June, 1915
Paris, France
"A toast! A toast to Robert," cried Sergei Hoffmann, over the din of well-wishers.
"Hear, hear!" was the response from several corners of the room.
We were gathered in the private room of a well-known Paris restaurant for the traditional bachelor's night, and the good food and copious amounts of spirits in all varieties had made for a memorable evening.
Stories – many of them bawdy – had been told and conversation had been brisk. These were my friends, the people I had come to know in the two years that I had been stationed in Paris with the U.S. Embassy, and they were there to celebrate my passage from bachelorhood into holy matrimony with the beautiful Madeleine Lévesque.
It was hard for me to believe that just four months had passed since that cold night in February when we had first expressed our feeling for each other.
On the surface, we should not have been a matched couple, for there was much that set us apart.
I was exactly twice her age – she was 18 and I was 36 – and she was the daughter of a bistro owner, while I was an undersecretary to the American Ambassador to France. And, of course, she was a French girl who had lived all of her life in the big city of Paris, while I was actually a country boy from the swamps of Louisiana.
Nevertheless, our love had blossomed, once we unbottled our feelings. As spring loosened winter's grip on the city, we would walk through the parks, or on the streets, talking about all sorts of things.
Many of our conversations had to do with the war that had been raging for nearly a year now. Some nights we would sit by the Seine and hear the muffled thunder of the big cannons from the front, which wasn't all that far away.
Madeleine had already lost several of her friends from school, who had gone to the front and never come back. I would often hold her as she wept for the souls that had been taken – and, remarkably, she would weep for those of the other side, as well.
"It is so senseless," she would say. "Why do they fight? Why? Tell me, Robert, what makes men leave their homes and go off to kill other men that they don't even know, and to die in such a horrible manner?"
And I couldn't give her an answer that made sense, other than the fact that Germany did occupy a significant portion of French land and that the French government was duty-bound to dislodge them.
One thing we did discover was that we both loved music. Our first date had been to a performance of the Paris Symphony, and I was captivated by the way she closed her eyes and moved to the music, as if it was playing her.
Many times, we would simply sit in the parlor at the cozy apartment she shared with her father, or at my place, and talk, or perhaps I would break out my old accordion and sing to her the old Cajun folk songs that my mother had taught me. Soon, she picked them up and we would sing together.
And then we would embrace on the divan and we would kiss. Oh my, would we kiss. Each time we did, I would feel the arousal surge through me like a bolt of lightning, and it would take all of our willpower not to succumb to the lust that threatened to overwhelm us.
Certainly, Madeleine would have probably been receptive to my advances, but I had made Marcel – her father and my friend – a promise that I would not do anything that would bring dishonor to him or his daughter.
A month earlier, I had surprised Madeleine with a ring and a proposal of marriage, and she had accepted – to the roaring approval of our friends at Marcel's.
Her father had openly wept, saying, "I wish her mother could have lived to see this moment."
And now I was seated at a long table where my friend Sergei was toasting my success at winning Madeleine's hand. Sergei was swaying slightly from the vodka he'd consumed and he had a slightly crazy look in his eyes.
"Yes, a toast to the lucky man who will soon be bedding the delectable Madeleine," Sergei said. "Perhaps I shall pay a visit to Chez La Vie and fuck a brunette in his honor."
That brought a roaring laugh from the assembly.
Sergei was referring to a rather well-known brothel that most of the men in the room – yes, myself included – had patronized in the past.
Despite his German surname and German ancestry, Sergei was thoroughly Russian, a minor noble in that country, and an undersecretary at the Russian Embassy. He had been the first friend I'd made when I arrived in Paris, and we had originally been rivals for Madeleine's affections.
However, he had graciously stepped aside when it became obvious to everyone at the bistro – to everyone, apparently, except me – that she only had eyes for me.
"To Robert," Sergei said, as our glasses clinked together. "May they fill their home with sons and daughters, and may they live long and enjoy much happiness. Salut!"
Two days later, I stood in front of the altar at Madeleine's church, with the black-robed priest to my right and the three men who would be standing for me to my left.
Next to me was Sergei Hoffman, and next to him was Clark McDonald, who had started at the State Department at the same time I did and who was now my chief assistant at the embassy in Paris.
At the far end was Mr. Sharp, the ambassador himself, with whom I had become good friends since his appointment a year or so earlier.
Unlike Mr. Herrick, his predecessor, William Sharp spoke little French and frequently used me as an interpreter, since I spoke fluent French. Plus, he had relied on my working knowledge of the often-bewildering French government that I had gained during the year which I'd been posted to the U.S. embassy prior to his arrival.
The church which Marcel and Madeleine attended was a smaller, neighborhood church, and the sanctuary was packed with friends of us both. Missing were members of my family, such as it was.
Of course, with the war going on, it was far too dangerous for Amelie and her family to make the passage across the Atlantic to be there with me, but she had sent me a telegram expressing her congratulations and her love.
Once we were in place, the small organ started the processional, and Madeleine's maids of honor filed slowly up the aisle.
First was her cousin Emilie, the daughter of Marcel's sister, who was the same age as Madeleine and with whom she had been close since infancy.
Second was Madeleine's Aunt Charisse, her mother's sister who had come to Paris in the mid-1890s as a teenager and had been a can-can dancer at the Moulin Rouge before taking up sculpture. Charisse wasn't open about it, but it was a poorly-kept secret that she was a lesbian.
None of us – Marcel, Madeleine or myself – necessarily approved of her lifestyle, but Madeleine adored her, in spite of it all. Charisse was a bright, witty person who lit up a room with her mere presence, much like her niece.
Third, came Madeleine's oldest and dearest friend from school, Therese, a sad-eyed blonde who was obviously pregnant with the baby of her husband, who was serving in the Army.
Finally, the organist hit the notes that signaled the arrival of the bride, and my heart did somersaults as Madeleine stood at the back of the church on the arm of her father, who gave me a huge smile, even as the tears streamed down his face.
She wore a simple, but beautiful white gown, and her hair was pinned up and beautifully arranged atop her head, with the veil pinned there to fall over the lovely face.
It was a moment that would forever be seared on my brain, because Madeleine Lévesque was simply the most gorgeous creature I'd ever seen in that moment.
Her eyes sparkled like diamonds and her smile was ... well, enigmatic. It was a smile of joy, but also of nerves. She had waited a long time for this day, and she wasn't entirely certain about the future. Truthfully, I felt much the same way.
Even though we had spoken a lot over the previous weeks about our hopes and dreams, there was still much that we had to learn about each other. And, too, there was the anticipation of consummating our relationship. I had never wanted a woman sexually like I wanted Madeleine, and I wanted to please her in the worst way. For her part, she had never been with a man, and she was understandably nervous.
When she reached the altar and stood next to me, she looked up at me with a look that struck me to my very core. It was a look of such love and devotion that I was almost taken aback, and I knew in that moment that I would do anything to prove worthy of her feelings toward me.
Later, after we had exchanged our vows, we had all retired to Marcel's for the reception. A small orchestra played, and there was food, drink and dancing, and all the while M. Lévesque flitted about with a huge smile on his broad face.
When it was all said and done, we departed Marcel's through a gauntlet of well-wishers to where a horse-drawn carriage awaited.
"Robert, my husband," Madeleine said breathlessly. "Will we be returning to your apartment, or do you have other plans?"
She was leaning into me with her arm hooked inside mine. She was slightly tipsy from all of the toasts that had been offered in our honor, and she was feeling very affectionate.
"A surprise, my love," I replied.
"Umm, I like surprises," she answered, leaning her head on my shoulder.
The night was warm, but pleasant as we rode through the streets of Paris. Along the way, passers-by greeted us with congratulations as they saw the sign on the back of the carriage that read, "just married."
At length, the carriage stopped in front of an opulent building, and Madeleine's eyes widened, for we had stopped at the Hotel Ritz, the most luxurious establishment in Paris.
