After that, on the dutiful occasions when she performed her wifely and religious obligations, she did so with revulsion, hoping … praying to the Virgin Mary that at least she would be blessed with one child. If at least one son could be born, it would put an end to any further sexual responsibilities toward her husband. But Mother Mary apparently had reason not to bless her with a son, and, finally, after four miscarriages, Jean-Paul never again stepped over the threshold to her bedroom. There was no need; he had mistresses who relieved him. She wondered, as she had many times before, how two brothers could be so different, coming from the same womb. She felt drawn to Etienne, almost as though they shared an affinity. If only Jean-Paul had Etienne’s nature, and his own magnificent body, how different her life might have been. …
The only one who had no such gloomy, regretful thoughts was Jeanette. For the first time, she was sitting in an intimate circle with the whole Dupré clan. From time to time her eyes wandered to the scenery beyond—but not without first glancing at Jean-Paul, feeling her excitement at just being with him in a situation as familiar and intimate as this. It no longer mattered to her that she had to keep secret her love for him inside herself. It was enough that in her fantasies he belonged to her … when she grew warm from wanting him all through the night. It was a desire she knew would never become reality, but her life seemed fulfilled just the same … just knowing she loved, was able to love, this way. …She laughed to herself, watching the red-eyed, drippy-nosed Marie Jacqueline. Silly goose that she’d been, thinking herself too thin and not pretty enough. If indeed Jean-Paul had married Marie Jacqueline for the reasons Clothilde had said—which she doubted—then he surely deserved the money. It should have been enough for her just being Madame Jean-Paul Dupré.
After lunch was over, Madame retired. So did Marie Jacqueline, to rest before resuming the journey. Jean-Paul went off for a stroll through the meadow and lay down under a tree, feeling the marvelous earth beneath him. He was thinking of the girl who was waiting for him in Provence. He’d had a liaison with her for several summers now, the buxom wife of a farmer, much the same sort as the little tart he’d taken last night. He enjoyed these women of Provence; they were worth a dozen Paris courtesans. Their instincts guided them. There was nothing studied in their advances. There were no games, no tricks, just pure animal hunger. …With such delicious thoughts, he fell asleep.
By two o’clock the entourage was progressing again. In the second car, the children were restless. Lucien fussed at Nicole, who complained, “Lucien won’t let me have the red crayon.”
“Why, Lucien?” Jeanette said.
“Because I need it for my picture, and she’s using yellow and green.”
“But I want to make red flowers now,” said Nicole.
“Let Lucien finish and then you can have the red.”
“I want it now.”
“No,” Jeanette said firmly. “When Lucien has finished, he’ll let you have it. He had it first, so that’s only fair.”
“He didn’t. I did,” said Nicole.
“That will be enough,” Jeanette said. “Come trade places with me, Nicole. I’ll sit between you.”
“You love him more than you love me,” Nicole said.
“I love you all the same. I have no favorites. Now, how would you all like to sing?”
“I would,” said Desirée, the unconscious peacemaker, who was sitting on Jeanette’s lap.
“All right, let’s begin.”
And as they did, Desirée suddenly pointed and called out excitedly, “Look at the cow.” Only to be told promptly by the man of the crowd that it wasn’t a cow but a horse, to which Desirée responded, “It’s a cow,” and then, looking up at Jeanette with her large brown eyes, she said, “I think it looks like a cow.” Jeanette hugged her, laughing. “If you think it looks like a cow, darling, then that’s what it is,” she said. “Now, for heaven’s sake, let’s all sing.”
Finally, miracle of miracles, they managed to arrive at the château. It was dusk. The château and grounds were surrounded for miles by a low field-stone wall. The iron gate had been opened and the four vehicles twisted and turned around the gentle curves of the tree-lined road. It was fifteen minutes after they passed through the gate before … standing regally, there was the main house of the château.
The door of the first car was held open as Madame was helped down from the limousine by Etienne. The rest followed.
Three servants were waiting on the steps. They had been at the château in the service of the Duprés for more years than anyone could remember. Louis, the caretaker, and his wife, Brigette, stood alongside Gabrielle, the housekeeper. They greeted each member of the family with properly restrained but obvious delight. Madame was presented with a bouquet of flowers. After thanking them all, she walked into the foyer. The interior was magnificent. The provincial furniture had been carved by the best craftsmen in France. Many of the pieces were over two hundred years old, as was the château, which was kept in constant repair. Unlike those in the Paris house, the paintings here were serene and pastoral. Many were still lifes. The one Jean-Paul had always loved the most pictured a brace of wild ducks strung up by their pink-mauve legs, their plumage so real he wanted to touch the softness.
The floors were polished brick, and the house smelled of mellow-scented furniture wax. Wildflowers were placed everywhere. Gabrielle had worked feverishly all day putting them into vases in every room. There was a total of twenty-two bedrooms, and, at the height of the Dupré dynasty, all of them had been used. Now only the suites on the second floor were needed, and they were reached by a wooden staircase. The banister railings had been carved by a master artisan from Burgundy, who had also carved the long refectory table and sixteen matching high-backed chairs in the dining room, now glowing with the patina of age.
Jeanette was enthralled by it all, but she wasn’t to know the pleasure of living in the large house. Close by was a large cottage where all the Dupré adults had stayed in their childhood. But her disappointment was short lived. The cottage turned out to be a diminutive replica of the château, built with the same perfection of detail, and furnished in the same provincial simplicity and elegance.
Her room was charming, the wallpaper was rouge toile and the curtains matched it. The bed and the small chandelier were brass. The light bulbs were covered by tiny silk shades. She adored it.
The children’s rooms were much the same in size, and they, too, were colorfully decorated with wallpaper and matching fabrics. Each had a great four-poster canopied bed, which needed a footstool for the children to climb into.
After they had been bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, they were summoned to the big house for supper. As they walked through the grounds, the landscape was silky with moonlight.
The adult Duprés were already assembled, refreshed, at the long dining table. They were enjoying aperitifs—which were usually served before dinner in the sitting room across the wide brick entry. But tonight such formalities weren’t observed. The Duprés were all too tired; they wanted just to get supper out of the way so they could retreat to the privacy of their separate quarters.
Unlike the protocol in Paris, here in Provence the children and Jeanette would take their meals with the family. Jeanette was shown to her chair and the children were seated alongside her.
Etienne said grace. Everyone lowered their eyes except Jeanette, who looked at the bowed heads and thought of how much reason the Duprés had to praise the Lord. He had certainly bestowed His blessings in abundance on them. …If the Duprés had their tragedies, they certainly weren’t alone. No one escaped. Jeanette couldn’t feel altogether sorry for the Duprés, surrounded by such splendor as they were.
The first night’s supper was never a hot meal. Tonight’s menu was vichyssoise, stuffed fluted eggs, cold sliced capon, and fresh bread with country butter. The wine bore the vintage on the label of the Dupré vineyards. Dessert was a basket of walnuts and a plate of cheeses.
Duri
ng the meal, there was little conversation. Jeanette was neither included nor excluded, except for an occasional glance from Etienne. She didn’t speak at all until after supper, when she asked Madame’s permission to leave in order to put the children to bed. Madame nodded her approval. The children kissed her first, then Uncle Etienne, then Uncle Jean-Paul, and then, reluctantly, Aunt Marie Jacqueline. They disliked kissing her because she always smelled of medicine and looked so pained. …
The next day the children woke up at dawn, hardly able to contain themselves. At six-thirty, Lucien decided that Jeanette had slept enough. Nicole agreed. With Desirée tagging along, they knocked on Jeanette’s door. There was no response. Lucien opened the door. Jeanette was still asleep. As the leader of the pack, he tiptoed to the bed, looked at her face and listened to her even breathing. He was determined that she should share the morning delights. He shook Jeanette gently. “Are you awake?” he whispered.
Half awake, half asleep, she blinked her eyes, then opened them and turned to see three beautiful, eager faces. “I am now,” she said, smiling.
Desirée tried to climb onto the bed. Jeanette lifted her up, then kissed her, as Desirée snuggled close. “You look like peaches and cream, my little doll.”
Desirée giggled and kissed Jeanette, touching her face with tiny fingers.
“You, Nicole, come to the other side.” Jeanette helped Nicole climb in. “You look like the morning sun. And you, Lucien, look like you’re ready for mischief, as usual.”
Lucien smiled and sat at the foot of the bed, folding his legs beneath him. “Jeanette, you should see it,” he said.
“See what?”
“Everything. The ducks and the chickens and the pigs and lambs and the pasture and …” On and on he went, listing the wonders of the country that he’d secretly explored earlier that morning.
How marvelous to see the world through the eyes of a seven-year-old, Jeanette thought. What an age, when the whole world seems so young, without a wrinkle of age on her old worn-out face. She wouldn’t for a moment deprive Lucien of his first day there. She herself had so few such childhood memories. …
“All right, let’s all dress and have breakfast. Then off we go.”
Nicole and Desirée were dressed in cotton peasant dresses and Lucien wore short beige pants, knee-length stockings and ankle-high buckskin shoes. Jeanette wore a peasant skirt and blouse from Brittany which she’d bought in Paris. The children told her how pretty she looked, and she considered it a high compliment.
They walked to the château for breakfast.
Except for Etienne, the family was still asleep. He was already up to greet them, dressed in country clothes—brown corduroy trousers, held up by a wide black leather belt with a silver buckle. His red-and-white-checked shirt was open at his neck, around which he wore a white handkerchief. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, exposing his hairy arms.
“Good morning, Uncle Etienne,” the children said. They kissed him and seated themselves, hurrying to get breakfast out of the way.
“Good morning, youngsters, and you, mademoiselle. Why are you up so early? I should think you’d be exhausted.” As always, his voice was deep and rich, making Jeanette feel warm and comfortable. There was something so gentle about him, so compassionate … like Papa. …
She smiled. “Not these three. They’ve been up since the crack of dawn. I think Lucien already has our itinerary planned. But what about you? Why are you up so early?”
“Well, one of my great pleasures is working in the vineyards with the men. I really look forward to it each year. In fact”—he hesitated—“I tend to find Provence very seductive, like a beautiful country maiden, you might say,”—and noticing her blush, and rather surprised at his own language with her, he hurried on with—“and now I suspect you’ll want to see about getting some breakfast for the children, but may I warn you in advance that Clothilde isn’t in a very good mood this morning—”
“Why not?”
“It happens every year. She and Gabrielle, the housekeeper, have a feud. Each feels that the other is encroaching on her domain. But in a day or two Clothilde will win out. She always does.”
Jeanette laughed as she went to the kitchen. Copper pots hung from the wall above a wooden drainboard and a butcher’s table. The floor was red tile. There was an enormous wood-and-coal stove and, in the center of the room, there were a table and chairs to accommodate the household staff.
“Good morning, Clothilde.”
“Good morning.” Clothilde’s reply was automatic. She couldn’t have cared less who had a good morning. “Now you’ve come for breakfast, I suppose. …Why are you up so early?”
“Because the children are restless.”
“You’re too easy with them, Jeanette. You’ll see. You should be more strict. They need discipline, do you hear me? A firm hand on their buttocks won’t hurt.” She boiled the water for coffee and the eggs, and stirred the porridge.
Jeanette, knowing the answer in advance, put her arms around Clothilde’s more than ample body and said, “Why are you so angry, and on such a nice morning?”
“Ha … some nice morning. In a few minutes Madame Gabrielle, the general, will come in here and try to order me around. But today I’m ready for her. This kitchen is mine, and mine it will remain. When I leave, then she can do as she pleases. But while I’m here, she’ll listen to me.”
Jeanette took the pudgy face between her hands and said, “I love you, Clothilde. Please don’t be upset”
“Love!” Clothilde said, somewhat less caustically. “For you to love is not too difficult You love me, you love … I won’t mention who, you love the children, you love the day, you love the country. Soon, however, you’ll run out of things to love.”
“Yes, I can’t deny how many things I love, Provence included.”
“By the end of the summer you won’t love Provence quite so much. You’ll see. It gets boring and hot and you’ll die from impatience to get back to Paris and the cool breezes of autumn. …Now go inside and leave me to my kitchen. Breakfast will be brought to you.”
When Jeanette got back to the dining room, Etienne was talking with the children, but he at once turned his attention to Jeanette. “What did I tell you?” he said.
“You were right. But when I left she was fighting back a smile. As you said, Clothilde is bound to win.”
Etienne laughed, nodded and got up, picked up his straw hat from the seat of the chair beside him and walked out through the large double doors leading to the portico. Jeanette watched him limp down the path toward the vineyards, until he disappeared from sight. A wonderful man, no question.
Jeanette now reviewed the timetable given her by Etienne. Disciplines and schedules were somewhat relaxed at Provence. Mealtimes, however, were exact. Lunch was served at twelve-thirty, out in the garden under the large linden trees. At two o’clock the Duprés retired to take their afternoon naps. Dinner was served by candlelight in the dining room at seven-thirty because of the children, to the displeasure of the adults, who preferred the later dining hour of Paris. …
Their life in Provence settled into a familiar pattern. Etienne, an early riser, always seemed to be on hand when Jeanette and the children got there in the morning for breakfast. Of course, Madame and Marie Jacqueline slept later and had their breakfast in bed. Jean-Paul was always impeccably turned out, even here in the country. Some mornings he came to the breakfast table dressed for hunting, sometimes in riding breeches. Horses and bagging a covey of quail were his great country pleasures. At least among those safe to talk about.
Somehow there never seemed to be enough time for Jeanette and the children to do all the things they planned the night before. One day they’d pick wild strawberries, the fraises de bois that were so delicious. Jeanette taught the children the difference between mushrooms and toadstools. Sometimes they gathered wildflowers and from the book she’d brought along she would identify them for the children, and herself. …And there was
the day Etienne took them through the vineyards and they strolled among the arbors, Etienne explaining which grapes made which wines, and then he took them to the pungent-smelling winery where the grapes would be made into wine in the fall. And another day, riding their ponies in the ring, the children challenged Jeanette to mount up and ride with them. At first she refused—she was terrified of horses, she’d never ridden before—but finally she got up on one, and although she was only five feet, two and a half inches tall, she felt ridiculous with her legs almost touching the ground, and the children laughing and screaming as they watched her bump up and down in the saddle. Suddenly the pony reared and before any of them realized what was happening she’d slipped off the saddle, and onto her derrière. …
The only morning all the Duprés assembled at the same time was Sunday. After breakfast Madame, holding a black silk parasol above her head, her family clustered around her, set off for church, the servants following as the procession made its way to the small chapel nestled among the trees. Their confessions were heard and their absolutions given by Father Durond, the parish priest, who’d been their friend and father confessor for more years than he could remember, and he was always asked to join the family for lunch. In the afternoons, with the proper amount of time allowed for digesting, Uncle Etienne, the children and Jeanette changed into bathing suits and walked to the lake that had been man-made many years ago by some Dupré ancestor. Jeanette always attached lifebelts to Desirée and Nicole, but Lucien could swim without such aids, which made him feel very proud and grown up. Often Etienne sat on a canvas stool and painted. He was more than a Sunday painter. Since childhood, painting had been his great love, his only gratification. His mother had often urged him to show his work, but he felt that what he painted belonged to him, was for him, alone. He had neither the desire nor the need to show his work. It was his private world, his mistress, his love. …Watching him, Jeanette felt once again how much Etienne was like her father. …
Days of Winter Page 27