Secrets of Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

course Julia cannot remember his exact words, but that is the phrase distilled from years of retelling: “What is the matter, child?”
    “I am homesick, Father,” Julia had said.
    “Ah, do you know the poem, by Yeats, ‘Under Saturn’?”
    Well, no cardinal would really expect a young Irish washerwoman to know Yeats, but Julia had stood tall, tears running down her cheeks, and recited “ ‘I am thinking of a child’s vow, sworn in vain, never to leave the valley his fathers called their home.’ ”
    Then the cardinal had asked where she had learned the poem, and Julia had said “In school, in Ireland, Father.”
    “Do you miss school?” the cardinal had asked.
    “Oh, yes, Father,” Julia had said.
    And so the cardinal had arranged for her to take evening courses in education at Marymount, where Neil Fallon worked a second job as the night janitor, trying to save enough money to start a business. They fell in love and married by the spring semester. Within four years, after two miscarriages, they had Lydie, and within six Julia had her degree. And now, forty years later, Neil had been dead eleven months.

    Lydie and Michael went about their morning ritual. In Paris they had separate bathrooms, but only one person could use hot water at a time. Lydie showered first while Michael shaved; when he heard her shower stop, he stepped into his own. Lydie boiledwater for coffee. Since she took longer to dress, Michael went to the
pâtisserie
for croissants. On his way back to the apartment, he bought the
International Herald Tribune
. This early-morning, wordless cooperation was one thing Lydie loved about marriage. They knew each other so well. Lydie knew that Michael liked silence at the breakfast table; he was probably reviewing his schedule for the day.
    Their breakfast table overlooked Avenue Montaigne and Montmartre in the distance. The early sun lit the Basilica with white light, and to Lydie it looked holy, the way it might appear in a child’s prayer book. She broke off a piece of croissant, savored the flavor of butter and yeast. She drank her
café crème
slowly; when the cup was empty, she would have to leave for work.
    “I should go in a minute,” Lydie said. “I have a shoot at Tolbiac.”
    “Tolbiac? Chinatown?”
    “Yes. For a young French designer who wants nothing French in the background. He’d love to shoot the ad in Hong Kong, but he can’t afford a location outside Paris.”
    “Where do you come up with your ideas?” Michael asked, laughing. “Chinatown in Paris. I’ll be damned.”
    “And this afternoon I meet Patrice,” Lydie said. “I wonder if her husband is d’Origny of d’Origny Bijoutiers. I’m sure it’s family-run.”
    “What is it?”
    “One of the super-snazzy jewelry houses in the Place Vendôme. I’ve borrowed from them. For a layout on Hungarian royalty I used a d’Origny pearl collar made of two hundred pearls. One hundred ninety-eight were white, but one was black, another pink. Baroque. Very beautiful and odd.” Lydie grew silent, as she often did when recalling an old layout or planning a new one.
    “I remember that piece,” Michael said. “I’m glad you’re seeing Patrice, you know.”
    “I know,” Lydie said. Michael had never kept watch over Lydie’s friendships before, but now Lydie wondered whether Michael wanted someone to take her off his hands.
    “Have I told you George Reed is coming from the United States today?” Michael asked.
    “No,” she said, surprised that he had not. George Reed was Michael’s immediate superior at Rothman, Inc., the man who had arranged for Michael to work on the Louvre in exchange for the participation of a French architect on the National Gallery project in Washington, D.C.
    “We have a meeting at the Ministry of Culture,” Michael said.
    Lydie stood, faced Michael. He slid his arm around her neck and kissed her. His neck smelled like soap and powder. His remark about Patrice stuck with her, made her