Madame Valois, who seemed well-versed in the particulars of La Maternite, asked if Elena was a wealthy woman, able to make a large bequest.
Serafina felt Rosa straighten in her chair.
Carmela spoke for the first time. “Yes, and she is the type of woman who prefers the company of men, so it’s not surprising she sought out a physician instead of hiring a midwife.”
They stopped talking when a waiter came into the room and refilled their champagne flutes. Another arrived and passed out menus while the sommelier gave the list of wines to Rosa who handed it to Valois and said, “I thought we’d be all night ordering, so the restaurant has prepared a special menu for us.”
The first course included escargots in a light sauce, a goose foie gras, and an asparagus in a light vinaigrette. For the main course they had a choice of several varieties of duck, a shoulder of lamb, or a fish fillet, either cod or sole, and an assortment of potatoes and legumes. The wine list included a Margaux, a Medoc, a Bordeaux and several different Sauternes and liqueurs for the desserts.
Loffredo looked at his menu and smiled. “Different from what I ate last night.” He ordered the escargots to start with and the house specialty for his entree, a stuffed duckling with potatoes.
“When you saw your wife, did she seem different?” Valois asked.
He shook his head. “She was… her usual self, slightly denigrating, a breezy woman, full of energy and well-dressed. She talked of the upcoming exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. Now that I’m able to go, I’d like to see it.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Carmela asked, slicing a piece of her lamb and spearing a sampling of creamy potatoes with her fork.
Loffredo smiled, breathing the steam from his plate. He cut into the crispy skin of his stuffed duckling before replying. “I believe it was April 9. She told me she had just had her suspicions confirmed. She was with child.” He took a swallow of his Margaux.
According to Tarnier’s records, that was the date of Elena’s first appointment with him, Rosa pointed out.
“We’ll check with his assistant Monday,” Valois said, “to confirm these dates. Depending on the strength of his reply, we’ll either wait for Tarnier’s return to ask him directly, or talk to Madame de Masson and prepare her for the possibility of exhumation.”
“And then what?” Rosa asked.
Valois stared at his half-eaten meal. No wonder the man was so thin. “I’m not good at speculation. Let’s take one step at a time.” He looked to his wife whose eyes were a sharp blue, even in candlelight.
“Anything yet from the men captured today?”
“We are not finished questioning them, but they insist that their task is protection of Madame Florio and the members of her group, nothing more. So far, they haven’t revealed the name of their employer, but say it is someone interested in maintaining the welfare of all Sicilians in Paris.”
Rosa shook her head.
“Did they confess to stealing the photos from your desk?”
“They’ve confessed to nothing.”
Serafina didn’t think they were the thieves. Why would foreigners have access to a locked office in the prefecture?
“What will you do with them? Can you deport them?” Carmela asked.
Francoise sipped her wine. “I won’t speak for my husband, but as a student of French history, I know the relationship between our two countries is close at present.” She held up two tight fingers. “I’m sure our government wants to keep it that way, not that deporting two unknown Italian citizens would put the trust of our two countries in jeopardy. But I don’t think Magenta would risk even a small rift, not without a stronger reason.”
“Who?” Rosa asked.
“She means Patrice de Mac-Mahon, our head of state,” Valois said. “His help was significant in defeating the Austrians at Magenta. Hence the nickname.”
Serafina nodded her understanding.
“Nonetheless, we’ll keep a watch on the men who follow you while you are in Paris,” Valois promised.
Rosa expressed her gratitude.
Serafina, who had been toying with her food, a succulent shoulder of lamb, arched her brows and said nothing. But she didn’t like this news from Valois. He was nothing if not political, she realized, thanks to his wife who made it her business to smell the wind. Which is why the French wouldn’t use a more persuasive form of interrogation.
She listened to the clink of glasses from the next table as Teo proposed a toast to Paris. “And to Louis Le Grand,” Charlus added. Tessa looked at Teo, and Arcangelo looked down at his plate, but the two young men lifted their glasses and drank. Rosa went over to talk to them. She smiled and removed the wine bottles from easy reach.
There was a lull in the conversation as they concentrated on the food, and Serafina watched Rosa place the wine bottles in the center of their table. Gazing at the other table, she overheard Teo talking about The Hunchback of Notre Dame and wondered if the dust from Quasimodo’s and Esmerelda’s bones still swirled about the stones of the massive church.
Swallowing the last bite of her entree, a stuffed duckling, Rosa wiped the corners of her mouth and reached for the Medoc. She turned to Serafina. “Mark me, these men are on Don Tigro’s payroll,” Rosa said, pouring herself another glass. “He’s still interested in you, and I can’t understand why. He pays you too much attention. Has done for too long and where’s his gain?”
The thought made Serafina’s heart pound. Why did she always walk such a thin line? No one must ever know of the family ties between her and Don Tigro, the secret more difficult to keep now that their finances were so grim.
Loffredo sat next to her, so near and yet untouchable. His wife was either buried in a fresh grave in Versailles or alive and hiding who knew where and with child. Either way, Valois must never suspect their affair. She glanced at Francoise Valois, gracious, effervescent, interested in what everyone had to say. And-more to the point-with a feline cunning, attuned to everyone’s traits, their strengths, their weaknesses, their desires. The woman was a troublemaker, Serafina thought, as she watched the waiters clear the table with deft movements. And she must take care with Carmela whom she caught glaring at her tonight.
Waiters poured coffee. The sommelier brought a tray with several flavored brandies and snifters as the maitre d’hotel followed by the chef in checked trousers and white hat carried the piece de resistance, a flaming glace au four. They placed it before Rosa who cut the dessert into ten large helpings.
When she finished her cake, Carmela sipped her brandy and stared into the flames for a moment. She apologized, but said that for all their traipsing around Paris looking for artists, they were unable to find more information about Elena. “Victorine was not in her studio, and Berthe Morisot was not at the exhibit.”
After saying goodnight to the Valois, they walked through the Tuileries and down to the banks of the Seine, strolling along the quays, happy, quiet, Serafina’s shoulder beginning to ache. Tessa, Teo, and Arcangelo ran ahead, taking the steps down to the river. Rosa, Serafina, Carmela, and Loffredo followed at a slower pace. Serafina longed for some time with Loffredo, to speak or to sit quietly, just the two of them, and ask him about these last few weeks in prison. She sensed his fatigue, or perhaps it was her own, and yet she was reluctant to end the evening.
“We are too serious, all of us,” Rosa said. “Maybe it was the food. Let’s forget this murder and what the French might think of us.
“What does your heart tell you, Loffredo?” Serafina asked.
“My heart tells me what it always has, I love only you.”
With his words, all of Serafina’s earlier concerns, her convoluted thoughts melted away.
Carmela said, “Careful, Mama. Everything is at risk.”
Her daughter’s voice was grating, but she managed a weak smile in Carmela’s direction. “You’re right.”