Madame Picasso. Anne Girard

now? What would they think of her especially after what she had done last night?

      Sylvette paused and looked at Eva more critically. “Where were you last night, by the way? You didn’t come home. Were you downstairs with Louis, finally?”

      Eva was uncertain why but she still didn’t feel she could tell Sylvette the truth about Picasso. But her friend would not have believed her, anyway. She could barely believe it herself. Eva grinned coyly and sank onto the edge of her bed.

      “Why you little minx, you!” Sylvette giggled, and Eva did not deny it. “So, will you join us for lunch, then? Please? You won’t back out on me, will you? Mistinguett is bringing a friend apparently, and it would be so exceedingly awkward just the three of us without you.”

      “All right, yes, I’ll be there, if it means that much to you.” Eva rolled her eyes and smiled. “But only because you helped me get the job in the first place.”

      “Oh, splendid!” Sylvette sank back on her heels, the glow of victory shining on her pretty face. “And she really does like you now, you know. You positively saved her with that geisha idea. I never asked you how you thought of it.”

      “I learned to be resourceful growing up with little money,” Eva replied as she slipped off her shoes and rubbed her toes, sore from the walk out of Montmartre. She hadn’t wanted to take a trolley and the route was long even just from the subway stop.

      “This is going to be exciting!” Sylvette steepled her hands and tucked them beneath her chin. “There’s no telling what can happen with a woman like Mistinguett once she likes you and offers to take you to lunch in her glamorous Paris.”

      Eva didn’t have anything suitable to wear for a luncheon with anyone important, which should have concerned her. Secretly, though, her mind was still humming with thoughts of what she and Picasso had done together, and she couldn’t have cared less about dresses or hats or gloves. She was beginning now to regret having left so swiftly before she’d given him a chance to tell her if he had feelings for her, and she wondered what it would make him think of her. Was that not what loose women did, leave before dawn? He was probably accustomed to that, so many women at his feet. Of course he was. He was young, handsome and nearly famous. He had probably forgotten her already.

      “Why on earth are there tears in your eyes?” Sylvette asked, bringing Eva back to the moment. “Oh, I will kill Louis if he’s hurt you!”

      “He didn’t.” Eva sniffed, brushing her eyes with the backs of her hands. She nearly added that it wasn’t him at all but she thought better of that. “And I would appreciate you not mentioning it to him, either. I’m sure he would be embarrassed that I told you.”

      “Your secret, pretty Marcelle Humbert, is safe with me—your very dearest friend,” Sylvette solemnly promised.

      Eva stood, feeling the need to freshen up. Suddenly she didn’t want to be reminded of what she had done. As much as she had enjoyed it, she was also a little ashamed. In spite of how dispassionate she was trying to be about it all—and how adult—at the end of the day, Eva could not let go of the reality that she had given her virginity to a virtual stranger. The little girl who still lived inside of her heart wept over her precious surrender, even as Eva smiled and laughed with Sylvette.

      Perhaps he would call on her again at the Moulin Rouge. After all, there were such things as romances. But she felt vulnerable and silly for even thinking about it.

      Eva gathered up her soap and a towel, getting ready to go down the hall to the bath. Before Sylvette could say anything else a knock sounded at the door. She wasn’t certain why, but she hesitated a moment before she opened it. On the other side was a young deliveryman. Freckles and a driver’s cap met her, along with his dutiful expression. Not many people sent deliveries to a humble place like la Ruche, she thought.

      “Mademoiselle Gouel?” he asked with an adolescent lift of his heels.

      There was a red leather-bound book poised before him in his hands. The title was displayed in prominent gold lettering: Satyrs, Pan and Dionysus: Discussions in Mythology.

      She nodded and the man handed the book to her. There was no note, but she knew where it had come from. To know that he thought of her as something more than a night’s dalliance filled Eva with more excitement than she knew how to process. For an instant, she hugged the book to her chest. Then she closed the door and reluctantly turned around. She knew she was beaming.

      “What the devil is that?” Sylvette asked.

      “Oh, nothing important. You should wear that violet-colored dress today, the one with the little pearl buttons. The fabric brings out the color of your eyes,” Eva said divertingly.

      “Do you really think so?”

      “Absolutely. By the way, who is joining us today?”

      Sylvette laid two dresses across her bed and looked at them with her hands on her hips as she answered absently. “I’m not totally certain other than that Mistinguett said her name is Fernande Olivier.”

      * * *

      Le Dôme was the best of the four cafés on the corner of the bustling boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail. It was shaded by an elegant bower of horse chestnut trees and had a butter-yellow awning. Le Dôme was a lively spot, harboring a tangle of closely packed tables with chairs spilling out onto the sidewalk. All of it was full of such life, young Parisians chattering endlessly about politics, art and literature. The newly opened la Rotonde across the street was swiftly becoming its main rival, and there was always someone interesting among the crowds, drinking, smoking, laughing and debating. Progress and possibility was everywhere.

      Once, Eva had passed by and caught a glimpse of Isadora Duncan, the beautiful and famous dancer. She had been not two feet away, impossibly striking in a white turban, white dress and man’s black silk necktie. Her spider-long legs were crossed and she held a cigarette poised in an ivory holder, allowing it to punctuate her thoughtful dialogue as she conversed with a group of young people collected around her.

      Eva secretly craved an opportunity to be back at that café, near people like that. Fame really was so intoxicating, and she was absolutely starstruck. Just to sip an aperitif, and listen to conversations around her there, was to drink in the pure magic of this city.

      Today, Eva felt almost confident in a pale blue dress, ornamented by a delicate string of seed pearls, a beige cloche hat and beige high button shoes. She walked along the boulevard toward the café with Sylvette, who was wearing the violet dress Eva had suggested. Eva had borrowed her own ensemble from a girl down the hall at la Ruche who modeled frequently for an artist named Maurice Utrillo. Fortunately, it fit Eva as if it were her own. In it, she felt for the first time prettier than her tall, willowy roommate, for this one day at least.

      When Mistinguett saw them approach, she stood and waved them over. She was seated at a banquette at the back of the café, up against a wall of mirrored glass. Waiters dressed in black-and-white wearing long white aprons wove through the noisy place, full trays aloft. The other young woman with Mistinguett sat with her back to the door. From her reflection, Eva could see that she was tall and her bearing bespoke a relaxed grace that was intimidating. She wore a large hat decorated with a rose-colored ribbon and large pearl-and-garnet earrings. She glanced up but did not stand as Mistinguett embraced each of them warmly.

      “Oh, isn’t this delightful! These are the two girls I was telling you about who positively saved me with Monsieur Oller.”

      Eva saw the young woman’s face now as she turned her head on a long slender neck. She was lovely with such expressive, wide, olive-colored eyes, full lush lips and long auburn hair in a smooth fall beneath her hat. She extended her own silk-gloved hand to Eva’s bare one as their eyes met.

      “Ah, yes, the seamstress with the kimono,” she said in a strikingly seductive voice.

      “I am Marcelle Humbert.”

      “And I am Madame Picasso,” she said. A reserved smile slipped onto her beautiful face in the same graceful way