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Gaëlle Pasquier had risen early that morning, as she always did. She did her stretching exercises, made toast and a large cup of café au lait, which she savored with pleasure, enjoying her daily habits. She bathed and brushed her well-cut snow-white hair, which she wore in a chic bob that framed her aristocratic features, and then dressed to visit her friend Louise. They both lived in the seventh arrondissement, and it was a healthy walk from the Place du Palais Bourbon, where Gaëlle lived in a small but elegant apartment, to Louise’s home on the rue de Varenne. Gaëlle’s neighborhood was fashionable, but the building wasn’t showy. She had beautiful paintings, and the apartment was decorated with handsome antiques. The atmosphere she created was warm and inviting, and when she went out, she took her small long-haired brown dachshund Josephine with her. Gaëlle and the dog were inseparable, her grandchildren had given it to her, and Josephine was instantly ecstatic when she saw her leash and Gaëlle put it on her, talking to her gently, and promising her a nice walk.
Despite her age, Gaëlle lived alone and had no problem doing so. A housekeeper came in the daytime during the week, but she cooked her own dinner, and as often as possible went out with friends. She had finally retired seven years before at eighty-eight, and had been reluctant to do so. She had loved her job as curator of a small, distinguished museum that she had helped establish and had been devoted to for almost fifty years.
She saw all the important new art exhibits in Paris, and usually went with her friend Louise, who was ten years younger, and in excellent health too. Louise had a daughter who lived in India and a son in Brazil, so she was grateful for Gaëlle’s company, and the two women had been friends for fifty-seven years, since Gaëlle came back to France, after living in New York for sixteen years. Louise had been a patron of the museum Gaëlle had helped to set up, and they had been devoted friends and allies ever since.
Gaëlle had two daughters, one in New York and one in Paris, and three grandchildren. She was luckier than Louise, with family nearby. Louise only saw her children and grandchildren once a year when she traveled to see them, but was a cheerful person nonetheless. Her husband had been in the diplomatic corps, and they had lived abroad in their youth too.
Gaëlle’s older daughter was an investment banker and financial wizard like her late father, in New York. And her younger daughter, Daphne, was an obstetrician, married to a cardiologist, and they both loved their work. They were busy but invited Gaëlle to join them whenever she wished. She always said she didn’t want to intrude on them, and managed to keep busy with her own activities and friends, most of whom were younger than she, since few people her age were as active as she was, and still as engaged in the world.
Gaëlle’s granddaughter, Delphine, was a journalist, her younger brother was in medical school, studying to become a doctor like their parents, and the youngest grandson was in business school at HEC, the best school of its kind. Gaëlle was proud of all of them.
She had fun with Louise, and they planned activities and trips together and occasionally went away for weekends, to see an art exhibit in Rome or an opera in Vienna, or to attend some cultural event in London or Madrid, or to walk on the boardwalk in Deauville. Gaëlle still managed to lead an interesting life, more so at times even than her younger friends. She walked with a firm step, as she headed toward Louise’s home on the rue de Varenne, with Josephine on her leash, trotting along beside her. Gaëlle always liked the idea of a new year, and said it gave her much to look forward to. She had a positive attitude about life, and lived in the present rather than the past. She saw no benefit in dwelling on what lay behind her and preferred to look ahead.
She still had a lithe figure, and an eye for fashion, although she dressed conservatively and appropriately for her age. And something about her style and the way she put herself together was decidedly French, despite the sixteen years she had lived in the States. She was unmistakably Parisian to her core.
When Gaëlle reached Louise’s street, she walked past the Rodin Museum and Matignon, and stopped in front of the heavy old doors, painted a shiny dark green, outside Louise’s home. She lived in one of the grand old eighteenth-century houses with an interior courtyard, carriage stalls that had been turned into garages, an elegant home, and a well-tended garden. The guardian opened the heavy outer doors when Gaëlle pounded the brass knocker, and greeted her politely. And a maid answered when she walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell of the house. She left her coat in the front hall, and took off Josephine’s leash, who bounded into the living room where Louise was sitting by the fire with her impeccably groomed white Pekingese Fifi at her feet. The two dogs were thrilled to see each other and began playing immediately, and Louise smiled broadly when Gaëlle walked in.
“Happy New Year!” Gaëlle said to her friend, as she bent to kiss her, and then sank into the comfortable chair next to hers. They had spent many a pleasant afternoon and evening in front of the fireplace in those two chairs, talking about the museum, their children, or their latest plans.
“Congratulations!” Louise responded with a look of obvious delight for Gaëlle.
“What for?” Gaëlle looked startled, with no idea what she meant. “Being alive at ninety-five for another new year?” she said, laughing. “In that case, congratulations to you too,” although Louise was only eighty-five. She was smaller and rounder than Gaëlle, and looked cozy and grandmotherly, and more her age, although she was lively too, which was why they enjoyed each other, and the two dogs were chasing around the room, Josephine having absconded with one of Fifi’s toys.