Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier

honorably during the war. They spoke several local patois and sought to preserve the cultures of their forefathers. The Parisians considered them country bumpkins.

      A few days earlier, a delegation of Breton village heads had presented a list of demands to the Elysée and threatened general strikes if their wishes were not met. This infuriated Postman Lefebvre, a third-generation Parisian who, like many of the capital’s natives, truthfully believed himself part of the French elite. Lefebvre’s opinion was that no culture existed beyond the Paris city gates and he had no patience for illiterate peasants who should grow artichokes instead of making ultimatums.

      Monsieur Lefebvre questioned Johnson at length on whether similar problems existed in the U.S. The American was often short of answers, responding that since his country was a nation of immigrants, Americans had learned to live with each other catch-as-catch-can. What, Lefebvre had demanded, of the Negroes? Wasn’t that what the great civil insurrection was about, meeting their demands? The mailman was fascinated by American Negro musicians and assumed all Negroes could sing, dance, and play the banjo or trumpet. Johnson pointed out that most Negroes in America were poor, uneducated, and in menial jobs. Yes, they had on several occasions made demands to the U.S. government and continued to do so. M. Lefebvre nodded his head vigorously; they were like the Bretons.

      Johnson knew many French citizens, M. Lefebvre included, who hovered between gratitude and mortification when it came to Americans. The Great War was an aching fresh wound. Calculations by both French and U.S. authorities put the number of American dead at more than 110,000. This was dwarfed by the number of French lives lost; almost a million-and-a-half at latest count, but already revisionists on both sides of the Atlantic were claiming the Allied powers could have won the war without U.S. involvement. M. Lefebvre knew better. He may have despised his country’s leaders for being shamefully inadequate during the horrendous conflict, and he might, deep in his heart, have resented the American rescue of France, but he would never forget the sacrifices made by young Americans to save his nation, and so it pleased him to hear his two countries had much in common, including Bretons here and Negroes there.

      Chapter 11

      Six days after landing in France, Easter retrieved her diary. She had spent almost all of her daylight hours on her feet, refusing to waste moments sitting. At night after dinner, if no specific activity was planned, she would force Frederick to hire a cab so they could be driven about Paris.

      Her first purchase in Paris had been from a papeterie near their hotel. She bought a new blank book with 200 sheets of vellum paper nestled between thick suede covers. She also purchased a Lewis Waterman fountain pen with lever filler, and a bright green blotter.

      One rainy evening, when Frederick pleaded exhaustion and fell into bed before nine, she took her purchases to the hotel’s reading room, ordered tea with milk, and began writing.

      *****

      Paris, Monday, April 21, 1919

      We are in Paris!! We are really in Paris!! It took no time at all for me to decide that I want to stay here awhile. I have not told Frederick this, but think I may be able to convince him that we should. Life here is relatively inexpensive for those with dollars in their pockets, and there is nothing pressing in Chicago. Frederick told me his father’s firm can get along without him, though he remains on salary—a gift from Mr. C. Senior—for the duration of the trip, so we shall see.

      The city has surpassed my every expectation. I have been in a state of constant delight ever since the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare. The place smells alive. Emotions are palpable; relief at the war’s end, sorrow that so many were lost, love for those who survived. You can feel the history, almost hear the hoof beats of Napoleon’s cavalry returning from Egypt, almost see Marat, Charlotte Corday, and Robespierre on every street corner. I hardly slept the first night.

      We are in an excellent-if-small suite at the Hotel Royal Deschamps. It is expensive; yet another reason for finding a more affordable residence. Since we have arrived here, there has been a tendency on Frederick’s part to complain about the price of meals, transportation and other services. For example, I asked that the hotel send a seamstress to the room as my clothes hang on me after our sea voyage. Frederick frowned, asked how much this would cost. I didn’t know, having not bothered to ask. Frederick frowned again, made a great show of producing his wallet and fanning through the roll of Franc notes. He looked unhappy at the prospect of parting with a single bill.

      *****

      Was that an indelicate thing to write? Frederick was not a tightwad, and only twice had he groused about the price of things, and yet it had surprised her; it was out of character. She thought for a moment, then continued.

      *****

      But Frederick has also been taken by the city. I have caught him staring at the latest men’s fashions in store windows. He purchased a bottle of shaving cologne at a parfumerie, and tomorrow we shall look for a tailor who can make him some shirts.

      I roam the streets like a common tourist. Frederick accompanied me the first day, but since then I’ve had mornings to myself. We meet for lunch, visit museums in the afternoon, and have attended two evening performances. The one last night was quite risqué. Frederick claims he was told by the hotel staff that it was a very entertaining spectacle, and so we attended. We sat in the dark for what seemed a long time. When the curtain finally rose, a line of dancers wearing brief costumes cavorted about the stage, sang songs, performed acrobatic feats of mild daring and told jokes that neither of us could understand. One skit about the murderer Landru, whom I have read about in newspapers, was obviously ill-rehearsed and disconcerting. An actor, wearing a pointed beard and a bowler hat, lures a young woman to his room. He persuades her to take off most of her clothes, which she does with a maximum of tasteless movements. The lights dim, and eerie strains rise from the musicians’ pit. One hears the sounds of passion, and we are treated to a number of tableaux of Landru and his captive in compromising positions. The crowd applauds, shouts suggestions (I think) and generally carries on. Then a large black box—an oven—is produced. Landru wrestles the hapless woman into it while singing at the top of his lungs, then lights a match. Flames. Screams. Smoke. A crescendo of music. After a moment of anticipation, Landru wrests open the oven door and pulls out a skeleton with which he dances across the stage to an infernal rhythm. In the background, 10 thinly veiled women, whose breasts are barely hidden, sing a Greek chorus. Applause. The curtain drops, then rises. The actresses whip off their wigs and skirts, fling their fake bosoms to the ground and reveal themselves to be all men! Frederick, of course, knew. Why he chose this particular spectacle is beyond me. If he wanted to shock me, he succeeded.

      *****

      Easter poured more tea and signaled to a waiter for a fresh pot. It was hard to remember everything—so many discoveries, so little time, so much yet to see. How best to approach Frederick about staying longer than planned? He liked the city, or at least claimed to, but he missed American breakfasts, which no Parisian restaurant served. If he agreed to lengthen their stay, Easter decided she would cook Frederick eggs, bacon and pancakes every day, or at least once a week.

      *****

      Two days ago I sent a note to Mr. James Johnson, whom the seamstress of my wedding dress, Yvonne Février, suggested I contact. She told me he is a charming man who might be helpful in getting to know the city. Yesterday, having obtained a response from him welcoming me to France, I went to his residence.

      I half-expected an artist’s garret, the cold-water atelier of an impoverished painter, for Yvonne had told me that Mr. Johnson was struggling to establish himself. I had envisaged a handsome man besmeared with traces of ochre and magenta, and instead found a neat, ground-floor apartment and a young American with melancholy eyes. Yvonne had told me he’d driven an ambulance during the war.

      Save for a foldable easel standing by a window, the tools of his trade were nowhere to be seen. I anticipated the smell of turpentine but was greeted by the aroma of cabbage and sausage wafting from the concierge’s kitchen.

      He was wearing a brown corduroy suit that had seen fresher days, and a gray foulard. His shoes, though scuffed, were clean and free of paint spots. I mention all this because I was