Nobody knew how he had found her, but nobody was surprised that he did. Nadar was the eyes of Paris, and if anybody remarkable appeared he was bound to find them, whether by ground or air. In any case, with Scarlett staying at the Grand Hotel at the Boulevard des Capucines, just a couple steps from his studio, it was only a matter of time before he found her and sought her out. She had rebuffed his advances though, fearing a photograph that she couldn't alter to her liking, but anyone familiar with Nadar would have confidently predicted eventual success. Unfortunately for him, those who knew her wouldn't have considered nothing more unlikely. Vanity and stubbornness were the alpha and omega of Scarlett's character.
Her beautiful eyes, her naivety, her way of carefully measuring each step akin to a princess and of tilting her head like a curious bird had earned her the nickname "demoiselle" within Nadar's circle. It had also won her the hearts of at least two poets, three painters and a novelist, as far as she knew. All of them equally penniless, to Scarlett's chagrin.
It was not the case of Henri and Camille though, the pair of friends that were also reminiscing about her, lounging by the Seine on that sparkling late June day. Henri one day would be a count, and Camille's father was a banker. In Camille's case, his family patiently tolerated his bohemian adventures, as he was still twenty-two. In Henri's case, just five years Scarlett's senior, there was nothing anyone could have said to alter his conduct. One aspired to write, the other to paint. Both were tanned, short, Camille being stout, Henri thinner. Camille's dirty blond hair was curly and long, Henri's black hair had started to recede. Short boxed beards adorned both their faces, a style Scarlett was still growing accustomed too.
"Je vais l'épouser," Henri declared.
Camille swore.
"La demoiselle peut faire bien mieux," he added.
"Qu'est-ce-que tu en sais? Je me dois la protéger."
Camille bursted laughing.
"Protéger cette demoiselle? Elle pourrait te faire rouler sous la table n'importe quel jour."
A new voice with a hint of an accent joined the conversation, breaking their jovial atmosphere.
"Alors, les enfants, comment ça se passe? On rigole?"
Henri's expression hardened at Albert's intrusion. He had never cared for his delicate, shaven face, or his good manners, or anything else that reminded him he was also an aristocrat. But lately, that general dislike was turning into decided antipathy. To despite him, he answered in English, though he knew Albert hated being treated as a foreigner.
"Just passing time, you see. Such a nice day."
His opponent ignored the insult and sit down next to them on the grass, uninvited. As if in retaliation, he helped himself to wine from Henri's cup, also without asking.
Camille appeared suddenly engrossed in a passing boat on the river, but his lips were trembling.
He considered for a moment not stirring the flames, but he had a very personal reason to do so.
"We were talking about la demoiselle."
Albert nodded as if any other answer would have surprised him. And he served himself some cheese and bread in such a ceremonious, meticulous way Henri had to contain the impulse to hit him.
"A sad affair," he said once he had finished eating and neatly arranging the tablecloth and its contents.
Camille waited for a reaction from Henri. Nothing came, but maybe a silent acquiescence.
"The web that lady has woven in such a short time is hardly believable. This fool was just talking about marriage; I really don't know what to say."
"In those cases, it's better to say nothing, I suppose," was Albert's curt reply.
Henri smiled on spite of himself.
If Camille had been a bit older, he would probably have known better than following the dangerous course of that conversation, but he was young and impulsive. No that different in fact from the very same lady he was talking about in no favorable terms.
"An American divorcée, rich and beautiful. That's all we know about her. That and some barely mentioned children. No respectable companion, no established acquaintances in the country. For all you know, Henri, she has a puritan family somewhere, just like Miss Gardner, and you will find yourself trapped for years like that poor Bouguereau."
"Whatever it takes," was the fierce answer.
The young man shook his head. In other circumstances, Albert would have explained to him that the mystery and the certain displeasure of Henry's family with that imprudent liaison only multiplied Scarlett's charms tenfold, but that wasn't the time or place.
"She can be very beautiful, when she wants," reflected Camille while turning around his cane between his hands. "But there's nothing..." he knew he had to thread carefully. He wasn't interested in a fist fight with Henri, Camille was a man of letters after all, " Nothing innocent about her."
It was Albert's turn to shake his head, and Camille took to heart his silent reproach. The sun was going down, the breeze next to the river was becoming chilly.
"Gentlemen, you are all talking about her in such a dramatic way. Henri, you are not Armand. Have you seen her devouring pastries at Café de la Paix? She does it in a charming way, that's for sure, but she exudes such vitality every hour of the day and night that she can hardly fit the tragic role of a 'dame aux camelias' you wish to paint her as."
The two other gentlemen didn't exchange any meaningful glance, but their thoughts seemed to be in perfect accordance because when Albert said 'And still, she suffers greatly', without skipping a bit Henri added, "Her heart is broken".
Camille stood up, exasperated. He was not going to catch a cold, specially not to remain in that company.
"That's famous! She's already taken, and you fools remain at her feet, properly tamed. Serves you right, I suppose."
And bringing his hand briefly to his hat, he said his adieux and left.
"The boy doth protest too much, me thinks," said Albert once he was gone.
It would be naive to believe that Scarlett was unaware of the turmoil that surrounded her, she who had commanded the attentions of a regiment of gentlemen from three different counties at the age of fifteen. Now, at twenty-eight, what she didn't know, she sensed. She was mostly sorry about them, as marrying without love would be impractical, and marrying with love was impossible, in her circumstances. She tried to be nice with everyone, but not too nice. If only men could just want to spend a good time with no ulterior motives! But sadly, it was seldom the case.
"I no longer need the money. I don't want to be pitied, adored, reformed, or... petted. I guess that disqualifies most of my suitors," she reasoned.
Short of a catastrophic financial collapse in America, she would never remarry. This certainty was as unwavering as any conviction she had ever held. Charles had been a mistake, Frank a transaction, and Rhett... Scarlett wake up most days with a wet pillow, testament of her immense pain. As long as she kept moving, she could function. But she couldn't deceive a lover into believing she cared, and she didn't feel the need to.
She was having such a great time though. Sometimes there were moments of almost unadulterated joy, like that same morning. That first bite into a warm viennoserie at Café de la Paix in the morning, the grandeur of the boulevard stretching out before her. Thank God, for tea gowns, but she must be careful because fashion could quickly change and get her on trouble. It was already difficult enough to learn how to walk or sit with all those complicated rear overskirts.
From that priced vantage point, she could see the ongoing construction of Palais Garnier. That a city could require not only an opera house, but two, would never cease to amaze her, and Paris could only justify it in her mind because that Haussmann fellow was a genius, and he should create as many grand things as he could before dying. Not that she had any reason to believe that he would pass on soon, God forbid, but fate had a frustrating tendency to thwart Scarlett's desires.
That night she was expected at the theater, and how she abhorred it too. It was just marginally better than the opera, as there would be no loud music, but she wouldn't understand a word said on scene all the same. However, she was getting used to that, and Scarlett had realized that the less she paid attention to their words, the more she managed to understand characters and situations. She would arm herself with her opera glasses and she will search for...
She paused, deep in thought for a while, and when she came back for the next mouthful it was cold, greasy and hard to swallow. Scarlet had lost her appetite and, under the amazement of her favorite breakfast waiter, she hastily left.
That night at the theater, in front of the Divine Sarah, Scarlett cried again, as she had done in the privacy of her hotel room earlier that morning. But for very different reasons. In her room, she had felt defeated and wondered if anything she pursued in life held true meaning, as she couldn't escape Rhett's shadow.
However, as she gazed upon the stage during the portrayal of Phèdre, she forgot herself, the opera glasses abandoned on her lap. Sarah spoke in French, but Scarlett understood her every word. Sarah transcended that scene and the world itself, and Scarlett felt deeply humbled by the Art she had always mocked. There was something there, probably an innate talent that had been elevated to perfection by relentless practice. Scarlet that had known effort and all kind of life struggles, but was incapable of any constancy, suffered that performance as a personal reproach, and a challenge, and cried again. As Gerald O'Hara had recognized, unless you could dedicate your whole soul to something, life had no real meaning. Perhaps it was time for her to return to Tara, to embrace his legacy and continue nurturing that dream.
As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Nadar thought convenient to intervene. He owned the box seat and having la demoiselle there had required a considerable amount of persuasion. He wouldn't let that effort go to waste.
"As promised, language was no barrier," he congratulated himself.
Scarlett wiped her tears and thanked him warmly for his invitation, but she was still distracted.
"She's a sight to see. Even more dramatic in real life than on the stage," Nadar was in his fifties, short, quite round, and was touching his moustache in quite a comical way. She liked him a lot, even when he was so evidently scheming to force her hand. "She's the best friend of her friends, yet a formidable adversary when displeased. In essence, worth knowing. I could arrange a little something, perhaps in my studio. A brief session, nothing overly complex. Just a few shots, maybe".
Scarlett sighed, and with a sad smile that the little man would have given anything to capture on film, finally conceded defeat.