He lowered his head so that his lips were at her ear. 'I want to make love to you,' he whispered.
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up at him. 'I think I'm drunk,' she said slowly.
'That doesn't matter,' he said quickly. 'It won't change the way I feel about you.'
Her eyes held a questioning look. 'How do you feel about me?' she asked softly.
'I want you.'
She turned away, suddenly disappointed. Her voice was tight. 'Is that all?'
He shook his head. Then he pressed her face against his chest. He stared over her head at the dance floor and grimaced. His voice was bored, but she didn't seem to notice. All she heard was the whispery echo of his words, and they were the words she wanted to hear.
'I love you,' he said.
12
They left the noise of Chez Gaston and went out into the quiet of the moonlit night. The air was cold and smelled clean and fresh after the stuffy, smoke-filled cellar. Hélène breathed deeply and clung tightly to Hubert's arm. Their heels made sharp slapping sounds on the cobbled street.
He helped her into the car, banged her door shut, and got in on the driver's side. He smiled over at her. Her face looked pale in the moonlight, and she was huddled against the door. Suddenly he leaned toward her and took her in his arms. He kissed her deeply with moist, hungry lips. Her hands clung to him fiercely.
Slowly he pulled himself away from her and started the car.
'Where are we going?' she asked in a weak voice.
'I thought we'd go to a hotel.'
She reached out and touched his arm. 'Not a hotel, Hubert,' she said in a small voice. 'Someplace romantic.'
He tapped his hands on the steering wheel, thinking quickly. Then he made a grunting sound, switched on the headlights, and put the car into gear. 'I know just the place.'
'Where?' she asked.
He grinned. 'You'll see soon enough.'
The roads were deserted and he drove swiftly. The reflecting markers on the roadside picked up the glare of the headlights and flashed past in a blur.
Less than half an hour later they approached the Chateau Loustalot-de Léger. From a distance it looked like a brooding black shadow against the dark sky. As if on cue, the moon came out from behind some clouds and washed the battlements, the fat, medieval turrets, and the newer, more elegant Renaissance additions in a magical pale white light. The moat looked like liquid silver. Hélène gasped at the drama of the scene.
'Is this romantic enough?' he asked.
She nodded. 'Yes,' she said softly. 'It's beautiful.'
Hubert threaded the car through the dark web of roads that crisscrossed the vineyards of Loustalot. Several times the hills sloped up in front of them or the road made a turn and they lost sight of the chateau. Then it would appear again, looming in front of them, always larger than before.
Finally they drew to a halt alongside the moat. From here the Renaissance additions could not be seen, only the towering rock walls of the Middle Ages. In the moonlight these battlements and turrets looked mighty and impregnable.
Hubert placed his arm around her waist and led her to the entrance, a permanent stone bridge that had long since replaced the drawbridge.
'What if someone sees us?' Hélène whispered. She glanced up at him out of the corners of her eyes.
He laughed, and his teeth gleamed in the moonlight. 'Don't worry,' he told her. 'I am a de Léger, not a thief. Anyway, we keep only a handful of servants here. We'll never even see them. I've been known to come and go at odd hours.'
Suddenly she froze in her tracks. 'With. . .women?' she asked. What a stupid question! she thought angrily. Whom was she trying to fool? Of course Hubert came here with other women! What was it Madame Dupre had called him? A womanizer. A veil dropped down over Heine's eyes. Before Hubert could reply, she drew herself up with dignity.
'Take me back, Hubert,' she said firmly. 'To Hautecloque.'
They drove back in silence. Hubert was angry, and he kept the accelerator pressed down to the floorboard. Hélène was afraid to speak. Afraid to beg him to slow down. She sat white-faced in her seat as the dark vineyards flew past. We're going to have an accident, she thought as fear constricted her throat, clamped her chest like a vise. We'll both be killed.
When he stopped to let her out at the marble steps, she looked at him and hesitated. She wanted to say something—beg him not to be angry with her, explain how she felt. But the situation was too awkward. She fumbled with the door handle (this time he didn't treat her like a lady and hold it open for her), got out of the car, and closed the door. It didn't shut the first time and she had to close it a second time more firmly. Then he gunned the engine, turned the car around, and sped back down the poplar-lined drive toward the road. Back to Saint-Medard? she wondered. Back to Chez Gaston? Back to some woman he'd once had who would welcome him with open arms and hungry lips?
She stared up at the white marble steps. Suddenly they looked too imposing, too cold and regal. She shuddered. Quickly she began to walk around the chateau, finally letting herself in through the kitchen door.
She was angry with Hubert. And the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. He had plied her with champagne, probably suspecting her low resistance to alcohol. And after doing that, he had tried to trick her into going to bed with him.
But she was even angrier with herself. She should have known better than to go out with him in the first place.
She didn't see Hubert anymore, nor did he try to contact her. Clearly their friendship was over. He was either as elusive as Madame Dupre had said he could be whenever he didn't want to be found, or else it was she who was elusive. At any rate, they had few opportunities to run into each other. He was in the lavish parts of the chateau; she was in the servants' quarters. Most of her day was spent in her room or in the sewing room. She did her best to stay indoors. The rare times she went outside were when she took walks with Madame Dupre. Hélène had never told her what had happened, and Madame Dupre was sensitive enough not to bring up the subject.
The day of the ball drew near. Hélène no longer had any desire to attend. In fact, she wished she didn't have to be in the same house where it was being held. Everything had been soured by the. . .the misunderstanding with Hubert, as she thought of it. And the ball would only be a painful reminder.
The day before the ball, Madame Dupre sent word to the Comtesse that her wardrobe was completed. Despite the flurry the household was in, the Comtesse's manservant came to announce the Comtesse's arrival in half an hour.
'She will try on all the outfits,' Madame Dupre said. 'Let's hope she will be pleased.'
Hélène looked at her. 'I don't feel well,' she stammered. 'Could I be excused?'
Madame Dupre frowned. 'Sit down,' she said, gesturing to one of the chairs.
Hélène sat down nervously and looked up at her.
Madame Dupre's eyes narrowed. 'I don't know what did or did not occur between you and Hubert de Léger,' she said. 'However, that is between you and him. I do assume that the Comtesse is in no way involved?' She arched her eyebrows questioningly.
Hélène was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. 'No,' she said finally.
'In that case, I think it is your duty to be here. After all, you worked very hard on her wardrobe, and you are partially responsible for its success or failure. If the Comtesse has any praise or criticism, you should also hear it.'
Hélène looked away. 'But I. . .I don't feel well,' she said weakly.
Madame Dupre shook her head. 'I believe you feel fine,' she said firmly. 'I insist that you stay.'
Hélène nodded morosely.
The Comtesse was punctual. Exactly half an hour later, there was a knock on the tall door. A footman threw it open and stepped aside as the Comtesse swept in. She was dressed in a flowing, belted robe of an Oriental fabric. Her silvery hair was carefully coiffed and gleamed like the silver thread embroidered into her robe.
Madame Dupre f
lashed Hélène a quick look. Both of them curtsied gracefully. Immediately the footman withdrew and closed the door. The Comtesse crossed the room and went behind the three-paneled screen while Madame Dupre brought her one outfit at a time. They were on satin-covered hangers. The sleeves of each garment were carefully stuffed with lengths of tissue paper, the tops of the hangers padded with a 'neck' of more tissue paper so that the collars of each garment would fall naturally.
First Madame Dupre brought out the copy of the Comtesse's pale yellow Chanel suit. This was followed by two more Chanels—one in pale blue, the other in a tweed. Then came a startling red Schiaparelli dress and two Balenciagas—one white, one black. Finally there were three Givenchys—two suits and one dress—in varying earth tones.
Each one fit the Comtesse to perfection. Madame Dupre eyed them with satisfaction. Even a professionally trained eye would find it difficult to distinguish the copy from the original, she thought.
The Comtesse stood in front of the three-paneled gilt-framed mirror in each garment. She carefully scrutinized herself from all angles, moving her arms, twisting her thin body. Finally, after trying on the last Givenchy, she nodded approval. 'You have done well, madame,' she told Madame Dupre.
Madame Dupre looked pleased. 'It was a pleasure, Comtesse,' she replied modestly.
The Comtesse nodded and went back behind the screen. When she reappeared in her Oriental robe, she said, 'I will have Lise collect the clothes in a few minutes.'
Madame Dupre nodded.
The Comtesse turned her dark eyes on Hélène. 'I had hoped we would see more of you, mademoiselle,' she said reproachfully.
Hélène felt herself flushing. 'Oui, Comtesse,' she murmured. 'I had hoped so also.'
'I recall that my son invited you to the ball tomorrow. You are coming?'
Madame Dupre started. This was news indeed! Quickly she looked at Hélène. The girl's eyes seemed to dull; the violet pupils turned to smoky amethyst.
'I'm afraid I won't be able to accept your kind invitation, Comtesse,' Hélène said. 'I hope you will excuse me.'
Madame Dupre gasped and the Comtesse looked at Hélène in surprise. 'But that is not possible! My son will be very upset if you do not appear. He has asked me to tell you personally that he will expect you in the Salon de la Rotonde at eight o'clock tomorrow evening.'
Hélène's heart gave a joyous leap. Did Hubert really say that? Was it possible that he still wanted to see her? Was he no longer angry with her? The sudden news made her curiously light-headed. But she couldn't go to the ball. She had nothing to wear. She would have to make up some excuse.
'I'm sorry,' Hélène said. 'I thought he. . .I. . .' She looked helplessly at Madame Dupre, her eyes begging for help. Almost imperceptibly Madame Dupre shook her head sideways.
The Comtesse reached out, touched Hélène's chin with her elegant fingers, and gently turned her face toward her. 'I do not know whether you are very dumb or very clever, mademoiselle,' she said softly. 'My son was extremely agitated by your behavior.'
'I. . .I'm sorry.'
'Do not be. Apparently you are the first woman who has ever dared to refuse him.' For a moment the dark eyes flashed with amusement. 'He was very hurt, but strangely enough, he respects you for it. As do I.' She smiled. 'You will be in the Salon de la Rotonde at eight?'
'I'm sorry, Comtesse.' Hélène made a helpless gesture with her hands. 'It is such short notice. I thought I wouldn't be welcome, so I didn't prepare anything to. . .' Her eyes fell. '. . .to wear.'
The Comtesse frowned thoughtfully. Then she glanced at Madame Dupre. 'Could you quickly sew something for her, madame?'
Madame Dupre bowed her head. 'Of course, Comtesse. But there is the matter of fabrics.'
'There are still some in the wardrobes, non?' The Comtesse gestured toward them.
'Oui, Comtesse. But they are mostly fine white silks.'
The Comtesse smiled. 'Use as much as you want, but make it beautiful. You shall be paid extra for it.'
'Oui, Comtesse.' Suddenly Madame Dupre looked at the Comtesse with inspiration. 'I know it is asking too much, Comtesse, but the greenhouses. . .'
'Yes?' The Comtesse looked at Madame Dupre quizzically.
'Some flowers. For decorating the dress. Might I have the gardener bring me some?'
'Fresh flowers for a dress?' The Comtesse frowned. 'That sounds rather bizarre. But as long as it is beautiful, take all the flowers you want.'
'Thank you, Comtesse,' Madame Dupre said.
The Comtesse started toward the door. Quickly Hélène and Madame Dupre curtsied. Suddenly the Comtesse turned around in the doorway. She gazed at Hélène. 'Eight o'clock tomorrow, then. In the Salon de la Rotonde.'
And the tall door closed.
Hélène let out a painful sound and sank into a chair. She pushed her fingers through her hair. 'What do I do?' she wailed.
Madame Dupre looked at her with delight. 'I know what I shall do. For once, I am going to design and sew a dress that truly inspires me!' Her eyes flashed with excitement. She made an agitated gesture with her hands. 'Quickly—get undressed! I shall measure you immediately! We have no time to lose!'
Madame Dupre ate no lunch or dinner. 'There is no time!' she cried. 'I have a gown to sew—overnight!'
Hélène began to feel an excitement growing within her as she watched the woman deftly attacking the bolt of silk with her shears. The fabric parted smoothly in two as the sharp blades slid through it. Hélène reached out and touched the silk. It was soft and white and fluid. It seemed to shimmer with the radiance of sunshine on new snow.
Madame Dupre's pace never flagged. She seemed to know exactly what effect she was striving for. What style the gown would be. How much fabric to use. She worked without a pattern and with a speed and surety Hélène had never seen before. Madame Dupre seemed to have burst out of the shackles that had bound her creativity. She was creating a garment that was totally original, that would be spectacular. There would be no 'borrowing' from Givenchy, Balenciaga, Odile Joly, or Dior.
As the hours passed, the gown slowly began to take on a shape. Hélène could see that it would have a square, low-cut neckline and an enormous full skirt. There would be no sleeves, only loose over-the-shoulder straps.
From time to time Madame Dupre would pin the pieces of silk around Hélène. Then she would step back, her mouth full of pins, and study the effect with a critical frown. She would make a quick tuck here, a swift chalk line there. Then everything would be spread back out on the paper-covered table.
Madame Dupre did everything by hand. Hélène was astonished. It seemed that the woman was quicker with the needle than the machine. Her fingers flew.
When it was nearly midnight, Hélène could no longer hold her eyes open. She fell asleep in her chair. Madame Dupre glanced at her and smiled. Hélène's legs were stretched out, her feet crossed, and her hands were folded in her lap. Her head was tilted sideways against one shoulder, her black hair tumbling down over her face. Ah, the sleep of the young, Madame Dupre thought. How peaceful and rejuvenating it was. Well, Hélène would need every wink she could get. Attending a ball was going to be exhausting.
When morning came, Madame Dupre was still at work. Strangely enough, she didn't feel a bit tired. It was as if the thrill of her creativity superseded her need for sleep.
Hélène suddenly stirred. She opened her eyes and blinked. She yawned noisily, and with her fingers she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Sunlight was already streaming in through the big windows. She looked over at Madame Dupre with surprise. 'Why. . .it's morning!'
Madame Dupre smiled. 'It is, and a beautiful morning at that!'
Hélène let out a gasp. She had seen the gown lying on the table. Slowly she got to her feet and went toward it. Already it looked finished. As the sunlight hit its whiteness, the silk seemed to dazzle and threw blinding light back at her. She had to squint.
'It's beautiful!' she breathed.
Madame Dupre smiled and glance
d at Hélène out of the corner of her eye. 'It shall be, but that will be many hours from now. Did you sleep well?'
Hélène nodded, rubbing her shoulder briskly; it felt sore from sleeping in the chair. 'Yes, well enough. But you didn't get a wink!'
'I will once this gown is finished. Now I need you to try it on quickly before I continue. Then I want you to eat a very light breakfast and a tiny lunch. The emptier your stomach, the better you will look. We must make you appear to be very slim.'
Hélène nodded. 'And I'll need to take a bath and wash my hair and do something with it—'
'Don't do anything with your hair except wash it!' Madame Dupre said sharply.
'Why not?'
Madame Dupre smiled secretly and got to her feet. 'You'll see. Now, stand over here and we'll have a fitting.'
Quickly Hélène slipped out of her clothes and Madame Dupre helped her into the gown. The low-cut bodice fit snugly, and Hélène noticed that it pushed her small, firm breasts upward, making them appear larger and more shapely than they actually were. The skirt was huge and magnificent— kilometers of soft, voluminous silk billowing like a cloud. On an impulse, she walked over to the three-paneled mirror and whirled around. She caught sight of her reflection. The skirt shimmered as it sailed around her legs, and she could hear the soft rustling of the silk.
'It. . .it's lovely!' Hélène said. She whirled around again, and a look of despair suddenly marred the excited look on her face. Her body seemed to slump. She had seen her shoes. They were the only pair she owned and certainly couldn't be worn with the gown. Her heart sank. It was an impossible situation.
'What's the matter?' Madame Dupre asked, instantly catching her dismay.
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