“Slight?” Robert resounded. “I can think of many other pursuits I would rather have,” he admitted.
Philippe sat on the edge of a worn four-legged chair that looked like it would collapse at any moment. “You’ve been to university, I image. Did your father send you to some expensive institution like Cambridge or Oxford to study for a vocation?”
Robert sighed at the thought of it. “Law at Oxford,” he replied, as if the words stung his lips when they left.
“Well, you should be thankful you had an excellent education. I doubt that I would have ever been able to provide you an opportunity like that.”
Philippe’s demeanor turned pensive. “How in heaven’s name did you find me?” He took a sip of his drink and then glared at him with narrowed eyes as if he somehow knew.
“I...” Robert began but trailed off. He halted considering the consequences of his answer. The hesitation in his voice tipped Philippe toward the truth.
“Twenty fucking years and your father still shoves his goddamn nose in my business, doesn’t he?” Philippe’s eyes grew dark, and his voice rose in anger. “That’s it isn’t it? Did he send you here to spy on me?”
The friendly demeanor faded. Robert gulped when he saw Philippe’s eyes radiate hate. He looked as if he still held the gun. “Well you can see how I live. Go back and tell the bastard.” Philippe brought the remaining alcohol to his lips and gulped it down.
“Philippe,” Robert cajoled, “It’s not like that—I assure you.” A cold stare met his answer. Robert struggled how to respond afraid that he might reveal too much. “I am here because I want to be. You were the only father that I knew for the first five years of my life. Surely, you cannot believe that I harbor any ill will toward you.” It took a few moments, but his hardened face eventually softened. Philippe lowered his head and sighed. After staring into his empty glass, he apologized.
“You’re right. It’s wrong of me to put any blame upon you. You were an innocent bystander in the entire wretched situation.” He lifted his head and looked at him with sorrow. “Forgive me for my rude conduct.”
“It’s understandable,” Robert replied in empathy. “And what about you, Philippe? What have you been up to all these years? Did you ever marry again?”
His stepfather leaned back in the chair. “God no,” he answered lowering his head. “What woman would marry a man without a penny and a drinking problem to go along with it?”
“I’m so sorry,” Robert replied.
Philippe laughed. “Oh, shit, don’t be. I lost your father’s money he had invested in the shipping business. Truthfully, I enjoyed squandering every penny. Revenge can be sweet with a glass of brandy,” he said winking.
At a loss how to respond to Philippe’s downtrodden past, he sat there sipping his drink pondering all that had happened.
“Your fucking father sent me a check to help me out about ten years ago. I wrote the bastard back returning it in pieces and told him he could shove it up his ass.” Philippe wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand.
His father had tried to financially help Philippe? Of course, he didn’t mention it to him. “I certainly don’t blame you, Philippe. But I must say I am disappointed in your living conditions. You deserve much more.”
Philippe narrowed his eyes and looked at Robert. “What do you expect? Had that bitch never stolen my baby girl, I could have found happiness. Even though your mother left me, at least I would have had a reason to go on living. We could have had a home together.”
Robert saw his eyes water, and his heart broke. How in the hell was Jolene going to redeem him from the misery of his past? Just thinking about the emotional turmoil her revelation would bring, made his stomach churn. It was time to leave. All this bloody emotion had taken its toll even on him.
“I’ll be here for at least two months,” he said, leaning forward toward Philippe. “I’d like to invite you to dinner one night if you’ll accept.”
“Me? Come to dinner?” He shook his head disagreeing.
“I’m staying at a townhome near Notre Dame with a lady friend.” Robert smiled at him mischievously and raised a brow. “She’s pretty.”
Philippe chuckled. “What the hell am I supposed to wear? I have no formal dinner clothes. Do you want me to show up in my tweed work suit?”
“Hmm, that might pose a problem,” he mused, wondering if he would accept anything from him in the way of charity. “I’ll rent you the evening wear if you will come and dine with me.”
“Shit,” he answered annoyed. “I don’t know.”
“Will you think about it at least?”
Philippe brought his empty glass to his lips, searching for one more drop. “On one condition,” he said. “I couldn’t give a damn about your father. Nevertheless, seeing you makes me think of...” His voice choked.
“Mother?” Robert answered for him. Philippe nodded. “She’s well, Philippe. And as beautiful as you remember her, but a little fuller in the face. She’s kept her figure though,” he added proudly.
“Does that bastard treat her good?” He narrowed his eyes.
Robert wanted to tell him that they were still in love, but he knew those words would open wounds. “Yes, he treats her like a gentleman.”
Philippe sat quietly saying nothing more. He looked at the bottle of brandy. “You want another drink?”
“No, thank you.”
After inhaling a raspy breath, Philippe ruminated over the past. “You probably don’t remember our last words before you left with your mother.”
He shook his head no.
“‘Forgive me,’ she pleaded.” Philippe stared at the wall behind him as if he were watching the scene all over again. “She wouldn’t leave until she received my forgiveness saying she never meant to hurt me.” He raked his hand through his hair as if to push the memories away. “There have been times in years past where I’ve relived that scene over and over in my dreams. Each time, I hear myself say to her what I said then. ‘I will never forgive you.’”
Robert didn’t know what to say. The memories of that day when his father took the two of them away still lingered fresh in his stepfather’s mind, haunting him like a ghost. He had to ask. “Have you forgiven her?”
Swiftly, Philippe raised his head and looked at him. A deep sigh left his lungs. “Hell, if I know.”
Robert rose to his feet. “I’m serious about dinner,” he reminded him. “What days do you work at the shop?”
Philippe placed his empty glass on the wobbly side table and stood. “I’ll be working for the next five days,” he answered. “If you want a decent smoke, come on by. I’ll hook you up with a good Cuban,” he said with a sly grin.
Extending his hand to Philippe, he hoped he would shake it in return. “You can be assured, I’ll come by. Think about the dinner, will you?”
Philippe clasped his hand in return and gave it a hearty shake. “Still the same stubborn boy I once knew.”
“You’re probably right about that,” he admitted. “My anger issues, strong will, and lack of responsibility annoys the hell out of father.” Robert gave him a wink. “I’m a bit of a rogue with the ladies too.”
Philippe roared and patted Robert on the back. “Good for you! Keep it up, boy.”
They said their goodbyes at the door, and Robert walked out onto the street looking for a cab to hail back to the townhome. It had been an enjoyable, but emotionally draining visit, which he couldn’t wait to share with Jolene.
Chapter 22
A Smoke Screen
As the driver traversed the streets toward her destination, Jolene pondered all that Robert had told her the evening before. He expressed relief over Philippe’s favorable reception and conveyed to her in detail their conversation. From the words exchanged, it appeared old grudges remained against the duke, but Philippe retained an interest in Suzette’s welfare. As far as forgiveness had been concerned regarding her unfaithfulness, it sounded as if wounds remained.
Robert expressed his desire to accompany her and wait in the motorcar, but she declined the offer. It would the first time to meet her father. Unlike the introduction to her mother, she felt this would be different. She wanted to keep it that way, without feeling pressured afterward to express her emotional state of mind.
When they approached the location, she ordered the driver to park one block away and to wait there for her return. He slowed, finding a parking spot near the curb, and stopped the car. She exited with his help and glanced both ways down the crowded avenue.
“Is the address to the right or left?”
“That would be one block to your right, Lady von Lamberg.”
Nodding her thanks, she turned and began a leisurely stroll toward the shop. Jolene glanced once more at the address she had scribbled down on a piece of paper. For some reason, she couldn’t keep the numbers memorized and referred to it every few minutes. Her eyes darted back and forth at the addresses on the buildings and above doors.
The sidewalks, not far from the Louvre museum, were packed with pedestrians. People hustled back and forth. A few couples walked together, and others passed by with shopping bags or hatboxes. One woman walked a Poodle on a leash, who barked at anything moving. To add to the confusion, motorcars, omnibuses, and carriages filled the avenue creating loud noises. The over-active atmosphere made her edgy.
To make matters worse, it turned out to be an unseasonably warm day. She chose a fashionable walking dress, but the thickness of the fabric overheated her body. Unwelcomed beads of sweat formed on her forehead where the rim of her hat pressed against her hairline. She had forgotten to take a fan and felt as if she would melt by the time she arrived.
As the numbers dwindled to her destination, her eyes spotted a striped, green and white canopy belonging to the cigar shop. It hung over the large picture window with its name and date of its establishment—“Fonde en 1716.” Robert mentioned the store had a reputation of being the finest in Paris, carrying a large selection of imported tobacco.
At last, she had arrived. In the window sat a presentation of pipes, cigar boxes, cigarettes, cases, and other smoking paraphernalia that had been set out on display. It made her think of her dear stepfather. The count had a fondness for cigarettes. A pang of sorrow swept across her heart, but she quickly contained it by reminding herself she had come to meet her real father.
Jolene glanced inside and noted two men behind the counters waiting on male customers. She did not want to compete for Philippe’s attention, so she waited for the patrons to leave. No doubt, a woman walking into a cigar shop would turn heads anyway.
After a few minutes, the two patrons exited with their purchases. She blew out a puff of air from her lungs and realized she still clutched the paper with the address. Quickly, she shoved it in her purse and retrieved a handkerchief to wipe her brow before entering. When she saw her reflection in the glass picture window, she looked like a scared rabbit. With a quick pull back of her shoulders and a straightening of her spine, her hand reached for the doorknob.
She heard the jingle of the bell above her head announcing the arrival of a customer. A moment later, she found herself standing in the middle of male indulgence. Her nostrils filled with the smell of tobacco, and she wrinkled her nose in protest.
“Might I be of service, mademoiselle?”
A tall man with dark brown hair and gray temples greeted her arrival. She glanced about the shop and saw that the other clerk had apparently retreated to the back room of the store. Jolene returned her gaze to him. His eyes were somber, slightly down turned at the edges with crows-feet wrinkles that made him look sad. His jaw jutted forward square and strong on his clean-shaven face. His stature towered over her small frame, and immediately her mind spoke what her heart wished to know. Are you my father? Robert had described his appearance, which left her no doubt that who stood before her was indeed Philippe Moreau.
She quickly drew her eyes away to regain her emotions. A slight smile curled the corner of her lips, and she lifted her head once again. To keep from getting lost in his eyes, she glanced at the large humidor shelves and glass cases filled with cigarettes and pipes. Her nostrils inhaled the awful aroma, but nothing could be done about it.
“I’ve come to purchase a gift for a gentleman, monsieur,” she announced. He didn’t appear to be surprised.
“Very well, I can help you with that selection.” His kind and helpful demeanor allowed her to relax. “Do you have an idea what you’d like to purchase?”
Jolene looked at him with a blank gaze. She bluntly told him the truth of the matter. “Honestly, I know nothing about cigars.”
“Do you know what brand the gentleman prefers? Does he smoke Cuban cigars? If not, we do carry brands from all over the world where tobacco is grown in South America and in the Pacific regions.” He paused, but she remained silent. “There are many types of cigars, mademoiselle, that come in all size and shapes.”
Jolene felt as if she stood in the tropical regions of South America, because of the heat and smell. She had no idea what to say. In an effort to clear her thoughts, she walked away from him and began to peruse the items in a nearby case. Perhaps she should focus on a pipe instead. Yes, a pipe might do. Certainly, that would make it easier to speak intelligently. Cigars were too confusing with all their foreign names.
“I see you carry pipes, as well. Does a man who smokes a cigar enjoy an occasional puff on a pipe?” Philippe snickered and then quickly drew his face back into a subdued pose. He’s laughing at me, she thought. She glanced at him in disapproval.
“Well, that depends,” he said with a straight face. His tone remained lighthearted.
Obviously, her ignorance of male smoking habits tickled his funny bone. “All right,” Jolene swiftly responded. “I’ll be honest with you.” She looked into his piercing brown eyes. “I know absolutely nothing about this ghastly habit of smoking.” Jolene tilted her head. “I assume you smoke, monsieur...monsieur...” She trailed off waiting for him to fill in the blank.
“Moreau,” he responded.
“Monsieur Moreau.” Jolene repeated his name, letting it sink into her heart. Then, as if someone had pricked her with a needle, her eyes threatened to well in tears. She turned away, walked over to another counter, and lowered her head to peer inside the glass case.
“So tell me, Monsieur Moreau, does your wife tolerate you smoking a pipe or a cigar after dinner?” To Jolene’s surprise, he did not immediately respond to her question. She heard his footsteps approach and stop as he stood a few feet away watching her examining the goods.
“Pipes, I’m afraid, are a matter of preference as well.”
Jolene lifted her head and turned to look at him, but his gaze had fallen to the objects in the case. She observed his eyes were the same color as her own. After she noted that point, she recalled that he still hadn’t answered her question. The stubborn man, she inwardly complained.
“Pipes are made of a variety of different woods that produce distinct flavors, and there are a variety of tobaccos a gentleman may prefer according to his individual tastes.”
The smoking habits of the twentieth century male had exhausted her patience. “Well, I see that my decision will not be an easy one. Perhaps you can choose something for me. I’m sure I can trust your expert taste and advice in this matter.”
“I would not presume to choose such a preference without knowing the individual for whom you are purchasing, mademoiselle. Is this your fiancé perhaps or husband?”
“No, a friend of mine who has accompanied me to Paris.” She averted his gaze.
“Is he an older gentleman or one of your generation?”
“He is five years my senior. I am eighteen.”
Jolene looked for a reaction in his eyes but nothing came forth. Why did he not answer about a wife? Why was he not putting the similarities of age together? Perhaps her thick accent laced with German tones gave him no need to speculate beyond their encounter.
�
��Well, he may prefer these.” He walked over to the stack of cigars, quickly chose a box, and presented them to Jolene. She looked at the brand and markings. It could have been written in Greek for all she cared because it made no sense.
“How much?”
“I’m afraid they are a bit expensive, mademoiselle.” He looked embarrassed that he had recommended them, which made her wonder if he worked on commission.
“Whatever the cost, I’ll pay,” she answered. She shoved the cigars back in his direction, and he took it from her hand. Philippe stepped behind the counter. Neatly, he wrapped the box in brown paper, tied a string around it, and knotted a small bow on top. Afterward, he rang up the sale, and Jolene handed him the francs to pay for the purchase. She dreaded each second that passed knowing that their encounter would soon end.
To cherish the moment, she kept her gaze upon him. An aura of grief appeared to surround her father like a veil of melancholy. Regardless of the empathy that she felt for him, she would not allow him to avoid her question.
“You failed to reply to my inquiry about what your wife thinks of your smoking habits, Monsieur Moreau. Does she tolerate the pipe, cigar, or cigarette as one of your vices?” Jolene flashed a warm smile hoping that it would entice a response.
“Mademoiselle…” he began.
“It is Komtesse Jolene von Lamberg,” she offered, raising her head. Jolene felt her cheeks flush over her snobbish display of class.
He handed over the change from the purchase and cigars. “I beg your pardon, your ladyship,” he spoke respectfully. “But I’m not married, so my smoking habits are my personal vices that harm no one else.”
“I see.” Jolene had been saddened to hear from Robert that he had not found love after all these years. “I appreciate your time and expert advice. Have a pleasant day.” She headed toward the door, the bell jingled above her head, and she halted. Her father had already busied himself with other work. “Excuse me, might I ask one more question?”
He glanced her way. “Yes, your ladyship?”
The Price of Love Page 21