28 January 1910
The waters had finally started to recede. In Saint-Sulpice the refugees continued to warm themselves under the Delacroix frescos, huddled on mattresses, the women trying to quiet the children and the men staring at their hands as if asking where and how they would find the strength to rebuild. Charlotte was folding blankets and organising into neat baskets the different items of clothing that had been donated. In Paris, for a few days at least, it had become fashionable to be generous. The rich cleaned their closets out and congratulated themselves, knowing that the waters were losing their power and would soon slink back, like the poor, into their proper course and continue to serve them.
Charlotte felt their approach and looked up to see two smart young women dressed for travel with handbags in the crook of their arms and folded umbrellas in their gloved hands. It took her a moment to recognise them. She left her station and embraced Yvette, then shook Maud’s hand.
‘You know what happened?’ Yvette said quietly and the older woman nodded.
‘You talked enough in your sleep for me to guess, and there have been rumours about a woman killing herself on Pont des Arts.’ Her voice sounded deeply tired. ‘I do not know what God means by it all. Perhaps He will forgive them at the last, and you, and me for helping you.’ She rolled her sleeve up a little to show the flash of the bracelet with the five fat stones. ‘What of this?’
Yvette took Charlotte’s arm and pulled the sleeve back over it again. ‘The Countess is not looking for them. Make sure you get a good deal from one of your shop girls on Rue Royale and build another home for waifs.’
She nodded. ‘An anonymous donation? Well, Miss Harris has been concerned about some of the English dancers who perform in Paris. They get paid late and the accommodation the company provides is wholly unsuitable.’
‘Well then,’ Yvette said, ‘it will do more good sheltering them than decorating the Countess, don’t you think?’
Charlotte nodded, her round face thoughtful. She reminded Maud of the Spaniard’s portrait of Miss Stein. She had the same uncompromised beauty of intelligence and belief, handsome where so many fashionable women were merely decorative. She realised with a smile that recognising Charlotte’s spirit in the painting had made her appreciate it a great deal more. Maud shook hands with her again. ‘Give Miss Harris our best love and thanks.’
‘She will pray for you.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ Maud replied, and turned to leave. Tanya was waiting for them.
* * *
Yvette did not want to say a formal farewell to Montmartre or anyone on it, but she consented to come close enough to say goodbye to Valadon at Impasse de Guelma. Suzanne’s farewell was gruff but heartfelt, and she promised to spread the story on the hill that Yvette had found a rich protector and been swept off to Monte Carlo.
‘Good luck out there,’ she said, shaking Maud’s hand then kissing Yvette’s pale cheek. ‘I know there is a world beyond Paris, but I can’t really understand it myself.’ Then she whistled into the cold air for her dog and set off up the hill under a white sun and the cobalt wash of the sky.
Vladimir waited by the car, the engine idling, ready to drive them out of Paris and on to solid ground so they could make their way to the coast. ‘You could still call me Yvette, couldn’t you, Maud? Even if we say my legal name is Sylvie.’ Her voice was soft and cold as the snow.
‘I will.’
‘Are you ready then?’ Yvette’s voice was firmer now, more like herself than she had been since that moment in the cellar. ‘Show me this England of yours.’
Maud turned and looked down the Boulevard Clichy; the flâneurs and thieves, street-hawkers and shop girls, the philanthropists, chancers and visionaries, the blandishments of Paris wrapped round its dirty, defiant soul. She put her arm through Yvette’s and nodded to the chauffeur. He opened the rear door for them and bowed. ‘Yes, I am ready.’