“May I go see my friends?” Despite the growing anticipation of the emperor’s inevitable return, Paris went on as before. In fact, even more people were staying out at night in the cafes. A curfew might be put upon them at any moment, so they would live while they could. Serena had learned it was the French way.
“Don’t stay out too late,” her grand-père said, standing up to hug her and kiss both her cheeks. Her grand-mère did the same. “And keep your ears open,” he added.
Grabbing her cloak and gloves, she disappeared out of the apartment’s front door and down the staircase into the central courtyard around which all the apartments were built. As usual, there were a few stray dogs, and also as usual, she had grabbed a little something for them, a small sack of leftover vegetables, chicken, and bread.
When the mongrels nearly knocked her over and were happily wolfing her tribute, after sneaking a quick pet of this one and a scratch behind the ears of that one, Serena strode past the concierge’s small room and through the wooden doorway onto La Rue Coquillière.
Returning to the large shopping and dining area of the Palais-Royal, she went down a short flight of stone steps to the Café des Aveugles, located in the cellar of the Café Italien. The air was thick and warm, and more than a little musty, but Serena knew she would no longer notice it after a few minutes.
Directly inside the doorway where a lit candle rested high in a shiny tin sconce on either side, she halted to see if her friends were already there. As it had only recently opened at five o’clock, a mere hour earlier, there were still some vacant seats.
Upon each occupied table were a couple bottles of wine in various states of emptiness and a basket of crusty rolls or the remainder of crumbs. On Serena’s left was the café’s claim to fame, a good-sized orchestra, eight musicians that night, all of them blind.
Grisettesfrom shops all around the Palais, two of them her friends, Suzanne and Felicity, were chatting loudly, drinking, and tearing into the warm rolls. Before she could take a step toward their table, Serena was assaulted by several of the street vendors allowed inside to sell their small bouquets, cheap jewelry, and bags of sweets. She bought one of the latter for her grand-mère, then made her way to her friends.
“Don’t ask me why I’m late,” she said, but told them anyway, “I was preparing vegetables.”
They often teased her mercilessly for being tardy.
“It’s easy for you to get here,” Serena reminded them as Suzanne poured her a glass of dark red wine. “You work ten steps away.”
“We hurry here,” Felicity said, “because we’ve stood on our feet all day and it’s bliss to sit, even on these chairs.”
“Sometimes, I stand all day, too,” Serena reminded them, “when I am at the Halle aux Vins, and then I dash all over the city to collect orders.”
Suzanne pressed a warm roll into Serena’s hand. “Our poor wine princess!”
They all laughed. Serena understood her great luck in not being a shopgirl, working for pittance each day. Her friends’ teasing remarks were never malicious. Her grandparents were well off, which her friends knew. But they would be surprised to learn her father was an English baron. And he would be apoplectic if he knew her daily activities and how she sat at night in a café without a chaperone. The previous year when she’d first arrived, it had seemed prudent to simply be a new citizen of Paris, to work hard, and to fit in.
After her missteps in London, the last thing Serena wanted was to draw attention to herself and stand out. That way lay ruin and ostracization as she’d so quickly discovered.
“What have you heard?” Felicity asked.
“What have you read?” Suzanne added.
“Not fair,” Serena said, “tell me what you know first.”
They spent the next half hour going over every detail, real or imagined by the newspapers, as to what was occurring, where Napoleon was at that moment, and when he might arrive. Much of it was unfavorable since, except for a very few presses, the emperor had shut the rest down while he reigned. During his exile, many had sprung up again like flowers, albeit with the permission of the king. Along with the pamphlets supplied to every coffee-house and café, the daily newspapers provided enough fodder for an evening’s discussion.
After another glass of wine, Felicity blurted, “Guillaume is sweet on you, Serena.”
Startled by the confession, she opened her mouth, then closed it. If her friend hadn’t been the young man’s sister, then Serena would have been frank about her lack of interest. Even if she’d found Guillaume to her liking, she had no intention of remaining in France forever. She wanted to go back to England and hoped her father would relent in the near future.
After all, she had been out of sight, and hopefully out of mind, of thetonfor almost a year already. Surely, she could slip back into her old life with no one caring.
Her mother wrote weekly to her own parents, including a few sheets to her daughter in her letters, and Serena hoped with each one she would be summoned home.
Besides, Guillaume was a little frightening in his intensity at times.
The café door opened, letting in a welcome draft of cool night air. The attractive Englishman who’d knocked her over two nights earlier appeared in the doorway. She felt herself becoming prickly while she waited for his gaze to land upon her as she knew it would. When it did, she experienced the same sensation as at the Café de Chartres, that of sharing a communication without saying a word. She half expected him to come over to her table.
He didn’t. After staring at her, obviously with recognition, he might’ve given the slightest nod by way of greeting before joining a man wearing a red kerchief round his neck at a nearby table. She didn’t know his companion’s name but had seen him before, not only in the café but at the Halle aux Vins.
“There’s a handsome devil,” Suzanne said, following Serena’s glance.
She felt her cheeks warm.
“Do you know him?” Felicity asked, sounding much like her brother. “Isn’t he the same man from the Café de Chartres?”
