As Jeanette got up, Etienne said, “No, Desirée. Let mademoiselle rest. She’s tired like the rest of us.”
Madame shot an imperious glance at Etienne. How dare he include Jeanette with the rest of them … the very idea!
Desirée persisted. “Please, Jeanette?”
Etienne was about to speak again when Madame said, “Oh, very well, go along, my child, with mademoiselle. But be careful. …”
By two o’clock the entourage was again on the dirt road to Lyon. At seven they arrived at the Auberge de la Fontaine aux Muses, and with considerable pomp, the management staff came forward to greet the Duprés. A bouquet of flowers was presented to Madame. How privileged, as always, they were to see her and her family. The Duprés were taken to their suites, where bottles of chilled champagne awaited them, while the servants retreated to quarters reserved for them in another building. The Duprés occupied the entire second floor, along with Jeanette. Madame’s suite consisted of a large bedroom, a smaller room for her personal maid, Renée, an oversized sitting room and a bath. Jean-Paul and his wife had the suite next door. This suite, however, had two bedrooms, since Jean-Paul and his wife hadn’t shared the same bedroom since just after their marriage. The suite also had a sitting room and two separate baths. Etienne’s suite was less imposing, with one large bed-sitting room and a bath. Jeanette and the children were given the fourth suite down the hall—a spacious room with three single beds placed close to one another, two large wing chairs, a small, round dining table and four matching chairs. Jeanette’s room connected, and there was one bath to accommodate the four of them.
Because of the long trip the children were attended to immediately. Dinner was brought to them, and they ate with great relish. Soon after they became restless and cranky and were bathed and put to bed. They fell asleep, uncharacteristically, almost immediately. Jeanette went to her bedroom and wrote to Deborah and Leon, and to Madeleine. Then she bathed, and finally fell asleep, with sweet thoughts of Jean-Paul. …
Madame, too exhausted to dress and go downstairs, had decided to have dinner sent to her room, and Jean-Paul, not wanting to eat alone with his wife, suggested that they all join their mother.
Shortly after dinner they all said good night and kissed Mother on the cheek, told her they hoped she’d feel more rested in the morning and went to their separate rooms.
Jean-Paul was restless. He sat on the edge of his bed, overcome with boredom. Marie Jacqueline had been especially tiresome today. He had loved Provence since childhood, but having to spend the long summer there with her was like drinking hemlock. At least in Paris he could escape … service in the diplomatic corps took him, thank God, to faraway places, such as the one he’d only recently returned from, Algiers, where he was attached to the foreign office. And he’d still be there if it weren’t for Denise’s death. The only time he was really happy was when he was away from Marie Jacqueline. Out of town, he did miss his mother, but he missed neither Paris nor his mistresses, whom he could always replace wherever he went. And he could always visualize his dear wife hanging the large crucifix over her bed, religious fanatic that she was. He wondered how she would survive the summer without the divine help of Father Verdous. He had to laugh. She couldn’t possibly sleep, not even one night, without the protection of the image of Christ above her bed. When she went to confession, what the hell did she have to confess? She led a completely celibate life, and had in recent years become a recluse, taking care of her cats, numbering six at his last count. Those damned cats, of course, were the reason for her allergies. She’d been to one specialist after another. They all gave her the same diagnosis: her condition was caused by the animals. When she refused to give them up, saying she’d rather be ill than be deprived of what she considered were her children, the doctors all suggested she see a psychiatrist. Perhaps, they said, it was anxiety that initiated the attacks she had, which brought with them not only the wheezing, but the runny nose, the watery eyes and the headaches. The awful headaches.
Damn it, he thought, maybe he had been just a bit too ambitious at twenty-four in marrying her. Was all the money worth it? He asked himself the question often, and the answer was always the same. Yes, it was. Maybe the cats would kill her; in that case, there’d be no question about it. What bothered him the most was that Marie Jacqueline, unproductive bitch that she was, hadn’t even been able to provide him with a son. She’d become pregnant all right, but she had always miscarried after three or four months.
These trips to Provence were always difficult. The mere fact that she was with him made them so. He avoided her as much as possible but he couldn’t leave her in Paris, if not for the sake of propriety, at least out of respect for his mother. As far as his mother was concerned, where a husband went so went his wife. Talk about crosses!
It was late, but he decided to go down to the dining room. The last guests were leaving as he came in. He sat at a small table and a young girl approached him.
“Good evening, monsieur. What is your pleasure?”
His eyes strayed to the full bosom that overlapped the peasant blouse, then to the flaxen hair. He wanted to say, “You,” but instead he smiled his famous disarming smile. “Brandy, mademoiselle.”
When she placed the snifter in front of him, Jean-Paul reached for it and tipped it over. The young girl blushed and became flustered as the liquid dripped on his clean white trousers.
“Forgive me, monsieur, I’ve ruined your trousers. Please pardon my clumsiness.” On the edge of tears, she tried to repair the damage by wiping the spill on his pants leg. When she bent down, he was pleased to look inside her blouse.
He took her hand and gently guided it. “My dear, you’re making too much of this. Accidents happen. …”
“I know, monsieur, but this is unforgivable—”
“Anyone as pretty as you is easily forgiven.”
“You’re too kind, monsieur.”
“Not at all. Trousers can be cleaned, but feelings are not so easily repaired. It could happen to anyone,” he said, still holding her hand.
“Thank you, monsieur. May I get you another brandy?”
“Only if you’ll join me.”
“But I can’t do that—”
“Why?”
“It’s against the rules to become friendly with the guests—”
“But there’s no one here now.”
“I know. But still, if anybody should see me sitting with you, I’d lose my job … you do understand? Although of course I’d be most honored. …”
“Of course. I shouldn’t even have suggested such a thing”—he smiled—“and now I will have the brandy, if you don’t mind.”
When she brought him another drink, he took the glass between his hands and twisted it back and forth. His eyes had not left her for a moment.
“Can I get you anything else, monsieur, before I leave?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were through.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Are you on your way to meet your husband?”
“Oh, no, monsieur. I’m not married. I live with my mother.”
“But I bet there’s a young man waiting for you.”
“No, monsieur. …”
“But you do have a young man? Maybe more than one?”
“No,” she said, “just one.”
“Just one … then it must be serious.”
“No … I haven’t decided whether to marry him or not.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he’s a farmer and I want to see Paris before I get married.”
“Paris?”
“Yes, monsieur. I’ve never been far from Lyon. And if I don’t go to Paris before I marry, perhaps I never will. …Please forgive me, monsieur, but I really have to go now. Good night, sir.”
She walked back through the kitchen to get her coat, then went out through the back entrance and walked down the gravel path.
Standing at the end of it was Jean-
Paul. She was startled, and breathing a little too hard. “Good night, monsieur,” she said again, and walked past him.
Jean-Paul followed her. “Please allow me to walk you home, mademoiselle.”
“No, thank you, monsieur. It’s strictly forbidden—”
“But who would know? As a matter of fact, I was going for a walk myself. It would be my pleasure to have your company … walking alone is too lonely, especially on such a lovely night.”
“Yes … that would be nice … but if I were found out, then what?”
“Oh, my dear mademoiselle, you worry too much for someone so young and charming. Besides, who will know? If you don’t tell, I promise I won’t.”
She looked at him, directly this time. “All right, monsieur. But let’s hurry. …”
As they walked, she talked constantly, although he scarcely heard what she was saying. Her mother was a laundress, her father a member of the merchant marine and was away most of the time. She told him about her farmer boyfriend. …Jean-Paul answered by saying “Yes,” “No,” “How delightful”—or whatever.
When they reached the front door of her house, the lights were out. As they stood in the moonlight, she thanked him for walking her home. “I enjoyed it …” She put her hand on the doorknob.
He took her other hand in his and kissed it. “This has been one of the nicest evenings I’ve had. Just meeting you.” He bent and kissed her. Then, slowly and calmly, he closed his arms around her body, feeling the firm bosom move beneath his embrace. She didn’t resist. The kiss started slowly, then gathered force until she clung to him, one hand fondling his face, her fingers running through his hair. He placed his own hand on the doorknob as he freed it from her grasp and turned it. Then he pushed the door open with his foot.
He picked her up. She pointed out her room to him. Once there, he stood her on her feet, continuing to kiss her. He undid her blouse, unbuttoned the bodice, released the skirt, then took off the petticoat. He kissed the exposed nipples. His mouth ventured downward. She stepped out of her panties, then her shoes. She removed the round garters, pulled off the black silk stockings and stood before him, nude. She then quickly undressed him, taking off his jacket, his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. She kissed his body as her fingers unbuttoned his trousers and shed his underclothes. He lifted her off the floor, her legs wound around him, and by the time he lay down with her in his arms, he had already entered her. She was not naïve, as he had first thought, but clearly a bitch in heat. Obviously he wasn’t the first to have her. …She made love passionately, keeping pace with each of his twists and turns. Her responsiveness was remarkable … she knew when to go slowly, when to push harder, to squeeze, to entice, and when to glide and guide hands to the right places. When the climax finally came, they both lay quietly, in complete satisfied exhaustion.
The last thing he heard before dropping off into deep sleep was her voice whispering in his ear, “You are magnificent, monsieur.”
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He yawned, then sat up abruptly. My God, it was morning! He shook the sleeping body next to his. The girl awakened languidly, stretched and reached her arms out to him.
“What time is it?” he said.
She looked at the bedside clock; it was five o’clock.
Thank God! They were scheduled to leave at eight to reach Provence by dark. He hurried into his clothes as the girl watched him.
“Must you go, monsieur?”
“Yes, to my great regret. It’s best this way, before your mother wakes up. No one must know about this—just as you said last night.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Nothing could keep me away, I’ll be back in September—”
“But that’s such a long time from now.”
“Three months, what is that?”
“A very long time, after last night.”
“We’ll take up where we left off. And someday you’ll come to Paris and be my guest—”
“Do you really mean that?” she said, getting out of bed, not bothering to cover her naked body.
“Do you think I could ever forget you? After this?” He slipped into his jacket, kissed her on the forehead. She reached for his mouth, but he was already on his way out, saying, smiling, “Now, I must go, really. Until the next time …”
He walked rapidly, running when he could, across the pasture. Once back at the Auberge de la Fontaine aux Muses he took the stairs two steps at a time, and reached his room. He shaved, then took a bath, lying back in the tub, laughing quietly at the evening’s success. Suddenly he realized he didn’t even know her name. Well, it didn’t matter. Any port in a storm …
At eight o’clock the Dupré entourage moved out, amid good-byes and much waving from the management. They drove at a more moderate speed, twenty-five miles an hour, because the roads were bumpy and had begun to narrow. There were new delays. …From time to time a herd of sheep crossed over the road going from one field to another. Marie Jacqueline had a coughing and sneezing attack from the pollen and had to be administered to from the ever-present medicine kit, from which she took a pill, then inserted the atomizer into her nostrils, inhaling deeply.
Looking at his wife, Jean-Paul said, “Perhaps these trips are too strenuous for you. Perhaps you should have stayed in Paris. …”
She glared at him. “You speak as though these spells are my fault.”
“Well, aren’t they?”
“How dare you say that to me! You know I’m allergic to pollen—”
“That’s my point. If you’d get rid of those damned cats, or stay away from the pollen, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many allergies.”
“Everything I enjoy you criticize,” she said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have the cats now, so how can that—”
Madame Dupré could stand no more. “Jean-Paul, I won’t allow you to speak that way to your wife. I think you owe Marie Jacqueline an apology.”
He bit his lip, and without looking at her finally said, “I’m sorry I spoke to you that way.” His famous smile was missing. Then he picked up the mouthpiece and instructed André to stop the car. André signaled the other vehicles and stopped. Jean-Paul got out of the back seat and into the front, where he sat with André until they reached the Moulin le Cols, where they would lunch.
It was just twelve o’clock, and the party was greeted profusely by the owner, the chef and the staff. By twelve-thirty the family and Jeanette were seated at the large round table. The wine was poured and a country luncheon served. But for all the bucolic atmosphere of the deep, lush countryside—which could be seen through an entire wall of glass doors—lunch was a silent, depressing affair. The adult Duprés ate almost mechanically, neither enjoying nor savoring the good food which had been so carefully prepared for them. Each kept his, or her, own thoughts.
Madame sighed with impatience. What, she wondered, has become of my family, my life? Jean-Paul was unhappily married. He was completely incompatible with his wife, which pained and grieved her. They were childless, which also grieved her. Jean-Paul was unkind and contemptuous toward Marie Jacqueline, which further grieved her … although in the beginning, when he had announced his intention to marry, she had not approved of the union. (That, at least, was a comfort.) Not because Marie Jacqueline was unsuited to become a Dupré. She was. In fact, the Mallettes were fully as distinguished as the Duprés. Their name evoked equal respect. But, really, she had never cared for Marie Jacqueline. The girl was neither warm nor pretty nor appealing in grace. From the beginning, she had known that it was not a marriage of love. She knew that Jean-Paul was not sufficiently mature at twenty-four to be a faithful and devoted husband, such as she had had. He still had too many wild oats to sow. But she had not opposed the marriage, wrong as she knew it was. And now her only daughter was gone, and her dear Etienne would remain a celibate all of his life, wifeless and childless, with no one to care for him. What would ultimately become of her dearest son …? Oh, dear God, she thought, I thank you,
heavenly Father, for sparing my beloved Henri the sight I now see before my eyes. She took out a white handkerchief, edged with black lace, from her sleeve and pretended to wipe her brow, but the handkerchief went to her eyes as she wiped the two glistening tears that were ready to fall down her cheeks. She blinked back the rest and continued to attempt to eat.
Jean-Paul looked across at his mother. She was the only person in the world who could stir in him a feeling of true, honest love, and guilt … even remorse. And at this moment, as he saw the handkerchief reach her eyes, he felt all three. He never wanted to make her unhappy, as he’d done today, but he simply couldn’t stand Marie Jacqueline and her eternal wheezing. He hated having his mother see the worst in him, which he always tried to prevent, wanting her to see only the little boy of four, whom she’d loved, the love he still remembered and wanted. …With all the compassion he was capable of, his heart went out to her, knowing how she suffered when his father had died, when not even he could console her, as he was unable to comfort her now on the death of his sister and brother-in-law. Nothing and no one could replace them, or diminish their memories for her. If only he, Jean-Paul, had been enough for her, but of course he never was, which he could never accept, or understand. …
Sipping his wine, Etienne observed Marie Jacqueline. He knew it wasn’t the cats or the pollen. It wasn’t the allergies that caused her illness, it was the lack of love, of compassion, that was killing her. There were many ways to die … not only the way his sister had perished. Yes, he felt more than sorry for Marie Jacqueline. He couldn’t even express his pity in words. Let her have her cats. What else did she have? No husband, no children to love and be loved by. At least she might have given them what she’d been deprived of. What’s going to become of us, he thought. Just a decaying family, that’s all we are. After our generation, the Dupré name will be finished. The children were only half-Dupré. The house of Balevre, the name of the children’s father, would at least be perpetuated by Lucien, but …
The coughing started again, and Marie Jacqueline tried desperately to suppress it by taking a sip of wine. She knew Jean-Paul would say nothing this time, with his mother present, but she felt his irritation anyway. Stronger than irritation, his anger. Dear God, why had she married him? How different he was from the young man who had courted her, showering her with gifts and flowers and candy. She’d been the envy of every debutante in Paris. She’d plucked the most eligible plum, especially considering she was three years older than he was. He’d been so handsome, with such perfect manners. He was such a complete gentleman, and so clever at turning a phrase. Like day into night was the change in Jean-Paul, almost from the very moment he had taken her to their marriage bed. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t gentle, as he should have been, since she’d saved herself for him. He was brutal when he entered her on their wedding night, as though she were an enemy, not his bride. She would never forget that … or forgive him for it.
Days of Winter Page 26