Free Moonlight Over Paris by Jennifer Robson Page A

guests, was an elderly Chinese butler, who smiled and ushered them along. They walked to the end of a narrow, dark hall and moved into a large room, already so crowded with guests that Helena could discern little of its décor beyond the closely hung prints and portraits on the faded red walls. The light in the room was faintly green, tinted by the overarching boughs of the chestnut trees outside, and what few lights there were did little to dispel the late afternoon gloom.
    â€œAgnes, my friend. You’re here!” A woman approached them, her smile ready and genuine; it could only be Miss Barney. She might have been any age between thirty and fifty,for she had a beautiful, unlined complexion, and her chin-length hair was either blond or silver; in the dim light of the sitting room it was difficult to tell.
    â€œOf course,” Agnes replied gaily. “When have I ever refused one of your summons?”
    â€œAnd is this your niece?” Miss Barney asked.
    â€œYes, indeed. Helena, allow me to introduce you to Miss Natalie Barney. Natalie, this is my niece, Lady Helena Montagu-Douglas-Parr.”
    Helena suppressed a sudden urge to curtsey, for there was something terribly regal about their hostess, and instead shook her outstretched hand. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Barney. Thank you for including me in your invitation.”
    â€œIt is entirely my pleasure, I assure you. Agnes tells me you are an artist.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. I’ve come to Paris to attend classes at the Académie Czerny.”
    â€œI see, I see. Excellent school. Fabritius does have an eye for talent. You’ll do well with him. We must talk some more—I can think of any number of people you ought to meet. Do excuse me; I must say hello to some people.”
    And with that she was gone, her attention drawn by the arrival of another group of guests.
    â€œThere. You have met the grande dame herself. Now, shall we have something to eat? We just need to squeeze past these people here.”
    Agnes looped her arm through Helena’s and steered them toward the dining room, and as they made their way through the crush of people, nearly all of them women, she put names to faces for her niece’s benefit.
    â€œThat’s Djuna Barnes, I think; haven’t seen her here before. Can’t remember where I first met her. And there, with the Valentino look-alike, is Colette—yes, the Colette. Hasn’t written anything worth reading in years, but she does add a certain spark to these affairs. That’s Lily Gramont, the duchesse de Clermont-Tonnerre; she’s one of Natalie’s dearest friends. No sign of Romaine Brooks today, but that’s no surprise. Let me see . . . the women over there, the ones in the awful suits? They’re Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier. Miss Beach owns Shakespeare and Company, the English-language bookshop. She published Joyce’s Ulysses when no one else would touch it. Ah—here we are. No one feeds her guests as handsomely as Natalie.”
    The table before them was tiled with tray after tray of cucumber sandwiches, éclairs, meringues, almond tuiles, and palmier biscuits. Helena filled a plate, accepted a cup of tea, and followed Agnes to a relatively uncrowded corner of the dining room.
    â€œAs soon as we’ve eaten I’ll take you round and introduce you properly,” her aunt promised, and once they’d emptied their plates Agnes took her arm and led Helena on a tour of the salon and its sophisticated guests.
    Nearly all the conversation was in English, for almost everyone was American or English, and though she could have taken part Helena simply stood and listened to the discussions of poetry and fiction and art and dance that swirled around her.
    They left after an hour, in concordance with her aunt’s theory that one must always leave a party when everyone is at their most amusing, and after thanking