On one of the rare evenings when they were to have the whole of a night together, Jacob arrived at the Princesse’s flat in a state of peculiar excitement. His dark eyes gleamed. No sooner had the Princesse’s servants left them alone, than he lifted Mathilde in his arms.
‘I have a very particular pleasure in store for you this evening.’
‘Oh,’ she fluttered thick lashes at him playfully. ‘I do hope it’s not dinner at the Ritz, because I was so looking forward to being alone with you tonight.’ Her long fingers grazed the roughness of his face and insinuated themselves beneath his shirt.
Jacob stopped her hand. ‘The terrible brazenness of royalty!’ He shook his head in mock disbelief.
A shadow passed over Mathilde’s face. She turned away from him and walked to the end of the long room. Pensively, she looked out of the window.
‘Am I being brazen, Jacob? Are you tiring of me?’ With his words, it had suddenly occurred to her that Jacob might be growing weary of her, growing weary of their enforced seclusion. It was she after all who imposed constraints. She who could not allow herself to be seen with him. Other women would be free. They would behave differently. How would they behave? She had so little experience. Perhaps even the lovemaking which she found so utterly wonderful was something he was growing weary of.
Jacob watched her. In the long brocade gown with its softly glowing colours, she looked as if she were indeed ready for a night at the Ritz. Or perhaps more accurately for an evening at the court of some Renaissance prince. He didn’t understand her sudden change of mood, but he knew that he had wounded her.
Gently he took her hand and led it to precisely where it had previously rested. ‘I love your brazenness, Mathilde,’ he said softly. At her hesitation, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her softly. There was a tremulous quality in her which roused his passion. ‘You see how I love it,’ he murmured in her ear, pressing her to him, guiding her hands so that she could feel the hardness of his penis. The small moans she made as he caressed her breasts, the musky scent which issued from her, all fed his ardour.
Usually, they waited until after dinner to begin their lovemaking in earnest. The clothes of the day needed to be shed, the material of their other lives negotiated, until the magic of the twosome took them over utterly. Tonight, he made love to her instantly, there on the sofa of the grand room. He sensed her need, met it fervently.
Later, they laughed as they looked round the room and saw their tumbled clothes, lying askew like witnesses to an adolescent hunger.
And now, Madame la Princesse,’ Jacob said caressing her nakedness, ‘the very special pleasure, I referred to earlier. Let me reveal to you in what the true brazenness of royalty lies.’ He laughed wickedly, strode to where his jacket lay in disarray and drew a book from its pocket. With playful grandeur, he opened it and began to read. ‘In the salon of a certain Madame R., a bizarre event took place…’
An uncustomary flush rose in Mathilde’s face.
‘Have I found you out, Roland Duby? Have I?’ Jacob kissed her passionately. ‘And isn’t it of a terrible brazenness to write like this secretly under a male name. Who else would dare?’
‘Shh,’ Mathilde put a finger to her lips. ‘The world will hear you.’ But she was pleased that he had found her out.
Some weeks later the Princesse announced to Jacob that her boys were going off to see their father. She suggested they spend a little time together, away from Paris. He managed to free himself for five days. It was Easter. On a crisp bright morning, they set off in Jacob’s white Mercedes convertible. The long tails of Mathilde’s scarf blew in the wind as tree-lined roads and softly rolling countryside sinuously unfolded before them. It was the first time they had driven any distance alone together. Mathilde studied Jacob’s profile, the concentrated strength of his face intent on the car’s movement. Her hand, despite herself, reached out to rest on his thigh. He flashed her a smile, ‘Later’, he mouthed and then returned his attention to the road.
Jacob loved driving, loved the feel of the engine roaring in front of him, the dream state the endless route nationale engendered in him. Every time he glanced at Mathilde in her sky-blue suit, her hair and scarf tumbling in the breeze, a thrill went through him. He couldn’t quite believe they were here, together.
When the sun grew hot, they stopped to picnic in a meadow beneath some splendid elms. Mathilde had provided a gourmet’s feast. Quail’s eggs, caviar, a sumptuous pâté, crisp baguette, tomatoes, fruit, white wine. As she spread the bright food with an artist’s eye on the immaculate cloth, she brushed against Jacob. He clasped her hand. A surge of pure happiness washed over her. She looked into his eyes, flecked golden by the sun. Desire, reckless, uncaring, coursed through her. It surprised her how her desire for him seemed to have grown rather than abated since the time of their first encounter. She recognised the signs of it in him too, in the slightly pursed lips, the tilt of mockery in his face. ‘Now, please,’ she said.
He teased her for a moment. ‘A Princesse. Here. On the grass.’ Mathilde smiled achingly. Nodded. Her hand fumbled to loose his shirt. He pulled her up and drew her into a shaded copse. She snuggled against him, reached for his crotch. He was hard. Clumsily in her excitement, she unbuttoned his trousers, freed his penis. There was a pearly drop at its end. She licked it. He shuddered and threw her down on the ground, pulling at her panties. They were wet. With deep wild jabs, he thrust into her. They both came almost instantly.
When their breathing had quietened, Jacob examined her vivid face wryly. ‘And this is the woman who thought she was frigid.’ He shook his head in dramatized wonder.
Mathilde laughed, a deep throaty sound. ‘I guess I needed an expert Doctor,’ she teased him.
‘Well, the expert Doctor now recommends some food. I wouldn’t want you to acquire the reputation of a Princesse who starves her lovers.’
‘Lovers?’ she queried the plural. ‘You mean, you’re two, three, four in one? Let’s not exaggerate.’ Mathilde skimmed his body tauntingly.’
‘Enough,’ he pulled her up. ‘Give me food. And a little food for thought. Have you read that last bit of Freud I gave you. The case of Dora?’
Mathilde nodded. ‘Yes. And I decided your dear master understood very little of women.’ Before Jacob could answer, she forced a piece of baguette into his mouth. ‘Listen, before you refute me, you mere man. You need to learn.’
And so it went on over four glorious days. They travelled to Orleans, visited the cool depths of the ancient cathedral, went west to the Loire Valley. Avoiding the luxurious chateaux where Mathilde might be recognized, they stayed in small hotels under the name of Mr. and Mrs Jardine, where the beds creaked under their love. They meandered along winding trails, hand in hand, stopping when passion overtook them on a shady bend in the river or on the crest of a rolling hill. They were blissfully, ecstatically happy. Mathilde was haunted by the sense that she might never be so happy again.
On the night before their return to Paris, they were having dinner on the terrace of a small restaurant overlooking the river when Mathilde suddenly announced, ‘I’m leaving for Denmark next week.’
Jacob looked at her open-mouthed. ‘But why? You didn’t tell me. You never said anything…’ He felt betrayed, cheated, angry.
‘I didn’t want to spoil everything. I was afraid.’ Mathilde looked down at her plate and played with her food. She found it difficult to speak. She didn’t want it to end, but in her mind she had no choice. She had already stretched out her allotment of time in Paris to its utmost limit.
‘But you intimated Frederick meant nothing to you. It was simply a case of the children, of social forms.’ Jacob gripped the ends of the table. He wanted to hit her. She had lied to him. She had never said anything about leaving.
‘I thought you understood.’ Mathilde paused. She tried to meet his eyes so that he would read her feelings.
Jacob looked away, his face set in sombreness.
‘He’s my hu
sband,’ Mathilde said flatly. ‘In my world, that carries a certain meaning. There are forms I have to comply with. And that includes spending a part of the year with him. And in his own way, he’s good to me. He cares. He’s tried to understand me, given me certain freedoms which are already well beyond the range of what his family thinks is acceptable. I stay in Paris part of the year. That’s the arrangement. I can’t break it. I can’t.’ she emphasized. ‘I have to go back to him.’ Mathilde thought her heart would break as she said it.
Jacob stood up brusquely, almost upsetting the table. He strode away. Despite Mathilde’s soft call, he didn’t turn back. He jumped into the Mercedes, revved the engine and drove recklessly away. Wildly, he manoeuvered roads which grew treacherous through speed. He had no idea where he was heading. One thought pounded through his mind, ‘How dare she? How dare she spring this on him? How dare she treat him like some lackey to be called and then dismissed?’
His headlights picked out a man on the narrow road. Jacob veered round him, barely missing him. He screeched to a halt. His heart was pounding. His head dropped into his hands. He could feel that his eyes were wet though he hadn’t known he was crying. Nor did he know how long he stayed like that.
Eventually, he made his way back to their small hotel. It was late. He asked for a separate room so as not to wake his wife. The word made him pause. No, she would never be his wife. Had he ever really thought she would be? Jacob stumbled into bed without bothering to undress.
Early next morning, Mathilde woke him from restless sleep. Her eyes were red.
‘May I come in,’ she asked hesitantly.
He stepped back for her.
‘Jacob…’ she paused, looked at him. She moved towards him, trying to nestle into his arms. But he stood there, stiff against her, resisting her.
‘Jacob, I love you,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. I will always love you. Please believe that. I’m sorry I didn’t prepare you. But I thought it would be better. Better like this,’ she looked round helplessly.’
Still he didn’t answer her, made no move.
‘I can’t break the terms of my marriage with Frederick. I can’t make an innocent man, the father of my children, suffer. He knows nothing of all this.’ Her tone was imploring. After a moment, she turned away from him. ‘I will make my own arrangements to get back to Paris,’ she said with quiet dignity.
Jacob caught hold of her just as she was reaching for the door. He folded her into his arms and held her, held her for a long time.
‘Please wait for me, darling, please,’ Mathilde looked up into his ruggedly sombre face. ‘It won’t be so very long. I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.’ The sadness in her was intolerable.
Jacob nodded. Then he smiled into her eyes and kissed her lips lightly. ‘One can only obey one’s Princesse,’ he said. With a grim certainty he knew that his feelings would not allow him to do otherwise. Not now. Not in the springtime of their love.
Chapter
Six
__________
∞
‘Thwack,’ the ball left Sylvie Kowalska’s racket with a clean strong sound and landed just where she had intended. Gérard slipped trying to return it and tumbled. Sylvie laughed gleefully. ‘Thirty - love,’ she called. ‘One more game and it’ll be my set if you’re not careful. Wake-up.’ He was clumsy in his tennis, this Gérard; though quite sweet otherwise with his puppy dog expression.
In this early summer of 1935 the sun shone brightly on Paul and Julie Ezard’s Fontaineblau residence. The tennis courts and flower-strewn gardens, the dappled woods and growing circle of weekend guests were all warmed by its rays and apparently oblivious to the storm clouds in the atmosphere. Around the tennis court, a small white-clad group had lazily gathered. Sylvie’s closest friend, Caroline, and Gérard’s father, the bulky Emile Talleyrand, newspaper magnate of some fame, chatted desultorily, while Julie Ezard explained to Madame Talleyrand the changes that she planned for her garden. Only Jacob Jardine sat tensely silent as he watched the unfolding spectacle of the tennis match.
Sylvie aimed her serve, waited for the return, ran, hit it, and again and again. Her short white skirt, swished over shapely legs. Her unbound hair flew lavishly. She could feel Jacob’s eyes on her, with the peculiar bright intensity they had born in the past few weeks. She didn’t meet them. It was his fault if she didn’t. She had begged him not to get in touch with the Ezard’s and he had. Now, he would have to suffer the consequence of his action. He could hardly expect to have her come and visit his room here with her godparents in attendance. Not that she had been to his apartment in Paris much either after that night, after he had given her that ring. True it was beautiful. She kept it in a locked drawer in her room and went to look at it occasionally. But she wouldn’t wear it. It made her feel trapped.
Sylvie leapt and gave the ball a resounding smack.
‘Game,’ Gérard shouted. ‘I’ll never beat you Sylvie.’
Sylvie looked toward Jacob triumphantly. He was gone. She grimaced. She wanted to play with him again, even if he consistently beat her. Watching him move, leap, thrust the ball cleanly to her - it created a magnetic intimacy between them which aroused her. Why had he abandoned her?
‘Where is Jacob?’ Sylvie ran towards her friend Caroline, who was now stretched out on the grass. ‘I want to get another game in before dinner.’ Caroline pointed in the opposite direction. Swinging her racket, Sylvie sauntered down a path thick with the scent of flowering hawthorn. It led past a short stretch of wooded ground. Little clumps of moss, newly unfolding ferns, wild flowers, nestled under the trees. Sylvie left her path. Something in the softness of the ground underfoot, the way the light played through the trees, the tender fragrance of moist greenery reminded her… What was it? Babushka’s house. In Poland. Sylvie frowned, thwacked a fern with her racket and wiped her mind clean.
There were voices coming from the summer house. Jacob? Yes, it was his baritone. He was speaking quickly. Sylvie edged up to the paneless window prepared to call out and surprise him. But now there was another voice. She stopped and listened. Princesse Mathilde, yes of course, Tante Julie had said she might be joining them. Sylvie liked Princesse Mathilde, rather more than she liked many others. The Princesse had style. That proud bearing, those extraordinary clothes. And her comments were never bland, like those she always knew she would hear from her godmother’s friends.
Sylvie peeped through the window and then drew back rapidly, pressing herself against the wooden slats. Jacob and Princesse Mathilde’s hands were clasped together. They were looking into each other’s eyes. Sylvie held her breath and listened.
‘I didn’t know you were back in Paris.’ This from Jacob.
‘Yes, just a few days ago. And only for another short while.’
‘It’s been a long time. I’ve missed you, missed your company.’
Sylvie had heard enough. She stepped a few paces back from the window, raised her racket and with all her strength pounded a ball directly at the Princesse. Then she turned and ran. Ran as fast as she could toward the shelter of the little wood. Her breath raucous, she flung herself on the ground. The moss was soft. The ferns tickled her bare legs. Sylvie cradled her head in her arms and examined the earth. They wouldn’t find her here. No one ever stepped off the path. No one could ever find her. That’s what Babushka had said was most naughty about her. The fact that even when they all went out across the woods and meadows and called her name, no one ever found her. She had her secret places, this Sylvie.
Sylvie never knew whether Babushka was pleased or angered by the fact. But then there was a lot that Babushka said that she never altogether understood. She talked such a lot. Sylvie loved Babushka, liked it when she combed her hair and sat her on her lap to tell her stories, scary stories. She liked her almost as much as she liked Tadzio, her brother, and often a lot more than mother and father and governesses all put together. But Babushka was growing old. She
only came to the big house sometimes. To cook special dinners. Sylvie would help her knead the pastry and the dumplings. Babushka would give her thick slices of bread rich with her own cherry jam. She could taste it now, sweet with a tang of bitterness.
Best of all, Sylvie liked running across the meadow to the little house that Babushka lived in. It smelled of wood and ashes from the fire and raisins cooked with cabbage. They would sit on the terrace, Babushka on her old rocking chair, Sylvie on the little step. Babushka would darn and talk. She told her a tale about a gamekeeper, a lord and a rabbit.
‘I like gamekeepers,’ Sylvie said.
‘Baaa. Men,’ Babushka said. ‘They’re not worth a cock’s crow. First they’re all sweetness and fine words. Then they poison you, give you babies and leave you. It’s the boy babies, especially. They can’t stand the boy babies.’
‘Papush loves Tadzio,’ Sylvie interjected.
‘Your Papush is different. He’s a special man. He’s a Lord.’
Sylvie was silent and Babushka continued. ‘Five children I had. One girl. He didn’t mind her. And then the boys came, four of them, one after another. Then he left.’ She jabbed the darning needle into the big ball of cotton. ‘Two of the boys died. You hear that Sylvie, two of them, dead.’
Sylvie cried.
The Ezards’ summer salon mingled cane and chinoiserie. Black lacquer tables replete with flowers and birds, ebony cabinets, fluted cloisonne vases, played through the room amidst Jamaican palms and cushioned cane armchairs. Tall French doors opened onto a patio fragrant with honeysuckle. The sounds of Debussy wafted through the mellow evening air from some point beyond the gathered guests.
Memory and Desire Page 13