May 16, 1883
Paris Gare du Nord
France
Wickham’s intrusiveness and audacity, certainly his sheer rudeness, had shaken her nerves more than she would admit. From the Gare du Nord to the Hôtel sur la Seine, she was hyper alert to every voice and every movement that might be a strange man. It was delightfully warm in Paris that day and her fur muff was almost unnecessary. Almost. The sky was streaked with high clouds that were beginning to turn pink from the tiny sliver of sunset escaping from the horizon. “Tomorrow,” the railroad Conductor had warned her, “it may rain.” Thunderstorms, the very sort she liked, weren’t exactly common in late spring, but they weren’t unknown either.
The Hôtel sur la Seine was not ostentatious as some of the other, newer hotels of Paris; it had maintained its slightly medieval character despite the overenthusiastic building and destruction of France’s ‘Second Empire.’ Somehow the Hôtel sur la Seine managed to elude Napoleon III and his engineers, and their vision of the futuristic Paris. Parisians as a whole were non-committal; Paris might be losing its ancient charm, but nearly anything French designed was better than that of the Prussians after the war in 1871. Of course, there was some remnant anger even in 1883 over that dreadful period in French history: a decade was not enough to heal the wounds. Now it seemed that to erase the past was to free Parisians from the pain of maturation. The avenues leading to the center of the city were lined with construction equipment, workers, and debris. Agonizing as it was to lose the old, the new meant employment and modernization.
Her cab rolled past a number of the newer projects. In the distance she could see the base of La Tour Eiffel which looked at that moment to be a puzzle of iron spider webs and concrete. Not due to be completed for a few years, it appeared more like a child’s room where something had been broken, discarded, and not tidied up due to immature refusal. Two balloon ships, larger than the cargo dirigibles running mail back and forth, held an iron girder between them, lifting slowly until workers could align it and weld it. Unlike the Go Ahead, they were elongated bags of helium with human-driven helixes that controlled direction. The screws acted like an ocean vessel’s paddle wheel but with less efficiency. They were more airship than balloon. A miniaturized steam engine, such as one Professor Pierce could build, would eventually replace the human powered motion - and then what? And did it matter? Robur, the Conqueror, had made any of those innovations outdated before they could be put into use. Times were changing faster than most people could keep up with.
Twenty years ago, it was unthinkable for a woman to consider a life beyond marriage. Now Lettie was proof that women were untethered from the old expectations. Almost: yes, well, almost. An adoring husband was still a tempting desire. She closed her eyes and let the tight feeling in her chest pass, while reminding herself that there was no such thing as love.
There was Les Travaux de la Vapeur Nationaux de France, the French National Steam Works, a building dedicated to France’s contribution to power generation and locomotion. Pipes and conduits shot out of the walls and bent back into the brick building, giving it the look of the inside of a ship’s engine room. Parisians had made many complaints of this particular edifice.
She stepped out of her cab, quite pleased with the hotel’s location. An advantage of the Hôtel sur la Seine, quite apart from being a lesser known establishment and unlikely to attract men like Wickham, was that it sat in the northwest of the Fifth Arrondissement, home of the Musée Mécanique, the Université de Paris, the Sorbonne, and the Jardin de Plantes. It simply sat amidst the intellectual heart of the city and, arguably, the whole of Europe. Such renowned institutions would fill the two spare days she had before leaving for Brindisi. The Steam Ship Mongolia was not due to leave for Bombay until the twenty-seventh of May and there was little reason to get to the Italian port too early.
A trolley rolled by, puffing out vapors from its overtaxed engine, sounding more like an old fashioned locomotive than the quiet modern form of urban transport they were originally touted to be, and carrying a full load of worn out commuters. The sun had set, the temperature was falling, and the museums were closed for the evening. Lettie agreed with her exhausted brain, it was time to retire until the morning. Oddly, beyond verbally fencing with Wickham, she’d done so little and yet was so very tired. The nature of travel, she supposed. She remembered being amused when escorted to a lovely single room with a view of the river seen through a break between two buildings – hence a legitimate though exaggerated claim to the view. The accommodation had a dining table, a writing desk, an attached room for the commode, and the most welcoming bed. By 10 pm, when most of Paris was just getting itself energized with the evening’s activity, Doctor Lettie Gantry was asleep and dreaming of the lush jungles of Java.
By morning, Lettie was rested, clearer headed, and far more confident that the Wickhams of the world had other things to do with their time than pester the likes of her. She logically and rationally acknowledged that she would not be so hostile to the Frenchman who left such a shining impression on her despite the fact that he was in some fashion an associate of Wickham’s. A shame, she thought, he had such a pleasant speaking voice, an interesting look that could be intriguing, and remarkable eyes. And his hands were so elegant.
Yes, it was a shame; at last she’d met a man who didn’t want something from her or to change her. He was beautiful to look at too, perfect in his graciousness, brilliant, and sadly, nowhere to be found. Was that her luck? Knowing how things went for her in the area of romance, the Frenchman was probably married to a wealthy aristocrat who had already given him ten glorious children. Yes, that was more like her luck.
Think about the day ahead, she reminded herself. Stay on track; get through the day.
The hotel provided its lady travelers with a temporary maid, one of the owner’s five daughters, which was welcome. She was a cheery thing, eager to gather gossip or tales from those who travelled. It was exotic to the girl as she had never actually been outside of central Paris. At fifteen, she had all the attributes that would either attract a good husband or gain her employment in a grand household, either as a parlor or lady’s maid. By the efforts she was exerting on Lettie’s behalf and the tales she was gleaning, Lettie decided that the girl was not yet looking for a marriageable man. The girl seemed quite content where she was.
Lettie was quite capable of dressing herself: such skills were imperative when on a geological worksite – anything else would be absurd and completely unsupportable to the other members of the expedition. But today, she had formal visits to make and welcomed the assistance. The girl was quite the marvel with the art of hairstyling.
Carefully refolding the invitation and sliding it back into its ivory envelope with the exquisitely written address, Lettie set off very early in the morning to the Musée National d'Histoire Naturelle, the foremost natural history institution in Europe. The card included with the invitation she kept reading over and over was printed on excellent linen paper stock, with simple Copperplate lettering. It made her chuckle a bit to recall the difference in handwriting between the lovely invitation and the scrawl of a signature. It was clear that her host wisely employed an assistant who took great pride in the formality of presenting his employer in a professional light. The linen card was yet another example of simple elegance, assured by the efforts of said assistant.
Professeur Pierre Rene Aronnax
Directeur
Musée National d'Histoire Naturelle de Paris
She had dressed to meet him and, hopefully, impress him. Although they had never met prior to this, she felt very familiar with his life. This was more due to the publication of the Nemo Chronicles by J. Verne than Aronnax’s original paper on the submarine mountains of the Atlantic, which after his adventures he was forced to retract and revise. Despite his fame, or infamy, he was a man she needed to know professionally and a man she truly wished to engage in conversation. His knowledge base was wide and now very experienced. That he invited her to his institution was a compliment she intended to return.
This was a time for first impressions. She’d chosen a dark wine colored wool costume with plush cuffs and waistcoat. She knew that to look too feminine would undermine her desire to be respected as a scientist. She chose a crisp white shirt and dark silk tie, in the masculine style, as well as a camelhair notched collar jacket. Her bonnet was in the latest fashion, called a Conquistador for the peak at the center front brim that mimicked the helmet of the Sixteenth Century Spanish soldier. Curled and combined feathers in olive green encircled the crown and it tied neatly under her chin with a pair of watered-silk ties. Over this she wore her wool scarf and hid her gloved hands from the brisk spring air in a fur muff. Only one hand at a time could be warmed as the other held tight to her beloved valise. Beneath her sleeve was her comfort, her agnostic rosary: Georgie’s bracelet.
Of course, once she was done with her stay in Paris, she would ship home all the clothing and purchases appropriate to the cold, European weather and would travel lightly to Java and its tropical environs with only those things that served the environment and the work.
Before she was to arrive at the Galerie de Minéraux et Géologie, a part of the Museum, it was her intention to breakfast at La Belle Patisserie, situated halfway between the Hotel and her destination.
The hour was early enough that Lettie could take her time and stroll to the delightful bakery she’d known during her last visit to the Société Géographique. The street was one of the newly widened by Haussman’s great plan to modernize all of Paris but most especially those areas nearest the museums and universities, where foreigners tended to venture. It had rained overnight, leaving even the lamp posts dripping off the last droplets before the day warmed up. It looked like it was going to rain again, by the afternoon.
Looking at the well heeled and working classes mingling on their way to work, and seeing the whole in that gentle light filtered through thin clouds in the morning and sporadically lit by gas lamps, Lettie thought of a Jean Beraud painting. The moisture and spring temperature had brought out some of the brightest blooms of flowering plants hanging above the streets in baskets dangling from the lampposts. The day was yet young enough that the hiss of the gas into the lamps was still audible and would be until they were shut down - one at a time.
Her goal was to find something small but satisfying to consume for breakfast, the alternative being that her stomach might grumble during the vital interview. La Belle Patisserie awaited her needs. It was too fine an establishment to attract cash poor students, but appealed to professors, curators, and the ladies acquainted with them.
The waiter who escorted her into the Patisserie seated her near the window facing the street and in full view of the pedestrians. Such a fashionable woman would attract customers, so long as they didn’t mind her being a foreigner; her attire was distinctly English in his opinion. He could hear it in her pronunciation too when she thanked him. Her French was good enough that it didn’t annoy him, but he could just tell she was British. He was always alert for foreigners, especially tourists, as they were notoriously bad tippers or only ordered those items which best resembled their own customary foods. Worse - they saw themselves as superior to the staff - to him. Such bad manners. Paris was after all, “the birthplace of equality.”
The dining area was relatively bright. Mirrors on nearly every wall made the place appear much larger. The decorative scheme of taupe paint, pastel wall paper, and gold detailing lent the bakery a rich, sophisticated air.
Even at such an early hour, Lettie found herself in plenty of company. Elegantly dressed women made their selections and filled their plates from the delicate choices arranged along the pastry bar. One was free to choose whatever delight struck their fancy. Some ladies chose to remain standing near the bar, nibbling lightly, while others brought their small plates back to their tables. Lettie slid her valise near her feet and pulled her reading glasses out of her deep pocket, setting them on her nose. Over the top of the rims, she noted who else was seated in the café. A cadre of young, well-off ladies were also seated near windows, and they were engaged in a lively discussion regarding men, fashion, and a new display at the Palais d'Art Moderne. An older couple were seated to Lettie’s left and a gentleman of late years was enjoying his coffee and newspaper. Two ladies sat with their selections while a third mindlessly fed bits of her food to the poodle standing on her skirts. One man had just been seated and now sat with his back to her with a stylish, low-crowned, “Homburg” hat, which she suspected he had just purchased, set in the chair next to him. The hat was too perfect and appeared as if taken right out of the box. The assortment of people was actually quite delightful, especially as it did not include Wickham. It would have been rather pleasant had the Frenchman, Monsieur d’Saint-Amand, been there.
A waitress, in a crisp white apron over a fitted black dress, poured coffee or wine into glass cups at each table. A gravity press coffee machine at the end of the bar was tended by another uniformed woman.
Eschewing coffee, Lettie enjoyed her cup of chocolate, a rare treat, with a touch of orange. The pastry was small, just enough to keep her from feeling faint in her tightly laced corset, which she had done out of nothing more than vanity, and she knew it.
The man with the hat looked briefly over his shoulder at her, returning to his cup and a book. She couldn’t quite catch seeing his face, but thick brown hair covered the back of his head, cut short at the nape and natural in tone. Definitely not Wickham. Along with the new hat he wore a new suit. But of course, he was in Paris and would want to purchase such a thing. Men were no different from women in this regard. His hair had just been cut too, and though she couldn’t see his chin, he was likely freshly shaved. He pulled lightly at his collar, drawing it up to its fullest height.
Sipping her fragrant beverage, she found herself thinking of Pierce and his father. She would need to send a telegram to Sir Richard, letting him know that she had arrived safely. With any luck, he would have more news regarding the whereabouts of his son and perhaps the progress on the sampling trolley. The trolley was of lesser importance. She had to admit, she was hoping that Rajiv might contact her while she was in France.
After paying her bill, she started down the avenue toward the Jardin des Plantes. There she would meet with the luminary Professor Aronnax, which frankly speaking, made her quite nervous. Her hands were cold despite gloves and she felt some queasiness in her stomach regardless of the meal. Yes, she was indeed, very nervous.
A couple passed her, the woman holding delightfully onto the arm of her gentleman. He whispered something and she allowed herself a bright laugh that broke through the increasing gloom of a gathering rainstorm. In Paris, such behavior was not inappropriate. Neither of the couple appeared to be of questionable character; they were simply a happy couple strolling out of doors in the morning, before the weather trapped them inside for the rest of the day. Perhaps he was on his way to work somewhere in the maze of intellectual institutions?
Lettie envied them. Before their happiness distracted her from her purpose, she looked away and tried to predict the interview to come.