Chapter 8
Exiled
While Celine’s new life thrived on the right bank of Seine, Bastien’s, by no choice of his own, unfolded on the artistic left.
Montparnasse was just as rumbustious by night as it was by day, if not more. Cafés bustled with activity, where sharp tongues collided and even sharper minds birthed masterpieces onto frail napkins. It was the corner of the world where writers, painters and even exiles found refuge and inspiration.
Bastien, meanwhile, was winding through the streets trying to find his new temporary residence. “Are you sure you read it correct?” he called over his shoulder. “There is no Rue Piemontesi around here. Check again.”
A rustle of paper followed his command, then a huff of irritation.
Ana?s had insisted on helping with the move, tagging right at his heel while they walked up and down the same streets to locate the building.
Though he had been at Juliana’s apartment countless times before, it was usually after partying all night long and being too drunk to tell left from right, let alone recall any street names the day after.
To her credit, Ana?s had made herself useful by reading directions off of a map she had picked at a nearby stand.
“Are you sure you are not blind, brother?” she snapped. “I’ve checked it five times alre—Oops,” she chuckled nervously, flipping the map over in her hands. “I guess I was looking into Montmartre instead. My mistake.”
Bastien threw his head back, letting out a string of incoherent noises from the back of his throat.
He took out his cigarette case, lighting one for himself and offering a second one to Ana?s.
He knew she liked to smoke, which Grandfather wasn’t too happy about, but she didn’t have to do it in secret around Bastien.
“I thought you wanted to come along and help with the directions.”
Ana?s shrugged. “I lied.” A thin stream of smoke curled into the air as she switched the conversation. “According to this, we’ve been walking around in circles. Juliana’s apartment is three streets over.”
“Wait, wait.” Bastien pulled her by the elbow before his sister could wander down another misread street. “What do you mean you lied?”
“Do you really think I would spend my Friday evening helping my exiled brother find a new apartment? I appreciate the cig, but I wanted to see Juliana.”
Now this was an interesting turn of events.
Juliana Hastings was Bastien’s best friend of over ten years.
She had been sent by her father to Paris a few years before the Great War, to live in a snug little townhouse along with her governess, and study at the Académie de Musique.
Evidently, the choice of residence in the 16th arrondissement had brought her right opposite the Ménard mansion.
She had become Bastien’s best friend—the only friend in the private alley where they lived.
But that was before Ana?s and Jacques had moved in, and before Juliana had moved out to join her milieu of artists in Montparnasse.
She could have afforded an apartment anywhere in Paris.
The Hastings, as Juliana had told him once, were nouveau riche—new money—but still money.
But Juliana had wanted to feel closer to the whole idea of the starving artist, so after booking her first performance at a burlesque, she had joined everyone else in the poorest neighbourhood she could find.
Since then, Ana?s had met her only a handful of times, but by the shock splashed across Bastien’s face it was clear that he knew nothing about her fascination with his friend.
Although he knew about her preferring women—it was the only secret Ana?s had trusted him with that Jacques didn’t know about.
“Is that so?” Bastien hummed. “What happened to that other girl?”
“She’s history,” his sister sniffled. “Now unhand me before I scream.”
He complied, largely because he was well acquainted with Ana?s’s earsplitting shrieks and didn’t want to suffer a headache that wasn’t caused by heavy drinking.
Plus, if the garde municipale was around, it would be extremely difficult to convince them they were siblings who bickered like this all the time.
Ana?s was Jacques's sister by blood, and the only thing that set them apart was the lighter shade of hazel in her eyes.
Next to Bastien, she could barely pass for his cousin.
They started up the street again.
“How long are you going to stay with Juliana anyway?” she asked as they turned up a low hill. The neighbourhood here was quieter, or as quiet as it could get when countless chairs filled the sidewalk along the boulevard, buzzing with conversation under the dim glow of gas lamps and café awnings.
“Why? Are you calculating how many times you can come here to see her?”
“No.” She marched forward, her pace fast. “I’ll miss you, that’s all…and you were in the middle of teaching me how to drive.”
Bastien hastened to catch up to her and patted her head, upsetting the diamond headband she had fixed around her hair. “And here I was, mistaking that whole speech for a magnanimous heart-pouring on your part,” he said, indignant. “Besides, we have a driver. Make use of him.”
“Ugh, you sound just like Jacques.”
“Bite your tongue!”
Ana?s rolled her eyes. “If I were completely honest,” she went on, “I’m glad I will have a few days of peace without you two fighting.”
Bastien would be lucky if his period of exile lasted only a few days. He had never been able to entirely predict his grandfather’s decisions.
It didn’t matter. As long as he ensured Celine won that competition and he replenished his accounts again, moving out of the mansion was merely a pebble in his shoe.
Eventually, Juliana’s building appeared into view, standing like a solitary soldier on top of the hill. They both let out a breath of relief.
“I’m starting to think you don’t feel bad about me at all, sister,” he heaved for air, suddenly remembering why he had blocked out the way to Juliana’s apartment. He hated this hill.
Ana?s, unaffected in comparison, shrugged. “My empathy is a work in progress.” Reaching the doorway, she rang the bell that read J. Hastings in art nouveau engraved lettering. There was a crashing noise on the other side, followed by a yelp. Ana?s held back a laugh.
A moment later a window shuffled open on the first floor. Then Juliana’s head stuck out, whistling at them so they could face her.
“What happened to ‘I’ll move in before noon.’?” she asked, tilting her chin upwards so that the breeze that blew through the alley wouldn’t muss her gelled hair. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
“Santa’s little helper wasn’t helping,” Bastien replied, pointing at Ana?s with his thumb.
Juliana had always carried a dismantling air about her; eyes sparkling like the cutting edge of a sword; lips always a vicious shade of red. It was part of her charm as a showgirl. But right at that moment, Bastien could have sworn her cheeks pinked when her eyes landed on Ana?s.
The plot thickens.
Bastien held himself from imparting all the teasing remarks that flashed across his mind. “We’re here now, so take off that feather boa and come open the door.”
Juliana shot him a dirty look, like she already regretted saying yes to Bastien staying with her. “Wait there. I’ll be out in a second,” she shouted, disappearing inside again.
A moment later, she was at the door, greeting them. “Welcome to your new home, exiled son.”
Her marble cut features were even sharper up close, though the blush, still persistent, softened them somewhat. Bastien pushed Ana?s forward and entered the apartment right behind.
It felt like entering another timeline; the living room was absolutely bohemian, with everything being either silk, velvet, or embroidered and decorated with Chinese motifs.
Juliana had several lamps on, neither of them casting much light.
Bastien nearly tripped over the row of heels by the entrance.
“It wouldn’t kill you to rent some place bigger, you know,” he remarked, letting his gaze wander, curious to see whether anything had changed.
To his disappointment, other than a pile of books on the floor that kept growing and the new bamboo fans hanging from crooked nails on the wall, everything else remained where it always stood: two velvet chaises facing each other; behind them a bookshelf, because Juliana enjoyed looking at the spines when her guests started to bore her; the feather boa tossed over a red lampshade on the corner, the floor sprinkled with glitter and confetti which she trailed back home after every performance; the kitchen to the right.
There was only one other room, Juliana’s bedroom.
“I’m assuming one of the chaises will be my new sleeping arrangement?”
“Unless you prefer the floor.”
“Your bed is rather comfortable…” he trailed off.
“Do you want to sleep in a carton like an abandoned kitten?” Juliana said sharply, her red lips curling like a cat’s. Bastien turned around. Met her gaze and shook his head. “Then zip it and like it.”
“Do make nice, Jules,” he sulked. “As you said, I am abandoned. I need comfort right now, not military commands.”
She was already heading to the kitchen. “So, tea and brandy?”
“One more than the other.”
“Isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?” she asked, filling a kettle.
Bastien slouched into his seat, draping his arms over the backrest, and stretched his long legs on the coffee table. “Champagne, actually.” A few sequins had fallen off her stage costume and had stuck to the chaise. He flickered them off. “A bathtub full.”
There was amusement in Juliana’s voice as she asked, “Edward VII?”
“I told you I’d do it one day.”
“And I wasn't invited because…”
“Mischievous as you might believe yourself to be, Jules, I am more. You would have thought it too wasteful and spoiled my fun.”
“It is too wasteful.”