins, the perfect lines clearly drawn with a ruler. “Daniel, these are very good. I’m no expert, but have you considered work as an architect? Clara’s fiancé works in that line of business. Perhaps he could offer some advice.”
He swallowed a sip of Lillet and, after a moment, met my eye. “I have. In fact, I’m not sure how long I’ll remain a theater critic.”
“That’s wonderful! Good for you. Funny how sometimes you have to get away from your regular day-to-day to realize what you should be doing with your life. That was partly why Violet was so intent on us taking the trip. She has a modern way of thinking for someone born in the last century.”
“So, what’s next on your itinerary?” Daniel continued. “You’d mentioned some letters of your grandmother’s?”
“Yes. We’re headed to Amiens.”
“Oh? And what’s there?”
“A war cemetery. Our grandfather is buried there, apparently. I’m not sure how I feel about going to be honest.”
Daniel took a long sip of his drink. “I’m sure it will be difficult, but a wonderful thing to do for Violet. You know, you light up whenever you talk about her. It’s nice to see.”
Not used to compliments, I sputtered on my drink, turning a sip into an inadvertent gulp. “Do I? Thanks.”
“You’re an intriguing woman, Madeleine. Quite different from how I’d imagined.”
“How you’d imagined?” I frowned, uncertain by what he meant.
Guilt flashed across his face an instant before he composed himself. “You’re so different from your sister, I mean.”
I looked at him, wondering what the strange behavior was about, but rather than point it out, I shrugged. “Yes. That’s a fact.”
He stared back at me, a serious look on his face.
I stood abruptly and gathered my things.
“I should be going. Don’t want to make dear Clara worry.” I downed the rest of my drink in one gulp. “Thank you for the drinks.”
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend—”
I waved dismissively. “Not at all. See you around, Daniel.”
I darted for the elevator, leaving a bewildered Daniel behind. Yet as I walked to my room, his words reverberated in my mind: You’re an intelligent and capable woman. Once you remove the female stigma, I’m certain you’ll have more luck. Though he hadn’t read a single piece of my writing, he believed I had what it took to be successful, that I had gumption, and that meant something to me.
Once in the suite, I headed straight for the writing desk, opened my journal, and began to write.