Hélène found herself slipping quickly and easily into Stanislaw's lifestyle and routine. Since he rose late in the mornings, so did she. But she would wake up first and hurry downstairs to prepare him a light breakfast. Then she would run outside, cut the most perfect rose she could find, stick it into a bud vase, arrange everything on a linen-draped wooden tray, and serve him breakfast in bed. It was several weeks before she realized the truth: all along, he had been awake long before her. But he enjoyed both his breakfasts in bed and the pleasure she got from preparing them so much that he pretended sleep. When she discovered this, she served him breakfast in bed every morning whether he was asleep or not.
After getting out of bed, Stanislaw would quickly shower, dress, and go downstairs. Immediately he would sit at one of the Bechsteins and begin practicing scales and etudes. This would continue into the afternoon. She spent this time shopping in the Vieux Village or in Beaulieu, going to the lie de France Museum, walking along the promenade Maurice-Rouvier and enjoying the beautiful view of the coast, or just simply working in the garden.
Every afternoon she made a lunch of fruit and salads. They ate outside on the terrace while watching the sailboats tacking into the wind in the bay below. Then he would take a nap in the pool pavilion and she would sunbathe on a chaise or swim in the pool. Sometimes she tired of the tranquil water and had a reckless craving for the sea. Then she would go to the edge of the cliff and descend the seventy-six steps carved out of the rock to the shingle beach twenty meters below. She loved swimming in the cold and powerful sea.
After an hour and a half, Stanislaw would wake up and go back inside the house to play his piano. At this time Hélène would stay close to the house so that she could enjoy the music that wafted out through the open French doors. Her favorite piece was no longer the 'Serenade for the Doll,' but Chopin's Mazurka in C-sharp Minor ('Opus thirty, number four,' Stanislaw told her later). And when he found out that it was her favorite, he made a point of playing it over and over again. Sometimes she would tiptoe into the living room and just stand there watching him play. He always sat stiffly erect, his small body dwarfed by the big black piano while his nimble fingers flew over the 'teeth,' as he jokingly called the keyboard. A few hours later, they would eat a light snack (he disliked big dinners), and then he would begin working on his pet project: transcribing Clytemnestra. It was a 'lost' opera that had recently been found, and the ancient score had to be translated note by note for modern instruments. Hélène was especially fascinated with this process, since he used his antique instruments to play through a portion of the notes before translating them. After a few hours, they would either go upstairs or outside and make love before going to bed. Always she was gentle, not only guiding him along but also encouraging experimentation. But she always managed to make him think it was his own idea. Actually, he understood what she was doing, but he never let on: he didn't want to spoil her pleasure in pleasing him.
One day, although Hélène didn't tell Stanislaw the reason why, she put an abrupt halt to their outdoor lovemaking. She missed it immediately, because it had been her favorite place for sex. She loved the feel of the elements all around her—the caressing freshness of the wind, the smell of the earth, and the cushiony softness of the grass against her skin. She loved the romance of the gorgeous sunsets and the stars overhead and the sound of the water. She stopped it because she had the feeling that they were being watched.
She had felt it for the first time when she was swimming in the pool. She told herself that she was being ridiculous. But later, when she was sunbathing, she had the feeling again. She looked up suddenly and frowned. She could swear she saw some of the thick bushes at the end of the property moving. Quietly she slipped into her heavy terry-cloth robe and went over to investigate. At first, there was no sign of anyone. But upon closer inspection she found footprints in the dirt around the bushes, and the grass was crushed.
When she looked around and discovered an overgrown path nearby, she decided to follow it. It led along the very edge of the cliff and connected their villa with the one next door, an Italianate U-shaped structure with a loggia overlooking a terra-cotta terrace. The blue shutters were closed.
She walked around the property and called out a few times, but no one answered. Finally she shrugged her shoulders and returned the way she had come.
She had just been imagining things, she tried to tell herself. But deep inside she knew better. She had seen the footprints.
The next week, Hélène discovered who was spying on her. While Stanislaw was practicing his etudes, she walked to the Vieux Village to get some shopping done. The day was perfect Cote d'Azur weather: sunny, cloudless, hot, but breezy. She wore one of the bright print dresses from Odile Joly.
First she ran some errands and then she stopped at the salon de coiffure. She would surprise Stanislaw with a new hairstyle she had been thinking about getting. Carefully she instructed the hairdresser to cut it into short, boyish bangs instead of giving her the wavy permanent that was so fashionable at the moment. When she finally left the salon, she stopped at a greengrocery. Once again, that peculiar feeling of being watched came over her.
Quickly she turned around and saw a fleeting shadow darting into a doorway. She lost no time going to investigate, but whoever it was had disappeared. With a weary sigh she returned to the greengrocer and finished her shopping. On the way back to the villa she walked past the secluded houses lining the boulevard. Suddenly she heard rapid footsteps behind her.
She whirled around. 'What are you doing here!' she said angrily.
'I decided to be near my love,' Hubert de Léger said fervently. His eyes looked glassy and they shone like a puppy's, eager to please.
She recoiled. She could smell his breath; he had been drinking. 'Leave me alone!' she said coldly.
'After all the trouble I went through to be near you?'
She looked at him with distaste. 'Hubert,' she said softly, 'I love Stanislaw and I am his wife. I have no intention of seeing any other man. Especially you!'
She started to leave, but he caught her arm. 'Not so quickly, my sweet,' he whispered. 'It wasn't easy to get the house next door at such short notice. I expect some reward for my effort.'
She stared at him. 'So it is you who have been spying on me!' She shook her head. 'I should have known!'
Suddenly she felt sick. Was there no getting away from him? Would he follow her everywhere she went? Why couldn't he just leave her alone?
'Hubert,' she said quietly, 'I think that from now on you'd better stay away from me. My husband won't like it when he hears about this.'
He laughed silently. 'Your husband! That old crow? He's old enough to be your grandfather!'
Her hand flashed out and slapped him.
He grinned. 'Did I hit a nerve, love?'
She turned her back on him and started walking quickly. After a moment he caught up with her and took her by the arm.
She shook off his hand and angrily whirled around. Her voice was quietly menacing. 'Leave me alone, Hubert. If you don't, I'll call the police!'
Suddenly he was angry. 'Then call the police, you bitch!' he yelled. Then he laughed softly. 'See if it keeps me away!'
She shuddered. Hurriedly she started walking again. Only after she'd gone a quarter of a kilometer did she dare look back over her shoulder. She let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't following.
When she got back to the villa, Stanislaw was still at the piano, and she could hear the sounds of a polonaise. He must have heard her come in, for he instantly switched to the Chopin mazurka. In spite of the harrowing incident with Hubert, she couldn't help but smile.
She left her shopping bags by the staircase under the rotunda and went into the living room. She approached Stanislaw soundlessly and kissed the back of his neck. With a flourish, his fingers swept the length of the Bechstein's 'teeth.' He pounded a few deep chords and then raised his hands dramatically in midair and held them there. He slid around on the bench to
face her.
He raised his eyebrows. 'What a lovely hairstyle,' he said with an approving smile. 'It becomes you.'
She looked pleased. 'It's not exactly what everyone's wearing. Even the hairdresser tried to get me to change my mind, but I was adamant.'
'Good girl. You have more taste than all of them combined. What else did you do?'
She shrugged. 'A little shopping. Errands. The usual.'
She was ashamed of herself for not telling him about Hubert. But she didn't want to worry him, especially with the upcoming world tour his agent had just booked. It was her job to keep everything running smoothly.
He looked at her closely. 'Is something the matter?'
She detected the note of worry in his voice. She wanted to kick herself. There, I've really done it now, she thought.
Quickly she shook her head. She forced her facial muscles to relax and tried to laugh. 'No, nothing's the matter. I was just thinking about what I would wear on the tour. I am going with you, you know.'
He took her hand and pulled her down onto his lap. 'It will be the happiest tour of my life,' he predicted. 'Every night, I shall forget the audience is even there. I will play my heart out to you alone, as if you are the only person in the concert hall.'
Suddenly she hugged him tightly. 'And I shall sit in the crowds,' she whispered. 'And I, too, will forget that any of them are there. For me, you will be the only one in the concert hall.'
7
Stanislaw waved. 'Hélène!' he called out. 'We have a visitor!'
'Just a moment!' She pulled off the thick gardening gloves, took off the big straw hat, and struggled to her feet. She ran a hand through her hair and saw Stanislaw and someone else walking toward her. Suddenly she stared at the visitor. She knew only one person who wore sport coats and ascots.
'Jacques!' she exclaimed with delight. Then she ran toward him and flung herself into his arms. He lifted her off the ground and whirled her around in the air a few times. Then he spun dizzily to a halt, and they laughed and embraced. He drew back and held her at arm's length.
'Let me look at you,' he said with a smile. 'Good God!' He glanced over his shoulder at Stanislaw. 'Married life certainly seems to agree with her. I've never seen her this radiant before. You must be doing something right.'
Stanislaw looked pleased.
'Well?' Hélène demanded. 'What are you doing here? Don't tell me you've decided to chaperon us.'
'Not at all,' Jacques replied lightly. 'I just had a mad impulse to see you, that's all.' He grinned. 'So I grabbed a cab, told the cabbie to drive me to the Gare Lyon, hopped on board the Train Bleu, and bribed the conductor into giving me a berth. And here I am on the beautiful, sunny Cote d'Azur!' His face fell. 'But just until tomorrow.'
'I'll get one of the guest rooms ready,' Hélène said firmly. 'There are plenty of empty bedrooms.' She waved at the house. 'Just look at this place. It's big enough to sleep an army!'
He shook his head. 'No, thanks. I've already got a room at the Voile d'Or.'
She was visibly disappointed. 'If you insist. . .' Then she brightened. 'Anyway, what brings you here?'
'Actually, I only came to drop off something. I wanted to deliver it in person.'
'But. . .you've already given us a wedding present.'
He smiled secretively and wagged a finger at her. 'Ah, but this is not a wedding present. Come to the terrace.'
Hélène looked at Jacques, then at Stanislaw. Suddenly her eyes shone with excitement. 'It. . .it isn't. . .'
'It is!' Jacques said. 'Advance copies of Vogue and L'Officiel. I didn't think you could wait to see them. They're up there on a chaise.'
'Well, come on, then!' Hélène cried impatiently. She took each of them by the hand and pulled them toward the house. When they reached the terrace, she let their hands drop and raced up the steps. On the chaise lay the two magazines. She sucked in her breath. Her face was staring up at her from the cover of Paris Vogue. Slowly, as if it might be a mirage that would disappear when she touched it, she reached down and picked it up. Then she studied it intently. 'Why, it's fantastic!' she said at last. She glanced at Jacques, who nodded in agreement. Then she flipped through the magazine. On page fifty-four, there she was again, dizzily hanging off the girder of the Eiffel Tower, with Paris far below her feet and the pale evening dress billowing in the wind like an enormous spinnaker. Quickly she put Vogue back down and snatched up L'Officiel.
And there she was again, this time in a five-page, four-color spread. She stared at the pages silently for a moment. These were the smoking-gun photos. At first she couldn't believe that the beautiful model in the slip was her. But it was. She—Hélène Junot—was standing arrogantly over the body of a man, her legs in a defiant stance, one high heel poking the tuxedoed body, her face glaring into the camera. The barrel of the revolver was smoking. They were more than just photographs. They were works of art. She remembered laughing at Jacques, thinking the idea ridiculous. Soberly she realized that he had been right.
She shook her head, wondering if all this was indeed real. It was. And she felt strangely light-headed at seeing herself for the first time in a magazine.
Finally she turned to the men. 'I. . .I simply can't believe it! They're beautiful! Stanislaw, did you see them?'
Her husband smiled warmly. 'Jacques showed them to me the moment he arrived.'
'These call for champagne!' she announced. She started to go inside the house.
'Oh. . .there is one more thing,' Jacques said.
She looked back at him questioningly. 'What?'
He reached into his sport coat and produced a long slim envelope. Puzzled, she retraced her steps and took it. Slowly she tore it open. One glance was enough. She knew what it was. A modeling contract from the most prestigious agency in Paris. Slowly she sank down onto the chaise.
Jacques grinned. 'Well?' he asked. 'What do you say to that?'
Wordlessly she put the contract down in her lap.
Jacques was looking at her strangely. 'Is something wrong?'
She shook her head. 'No, Jacques. I appreciate it. I really do . . .'
'Then what is it?'
She looked up at him and met his gaze. 'I don't think I want to model anymore,' she said quietly.
'Are you crazy!' He looked like someone who had just discovered a charge of dynamite in his pocket. Openmouthed, he turned to Stanislaw. 'But. . .I don't get it!' he sputtered.
Hélène smiled gently. 'Jacques, you wouldn't understand. And please, don't be angry or hurt.' She reached out and touched his arm. 'All I want right now is to be a good wife for Stanislaw. And then, if there's time. . .' She made a vague gesture. 'Never mind. It's still too early to plan that.'
'But the money! And the terms!' Jacques snatched the contract off her lap and waved it in front of her face. 'Look what they're offering you!' He jabbed the paper with a finger. 'It's astronomical! You'll be the highest-paid model in France! And next year, they're even planning to send you to New York!'
She smiled gently. 'Jacques, please don't think I'm ungrateful. I appreciate everything you've done. It's just that I've already made up my mind. I know what I want to do.'
He stared at her in exasperation. 'Oh, Jesus! Women!'
An hour later, Jacques returned to his hotel. Hélène walked him to the taxi. When she came back inside, Stanislaw looked at her. 'Is he coming back for dinner?' he asked.
Hélène shook her head. 'No. He's returning to Paris tonight.'
'He feels hurt,' Stanislaw said with wisdom. 'He was certain you'd be delighted.'
'But I was!' Hélène protested.
'Sit down, my darling,' Stanislaw said. 'I think it's time we had a little talk.'
Hélène raised her eyebrows questioningly, but she crossed the room and obediently sat down on the couch. The down-filled cushions were soft, and she sank deeply into them. He sat down beside her and reached for her hand and covered it with his. His eyes were sad. 'You don't have to sacrifice anything for me,
' he told her gently. 'That includes modeling.'
'But I'm not!' she protested earnestly.
'Hush! Keep quiet and listen to the ramblings of an old man for a minute!' He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. 'You are young, Hélène. Too young to sit around being bored. You must have something to keep yourself occupied. Especially since you're saddled with an old husband like me who locks himself away for hours on end transcribing old manuscripts and practicing the 'teeth.'' Again she started to protest, but he motioned her to silence. 'You must have a life of your own, too. A hobby. A career. Something worthwhile.'
Hélène smiled. 'I'm not trying to play the martyr. Please believe me. It's just that modeling isn't for me. Of course, I would have jumped at the chance when I first came to Paris. No,' she corrected herself, 'I would have killed for the chance! But now, I'm glad I tried it. I found out that I'm not really crazy about modeling. I can't seem to get any satisfaction out of just looking pretty. Once in a while, yes. But not for a career.' Suddenly she clutched him. 'I want to do things, Stanislaw. I want to create something.' She looked at him earnestly. The short haircut made her violet eyes look huge. 'I want to start my own fashion magazine. I know I would be good at that. And I would enjoy it.'
'Then that is what you must do,' he said simply.
'It takes a lot of money to start a magazine,' she said.
He shrugged. 'I have a lot of money. Besides, what good does it do, just sitting in the bank? It's your money, too.'
Her eyes were suddenly moist. He understood what she wanted to do. . .what she needed to do. Not like the Comte, who was afraid it would take up all her time and leave none for him. Stanislaw was secure. He just wanted her to be happy.
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