“I should feel guilty.”
“There’s scarcely enough alcohol in this entire bottle to...”
“Please, Alison.”
“A sip?”
Lizzie shook her head.
“I shan’t tell a soul,” Alison said, narrowing her eyes conspiratorially.
“It isn’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
“It would be wrong to value a precept, and then practice the exact opposite of that...”
“Practice, yes! Precisely what you need! Now take this bottle at once, or I shall become cross with you. The very idea! Wine? There’s wine in the Bible, is there not? No one is advocating that you lurch down the street in drunken disarray, but Lizzie, my dear, a teeny, tiny sip of wine will neither disorganize your senses nor compromise your beliefs. For God’s sake, take it, or I shall pour it all over your head!”
Lizzie took the bottle.
“Now, drink. Not too much mind you, for we wouldn’t want you falling down in the gutter.”
Lizzie took a sip, grimaced and handed the bottle back to Alison, who put it to her mouth and drank a great draught.
“Ladies quite,” Alison said, and to her surprise, Lizzie found herself laughing.
Afterwards, they bought a cheapback book from one of the stalls along the river (“Demandez le plan de Paris!” a street hawker shouted. “Les vues de Versailles! C’est pour rien, mesdames, vingt sous!”) and tore out the pages and used them as makeshift napkins to rid their hands of the chicken’s lingering grease (“Though I would much prefer to lick it off,” Alison said, and rolled her eyes) only to discover that their hands were now stained with ink and looked as black as any chimney sweep’s. They were obliged, at last, to stop into one of the Bouillons Duval where — to the proprietor’s obvious annoyance when they told him they wished only to use the lavatory — they washed their hands, and Alison, for the first time since they’d been together, actually allowed Lizzie to pay for something: the services of the old woman in attendance, who offered them towels and accepted four sous in return, with a wide toothless grin and a cheery “Merci beaucoup, mesdames.”
“De rien, madame,” Alison replied and when they were again on the street outside, told Lizzie that whereas in England, proper ladies and gentlemen only said “sir” or “madam” to persons of the blood royal, once across the Channel one could scarcely be too generous with this trifling compliment, and its frequent omission by the English had given rise to a longstanding French grudge. Remembering the hall porter’s look when she had addressed him as “sir”, Lizzie flushed, and Alison — detecting this at once — asked her what she’d said now to shock her. When Lizzie told the story, she hugged her close and said, “Oh, my dear Lizzie, be sure never to do that again!”
In the Café Procope on the Left Bank, they sat at an outdoor table, and Alison ordered thimblesful of Madeira, which Lizzie found sweeter and more to her liking than had been the wine she’d tasted at lunch. Still, she drank it sparingly, and not without feelings of guilt. The proprietor came to their table, introduced himself, commented on the lovely weather and then told them that this would be his last summer here, his large soulful eyes moisting with tears when he explained that this historic place would soon close its doors forever. He pointed out to them the table at which Voltaire used to sit to write his letters to the king of Prussia. He showed them through the smoke-stained rooms, where hung portraits of Rousseau, d’Alembert, Crébillon and Mirabeau. He led them back to their outside table again, and asked them to linger as long as they chose, for soon there would be no lingering here at all.
They drank more Madeira; they sat in silence and watched Paris go by. A bareheaded boy with the face of an angel offered matches for sale — “Des alumettes, mesdames, pas chèr—” and then drifted off to the next café. A man stopped at the table, pulled a pair of opera glasses from under his coat, said, “Une vraie occasion, mesdames, vous ne trouverez pas de deux,” and though Alison assured him in French that she had no need of opera glasses, merci, he insisted persuasively, and did not move on until she rudely turned her back to him. No sooner was he gone than a young woman approached, piping in a high childlike voice, “De jolies fleurs, de belles violettes, de jolies fleurs, de belles violetles.” Alison bought a nosegay and handed it to Lizzie. They sipped more wine in the golden lazy sunshine.
There was a man offering little terriers and green parakeets for sale. A confectioner’s boy came by, wearing a white apron and carrying glacéed apples on a stick. A young woman, carrying a baby in one arm, offered long-stalked roses for sale. There was a man selling canes, and another selling plaster figurines. An artist with long gray hair covered by a tam-o’-shanter, wearing gymnasium shoes and carrying a large oil painting under each arm, stopped at their table and explained in flawless English that owing to a momentary want of money, he wished to dispose of his work to a connoisseur in whose home it might be properly displayed.
And suddenly, inexplicably, it was four o’clock, the hour of the newspaper, and the boulevards burst into a fever of activity. All up and down the avenues, parcels of newspapers smelling of fresh ink were piled up before the iron kiosks, the carriers running along the sidewalks, the vendors folding the sheets and displaying one of them on a long pole, forbidden to cry out the news as was done in London, Alison explained, for fear they might excite the populace or become the mouthpieces of revolutionaries. Lizzie could well understand the law; the purchasers forced their way to the kiosks, using elbows — and fists, in some instances — seeming in a rage to get at the latest news.
They walked slowly back to her hotel.
They kissed each other’s cheeks before they parted, and Alison reminded her that she and Albert would be by at seven sharp.
“Well, make it seven-oh-one,” she said, and grinned and said, “Ta, Lizzie!” and walked swiftly and gracefully toward a waiting coupé.
The moment Lizzie entered the room upstairs, her headache returned. And all at once, without warning, she felt desperately ill. She took off her dress and hung it on one of the satin-covered hangers in the chifforobe. She was unlacing her corset when she became suddenly dizzy and blamed it at once on the wine. She took off her shoes and lay down on the bed. Felicity came into the room not a moment later and found her lying there that way — in her petticoat and chemise, her underdrawers and black cotton stockings, her corset only partially unlaced, her eyes glazed. When Felicity touched her forehead, it felt blazing hot to her hand.
She immediately telephoned Alison at the Binda and left a message with the concierge, asking him to have her phone back the moment she arrived. Alison returned the call not five minutes later; by that time, Felicity had removed Lizzie’s corset and stockings and had bathed her feverish brow with a cold, damp cloth.
“What’s the matter?” Alison asked at once.
“Lizzie’s burning with fever,” Felicity said. “I think we shall need a doctor. Should I call downstairs and ask them to fetch one?”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Alison said. “Monsieur Foubrier is a dear man, and he operates his hotel beautifully, but I should sooner trust my health to a wild boar as to a French physician. You must immediately ring St. George’s Nursing Association in the rue de la Boche. They have English-speaking nurses there, and they will put you in touch with an English-speaking doctor. The last thing you want is some Frenchman putting his ear to Lizzie’s chest and muttering imponderables in a language they cherish as though sacred. I shall be there immediately; I should walk if the hour weren’t so late, but I’ll engage the nearest coupe, and hope the driver doesn’t become hopelessly snarled in traffic. Make your telephone call at once, Felicity.”