Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  George and I talked of other things then, in that warm, comfortable room with its plants, its littered desk, its glowing colors. She told me more of life at Nohant and about Alexandre Manceau, the young engraver, a friend of her son’s who had come to stay with them. Manceau was very attentive, she confided, and very efficient as well. He helped out in so many ways. He was like a second son to her, she confessed, but as she spoke of him there was a tender smile on her lips, a warm glow in her eyes, and I suspected that her relationship with Manceau was part of the contentment she spoke of so eloquently. The passionate fireworks might be over, she might be plump and have strands of gray in her hair, but George was far too womanly a woman to be able to exist without some kind of love. Manceau was clearly a comfort to her, and I was pleased to hear about him.

  “I think I hear my carriage,” I said a while later. “I really must be going and let you get back to your work.”

  “Revisions, revisions!” she said. “Act One is adequate, Act Two needs a great deal of work, and they tell me Act Three is utterly impossible. Why did I ever undertake this project?”

  As George walked me to the door, the skirt of her gown made a quiet rustle. She took both my hands in hers and held them for a moment, her dark, glorious eyes full of affection.

  “It’s been wonderful seeing you again, my dear. You must come visit me at Nohant one day soon.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She held on to my hands, reluctant to let them go, and I could see that there was something else she wanted to say. She finally gave me a quick hug and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  “Take care, dear,” she said gently, “and—don’t give up on happiness just yet. Hold on to the dream a while longer. Perhaps—perhaps you’ll be one of the fortunate ones.”

  XXXVI

  Phillipe arrived at the house on the Champs-Élysées shortly after six. He had come directly from the hotel, stopping only long enough to change clothes. His hair was gleaming, boyishly unruly as usual, and his eyes were filled with expectancy. Young and splendid and wonderfully handsome, he was in wonderful spirits. He pulled me to him and kissed me exuberantly, confident my answer would be the one he wanted to hear.

  “Sorry I’m so early,” he exclaimed. “You look marvelous with your hair like that, and that light blue dress—it’s so good to see you! I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

  “I’ve missed you, too, Phillipe.”

  “I suppose you’ll want to change before we go to dinner. We’re going to the grandest, plushest restaurant in Paris.”

  “I—I’d rather not.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought we might just go to one of the cafes and have a—a glass of wine.”

  “That’ll be fine. Shall we leave now?”

  “Let’s,” I said.

  Phillipe kept up a bright, engaging chatter as we drove to an outdoor cafe with its tables scattered beneath gaily striped red-and-white umbrellas. Humble clerks in neatly brushed suits dined early with their girlfriends, vivacious shopgirls whose gloves and be-feathered hats were a pathetic attempt at elegance. Carriages passed to and fro. Couples strolled in the park across the way. Shadows lengthened on the pavement as daylight began to fade. An old woman in a tattered gray shawl attended a pushcart filled with brightly colored flowers.

  “This is nice,” Phillipe said. “I’m glad you suggested it. Who needs red plush and fancy chandeliers when you can have Paris itself? Are you sure you’ll have nothing to eat?”

  “Just a glass of wine. I—I’m really not hungry.”

  “Wine it shall be. The best.”

  He signaled a waiter and ordered the most expensive wine with an endearing flourish, and then he sat with chin propped in hand, looking at me with that marvelous half-smile playing on his lips. He was so happy, so full of hope, so certain of future happiness. He was one of the truly good people of this world, and he deserved a woman who would love him without reservation. I fervently wished I could be that woman.

  “I never knew a week could be so long,” he said. “I thought about you night and day, Elena, as I made my rounds on horseback, as I supervised the construction of a new barn for one of the tenants, even as I cleaned and oiled my gun.”

  “Your gun?”

  “We’re having a plague of rabbits in Touraine. They’re destroying the crops. As soon as I get back I’ll have to take a shooting party out to discourage the pests.”

  “Somehow I can’t see you doing that sort of thing.”

  “I’m very efficient,” he told me. “If a job needs to be done, I do it promptly, without fuss. That’s something you don’t know about me. You see me as—as a dreamy-eyed youth. I’m not, you know. Perhaps when you see me in boots and old brown breeches and sweat-stained white shirt with sleeves rolled up to my elbows you’ll get a different impression.”

  The waiter brought our wine. Phillipe handed me my glass and toyed with his own, the smile still playing on his lips. Around us glass tinkled and merry laughter sounded. Paris wore a festive air as the evening sky became a dark, dull silver.

  “I turn brown as a savage in summer,” Phillipe continued. “I ride. I shoot. I even get into an occasional fight. One of the tenant farmers was trying to cheat us last summer. I blackened his eye, kicked him off the farm. In Touraine I’m a different person altogether.”

  “Phillipe—”

  “You’ll love it there,” he said hurriedly. “I—I talked with my father about you. He’s eager to meet you, to welcome you. The chateau is lovely, and you could redecorate some of the rooms if you liked. I’m really quite wealthy, you know. I—”

  “Don’t,” I said quietly.

  “I can be the man you want me to be, Elena.”

  “I don’t want you to be—anything but what you are.”

  “And that isn’t enough, is it?”

  His voice was pleasant, almost playful, and the half-smile curved on his lips, but his eyes were filled with desperation. I felt terrible, for I did love him. I loved the cleft in his chin, the heavy, errant wave that continually tumbled over his brow. I loved his vitality and charm and that aura of innocence. But I loved him as I might love a dear younger brother, and that wouldn’t suffice.

  “I love you, Elena. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The answer is ‘no,’ isn’t it? I saw it in your eyes when you opened the front door. I saw the sadness, the reluctance. I—I tried to fool myself, tried to convince myself I was mistaken, but—”

  He cut himself short. He sighed quietly and shook his head and took a sip of wine, and then he stared down into the glass. The couple at the table next to us got up to leave. Two of the waiters began to argue amiably. Smells of cooking came from inside the cafe. The old woman in the gray shawl brightened up and smiled a crooked smile as a gentleman paused to buy a bouquet of flowers and present them to the demure brunette beside him.

  “Perhaps I was too precipitate,” Phillipe said quietly. “I should have waited to declare myself. I should have given you more time to get to know me, really know me.”

  “I do know you, Phillipe. I know you’re one of the finest young men I’ve ever met, and—”

  “The answer is ‘no,’” he said.

  “I wish it could be different. I wish I could be the woman you deserve. There is so much you don’t understand, so much I—couldn’t explain. I’m not right for you, but the loss is mine. If I thought I could make you happy, if I didn’t know I’d eventually disappoint you, hurt you—”

  “I’m willing to take that risk.”

  “It wouldn’t work, Phillipe. I wish it could. I wish I could use you to solve my own problems, but I’m much too fond of you for that. Marrying you would be an easy solution, but it wouldn’t be fair to either of us. The problems would still be there, only temporarily assuaged.”

  Silently he set his glass of wine down. A small band began to play in the park across the street. Carriages continued to rumble gaily
over the cobblestone street, and a little girl shrieked with laughter. As he gazed at me, smiling a brave smile, I felt that he had never looked more beautiful, and my heart ached miserably.

  “I guess that’s that,” he said.

  “Go home, Phillipe. Go back to Touraine and—and meet a nice young girl who will live for you alone, who will bring you the kind of happiness I could never bring you.”

  I spoke quietly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. Phillipe did not reply. The music from the park across the way was light and airy, a lilting waltz. Phillipe finally sighed and pushed his glass aside.

  “I suppose I’d better take you home now,” he said.

  “I think I’ll finish my wine. You—you go on, Phillipe. I’ll take a cab when I’m ready.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  He stood up, tall, elegant, beautifully controlled despite the anguish in his eyes. He seemed older at that moment—lost, defeated.

  “There’ll never be anyone but you, Elena,” he said.

  “You may believe that now, but you’ll feel differently soon. You’ll meet the right girl, and you’ll marry her and this—this will all be forgotten.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It has to be this way, Phillipe. Please understand.”

  “I understand.”

  “Forget me. Forget me and—please forgive me.”

  “I’ll never forget you,” he said, “and there is nothing to forgive.”

  He smiled that lovely, tender smile, gallant, trying to make it easier for me, polite and charming even in this moment of despair. In a rush of emotion, I longed to take back everything I had said, longed to make it right for him and undo all the pain I had caused. Phillipe hesitated for a moment, then stepped around the table and took my hand. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed it.

  “Goodbye, Elena,” he said, looking into my eyes and smiling once more.

  He turned and left the cluster of tables. Hurrying past the pushcart full of flowers, he moved on down the street in a brisk stride and merged into the crowd to disappear from sight. I remained at the table, fighting to maintain my composure. It was over. I had sent him away. The others had abandoned me, brutally, and I had rejected the one man who loved me completely, selflessly, the one man who loved me the way every woman dreams of being loved. Still, I had done the right thing, I knew that, but the knowledge was little consolation. I sat quietly, filled with grief as I thought of what might have been.

  XXXVII

  “It’s just as well,” Millie announced blithely as we strolled under the arcades of the Palais Royale. “I was getting a mite tired of it all, to tell you the truth, all those bill collectors, all those harried secretaries underfoot, and he was always writing! Literary life’s not for me, definitely not. It was a very amiable parting,” she continued. “Alexandre gave me a kiss on the cheek and a smack on the behind and stuffed an enormous roll of bills down the front of my dress. I’ll always adore the man, even if he is an outrageous scamp.”

  A week had gone by since Phillipe had left me sitting at the outdoor cafe. Millie and I were out early shopping. She had moved in with me the day before, bringing an inordinate amount of luggage and filling the house with her merriment. I was very thankful. It had been a bad week. I was still trying to forgive myself for what I had done to Phillipe, and his brave, tender smile seemed to haunt me. He was back in Touraine now, and I prayed he would meet a beguiling young girl who would make him forget me.

  “I love this place,” Millie announced, gazing around at the masses of ancient gray stone that surrounded the gardens. “Just think, royalty used to cavort here. Now the arcades are lined with shops, gambling halls up above. Want to sample some perfume? I understand this shop is one of the best.”

  “Not really. I’m afraid I’m not very good company today.”

  “Nonsense. You’re just preoccupied. You did the only thing you could do.”

  “I know that, but I still can’t help blaming myself.”

  “You mustn’t, Elena. He’ll suffer a bit, yes, but I daresay he’ll thank you one day for what you did.”

  The arcades were cool and shadowy, the tiles uneven beneath our feet, and there were smells of damp stone and sweat and ancient dust. Dozens of shoppers moved about, examining the wares in the windows, and children played noisily amidst the flowers in the untidy gardens. A dog barked, leaping after a stick thrown by a chubby little girl in pink. Millie and I stepped into one of the dim, narrow shops to look at some outlandishly priced hats, and then we paused a moment to look through the window of a pet shop where brilliantly feathered birds perched in bamboo cages. Soon we found ourselves going through the narrow passageway and out the gate, leaving the Palais Royale behind.

  Millie and I strolled aimlessly through a labyrinth of shadowy, twisting streets, enjoying the walk, in no hurry to fetch a cab. A streetcleaner swept the cobblestones listlessly. Dingy gray pigeons fluttered about the buildings, cooing serenely. Paris wore an air of mellow beauty and elegance, slightly shopworn and rubbed at the edges. The seductive charm of the city seemed to have paled, but I knew that was because of my own state of mind.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?” Millie asked.

  I shook my head. “I suppose I’ll take another engagement. Not in Paris. I may even go on another tour.”

  “That would be smashing! I’d adore it.”

  “You mean you’d go with me?”

  “Of course! Truth to tell, I’ve missed the old excitement—all that discomfort, all those frayed nerves and shouting matches and opening nights in drafty theaters without proper lighting. I loved every minute of it.”

  Millie began to chatter merrily about the past, recalling some of our adventures—the time Anthony forgot our tickets and we were stranded in a chilly train station all night long, the night we stepped into the dressing room to find a trained seal act occupying it, the hotel in Bath we shared with dozens of haughty, arthritic old women who were outraged by our presence and watched our comings and goings through a sea of lorgnettes. I began to feel much better, smiling as I remembered. Incidents that had been infuriating at the time seemed vastly amusing now.

  “And all those men,” Millie continued. “I made ever so many friends! At least one in every town. I guess you could say I was shopping around for the right one. Maybe I’ll find him yet.”

  “And then?” I inquired.

  “I’ll latch on to him and he’ll never get away. I’m not going to find him in France, that’s for sure. These Frenchmen! They’re charming and lusty and ever so gallant, but I want someone big and strong and stable, someone who’d rather get out and work than sit around discussing books and paying compliments.”

  We turned the corner and started down a broad avenue lined with elegant shops. The people strolling there wore much more splendid attire, and the carriages bowling up and down the street seemed shinier. Mellow beauty gave way to glittering newness and swank glamor. Exquisite jewelry and fine plate sparkled behind clear, polished glass, gold awnings above the windows, and gleaming white marble steps tempted one to enter plush dress shops and perfumeries. The contrast was startling, but that was Paris.

  Millie continued describing her ideal man: “Virile, of course, someone who can be rough if necessary, stern and forbidding, but tender, too, gentle and soft-spoken. He needn’t be too highly educated. I want someone more interested in me than in politics and plays and the latest novel, someone honest and unspoiled and—”

  Millie cut herself short with alarming abruptness. Wearing an expression of thorough amazement, pink lips parted, blue eyes wide with surprise, she pointed. I turned to peer at the window of a chic, expensive bookstore, and I could feel the color leaving my cheeks. I stared in stunned belief at the pyramids of books and the poster behind them. It featured a vivid painting of me in spangled Spanish costume, and the words in French read: AT LAST! THE TRUE STORY OF ELENA LOPEZ IN HER OWN WORDS! THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY ALL PARIS
HAS BEEN WAITING FOR! The books were bound in bright red, with the title, ELENA LOPEZ: Ma Vie et Mes Amours, in gold leaf on the spines.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d written a book,” Millie exclaimed.

  “I haven’t,” I retorted.

  “But—”

  “Fetch a cab, Millie,” I said. My voice was like ice. “Wait for me. I’ll be right out.”

  I swept into the store. A prissy, self-satisfied clerk in a tailored tan suit hurried over to me, ingratiating smile fixed in place. He didn’t recognize me at first. I was wearing a modest pale violet frock and no make-up. I pointed to the table laden with copies of the book, so new that they still smelled of printer’s ink and glue.

  “Ma Vie et Mes Amours,” I snapped.

  My cheeks were flushed with anger and my eyes must have flashed. The clerk was taken aback, supercilious manner giving way to awe as he recognized me. Flustered, excited, he was momentarily at a loss for words. I tapped my foot impatiently, and he scurried over to fetch a copy for me.

  “How much?” I demanded.

  “Oh, Miss Lopez, we wouldn’t dream of charging you. I wonder—I wonder if you might sign a few copies for us. I’m sure our customers would be thrilled if—”

  I stormed out of the store before he could finish the sentence. A cab was waiting at the curb, the door standing open, Millie already inside. I climbed in, closed the door and opened the book. I began to read as the cab moved down the street. I skimmed, turning the pages at a rapid rate, pausing now and then to take a deep breath as I spotted a particularly outrageous passage. When the carriage stopped in front of the house, Millie paid the driver, and we went inside. I sat down in the drawing room to read for another half hour, and then I slammed the book shut and hurled it across the room.