long gone.”
“Sorry,” I say as my mind wanders back to the porcelain teapot that Zaid accidently broke. It had no real value except that every time I looked at it, I remembered Grand-mère serving me tea with madeleines or almond biscuits. I remembered her laugh, and in that way, the teapot was priceless.
Alexandre shrugs. “This place was almost razed to build apartment buildings a couple decades ago—that’s why I’m desperate to save it now. It’s survived all these years. I refuse to let some greedy American real estate developer turn a French national treasure into a resort.”
“Too bad Dumas wasn’t as good with money as he was with words.”
Alexandre winces. “Story of my family. Dumas had to sell this estate for a fraction of its value only a few years after building it because he squandered all his money on his entourage and parties and building this property. Then he had to flee to Belgium to escape his debtors.”
“That sucks.” I shake my head.
Alexandre gives me a sad smile. “He eventually came back to France—his children and some friends saved him. Dumas was a genius, but not one who thought about the future. It kind of runs in the family.” He shrinks back like saying the words hurts.
The irony is not lost on me. Alexandre doesn’t talk a lot about his dad—another Alexandre Dumas—but it’s clear that he hasn’t exactly been smart about money or salvaging the family legacy. And here’s history repeating itself again—another son of a Dumas stepping in, trying to save his family.
“Looks like Dumas had more hangers-on than actual friends,” I say. “All those people passing through his life, but Leila was the one on his mind when he was dying even though he hadn’t seen her in decades . . .” There are so many empty promises and unhappy endings in this story. I hope I can change that.
Alexandre gives me this wistful look and guides me into the hall. “Follow me. There’s a room I want to show you.”
We tiptoe into an intimate room with brightly colored stained glass. I look up at him, my mouth open in surprise.
“I know,” he says. “They call this le salon mauresque.”
“The Moorish salon? Uh, yeah, no kidding. It’s an Orientalist’s dream.”
The ivory walls are decorated with stucco sculptures and arabesque designs—leaves and vines and geometric patterns—the kinds of motifs you might see in a mosque. The entire ceiling is sculpted in an intricate, intertwining design—rectangular shapes that somehow fan out into a flower. A brass lamp with panels of red, blue, yellow, purple, and green glass bathes the room in a soft glow. Divans covered with tufted ivory-and-red-brocade cushions are tucked into each corner. Even the now-boarded-up fireplace is decorated in gold, replicating the patterns on the walls and ceiling.
“All the work was done by Tunisian artists that Dumas commissioned on his travels and then shipped over. It’s in much better shape than the rest of the chateau because the King of Morocco paid for the restoration of this room, like, forty years ago.”
“Wow. No wonder this place bankrupted him.” I take a look around the room. “Do you think he made it for her? For Leila?” I gesture to the corners. “Did you notice that each of the little divans has just enough space for two?”
“L’art de la seduction et de l’amour.” Alexandre raises his eyebrows at me.
“Do you need that hushed tone and glint in your eye when you say that? Because those divans probably haven’t seen any action in a hundred years, and that streak is not going to be broken tonight.”
Alexandre laughs, and his shoulders shake a little. It echoes through this empty house, which once was probably full of laughter like his. I imagine the great artists and writers and theater people who must’ve danced through these rooms and what secrets were shared amidst the whispers and wine. I wonder if Leila was one of those guests at the grand housewarming party—we did find an invitation in her box of mementos. How did she feel walking into this room, one perhaps made for her? Did it feel too close to the gilded cage she had escaped? Did