Chateau Despair

by Red Rose Publishig

  She had taken rooms in a lodging house not far from the Place du Tetre, and she had just sold two of her small hoard of treasures in a shop at the end of one of the winding lanes about the square, for what seemed to her an enormous amount of money. Enough anyway to pay for her rent and food for the next month or two if she was careful, which meant she could take her time about finding work.

  Clothilde was not sure what kind of work she was best suited for, though she imagined it would be easy enough to secure a position waiting tables at one of the many cafés in the area. She had seen notices in the windows advertising such work, but she was in no hurry to take that kind of a job. She wanted to explore a little more, and then, when she was ready, find something more exciting.

  She approached one of the smaller cafés and sat down at a table in a shady spot. It was a warm afternoon, though almost mid October. She ordered coffee and pastries, even though she could have afforded a proper meal now. However, her instincts were to be careful and most of her money was safely tucked away inside the bodice of her gown. On her first morning in Paris she had seen a young woman have her purse snatched as she was shopping in the market and that had taught her a lesson. She considered what little she had was owed to her and she had no intention of losing it.

  “Why so pensive, mademoiselle?”

  The voice startled Clothilde out of her dreams. She looked up to see a young man standing by her table. He was carrying a sketchpad and a satchel, and she imagined he was one of the many artists who struggled to make a living from their pictures. They lived in wretched attic rooms, often half starving, spending what they had on paints and canvases in the hope of selling their work and becoming famous, and she had already been approached more than once by someone willing to sketch a quick likeness for a few coins.

  “I was thinking,” she said. He was the first person to smile at her since her arrival, and she thought he looked nice. “I cannot afford to have my picture painted – but if you’re hungry you are welcome to share my pastries.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down in the chair opposite and reached for a croissant, spreading it liberally with butter and honey. “I am hungry. I’ve been working since first thing this morning. I wanted to catch the light over the river near the Pont des Arts…dawn breaking. I didn’t eat before I came out.”

  “Are you a successful artist?” Clothilde asked. “Your French is good, but I think you are not French?”

  “No…” His grin was frank and engaging, and her heart took a little skip. The only person to smile at her like this had been Andre. “You are much kinder than Henri and the others. They say my accent is excruciatingly bad. My name is Conrad by the way, and I’m an American.”

  “I am Clothilde. I have been in Paris two days only.”

  “That explains why you were willing to share your lunch with a stranger.” He wiped his paint stained hand on his jacket and then offered it to her. “You’ll be feeling a bit strange perhaps? You might like to meet some friends of mine this afternoon? It’s nice to know a few people when you’re new in town.”

  She looked at him considering. He was attractive, with light brown hair that he wore long and greenish-brown eyes, his mouth wide but soft and pleasing. She was flattered that he had noticed her, but uncertain of how to respond to his invitation. She had never had friends before – except for that brief interlude with Andre.

  “I promise I won’t bite – at least until after midnight when I turn into a vampire.”

  Clothilde laughed. She had read about vampires in one of Grandmere’s books. Father Caillebotte had said it was trash and not suitable for a young girl to read, but it had amused her.

  “I do not think so,” she said. “I should like to meet your friends, Conrad. I should look for work, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

  He reached across the table, cupping her chin in his hand to turn it to the light, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “This is Paris, Clothilde. When a woman is as lovely as you are she has no need to look for work. There is a certain look in your eyes…haunting! Henri will beg you to sit for him when he sees you, but remember I saw you first. And I pay. Henri will give you a meal but you won’t get money, because he hasn’t sold a picture in months.”

  “Have you?” Clothilde looked at him inquiringly, and he laughed in his good-natured way.

  “No – but I don’t need to. Come on, I want to show the others what I’ve found.” He threw some coins on the table to pay for their food and offered her his hand. “You can trust me, Clothilde. I hope that one day we may be lovers, but I shall never hurt you. I promise.”

  Clothilde let him take her hand and draw her away from the café. Her heart was beating very fast. Perhaps she was a fool to trust him, people always lied or left her; she had learned that for herself. Grandmere had warned her that men were not to be trusted, but that didn’t matter, because she knew she wasn’t going to love him. If you did not let yourself love you could not be hurt. And she was determined that she would never be hurt by love again.

  All at once she felt excited to be walking along a busy Paris street with a young man. This was why she had come to the city of Grandmere’s dreams, to find excitement and gaiety…

  She stole a glance at Conrad’s profile. He was not as handsome as Andre, but in some ways he reminded her of her friend. She decided that if he wanted to paint her she would let him.

  It was not the reason she had come to Paris. Clothilde had her own ideas of what she wanted to do with her life, but there was no hurry. She liked this young man and it would be good to make friends.

  “Why won’t you take your clothes off for me?” Henri asked as she posed for him wearing only the silk slip that Conrad had given her to celebrate their first month together. It was three months now since they had met, and as yet they had not become lovers, though Clothilde knew that it was what Conrad wanted. She was content with their relationship as it was for the moment, though in the end she might let him have his way. “You’ve let Connie paint you in the nude and he will never do you justice.”

  Clothilde accepted the truth of his claim. Henri's talent was far beyond that of most of his friends. One day his work would probably fetch huge sums, but at the moment he was struggling to hold on to his studio and buy paints and canvases. His friends saw to it that he did not go hungry, bringing him food and wine or inviting him to their rooms for a meal. Most evenings they went out as a group, laughing, talking, eating, drinking wine.

  Henri, Conrad, Marcel and Joel, the Englishman who looked as if he were a big sad spaniel and was drunk most of the time: Clothilde was always with them. They were her friends and she cared for them equally; they shared her, taking turns to paint her, but she spent most of her time with Conrad in his rooms because he was the only one who could afford to pay her in money. The others gave her a meal or sometimes a painting, which she added to her small store of treasures because it was impossible to sell them. It didn’t matter; she had all she needed – good food, wine, friends and a place to sleep.

  She hadn’t needed to sell any more of her treasures, which she kept locked away in a big suitcase under the bed, because Conrad gave her all she wanted.

  He had offered to buy her clothes when he discovered that she had very few things of her own that were fit to be worn, but she had asked for money to buy material instead. She made her own dresses, using a machine owned by one of Marcel's sisters. He had three and had painted them all countless times, but he had little talent for portraits and only his landscapes ever sold to the tourists.

  “You have talent of your own,” Conrad had told her when he saw what she had made for herself. “You might earn more money working for one of the fashion houses than we give you.”

  “Than you give me,” she corrected him, putting her arms about him and kissing his cheek. He held her close for a moment, but let her go when she pulled away. She was fond of him, but not yet ready to become his lover, though she was no longer the naïve girl she had been when she fir
st arrived in Paris. She had learned to have fun and enjoy herself, to laugh at life. “Yes, perhaps I could earn more, but money is not everything. Food and somewhere warm to sleep is all that matters. Besides, I am happy with you and the others. You care for me.”

  “You are such a strange girl. You know I love you, Clothilde. I want to make you happy.”

  And he had been good for her. Conrad was gentle, generous, and he had money to spend on her. Clothilde knew that she was lucky he had found her that day in Montmartre, but she wasn’t in love with him. She wasn’t in love with Henri either. He was moody, selfish, but very handsome in a wild rather raffish way, his hair black and usually greasy, his eyes dark and intense, as were his pictures.

  Clothilde thought he was a wonderful artist. His portraits of her made her skin look dewy and gave it the sheen of silk. None of the others had managed to capture a certain look in her eyes, but Henri got it the first time he painted her.

  Henri wanted her to move in with him, but Clothilde had refused him and she would go on doing so. Henri was dangerous. She did not trust him. If she let him he would hurt her.

  “Why are you smiling like that?” Henri asked. He laid down his brush and came to her, looking at her consideringly for a moment. Then he reached out and slipped the strap of her silk chemise over her shoulder, pulling it down so that one perfect rose-tipped breast was exposed. “Now smile the way you were just now.”

  “How can I?” Clothilde asked and pulled her chemise back into place. “I didn’t know I was smiling so I can’t put it on for you. Besides, it is time I was going. I promised Joel I would sit for him this afternoon and I’m hungry. You’ve had your time for today.”

  Henri reached out as she walked past him, swinging her round to face him, his fingers bruising her arm. She pulled away from him and the silk slip ripped in his hand.

  “Why did you do that?” She glared at him and went behind the screen to dress. “It was expensive and a gift to me from Conrad.”

  “Why do you waste your time with the others? You know they will never amount to anything. I need you, Clothilde. When I paint you my work comes alive. Stay with me. Sit only for me…”

  “Why?” She smiled at his frustration. “What can you give me?”

  “Is that why you sit for Conrad, because he has money? His painting is competent, no more. He will go back to America and forget you – forget all of us except when he wants to tell his friends what a great fellow he was out here.”

  “You are insulting, to him and to me,” Clothilde said, her eyes snapping with temper. “Conrad is kind and generous. He gives me presents and looks after me.”

  “Is that why you spend so much time with him – for the money?” Henri shook her impatiently.

  “Perhaps.” Again her smile taunted him. “No, because I like him. I don’t like you, but I let you paint me because you are Conrad’s friend – and because you have some talent. But I like Joel and I have promised to let him paint me next. I shall not come to you again for a while.”

  “You’re not going to Joel?” he said, watching her angrily. “He has no talent worth mentioning. You should sit only for me – I am the only one who does you justice. You are mine! I refuse to let you go.”

  “I don’t belong to you or anyone,” Clothilde replied. “You ripped my silk chemise. You can give me a painting for that.”

  “Take anything you want – except the portraits of you.” He suddenly grinned at her. “You may not like it, Clothilde, but you are going to make my fortune. I sold one of your pictures last night…”

  Clothilde looked at him in surprise. “Who would buy a picture of me? You are mocking me again.”

  “No, I’m not – really I’m not,” Henri said, and now there was a pleading note in his voice. “Please sit for me, Clothilde. I need you.” He looked at her eagerly. “I’ll be good if you come back again.”

  “I shall think about it,” she said. “But for now I am going to Joel – he needs me too.”

  Clothilde stood outside the fashion house, looking at the one tasteful display in the window. The House of Leon might not be the largest or most prestigious couturier in Paris, but she considered it one of the best. She had been past so many times in the nine months she had lived in Pairs, never daring to venture inside, watching the expensively dressed women who went in and out.

  She did not envy them their money, but she would like to wear clothes like that one day. Sighing, she was about to turn away when a man came out of the door and approached her.

  “Are you looking for a job?” he asked. “I have seen you here before, haven’t I?”

  “Yes…” The look in his eyes told her that he found her attractive. He was young and attractive himself, and the way he stared at her so hungrily amused her. “I often come to see what you have in your window. Is there a position here for a seamstress?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I thought you might do well as a venduse or a model perhaps…” His eyes went over her and she knew what he was thinking. “You would certainly show the clothes to advantage.”

  “Are you the manager here?”

  “Something like that. My mother owns the business, though my grandfather began the showrooms. I have influence with her. I could get you a position here if I tried. My first name is Leon, like Grandpere's.”

  He was handsome with his soft fair hair that fell forward over his forehead, and could not more than twenty or so. “Your mother might not like me.”

  “Yes, she would. She is always looking for pretty girls for the showroom.”

  “Well, perhaps…one day.”

  “If you decide to come ask for me here in the afternoons. In the mornings I am out, travelling for the business. I sell our clothes to many of the big stores. We have customers that come to have their things made especially for them, but most of the trade these days is through the shops.”

  “Yes, I have seen your label,” Clothilde agreed. “The dresses are well made, finished properly inside. I might like to work for you one day, Leon. If I do I shall come to see you.”

  “I hope you do,” he said as she walked away. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  She turned to look back at him. “It is Clothilde,” she said. “Perhaps I shall come soon, Leon.”

  She was smiling to herself as she finished her shopping, buying bread, cheese and wine, and then made her way back to Conrad’s studio.

  He was waiting for her and looked pleased as she entered. “I had begun to think you weren’t coming today. Henri was round here earlier. He said my work was rubbish and that I was wasting your time. He wants to paint you in the nude.”

  “And I have refused him,” Clothilde said. “It is not good for Henri to have all his own way.”

  “Henri would make a dangerous enemy,” Conrad said. “I could come with you if you like, sit there all the time so that he couldn’t do anything you didn’t like…”

  Clothilde laughed. “I am not afraid of him. It is merely that I will not give him his own way. Why should I?”

  “No, I don’t suppose you should. It’s just that…I wouldn’t want Henri to hurt you.” A little shiver ran through him. “Someone walked over my grave.”

  “I hope not,” Clothilde said and went to put her arms around him. “It is nice that you worry about me, Conrad.” She saw the hunger in his eyes. “Would you like to make love to me?”

  “Don’t tempt me. You know I want you. I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “I wasn’t ready then, but now … I think I might like to know what love is like.”

  “Do you mean that? I don’t want to take advantage…”

  “Foolish one,” Clothilde said and lifted her face for his kiss. It was sweet and tender as she had known it would be. “Show me, Conrad. Show me what it is like to be a woman…”

  “Oh, my dearest,” he moaned. “I do love you, want you so very much.”

  Clothilde smiled as he gathered her u
p in his arms, hers about his neck as he carried her to the bed and laid her down. She did not love him as she had loved Andre, but he was kind, gentle and generous and she wanted to feel the warmth of his body next to hers, wanted to know what it was like to be loved.

  Conrad’s loving was tender, as she had known it would be, and afterwards she wept in his arms and thanked him. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, kissing her gently on the brow.

  “I know you don’t love me,” he said in a voice so low that she could scarcely hear. “But I am honoured that you chose me to be your first lover.”

  “But I do love you in my way,” she replied and reached up to touch his face. “It just isn’t your way…”

  Chapter Eleven

  Penhallows 1945

  Christine was surprised at the way her emotions were aroused by the trip to the children’s ward of the great teaching hospital. It tore at her heart to witness the suffering of some of the children and tears came to her eyes as she saw them lying there so still and pale, and yet able to raise a smile for the important visitors who had come to see them.

  “I feel so utterly inadequate,” she told her mother as they left. “I wanted to pick them up one by one and somehow make them better, and to realise that there was nothing I could do was heart rending. I’ve always thought of problems like heart and liver disease as being something old people get, but to see those tiny children…”

  Beth nodded. “No one does as much for them as this hospital, but we want to provide a similar ward in our own hospital. As well as continuing to support this one as and when we can.”

  “That costs a great deal of money I expect?”

  “There is never enough for all the good causes, especially at this difficult time – but we do what we can. Caro works tirelessly for all her charities and I do my bit. If you want to help I’ll put your name forward at the meeting this afternoon. You will probably be given something very boring like addressing hundreds of envelopes for begging letters, but it all helps.”