Odette must also be of the demi-monde, Larisa thought.
She was certainly not the wife of His Serene Highness, whoever he might be, and yet he appeared to have a proprietary interest in her. If so, why did she look at Comte Raoul with love in her eyes?
It was all too complicated and difficult to understand.
But it seemed to Larisa as if the faces of the women were engraved in her mind, so that every time she thought of them they appeared more fascinating, more lovely, and she herself sank further into insignificance.
The carriage arrived at the Gare du Nord.
The journey had taken a little under an hour.
The footman got down to give her trunks to a porter. Larisa thanked the man and tipped him, although he did not seem to expect it, then went to the Booking-Office.
The clerk told her that there would be a train in three quarters of an hour. It was not the Express, which had left earlier, and would therefore not reach Calais until late.
Larisa purchased a Second-Class ticket and calculated that she would have enough money to stay the night in Calais so long as she found a reasonable Hotel or Pension.
There was still the boat to be paid for and her railway-fare to London, but she was certain that she could manage it.
At the same time, she told herself, she must not be unnecessarily extravagant, or spend very much money on food.
She put her ticket into her bag and. following the porter who had her luggage piled on a truck, went onto the platform.
The train was not yet in and she sat down rather gingerly on the edge of the truck, hoping it would not spoil her gown.
There was the noise of hissing steam, of whistles being blown, and the chattering of voices on other platforms.
With even an incoming train the cry of “Porteur! Porteur!” was echoed and re-echoed, calling the blue-bloused porters with their black berets on their dark heads.
At any other time Larisa would have been interested in the French children, the newspaper-sellers, and the passengers.
Now she could think only of what she had left behind.
Time passed slowly but at last the porter came back to her side.
“The train arrives, Madame.”
It came steaming into the station, belching clouds of smoke, and a crowd of passengers seemed to spring from nowhere, shouting, jostling, and pushing their way to the carriages.
“I’ll find you a seat, Madame,” the porter said, “and then I’ll put your trunks in the van.”
“Merci bien!”
He picked up Larisa’s hold-all and she turned to follow him, only to find a tall figure barring her path.
She looked up automatically and then was frozen where she stood.
It was Comte Raoul who faced her, looking, she thought with a sinking of her heart, as angry as he had been the first time she had seen him.
He had the face of the devil!
“Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, and his voice seemed almost like a whiplash.
“A-away.”
“That is obvious!” he retorted. “But why?”
“I have to … go,” she replied. “I am no … longer … wanted at… Valmont.”
“Who said you were not wanted?”
“There was … nothing more for … me to … do.”
“I will decide that!”
With an effort she dropped her eyes from his furious face.
“I must … go.”
“Not until we have talked things over.”
“There is nothing to talk about,” she said quickly. “I have to … leave. I have … to!”
“There will be other trains.”
The Comte turned to the porter who came back at that moment to say:
“I’ve taken a seat for you, Madame.”
“Bring the baggage to the entrance,” Comte Raoul said curtly. “Madame is not leaving on this train.”
The porter recognised the tone of command, collected Larisa’s hold-all from where he had left it, and pulling his truck followed them down the platform.
Larisa wanted to protest, to insist that she take the train as she had planned, but somehow it was impossible to find the words.
She walked beside Comte Raoul feeling like a child who has played truant and been caught out.
At the same time, she told herself, she knew what he was going to suggest and it was something that she must not even contemplate, let alone agree to.
“I must be firm,” she told herself.
She felt as if her whole being had melted because he was beside her and that she was weak with the same breathless wonder which always crept over her whenever they were together.
Outside the station she saw his phaeton and knew by the sight of the sweating horses the rate at which he must have travelled.
The groom stepped down to hand Comte Raoul the reins.
He took his place in the driving-seat and meekly Larisa sat down beside him.
“Bring the baggage to the house, Jacques,” Comte Raoul said and drove off.
As they moved through the traffic Larisa knew where they were going, and it only added to her conviction within herself as to what the Comte intended to say to her.
He had told her before that she could not go to his house in Paris because she was of the Beau-Monde and it was a bachelor establishment.
Now he had changed his mind, and because he was opening his door to her she knew into which category she now fitted.
She thought of her mother, but somehow her family in England seemed very far away.
There was only the Comte! She had not seen the last of him, as she had thought, but he was here beside her.
She was vividly conscious of the vibrations emanating from him.
She stole a glance at him from under her eyelashes and saw that he was still looking angry.
Yet with his tall hat on one side of his dark head, his high collar and broad shoulders, he looked so irresistibly attractive that her heart beat suffocatingly because she was close to him.
‘I love him!’ she thought desperately, ‘but I have to be strong. I have to say no!’
They drove through the Place de la Concorde and up the Champs Elysees. The chestnuts were in bloom and their pink and white blossoms looked like Christmas candles against their dark leaves.
Children’s merry-go-rounds and the balloon-sellers were vivid patches of colour against the perambulating crowds.
The horses moved a little higher up the avenue and came to a stop outside the Comte’s house.
A groom ran forward to go to the horses’ heads and the Comte stepped down.
He put out his hand to Larisa to help her alight and she felt herself thrill at his touch, even though she told herself severely that it was something she should not do.
They entered the hall where she had stood talking with his man-servant the night she had been trying to find where he might be.
The Comte handed his hat and gloves to a flunkey, then walked towards a door which was opened for him and made a gesture for Larisa to precede him into a room.
It was a large and very lovely Salon, decorated in the same exquisite taste which characterised Valmont.
There were windows opening out onto a small marble court-yard which was brilliant with flowers.
But Larisa had eyes only for the Comte as she turned round to face him.
The door shut behind them and they were alone.
“I want an explanation!” he said before she could speak.
“I am doing … what is … right for … me and best for … you,” Larisa replied.
She knew as she spoke that it was right.
She loved him with her whole heart, her body, and her soul, and yet she knew that whatever he might say to her she could not stay with him as his mistress.
It would defame and spoil their love.
It would ruin the beauty and the wonder which had enveloped them like a halo when they had talked together under the statue of Aphrodite
and when he had kissed her in the drive at Valmont.
It had been so perfect, so much a part of her belief in God just to be with him, that she could not spoil those moments of wonder.
“I must be very dull-witted,” the Comte said, “but I have not the least idea what you are talking about.”
Larisa twisted her fingers together.
She had drawn off her gloves without thinking, and now they dropped to the floor but the Comte made no effort to pick them up.
“You have to … marry,” she said in a low voice. “You can now choose your own bride, but as you well know she has to be … someone of whom your family will … approve and who will bring you a big … dowry. Valmont cannot survive without it!”
“Who has told you this?” Comte Raoul asked.
“I have known it ever since we talked together in the garden.” Larisa replied, “and today your aunt told me that that was what you were … expected to do.”
“You did not think it wise to consult me before you rushed out of the house without even saying goodbye?”
“I could not … bear to do … that,” Larisa whispered.
He walked away from her to stand a moment looking out into the garden.
“There are so many explanations I have to make to you,” he said, “but I believed that you would understand that I had first to arrange my father’s funeral and Jean-Pierre’s.”
“I did … understand,” Larisa said, “but I thought too you … might be … angry with me for not looking after Jean-Pierre better, It was my fault that I did not hold on to him more firmly.”
“It was no-one’s fault,” the Comte said positively. “Besides, surely you and I can speak frankly to each other, Larisa. We both know there could be no future for Jean-Pierre.”
“You … knew?” she asked in a low voice.
“One of the many Governesses my father dismissed because they told him the truth,” Comte Raoul replied, “came to see me before she left Paris.”
“And you did nothing about it?”
“What could I do?” he asked. “You know as well as I do that my father was convinced the child was clever. He would not have heeded a whole panel of Doctors who told him different, let alone anything I could say.”
“I am sorry,” Larisa said. “It must have been very … hurting for you that you should have a … son like … that.”
There was a moment’s silence and then Comte Raoul said quietly:
“Jean-Pierre was not my son!”
He had his back to Larisa as he spoke and for a moment she thought she had not heard him aright.
Then he turned round.
“It was one of the things I was going to tell you when you were prepared to listen to me.”
“B-but … how? I … I do not … understand,” Larisa stammered.
The Comte walked back across the room towards her.
“My father made me marry because the union would be an advantageous one for the Estate,” he said. “The girl who became my bride also had no choice in the matter, and on our wedding-night she informed me she hated me. She was in love with someone else and she was already bearing his child.”
The Comte turned to walk restlessly across the room and stand once again looking at the court-yard.
“I never touched her!”
“And you did not tell your father this?” Larisa asked.
“Do you imagine he would have believed me?” the Comte enquired. “He had the grandson he wanted. That was all that concerned him.”
Larisa put her hand up to her forehead.
“It is all so … difficult to … understand.”
The Comte turned round.
“This is too much for you on top of what happened yesterday,” he said. “I imagined you were resting. When I learnt you had left the Chateau I thought I should go mad!”
Their eyes met and for a moment it seemed as if neither of them could breathe and that explanations were unnecessary.
Then with an effort Larisa looked away and sat down in a chair.
Automatically, not realising what she was doing, she undid the ribbons of her bonnet and drew it from her head.
The Comte stood looking at the golden glow of her hair against the dark velvet chair in which she was sitting before he said quietly:
“You have still not told me why you thought it was right for you to go away.”
“I think I know what you are perhaps going to … suggest to me,” Larisa answered, “and it would … spoil what we have felt for each other. I accept that you must marry the … right person, but perhaps because I am English I could not … share you or take the only … position in your … life that is … open to me.
She spoke hesitatingly and he could hardly hear the words.
As she finished she looked up at him and saw his eyes blazing at her. It made him seem more frightening than he had before.
“How dare you!” he exclaimed. “How dare you even imagine—let alone tell me—that I would ask you to become my mistress! Did I not tell you that what I felt for you was different? Do you not know by now that I love you as I have never loved any woman before?”
His tone was so angry that Larisa felt herself tremble, and yet there was a strange flame of excitement moving within her.
“But … Frenchmen … do not … marry … for … love!” she stammered.
For the first time he smiled and it transformed his face.
“You think you know all the answers,” he said, and now his voice was no longer angry but caressing.
“Oh, my ridiculous, absurd, foolish little Aphrodite, do I have to spell it out to you in words of one syllable that this Frenchman is different?”
He bent down to pull her to her feet and into his arms.
“I am asking you to marry me, my darling!” he said very softly.
Larisa was quivering because she was so close to him; because the whole room seemed to be full of sunshine, gold and blinding. Then she said:
“But you have … to marry for … money!”
“Are you afraid of being poor with me?” he enquired.
“No, of course not!” Larisa said quickly.
“You would stay at Valmont without fantastic parties, beautiful dresses, or fabulous jewels?”
“I only wanted those things so that you would admire me,” Larisa answered, “and I cannot imagine anything nearer to … Heaven than to be at Valmont with … you!”
He bent his head and found her lips.
Just for a moment she put out her hands as though she would resist him, and then the room whirled round her and once again the ecstasy and the wonder she had known before when he kissed her in the drive at Valmont swept over her.
Now he was carrying her not into a starlit sky but towards the sun, and she was conscious only of trying to move closer and still closer to him so that they were one person.
Finally he raised his head and looked down at her shining eyes, at her lips warm and trembling from his kiss.
“I love you!” he said and his voice was hoarse. “I love you and nothing else is of any consequence except you!”
“You should not have come … after me.” Larisa said. “There is so much for you to do at Valmont. Your family will be arriving.”
“Do you think they matter beside the fact that I might have lost you?” the Comte asked. “Have you not realised yet, my precious, that I will never let you go?”
He saw the wonder in her eyes and then she hid her face against his shoulder.
“There is the … vineyard,” she murmured, “and all the new … implements on the farm. Have you forgotten that?”
“I bought the vineyard!” he answered. “And you shall help me order the new implements next week.”
She raised her head to look at him incredulously.
“I am a very rich man, my darling.” he said. “Not that it matters beside the fact that you would have stayed with me even had I been poor.”
“But … how?” Larisa enquired.
Larisa drew in her breath and then she said:
“Are you … sure? Quite sure you should … marry me? What will your family think and say? After all, to them I am … only a Governess.”
The Comte laughed and held her a little closer.
“I imagine your status, my beautiful little goddess, is about the same socially as that of a tout for champagne!”
Larisa looked up at him.
“I do not … understand.”
“How do you suppose,” he asked, “I have existed all these years without one penny from my father and having no income of my own?”
“There was your … wife’s dowry,” Larisa said hesitatingly.
“I sent it back!” he said. “That was another thing which infuriated my father, for when my wife died I returned both the dowry and the land to her family. I would not wish to benefit from a marriage that had been an utter farce!”
He looked into Larisa’s wide eyes and continued: “But I still had to live! When I first came to Paris I achieved a reputation for being wildly gay, dashing, and extravagant in a very short space of time.”
He smiled.
“Because of such dubious notoriety I was approached by the famous champagne firm of Moet and Chandon.”
“What did they ask you to do?”
“Merely to promote their champagne, especially their Dom Perignon, by drinking it,” the Comte replied. “It sounds simple, does it not?”
“They paid for your parties?” Larisa asked.
“My parties, my horses, my house, my clothes—everything!” the Comte replied.
He gave a sigh.
“They were very kind. At the same time I cannot tell you how sick I am of parties, of thinking up original forms of entertainment for the purpose of publicity, of drinking nothing but the delectably superlative Dom Perignon!”
“So that was why you wanted a case of your own wine?”
“It was just for myself,” the Comte said, “and if you had not saved me, one glass would have caused my death!”
The Devil in Love (Bantam Series No. 24) Page 17