“But, Stash, my own child … my BABY.”
“No, Francesca! No! Don’t you realize how sick you were? It’s absolutely out of the question to risk anything like that again. You just can’t be the judge—you’re not well enough yet, no matter what you believe. Think of Daisy if you won’t think of yourself, think of Daisy and think of me.”
He had found the magic argument. He felt Francesca stop struggling in his arms, saw her relax her fight, watched with relief as she gave in to her grief. Let her cry, cry and cry, for it was just no good, no bloody good and no way to make it better.
Week after week passed. Stash went faithfully to the clinic and reported to Dr. Allard that Francesca was making a very slow recovery and that, in his opinion, she was still too close to her long depression to allow her to chance a visit to a baby who was visibly not well. “She’s too fragile, Doctor,” he said. “It would be the worst thing for her.”
When he returned from these excursions he told Francesca that the baby was still in the same condition as before, holding on to life only by each breath she took and that the doctor refused to hold out any false hope. Her misery was such that after a few weeks she merely looked at his somber face and forebore to ask about Danielle. She knew that if the news was better he’d tell her immediately.
At the clinic Stash never once went into the incubator room to look at Danielle. After what the doctor had told him about her future he had discarded her. She did not exist for him. She could not exist. She must not exist. He had never seen her and he had no intention of ever seeing her. Nature was cruel, accidents happen, but a strong man could override the blows of fate. The mere idea of a child of his—a child of his—in his home, growing up, yet never growing up, growing into something he, refused to contemplate—no! When that thought touched his mind he rejected it with all the power of his warrior’s nature. After his childhood, so distorted by the overwhelming concentration on his mother’s slow dying, compassion, that most human emotion, had died totally within him. The fate that awaited the child he never saw was so dreadful that he determined to eliminate it from his life. It was the one thing in the world of which he was in fear.
With ease Stash concealed these emotions from Dr. Allard and, little by little, he asked the subtle questions which brought him the answers he needed to keep him to his resolve. Yes, it was most possible that the Princess would become enormously devoted to Danielle; yes, the mothers of retarded children often spent much less time with their normal children in favor of the sick one; yes, it was not at all impossible that the Princess would refuse to have the child institutionalized no matter how necessary it was. Indeed, there were many such cases. The maternal instinct was often strengthened beyond the imagination of man by the care of a sick or retarded child and there was no force as strong as that instinct. Nature was indeed marvelous. Mothers were self-sacrificing, the Prince was right. Yes, even beyond the point where it was reasonable or even wise. But that was the way of life—what could man do in the face of it?
Grimly, Stash received news of Danielle. She had begun to put on weight. She had had no further convulsions. In Dr. Allard’s opinion it was perfectly safe for the Princess to come and visit the little one. In fact, he had expected that the Princess would have come sooner, in spite of her weakness, knowing her determination as he did.
“My wife does not intend to see her, Doctor.” For many days Stash had rehearsed various replies for the inevitable moment which had now arrived.
“Indeed?” The little doctor expressed his astonishment only by that one word. He had, in the course of practicing his profession for many years, almost learned not to show surprise.
Stash turned his back on the doctor and went to stand by a window, looking out as he spoke. “We’ve been talking it over, and over, from every angle. We’ve agreed that it would be a serious mistake to try to bring up—Danielle—in our own home, and that the time to make this decision is now, not later. A clean cut, Doctor.” Stash sat down solidly, relieved to have met the charge head on.
“But what do you intend to do?” the doctor asked. “Danielle weighs over five pounds now. Soon she’ll be able to leave the clinic.”
“I’ve made thorough inquiries, of course. As soon as she’s old enough, she’ll be sent to live in the finest of institutions for children in her condition. I understand that excellent ones exist when money is no problem. Until then I believe she should be boarded with a foster mother. In fact, I’ve heard of several right here in Lausanne. Could you just look at this list of names and tell me if there is anyone here you particularly recommend?”
“And this is what you are resolved to do about Danielle?” the doctor asked intently. “And the Princess agrees?”
“Absolutely,” Stash said, handing the doctor the sheet of paper. “We always agree with each other in family matters.”
Madame Louise Goudron, the foster mother most highly recommended by Dr. Allard, had been available to take over the care of Danielle. As long as the banker’s check for the child’s care that arrived each week continued to come, she required no further information than Dr. Allard’s request. Danielle was far from the first imperfect baby she had sheltered in her home, which was both comfortable and cheerful, but would have been neither if this childless widow had not discovered that some people, whose names were no concern of hers, preferred not to be burdened by their own children.
Only a few weeks after Madame Goudron had fetched Danielle home from the clinic, Francesca reached a decision. She was feeling so much stronger physically, so much more able to cope with her emotions, that she knew she had to see her second daughter, no matter what Dr. Allard or Stash thought. Neither of them had any idea of what she could endure. They were both sheltering her too much and she’d had enough of it. She must see Danielle whether or not the baby’s life was in danger, whether she could touch her or not. It would be far worse if her child died and she’d never even seen her alive again since her birth—why couldn’t they understand?
“But it’s impossible, my poor love,” Stash said.
“Impossible? I tell you I’m ready—you don’t have to worry—I can take anything—except this awful limbo, Stash. Don’t you realize it’s been over five months and she’s still alive?”
Stash didn’t falter. The expression on his face was the expression he had worn in a battle in the sky when he pressed the button of the machine gun that would shoot the enemy out of the sky. He took Francesca’s hands in his and pulled her toward him.
“Darling, darling—the baby is dead.”
She screamed just once, waiting in the fearful anguish of someone who has cut herself deeply, to the bone, but who has not yet seen the blood begin to flow. Her eyes flashed and then dimmed as if the last candle had been extinguished in a dark room. Stash held her so tightly that she couldn’t see his face.
“She died soon after we brought Daisy home,” he continued. “I waited to tell you until you were able to hear it.… She was far worse off than you ever knew.… She would never have been well, darling, never, never in all the world.” He spoke rapidly, tenderly caressing her hair. “She was seriously ill from the minute she was born. We didn’t want you to know but there was no future for her, she would never have been normal—brain damage during birth—nobody’s fault—but you might not have recovered if I’d told you while you were still so emotionally disturbed.”
“I knew,” Francesca whispered.
“Impossible.”
“No … there was always a, feeling … I knew something was wrong, something was being kept from me … but I was too cowardly to find out … I didn’t want to find out … I was afraid … a coward …”
“Oh, my love, don’t blame yourself, your instincts were right, you were saving yourself … and saving the rest of us. What would Daisy do without her mother? What would I do without you?”
“But I knew! I must have known all along.” She was sobbing frantically, pulling herself away from him, kneeling on the rug, d
oubled up in the cramp of her grief. It might be hours, he thought, before she could be persuaded to allow him to comfort her, to press her to him again, but already Stash could anticipate the gradual acceptance of the child’s death—to him a reality—which would eventually enter her body and make her cling to him as she had from the moment they had met. He waited patiently, this man who so rarely waited for anything.
Within several weeks Stash, who had been observing Francesca closely, judged that the worst of her grief and shock were over. He allowed Life to send Philippe Halsman to come and take pictures for their cover. Francesca now spent almost all of her time with Daisy, who had progressed from shaking her rattles to an insatiable interest in her mother’s glittering, tinkling charm bracelet. The baby had developed a genuine belly laugh and nothing pleased her as much as being allowed to grab at the dangled bracelet. It was a game, a real game, and she squealed with rapture every time she caught it and tugged almost hard enough to pull it off. Stash and Francesca watched, holding their breath, while the fat, fair bundle actually rolled over from her back to her stomach. Wonder of wonders, she seemed to talk to her tiny stuffed animals, although it was no language known to man. Her enormous eyes were alert and happy from the instant she woke, and when she slept on her stomach, her minute heels drawn up under her diapered bottom, Francesca decided that she looked like a heavenly jumping frog. They put her on a heap of Francesca’s furs, naked except for her diaper, and she lifted her head up with her chest high and crowed in surprise.
“She might as well know what sable feels like,” said Stash.
“You’ll spoil her rotten.”
“Of course I will.”
“But why not start her on the mink? Show a little restraint?”
“Nonsense. She’s a Valensky, and don’t you ever forget it And speaking of that,” Stash said, suddenly serious, “I really think we’ve had enough of country life, don’t you? I’m bloody sick and tired of Switzerland. What would you say to moving to London? I know damn near everybody there who’s much good. We could get back into the swing of things, go to the theater, entertain, see friends …”
“Oh, yes! Yes! I’ve been wanting to get away. And now …” Francesca stopped, thinking that she never wanted to see Switzerland again.
“Now it’s time for London, now it’s time for that house I promised you. And then we’ll go adventuring—all three of us!”
“They warned me about you, the playboy prince! Don’t think I don’t know the way you used to roam the world. Oh, the stories I’ve heard …”
“All true.”
“But over now? You’re not restless in domesticity?” She teased him, more beautiful than she had been in many months.
“All over. I have everything I want.” He was staggered again at the pleasure she was able to give him, the way every angle and every curve of her face was illuminated for him as no other face had ever been. Again, the lawlessness in him met the lawlessness in her and they joined in outrageous delight The sooner they left Lausanne and the clinic of Dr. Allard, the better, he thought, as he plucked Daisy off the sable coat and tickled her stomach.
“Let’s go to London and buy a house. Can you be packed by tomorrow?” he asked.
“No, you go alone, darling. I don’t want to leave Daisy by herself, not even with Masha and the servants—I just wouldn’t have a second’s peace of mind.”
“Right. But if you don’t like the house I choose, you’ll be stuck with it.”
“Spoken like a true prince,” she laughed. “The last man in the world without servant problems. I’m sure you’ll pick the best house in London—they expect it of you.”
“What the devil are you complaining about? I know some women who would have killed to be in your position,” he grumbled.
“Don’t get so indignant—at least the silver is always polished.” She threw a cushion at his head. “Give me my baby. You’ve had her long enough. Poor baby—six months old and jaded already.”
The day Stash left for London, Francesca sent Masha into Lausanne with a precisely detailed list of shopping to do for her. She should really have gone herself, she thought, for without doubt Masha would manage to buy the wrong shade of nylons, but she had plotted to arrange this afternoon completely alone with Daisy. Although the trained baby nurse had been discharged weeks before, Masha, with her position of former wet nurse to Stash, with her decades of devoted service to all the Valenskys, had never learned to properly knock at a door. She kept coming in and hovering over them when Francesca was tending Daisy, making well-meant but vaguely critical comments all the while. It would have been impossible to ask her to leave without hurting her proprietary, grandmotherly feelings, and Francesca, so recently returned to the world of everyday joys, was reluctant to cause anyone pain.
She looked up in annoyance when Masha returned, an hour before she was expected. The Russian woman clumped into Daisy’s room, her broad, kind face flushed with anger, her mouth working silently, every inch of her sturdy, reliable body conveying an imminent explosion.
“Masha—what’s wrong with you?” Francesca whispered. “Daisy’s just gone to sleep—hush, now.”
Masha was so disturbed that she could only keep her voice low with difficulty.
“She—that nurse—Soeur Anni—I saw her in the store—that, that creature had the nerve to say to me—I’ve known her for years, mind you, and she, oh, it’s not to be endured … to me … ach, I can’t even say it myself, it’s disgusting, the gossip, the things people will say …” Masha stopped abruptly and sat down squarely in the yellow rocking chair, unable to continue for sheer anger.
“Masha, what exactly did Soeur Anni say?” Francesca asked quietly. She knew that in the nine weeks of her depression she must have been worse than bizarre, strange in ways of which Masha couldn’t be aware. It was unprofessional of the nurse, to say the least, to discuss a former patient, but her years in Hollywood had hardened her to the blows of gossip mongers.
“She told me … she said … she … ach—the things these crazy people believe! She said that our poor little baby who died—that the baby wasn’t dead at all!”
Francesca went gray. Gossip was one thing, but this was of such vileness, such palpable evil, to speak of her tragedy as if it hadn’t happened, to use her grief as material for a rumor. One look at Masha’s face told her there was more.
“I want every single word Soeur Anni said. She’s a dangerous woman—the whole story, Masha, out with it!”
“She said that little Danielle, that our baby, was in the clinic for months—months—after you left, until she got big enough and then they sent her away to be boarded at that Madame Louise Goudron’s, a woman who takes in children …”
“ ‘They?’ Did she say who ‘they’ were?”
“No, she didn’t know, but the worst of it, Madame, the worst was what she said to me when I told her it was the foulest lie I’d ever heard. She said I could say what I liked but she knew some people who are so rich and high and mighty that if they don’t like the baby they have, if something’s wrong with it, they just get rid of it! I damned her to burn in hell, Princess, right to her face!”
“Masha! Now just calm down … you’ll wake Daisy.… It’s not possible that Soeur Anni—of course, I was rude to her, but still, to be so vicious, to dream up a story like that.… She’s mad, utterly mad. I’ve got to do something about her. She must never be allowed around sick people again. She’s crazy, Masha, don’t you see, really and truly insane.”
“Oh, Princess, Princess … the wickedness of it. What if she’s told other people, what if they believe her?”
“Nonsense. No one in his right mind would listen to her. The Prince would strangle the woman if he even heard—is that everything she told you?”
“Yes, every word. I left the store and came right back to tell you.”
“I’m going to call Doctor Allard right away.… No … wait. I’ll sound as mad as Soeur Anni. You’ll have to be my witness. W
e’ll go into town and see him tomorrow morning, first thing. That way she can’t deny what she told you. That bitch. That utter bitch!”
Stash’s valet knocked at the door.
“What is it?” Francesca said, angrily.
“Princess, you’re wanted on the telephone. It’s the Prince, from London.”
“I’ll be right down, Mump.”
The telephone was in the library of the villa. Francesca rushed down the stairs and picked up the receiver.
“Darling, I’m so glad to hear your voice! Why? Oh, I was just feeling terribly lonely for you, that’s all. It’s been a whole day.” As she spoke she thought that there was no reason to tell Stash about Soeur Anni. He would go into one of the cold, devil-sent rages she had seen overcome him when someone or something challenged his power over his life, and heaven knows what he would do to that crazy woman. She was perfectly capable of handling this nasty incident herself. “Daisy?” she continued. “She just went to sleep. We had a wonderful afternoon, all alone together. No, darling, nothing new … two more days … maybe three? So, it’s not that easy to find the perfect princely residence. Just don’t rush it.… I’m being well taken care of. Goodnight, my dearest heart. I love you.”
The next morning Francesca and Masha were driven by the chauffeur into Lausanne. Francesca told Masha to stay in Dr. Allard’s waiting room while she went into his consultation room. As the receptionist ushered her in, the little doctor bounced up from behind his desk at the sight of her.
“Ah, ha, Maman, you’ve had a change of heart! I was sure of it! I knew it! I knew it! I was certain you’d never really give up your baby, not a woman like you! Of course, at the time—but, my dear, what’s wrong?” Dr. Allard caught Francesca just as she stumbled to a chair. He busied himself reviving her from her faint, murmuring, “Naturally, the emotion, the emotion …”
Princess Daisy Page 11