Wild Lavender

by Belinda Alexandra

  I was too stunned to say anything at first. It was the most extreme thing a parent could do to a child. I tried to get my mind to slow down and think clearly. I would hardly have been shocked if Monsieur Blanchard had refused permission all along, but to suddenly retract his word? If he didn’t take Guillemette seriously, what would have caused him to do this?

  ‘What made him change his mind?’ I asked.

  André shook his head, staring at me with bewildered eyes.

  ‘There must be some way around this,’ I muttered. ‘There has to be.’

  ‘Not if I can’t legally be with you.’ André rushed to the bed and punched the mattress. No, I thought, please don’t. Please don’t say what I think you are going to tell me.

  His voice was barely audible above the crying wind. ‘He expects me to marry next year, but not you, Simone. He wants me to marry Princesse de Letellier.’

  The storm was still blowing the following morning when I opened my eyes and saw that the wind had stripped the leaves from the trees outside the window. My bones ached with exhaustion. My eyes were so swollen it was hard to blink. André was still sleeping, slumped against my shoulder like a man in a coma. We had cried for hours before falling asleep in the early hours of the morning, too spent to cry any more.

  Why was Monsieur Blanchard doing this? Why couldn’t he let us be happy together as we had been for the past decade?

  I slipped out of bed and gazed through the window. I felt Monsieur Blanchard’s betrayal like a slap in the face. Perhaps there had been some misunderstanding? I remembered Guillemette’s smile. Had she told him some lie?

  When André woke, he told me that he was going to his own office to sort some things out. I couldn’t bring myself to look in his eyes. When I finally did, I saw that they were wild with fear.

  ‘I don’t care about the money, Simone,’ he said. ‘Or the power of my family name. I would give all that up for you. All of it. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  Yes, André, I thought. I know you would. But your mother and your sister? Could I ask that of you?

  After André left, I dressed and went to the film studios. Renoir had asked me to play a small part in his new film. I had agreed as a favour because it was only one day of shooting, but when I saw the awe with which the other actors looked at me when I arrived on set, I regretted it. Did I have the strength to go through with this now? Just the day before I had been as blissful as any soon-to-be bride about to marry the love of her life. Now everything was falling apart.

  I was determined that none of the cast or crew, not even Renoir, should see me cry. André and I weren’t defeated yet. Whenever there was a break, I slipped from the set and walked down the corridor to the production secretary’s empty office. There, I would slump in her chair and release my tears for a few minutes before collecting myself, powdering the blotchiness from my face and striding back on set as if I were the luckiest woman in the world.

  After the shooting was complete, Renoir sat with me in the cafeteria and talked for an hour about an idea he had for an American–French production that would star me. Although he spoke with energy and I nodded enthusiastically, when the chauffeur came to pick me up and Renoir kissed my cheeks, I realised that I couldn’t recollect a word of the conversation.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mademoiselle?’ Paulette asked me when I arrived home. The concern in her voice nearly caused me to break down. I tried to hold myself together, but the effort made me sound like I was choking. ‘I am not feeling very well today. I am going to rest in my room.’

  I lay down on the bed, fear creeping over me like a winter fog. I had never considered that money might be something that could break me and André apart, yet I began to see how it might. I had a fortune of my own and would have gladly set André up in business. But my resources did not match the wealth of the Blanchard family. If André was disowned by one of the most powerful families in France, it would not work in his favour. Businessmen needing the goodwill of Monsieur Blanchard senior would not show favour towards his son. André could go into show business management, but was that what he wanted to do? I knew how much he had loved his work over the past few years. Could he give that up and still remain André?

  I glanced at my watch. It was four o’clock. I wondered if Monsieur Blanchard would still be at his office.

  I had expected Monsieur Blanchard to greet me with the same exasperation of a boss dealing with a dismissed employee who wants her job back, but he was merely evasive.

  ‘Some coffee, Mademoiselle Fleurier?’ he asked, after offering me a seat by his desk.

  ‘You know why I have come.’

  He nodded, his jaw set, steeling himself for a confrontation. It was not his usual approach; I was used to Monsieur Blanchard being smug. But the change in his behaviour was only temporary. He sat down, moved his pen from the left to the right side of his desk then back again, gathering his strength. ‘Your coming here won’t change my mind,’ he said. ‘A man in André’s position cannot marry whomever he pleases. He has responsibilities. Marriage is not a frivolous thing. But I am prepared to hear you out.’

  ‘Is love a frivolous reason to get married?’ I asked. ‘If it is, why didn’t you refuse outright to let us marry years ago?’

  ‘Marriage is about family, reputation and duty. It has nothing to do with love,’ said Monsieur Blanchard, curling his fingers over and examining his nails.

  My impression was right. He was being evasive. ‘And what is it about me that suddenly offends your sense of family, reputation and duty that didn’t only a year ago?’ I asked.

  Monsieur Blanchard rubbed his eyes. ‘You seem to have misunderstood me, Mademoiselle Fleurier. I have always liked you. I do not object to André being fond of you. I do not object to you having a house together. I do not even object to you having children together, but those children will not carry the Blanchard name. For that André must marry someone from a reputable family. However, I see nothing wrong in a man having a beautiful mistress and a dutiful wife. In fact, I think it is necessary to a man’s domestic happiness.’

  My stomach rolled over. A terrible idea began to dawn on me. It was well known that Monsieur Blanchard had a mistress in Lyon. Was it possible that André, not a philanderer like his father, had misunderstood his father’s intentions towards us? Maybe Monsieur Blanchard had given his blessing to our relationship but not our union.

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  Monsieur Blanchard glanced away from me, out the window. ‘You must understand yourself that you and André are not a suitable marriage. Who are your family, Mademoiselle Fleurier?’

  I had been around Paris society enough to know about class prejudice. My fortune was greater than that of Princesse de Letellier’s, whose origins were not much more impressive than mine. Her maternal grandfather had been a sardine fisherman who had made a fortune and bought a fleet. Her mother had gained a title by marrying the impoverished Prince de Letellier. And yet my social position was considered lower than the Princesse de Letellier’s because I had made my wealth myself, and self-made women were a threat to the status quo. Coco Chanel was the richest woman in the world, but she was snubbed as a ‘tradesperson’ in Paris’s elite salons.

  Whatever I had come for, I was not going to get it from Monsieur Blanchard, and until I spoke to André there was no point antagonising him further. I rose from my chair. ‘I had an uncle like you, Monsieur Blanchard,’ I told him. ‘He was bloody-minded in his determination to have his way. He died with nothing but regrets.’

  Monsieur Blanchard met my eyes. ‘Do not fight this, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said. ‘You will not save André by marrying him. In fact, you will destroy him.’

  I left Monsieur Blanchard’s office and didn’t look back. But out on the boulevard, it occurred to me that Monsieur Blanchard had not been cocky or arrogant. He had spoken as if the decision were somehow out of his hands.

  André sat on the sofa in the drawing room, shaking his head in d
isbelief. ‘So my father thinks you are acceptable as a mistress but not as a wife?’

  For a man to have a regular mistress wasn’t an unusual arrangement in upper-class marriages. The wives didn’t like it, but they couldn’t object unless they were prepared to lose everything under the Napoleonic code. Did I love André so much that I was prepared to share him with another woman? I flinched from the crushing pain in my chest, imagining myself waving goodbye to André as he drove off to return to his wife and legitimate children.

  ‘It is impossible,’ said André, stroking my hair. ‘I love you too much. Imagine fathering children with you and not being able to give them a name?’

  A few weeks later, André went to see Count Kessler in Lyon where he was staying with his sister. The Spanish War had arrived in Mallorca and the Fascists were executing German exiles, so the Count had moved back to France. One drizzly afternoon, I was sitting in the drawing room when Paulette announced that Madame Blanchard had arrived to see me. Since Monsieur Blanchard’s refusal to let us marry, André and I had avoided his family. We had drifted between reality and a dreamlike state. There had been whole hours, at the opera or walking hand in hand in the park, when we forgot what we were facing and life seemed as blissful as it always had been between us. I sensed the arrival of Madame Blanchard was about to crack that fragile shell. Indeed, even before Paulette had left the room, Madame Blanchard collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing. ‘He destroyed Laurent and now he is going to destroy André,’ she said.

  I had not been eating properly the last few days and almost swooned when I stood up. I felt sorrier for Madame Blanchard than I did for André or myself. She had to live with the self-conceited tyrant. ‘Madame Blanchard,’ I said, sitting down next to her and putting my hand on her knee. ‘You have always been good to me. You wanted André to marry me, didn’t you? You wanted us to be happy here.’

  Her face twisted. ‘I would have been proud to have such a lovely daughter-in-law,’ she said. ‘And I know how happy you have made André.’

  ‘You see no possibility that Monsieur Blanchard will change his mind?’

  Madame Blanchard shook her head. A shiver ran through me and I turned away. For the first time, I saw the possibility that I could lose André. At first, Monsieur Blanchard’s refusal had brought out our unshakeable belief that our love could conquer all. But what next? How long before external pressures began to conspire against us?

  ‘I had a terrible dream last night,’ I said, half to Madame Blanchard and half to myself. ‘I was standing on the beach at Cannes, watching André swimming. I could hear him laughing and see him waving to me. Suddenly the sound faded. I ran into the water but the waves knocked me back. André was slowly being sucked out into the sea and I was powerless to stop it.’

  ‘My husband is as strong as an ox,’ said Madame Blanchard. ‘So it is not as if we can wait. He will outlive us all.’

  In the midst of all the darkness, what she said struck me as comical. I laughed and wept at the same time. Monsieur Blanchard would carry out his threat to banish André if he married me, of that I had no doubt. I understood his temperament. Men like Monsieur Blanchard and Uncle Gerome did not see their families as people, they saw them as possessions.

  ‘Is it impossible for you and André to be happy without being married?’ Madame Blanchard asked. ‘He will never love that girl as much as you.’

  I had wrestled with that question day and night. I recalled the days in Berlin with Mademoiselle Canier and knew I could not continue to love André with my whole being while sharing him with another woman. I also knew in my heart that was how he felt about me. I shook my head. ‘Now it is down to a choice between me and you and Veronique.’

  Madame Blanchard reared back as if I had struck her. ‘Do not take my son from me, I beg you, Simone,’ she cried. ‘He will choose you if you make him choose. Veronique and I will have no one. I lost Laurent. Guillemette is an abomination I cannot believe is mine, and I stopped loving my husband years ago. All I have in the world is André and Veronique.’

  I stood up and went to the window, leaning on the sill. I couldn’t stand the sound of Madame Blanchard’s voice, so full of pain. She followed me and clutched my hands.

  ‘I know you love André,’ she said. ‘But you are still young. One day there will be someone else for you to love. Then, when you have children of your own, you will understand the compassionate thing you did for me.’

  I shut my eyes. ‘I will never find another André, Madame Blanchard,’ I said. ‘Never.’

  After Madame Blanchard had left, I stood in the garden, staring at my hands. It wasn’t until I heard the front doorbell that I came to myself and realised that my fingers were turning blue. A minute later, Paulette opened the French doors to tell me that Monsieur Etienne was waiting in the drawing room. I thought how nice it would be to distract my mind from Madame Blanchard’s visit. I asked Paulette to make us some coffee, but as soon as I entered the drawing room and saw the pained expression on Monsieur Etienne’s face, I knew there was not going to be any comfort for me.

  ‘You had better tell me what is going on, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said gently.

  I had become so used to pretending nothing was wrong that my forced smile came naturally. But André and I had been missing social engagements, and there were rumours amongst the press. There would be time to speak to Monsieur Etienne about how to handle the newspapers later; I didn’t have the strength to face them now. I had to face myself first and I wasn’t doing very well.

  ‘Nothing is wrong,’ I said. ‘I have been busy with the house.’

  Monsieur Etienne saw straight through me. ‘The Blanchard family are making announcements about an impending marriage and you and André are saying nothing,’ he said. ‘You had better explain it all to me. With Prince Edward and Wallis Simpson in the news, any whiff of this kind of thing is like the scent of blood to hounds. I want to help you, Mademoiselle Fleurier. You might be popular, but the press is going to be brutal.’

  That afternoon, I took a taxi to Boulevard Haussmann where Odette and Joseph had their shop. I hovered on the pavement for a moment, my legs trembling so violently that it took all my concentration to put one foot in front of the other and go through the door. I caught sight of my reflection in a mirror. My hair was wild from the wind and my pupils were wide with fear. I wore the same expression I had seen on Count Kessler’s face when he had found himself exiled from Germany. I stared at a painting of maidens and satyrs, the colours blurring in my disorientated vision. What was I doing here? I sank to my knees.

  ‘Simone,’ said Joseph, pulling me up from the floor. He looked into my face, a worried frown on his brow. ‘Come,’ he said, putting his arm around me and leading me to his office. ‘Odette is in the back room. I will fetch her.’

  ‘What else has happened?’ asked Odette, taking my hands and helping me into a chair. She glanced over her shoulder at Joseph who set about making tea. I had told her about Monsieur Blanchard’s change of heart a few days before.

  ‘I don’t know why I am here,’ I said, my hands shaking so much that I couldn’t pick up the tea cup when Joseph set it before me. But even as I spoke I saw a black hole open and felt the chilly draught of my future blow over me. The dream I had kept in my heart for ten years was not going to happen. How could it? André and I had been living an illusion. I had trusted his judgment that our love could take on the world because he was older and more experienced. But now I understood he had been just as blinded by love as I had. Tout-Paris had never been for us, they had always been against us. Could I really ask him to give up his family and position, to never see his mother or Veronique again? Could even the greatest love stand up to so many sacrifices?

  ‘If I hold on, I will destroy him,’ I said.

  As soon as the words left my mouth I saw the strong rope that bound me and André together begin to fray.

  Odette squeezed my arm. I could not have imagined that such a delicate hand could contai
n such strength. ‘You and André have loved each other for years,’ she said. ‘As long as you listen to that dear, true heart of yours, Simone, you will know the right thing to do.’

  I put my hands to my eyes. Joseph sat down next to me. Odette stood up and threw her arms around me, weeping. ‘Be strong, Simone. Joseph and I love you no matter what you decide.’

  When I returned to the house, I walked into the dancing room, my heels clicking on the wooden floor. Wouldn’t this make a wonderful music room? Or a room for dancing? I remembered André’s face the first time I had seen him at the Café des Singes. I had wondered if he was the ‘friendly face’ I should sing to. Ten years of memories floated by me: dancing at the Resi in Berlin; my debut at the Adriana; our trip on the île de France when we first became lovers. ‘We were going to be so happy,’ I whispered.

  I turned and walked down the hallway, my hand brushing over the furniture. For a hazy moment I saw André striding towards me, four small children trotting alongside him, trying to keep up. I opened up my arms, but before they reached me, he and the children disappeared into thin air.

  As long as you listen to that dear, true heart of yours, Simone, you will know the right thing to do.

  André returned from his visit to Count Kessler a few days later. He was gaunt but smiling. His smile disappeared when he saw my suitcases in the hall.

  ‘Simone,’ he said, sinking into a chair.

  I had intended to be cold and cruel. I wanted to make it easier for him to forget me. But when I looked into those sable eyes, and saw the tenderness there, I broke down and sank to the floor. André crouched next to me.

  ‘Maybe it is best we don’t see each other for a while,’ he said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing my face. ‘Then we can think with clear heads and decide what is the best thing to do.’

  Poor André, I thought. He is going to keep hoping until the last. I sat back and cradled his face in my hands. ‘This is the best thing to do, André. We can’t win.’