Page 46 of The English Wife

Had she been herself, she might have snatched her hand away, but Mrs. Van Duyvil, proper and polite, could only wait until Sir Hugo released her hand, saying over her bowed head, “My felicitations, Bay. How very … expeditious of you. Monsieur le Comte, allow me to present my American acquaintance, Mr. Van Duyvil and his … wife.”

Loathing coiled in Georgie’s stomach. He thought it was all a joke, didn’t he? A mock marriage, a mistress being paraded in public. A prank played on society, and never mind the woman whose heart might be broken by it.

“Monsieur le Comte,” she said softly, in her governess-taught French, every inch the well-bred young lady, even as she engaged in bloodthirsty fantasies involving Sir Hugo and his ebony walking stick.

Bay bowed to Monsieur de Montesquiou. “It is an honor to meet a great poet in person, monsieur. We have both enjoyed your Chauve-Souris.”

That was a lie if ever Georgie had heard one. Bay had brought it to her, an expensive volume bound in gray moiré, fantastically decorated with bats made of jet beads. “The poetry is self-indulgent,” he had said, “but the illustrations are worth the price.”

Under other circumstances, Georgie would have made a face at her husband, would have enjoyed the shared joke. But not now. She could feel herself freezing into the silhouette of the woman she was meant to be, Mrs. Van Duyvil, prim and tongue-tied.

Monsieur de Montesquiou slowly drew the glove from one hand. The empty fingers flapped disconcertingly as he waved it about. “You disappoint me, monsieur. The poetry isn’t meant to be enjoyed. It is meant to be experienced, ingested like absinthe.”

“I’ve never developed a taste for absinthe,” said Bay, at his most American. His hand was warm on Georgie’s back. “I find I prefer port.”

Sir Hugo did not like being ignored. “Perhaps you merely need to sample its pleasures.” His eyes narrowed on Georgie’s face beneath her absurd chip of a hat. “Have you been long in Paris, Mrs. Van Duyvil?”

“About a fortnight.” Georgie kept her hands folded at her waist, a caricature of a gently bred young lady. “It is quite as lovely as I had imagined.”

“The Season is nearly over. Your husband has hardly been doing his duty to you, keeping you to himself.” Without waiting for her to answer, Sir Hugo turned back to Bay. “You must allow me to make some introductions. Mme de Polignac, perhaps? One of your countrywomen, Bay. Although she is quick to tell you that she was raised on the Continent. She considers herself … almost … French.”

Monsieur de Montesquiou’s pointed goatee quivered with indignation. “Swimming in a lake does not make one a fish. No more than marrying a prince sweetens the stench of the shop.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it?” Sir Hugo smiled languidly at Georgie. “It is as absurd as the current fashion for marrying Gaiety Girls. Once the glamor is gone, what is left? A mésalliance, pure and simple.”

Georgie found she was shaking. Not with fear, but anger. “That depends on how one defines a misalliance, Sir Hugo.”

“Let there to the marriage of true minds be no impediment,” said Bay softly, and Georgie could feel the tension in her shoulders lighten.

“How quaint,” said Sir Hugo. He adjusted one of the mother-of-pearl buttons on his dove-gray gloves. “They have what is known as a mariage blanc, the Prince and Princesse de Polignac. They are both of a … shall we say … Greek tendency. Do I shock you, Mrs. Van Duyvil? Do forgive me. I had forgot your, er, sheltered background.”

Georgie could only force herself to smile, even as she saw Bay’s color go sickly. That Sir Hugo had recognized her, was taunting her with her past, she had no doubt. “You forget yourself, Sir Hugo. You have been in Paris too long.”

“I believe I shall design a coat of arms for Mme de Polignac,” announced the count, loudly enough for that lady to hear. “A sewing machine beneath crossed spindles.”

Sir Hugo turned his cane about in his hand, making the silver tip glitter. “You have a crest of sorts, don’t you, Bay? Acorns, is it? So industrious, gathering one’s acorns together for winter.” To Georgie, he said, “If I might borrow your husband for a moment, my dear?”

No, Georgie wanted to say, you can’t. But Sir Hugo was already moving away, drawing Bay with him with an imperious flick of his wrist.

She found herself left with Monsieur de Montesquiou, who was striking an attitude and quite plainly looking about for a more likely audience.

“And what of you, monsieur?” said Georgie quickly, in her correct but stilted French. Bay and Sir Hugo had paused beneath the photo of a man—or was it a woman?—belabored by a storm. “What do you think of the photographic exhibition? I should be honored to have the opinion of an artist of your caliber.”

Monsieur de Montesquiou emitted his famous, high-pitched laugh. It seemed to go on and on, one hand screening his mouth, his teeth as small and black as pebbles. “I have no objection to photography as such; I merely deplore their poor taste in failing to include a picture of me.”

“It was very gracious of you to attend in the face of such a bêtise, Monsieur le Comte.” In the corner of the room, Sir Hugo was smiling a particularly unpleasant smile. Bay replied, his voice too low for Georgie to make out the sound, much less the words.

“I am the sovereign of transitory things,” Montesquiou declaimed. Georgie recognized the line as one from Les Chauve-Souris.

Bay had slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket. He was writing something on a slip of paper.

“In which case, monsieur,” said Georgie, her eyes fixed on her husband, “as your loyal subject, I shall take it as necessary to make myself disappear. Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte.”

She paused long enough to sketch a bow. Only housemaids curtsied; she’d been taught that by her governess long ago. Her governess hadn’t told her whether it was comme il faut to leave a count standing by himself in the middle of an art exhibition, but Georgie didn’t care. Her husband was an American; surely, that entitled her to some latitude? No one expected correctness of Americans.

She slipped around the Princesse de Polignac, coming up behind Bay, just in time to hear him say, in a low voice, “Wasn’t that enough?”

Sir Hugo lifted his eyes to Georgie’s over Bay’s shoulder. Loudly, deliberately, he said, “The girls at Le Chabanais don’t come cheap. Ah, Mrs. Van Duyvil. Has the comte wearied you so soon?”