lady whose family she was already acquainted with. And the most improbable—her Jane danced at the waltz. She would omit the parts about Jane’s interesting frock, that she carried her father’s sword, and that she danced with a girl. And, she thought, she must tactfully find a way to say that Jane grew robust with all the pigeon, pork, and beef she had been eating. Surely an envelope of cash from one of Jane’s sisters would arrive.
And now, Madame thought of Byron, and why Eugénie refused Byron’s hand. She did see that, although Eugénie’s grandaunt Agnes was becoming drowsy, less watchful, and had missed the slight between the couple. Even with the music joyful and loud, Grandaunt Agnes didn’t revive for most of the evening once she had fallen asleep. Madame Pierpont, however, remained alert and didn’t tire of inquiring about the portrait and when it would be shown.
Thisbe excused herself from Claude Le Brun and navigated to Madame.
“Take me to my son,” Madame said, anxious to get away from Lucille Pierpont. “What did Le Brun have to say?”
“That he was anxious to leave, Madame Sylvie.”
“How many drinks did you give him?”
“He wouldn’t drink, Madame.”
“Would not drink? At a party?” She couldn’t believe it. “You were to get him to drink. Make him merry. Agreeable.”
“I gave him the punch, Madame. He would not drink.”
“Useless!” Madame said. “You are useless to me.” Madame looked at Le Brun, who stood sentry over the parlor room and shooed away anyone who might wander near the entrance.
Madame witnessed it and was disgusted. This behavior, by a tradesman, at a party in a small house, was unforgivable.
Lucien saw his mother. He sought to head her off, and exclaimed, “Mother! My mother! You remember Alphonse Tournier? Alphonse, I am certain you’ve met my mother, Madame Sylvie Guilbert.”
“I am Sylvie Bernardin de Maret Dacier Guilbert,” Madame said.
“We met at my daughter’s baptismal. She is now married.”
“But of course!” Madame said, although her recollection was vague.
Alphonse took Madame’s hand and kissed it lightly. “I appreciate greatly the invitation you extend to my son and me.”
“No, no, Monsieur Tournier. It is our pleasure.”
“Alphonse,” he said immediately.
“No, no, Alphonse. It is we who are honored that you visit our humble home.”
Lucien, who had been holding his breath, exhaled.
“My compliments to your most exquisite granddaughter. However, I have one complaint.”
“Complaint?” mother and son said.
“It is unfair the hosts’ granddaughter,” he said to Madame, “and daughter,” he then said to Lucien, “outshines the other young ladies. And that gown! I’ve not seen one like it.”
Madame was forced to look the way of Laurent and Rosalie. She couldn’t bring herself to let her eyes rest on the young couple. She, slender and graceful; he, tall, with the strong features of his French Creole father. She glanced slightly, turned to her guest, and smiled. “You are kind.”
“I have eyes,” Alphonse said.
Lucien knew the extent of the performance his mother had given. He was moved to pity and gratitude and didn’t wish to tax her any further. “Mother, is all well? Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, my son.”
Lucien turned to Tournier. “Pardon, my friend.”
Tournier excused them and gazed in his son’s direction. His was the look of a father who saw his son happy and resigned himself to deal with the family his son chose to align himself with. Such as they were.
Out of earshot, Madame said, “It is a wonder all the guests haven’t left.”
Lucien glanced over at Rosalie and Laurent.
“Is this why you pulled me from Tournier? I was in the midst of securing—”
Madame spoke over him. “Le Brun won’t show the painting. He won’t move from the parlor or let anyone enter.”
“We’ll have Byron and his Pearce fellow throw him out.”
“And we’ll have the countess end the engagement,” Madame snapped. “You must talk to the painter, son. Get him to show the painting. Madame Pierpont won’t let me rest. And believe me. She would enjoy my humiliation like she would enjoy standing over my grave.”
“There is a lot I could say about that painting, Mother.”
“We need to show this painting.”
With Thisbe at Madame’s side, mother and son made their way to Le Brun.
He folded his arms, waiting for them.
“Monsieur Le Brun. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Not truly enjoyment,” Le Brun said. “But it is a merry party. Your guests are happy.”
“But you don’t dance,” Madame said. “You don’t drink. We need men to dance with the ladies.”
“One cannot dance or drink until our business is complete. Then, I can join the merriment.”
“But