Sins

by Gould, Judith

  He had given her two more gifts that night. A ruby-and-diamond necklace to match the earrings and a solid gold key—the symbolic key to her new home. For practical use, he had also given her a regular key. After dinner they rode to the house in the black-and-burgundy Rolls. When they got there, the chauffeur held the rear door open. Hélène looked out at the house in awe. The old white building behind the small garden looked like a little palace. It was four stories high. Above the big double doors were balustraded balconies on the second and third floors. The top floor, with its mansard roof, had five small oval dormers. All the rest of the windows were big and mullioned.

  'Do you find it agreeable?' the Comte asked.

  Hélène turned to look at him. She was speechless. She didn't know what to say. Finally she managed to nod her head.

  'Shall we go inside?' Without waiting for her reply, the Comte placed the palm of his hand on her elbow and led her through the garden and up the marble steps. She took out her key and unlocked the front doors of her new home for the first time. Unbelievingly she looked around the foyer. The marble floor gleamed and the walls were lined with pilasters. She was dying to explore the rest of the house, to go from room to room and acquaint herself with all that a new home has to offer. But that would have to wait until morning. Tonight she sensed that the Comte had something far more urgent on his mind.

  Immediately they went upstairs to the huge, dimly lit bedroom overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. She watched as he went over to the window and pulled the heavy draperies together. She knew what was expected of her. Wordlessly she got undressed.

  When he was naked, she stood there staring at him. His penis was erect and pulsing. Suddenly she was afraid. She went over to the giant bed, pulled down the cover, and lay stiffly on the Porthault sheets, watching him with frightened eyes.

  Slowly he came over to her. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached down, tracing his fingertips across her nipples. At first she was tense. She refused to submit to her longings. Then suddenly she stopped resisting. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the tingling sensation that swept through her body in little waves. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, her nipples rising under his touch. After a while he rolled on top of her and their arms and legs intertwined. His face found hers and his tongue darted deep into her throat, probing, exploring, licking. She could feel his stiff penis rubbing against her legs. She moaned softly, her head making a slow pendulum motion on the pillow. A current of excitement surged through her body. She struggled to free her lips from his. 'Love me,' she whispered, giving herself over to him completely.

  She felt him moving away from her, freeing her from his grasp. Then there was a delicious sensation between her legs. She looked down. His head was buried in her pubis, his tongue licking her clitoris. She shuddered, feeling the beginnings of her first orgasm. He waited for her excitement to ebb. Then in one savage thrust he entered her. She gripped him fiercely, relishing the sensation of his body against hers. Abruptly he pulled out of her.

  'Don't stop!' she cried.

  He grabbed her by the ankles and held her legs high in the air, over her head. Her buttocks were now off the bed. Without warning, he forced his penis up into her anus. Instinctively she clamped her sphincter tight. With one massive thrust he pushed deeper. Her hips jerked, her body shuddered. She writhed in agony. The pain was excruciating. A scream burst forth from her lips.

  'Whore!' he hissed. His hand shot out and slapped her across the face. The sting of his slap erupted on her cheek. The scream died in her throat.

  'Whore!' His voice was louder now, and he raised his hand to strike her again. She flinched and whipped her head sideways. Suddenly he let out a cry. A spasm shook his body and he emptied his juices into her. He let go of her legs and let them drop back down on the bed. He bent forward and buried his face in her breasts. 'Mother!' he sobbed. 'Mother!'

  Hélène looked down at him and stroked his head gently. She could feel his tears rolling down the cleft of her breasts.

  The uniformed maid knocked gently on the door. Then she entered the bedroom and crossed soundlessly over to the window. The curtains blocked out all the light. In two swift draws she yanked them aside and the faded winter sun came weakly into the room. Hélène stirred on the big bed and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. The maid went over to the marble mantel and got to her knees, placed kindling in the grate, stacked some logs on top of it, and lit a fire. She fanned the flames until they burned evenly, then got back to her feet. She looked at Hélène. 'It's time for your breakfast, mademoiselle.'

  Wearily Hélène sat up and blinked. She yawned and wiped her eyes. 'What time is it, Marthe?'

  'Eight-thirty, mademoiselle. You requested that I wake you, remember?'

  Hélène nodded. Now she remembered. It was Saturday. Odile Joly had given her the day off, but she had an important errand to run. Quickly she looked over at the pillow beside hers. The Comte had left already; all that remained of his spending the night was the depressed shape of his head in the pillow.

  Hélène sighed. 'All right, Marthe. I'll have breakfast now.'

  Efficiently Marthe marched out. She returned a moment later with a wooden tray. She set it down on the nightstand, waited for Hélène to lean forward, and plumped the pillows up behind her. Carefully she placed the tray on Hélène's lap and poured a cup of coffee from the china pot into one of the delicate gold-bordered cups. Hélène took a sip and shuddered. She put the cup back down. She hated black coffee. She liked it sweet, with cream and sugar, but she had to watch her weight. She looked down at the plate. On it was a single flaky croissant, hot and steaming. On the tiny side plate was a minuscule dab of country butter and a teaspoon of red raspberry jam. It had been a long, exhausting night. The Comte had been insatiable. After sex, she always had an appetite. Now she was hungry as a horse. Perhaps if she ate very slowly the croissant would be enough to fill her. She sighed, broke the croissant in half, and began to butter it carefully.

  'Is there anything else you need, mademoiselle?'

  Hélène looked around the room. She saw the Balmain gown draped across the back of a French chair. 'Send the gown to the cleaner's. Oh. . .and don't forget to change the bedsheets.'

  Marthe gave a little curtsy. 'Oui, mademoiselle.' She would have changed the sheets automatically anyway. After the Comte stayed overnight, Mademoiselle always insisted on fresh sheets.

  'That's all, Marthe, thank you.'

  The maid picked up the Balmain, left the room, and gently shut the big carved door behind her.

  Hélène took a bite out of the croissant and chewed it slowly. Then she looked at the rest of it and dropped it on the plate. Suddenly she didn't feel hungry anymore. There was too much to do today.

  She lifted the tray, set it back on the nightstand, and threw off the covers. She walked across the soft carpet and went into the big marble bathroom. She leaned over the tub, spun the gold-plated faucets, and watched the steaming water crash down onto the smooth, contoured enamel bottom. She leaned over the tub for a moment, letting the clouds of steam rise up into her face. This was luxury, she thought. Hot running water. Not like the single ice-cold low-pressure tap at Tante Janine's or Jeanne's.

  Humming softly, she poured a generous portion of scented bath oil into the water. She sat down on the edge of the tub, rolled up one sleeve of her peignoir, and reached down into the water, stirring the oil around with her hand. Then she rose and dried her hand. She slipped out of the peignoir and tossed it over the back of the vanity chair. Carefully she stepped into the tub. The water was hot and delicious. She spun the taps, and immediately the water stopped. She sank down into the tub and soaked for a few minutes. Then she began to lather herself with the almond cold-cream soap. She lathered her pubis well, rinsing it off with the shower attachment when she was done. Her private parts had gotten her to the Boulevard Maillot. They, too, might help make her dream come true. She smiled to herself. Her dream. Her magazine. It seemed m
ore important than ever to start it soon.

  When she finished dressing, she looked at herself in the mirror. She used very little makeup; with her complexion she didn't need to. Only her right cheek was thickly made-up. Every time the Comte approached orgasm, he called her a whore and slapped her across the face. Then he would become the repentant little boy, crying 'Mother! Mother!' and fall asleep on her breasts, his face streaked with tears. Hélène shook her head. It was bizarre, and she didn't understand it. She only wished he didn't hit her so hard. Her cheek bruised easily, and only her artful mixing of four different shades of makeup covered up his handprint. What will be will be, she told herself. She bent close to the mirror. Even under the harshest lighting, neither the bruise nor the makeup would show.

  She tore herself away from the mirror and crossed the room to where a gilt-framed painting hung on the wall. She felt along the frame, released a catch, and the painting swung forward on its hinges like a window. Behind it was a small wall safe. Deftly she spun the intricate combination. She heard the familiar click and pulled down on the iron handle and swung the heavy door open. She reached inside and felt for the Cartier box with the canary- diamond earrings.

  'Good-bye, Cartier,' she whispered.

  Baghat Cheops picked up the loupe and held it close to his right eye. He closed his left eye and studied one of the canary-diamond earrings through the magnifying lens. Then he pushed the earring aside and reached for the second one. He studied it as closely as the first. Finally he replaced the loupe carefully in its velvet-lined case. His face was expressionless as he looked at Hélène. 'They are not bad,' he said.

  Hélène's face was a mask. She knew what the dark little Egyptian was trying to do. Bring down the price. Start by offering her a fraction of what the stones were worth. He knew, and she knew, that they were flawless. Each earring had three diamonds, one three-carat, one two-carat, one half-carat. Cartier's asking price must have been enough to buy six Citroen limousines. Baghat Cheops would begin by offering her a sixteenth of their value. They would end up by agreeing on about a twelfth of their value. Then he would turn around and sell them for double or triple what he'd paid. Hélène's only consolation was Cheops' assurance that he would sell them only to transient foreigners. She knew that the jewelry was all recognizable, one-of-a-kind pieces. She couldn't afford to take them back to Cartier's. Even discreetly. They'd be right back on the market. That was too dangerous. The Comte might find out that she'd been selling the jewelry he was giving her, and he'd be furious.

  Carefully Cheops laid the canary-diamond earrings side by side on a velvet cloth. He lined them up by tapping them with his nicotine-stained fingernail. They winked with yellow light. 'Twelve thousand,' he said, smiling. His gold tooth gleamed.

  Hélène's face was impassive. It was the most ridiculous starting offer he'd ever made. Obviously the little Egyptian thought he'd found an easy touch. Someone who gambled. Or who had an expensive drug habit. Deliberately she reached out, took the earrings, and put them back in the box. Lazily she dropped it into her purse. 'Good-bye, Monsieur Cheops,' she said. 'It is a pity we could not do business again.' She started out of the room.

  The Egyptian watched her shrewdly, calculating the chances of her seriously walking out of the shop. He smiled. Once at the door, she would have second thoughts. She would turn around. He had seen it happen often enough.

  Hélène closed the door behind her, looked up and down the street, and began walking briskly down the sidewalk. At the next corner, a breathless

  Cheops grabbed her by the arm. He had been running all the way. It was her turn to smile.

  'Twenty thousand,' he said between gulps of air.

  Marthe was on the telephone when Hélène let herself into the town house. 'Un moment, Monsieur le Comte,' the maid said quickly. 'Mademoiselle has just come in.' She held her hand over the mouthpiece. 'It's the Comte!' she said in a flustered voice.

  Hélène nodded, hurried over to Marthe, and took the receiver. 'Philippe?' she said softly. 'Where are you?'

  As usual, the Comte was in a hurry. He spoke quickly. 'I'm at Orly. My flight departs in a few minutes.'

  'Orly! Where are you going?'

  'Scandinavia.'

  She stared at the receiver. This was news. He'd made no mention of it last night.

  'Something's come up,' he explained quickly. 'I'll be there on business for a week.'

  Her heart leaped hopefully. This might give her the time she needed to put her plan into action. She made her voice sound disappointed. 'Does that mean you won't be here on Tuesday?' she asked carefully.

  'Yes,' he said irritably. 'I'll see you on Friday and Saturday instead. Keep both days open.'

  Hélène smiled to herself. Good. She would have Marthe call up the Maison d'Odile Joly on Monday and say she was sick. And as soon as the Comte hung up she would make a reservation for the train. Suddenly she spied the neat stack of mail lying next to the telephone. She picked it up and leafed idly through the envelopes. Bills from the electric company. From Hermes. From the telephone company. A letter. She tossed all the envelopes but this one back down. She recognized the handwriting instantly. Jeanne's.

  'Are you there?' the Comte asked coldly.

  'Yes, of course,' Hélène said automatically. He was certainly being irritable today! she thought. In the background she could hear a tinny voice.

  'They're announcing my flight,' the Comte said, 'I've got to go.'

  'Have a good trip,' she said.

  But he didn't hear it. Already he'd hung up. Hélène made a face at the receiver and put it back down in the cradle. Quickly she tore open Jeanne's letter, reading it as she walked into the salon.

  Saint-Nazaire

  January 30, 1954

  Dear Sister,

  Here everything is so quiet, as Edmond is still at sea. He won't be back for a week. Things are always so hectic when he's around, so I thought I'd better quickly write to you now, before he returns. I pity him out there, especially in this cold. Every time he's gone I say prayers for him.

  I have seen Madame Dupre quite a few times. She always asks about you. You can't imagine how proud she is of you! She has your clippings hanging up in the shop. For a while, she even had them in the shop window! Ours are on the doors of the kitchen credence. You are the most famous person in Saint-Nazaire, did you know that?

  I saw your aunt in town once. She wouldn't speak to me. I never saw anyone giving me a more hateful look in my life.

  I haven't had the chance to tell Edmond yet, since he is at sea, so you're the first person to hear the news. Hélène, I'm pregnant! I'm going to give Edmond a child! I know he'll be as delighted as I am. And I'll make certain that if it's a girl, she'll be named after you! I'm only worried that Edmond will treat me like an invalid when he finds out I'm carrying his baby. How I wish you could be here for the christening. Of course, here I am, already planning something that's still so far off!

  Don't ever forget, we both love you dearly.

  Your sister,

  Jeanne

  Hélène put down the letter and smiled. Was it possible? Jeanne a mother? Already? Suddenly she felt the tears pressing out of the corners of her eyes. Jeanne and Edmond were so lucky, she thought with a flash of jealousy. They had each other. They were sustained by love.

  For the first time, she found herself feeling sorry for herself. What did she have to sustain her? Angrily she wiped her tears away. Plenty, she told herself. You have your dream, your ambition. Your magazine. You have your work and your vows. You want money and power. You have a lot to look forward to. But love? And children? She looked blankly down at the letter on her lap.

  She had never even given them any thought.

  7

  The black Gothic stone spires of the cathedral were menacingly poised against the angry gray wash of sky as Hélène came out of the train station. She put her suitcase down and pulled the collar of her mink coat tighter around her neck. She looked up at the cathedral. The
wind was like ice. It swept in from the Rhine and battered the imperturbable flying buttresses that leaned heavily against the massive nave. 'Koln,' the signs on the train platform had read. Cologne. The cathedral in front of her had stood for centuries. It had accumulated the grime that blackened it through storms and pestilence and bombings.

  The narrow streets were busy. It was rush hour. Soon it would be dark. She watched the old women who hobbled out of the cathedral, their heavy dark scarves tied firmly under their chins. She saw the young couples gathered around the lit store windows. She looked to see what was so fascinating. On display were shiny Grundig radios, Telefunken record players, Siemens appliances. She noticed that the best-dressed women wore Persian-lamb coats. Children walked quietly beside their parents, well-disciplined and neat. Everything was orderly, everyone was polite.

  Once in the hotel she found the air less oppressive. Tourists and businessmen stood around the spotless lobby. There were the sounds of many languages, not just the guttural staccato German Hélène remembered that the occupiers of her country spoke. Somehow she hadn't expected Cologne to be so cosmopolitan. Then she understood. Bonn was the new capital. It was a small town, just downriver. Cologne was bound to catch some of the international overflow.

  The pride of the German woman in postwar years was the Persian-lamb coat. To everyone, it showed that the woman had wealth and status. But nothing impressed anyone as much as mink. The chief desk clerk took one look at Hélène's coat and fell over himself. 'Darf ich—'

  'Hélène Junot,' she said coldly, and added in French: 'I have a reservation.'

  'Oui, madame,' he replied, smoothly slipping into French. 'One moment, please.' He consulted the ledger, his lacquered fingernail sweeping down the page. A veil fell over Hélène's eyes as she watched him. She couldn't help but wonder whether he had been in France during the war. He had been of age. He spoke French well enough. Had he learned it in Paris? Had he been in the Gestapo? Or had he been an ordinary Wehrmacht soldier?