The Beautiful Ones

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “And you, you … strumpet—”

  “Don’t you dare to judge me when you are the silly whore who is willing to rut with the first fool who knocks at her door,” Valérie said, rising to her feet, tall and proud. “I gave him nothing, and still he returned until today he felt compelled to kiss me. I offered no comfort to him and I did not yield. But you there, practically offering yourself on a platter for the man. The passionate words in that letter, they almost made me cry.”

  Antonina swallowed and tossed away the towel she had been holding. “You will return the letter to me,” the girl said.

  “I shall do nothing of the sort.”

  “It’s not yours!”

  “It is now. Listen to me carefully, beloved cousin. If you even think to breathe a word of what you saw today or what I told you to anyone, I will immediately produce that letter and hand it to Gaetan. I will say you are accusing me out of spite and madness, to cover your indiscretions. I will prove that you have tossed away your virtue to a man who then decided he would not marry you, making a mockery of you.”

  Antonina looked like a wild creature from the forests she loved, her black hair gnarled and her teeth bared. “That is a lie,” Antonina said.

  “But those are your words on paper, Cousin Antonina! Your words don’t lie.”

  “That is not … You are twisting the intent of my letter!”

  “It could be read that way, could it not?” Valérie asked. “Gaetan will be terribly disappointed. And think of the scandal if the letter ended up in the wrong hands! Would you like to see your name emblazoned in one of the dailies? It has the right ingredients: daughter of prominent family and a world-famous performer, embroiled in a salacious tale. One way or another, I think you’d end up in a convent far away, in a place where you can’t see your mother or your sister. I don’t think you’d make a satisfying nun.”

  She watched Antonina waver as the full implication of the words she’d penned became obvious. A girl could be destroyed with half as much.

  “Gaetan wouldn’t send me away. He wouldn’t believe your lies.”

  “After your performance?” Valérie asked, spreading her arms. “They are sweeping away all the shards of glass you left on the floor. Half of Oldhouse thinks you’ve gone mad.”

  “Gaetan cares about me,” Antonina said, stubbornly gnashing her teeth.

  “Shall we find out how much he cares? If you ruin me, believe me, Antonina Beaulieu, I will do everything in my power to ruin you, and I guarantee I will succeed. All a woman has is her reputation, and you won’t have one shred of it once I’m done with you.”

  There was boiling rage in the girl’s eyes. Valérie was afraid for a moment she might attempt to throttle her—though if she did, Valérie would use this to her advantage. Nothing would please her more than to yell for help and have the servants pry the girl off her. She could affirm the child had gone mad.

  A book—no, two—fell to the floor as if scattered by an invisible wind, but that was all. Perhaps exhaustion had set in and Antonina could summon no more power, or else she was trying to control herself.

  “I won’t tell,” the girl said at last, and gave Valérie a severe, proud look. “Know that I do it for my cousin. He does not deserve the pain this would cause him.”

  Valérie could not read Nina’s words as anything but the marks of a weakling; she appreciated only one type of strength.

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” Valérie replied, satisfied, and thought her a dolt.

  Antonina sat at the edge of her bed. Her eyes were weary and she clutched her bedsheets ferociously, but Valérie could tell her will to fight had evaporated. This was the still after a storm, and the girl was her own wreckage. She could do no harm now.

  Valérie went to the door, her hand resting upon the handle when she heard Antonina speak.

  “You said he loved you and always had,” Antonina said in a low voice. “And do you love him?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  Valérie sighed and turned her head. In ruins, still, the girl tried to clasp a shred of tender feeling to her heart. It was not to be had.

  “Dear, dear Antonina. Don’t be silly. The point is he’s never loved you. And he never will. Dry your tears and be a good girl; when they ask you tomorrow what happened, tell them you mistook his intentions and he will not marry you. It won’t be too far off from the mark,” she concluded.

  She closed the door and she heard the loud scattering of books upon the floor. The girl had lost control, in the end. Valérie shrugged. There was a pang of regret in her heart for Hector, and perhaps a dull sympathy for Antonina, but she pushed both feelings away, knowing she could not afford to pay them heed.

  Chapter 20

  “IS EITHER ONE OF YOU going to tell me what happened back there?” Luc asked.

  They were in the dining car because Luc wanted to eat, but Luc immediately took offense with the menu when he saw it. He was the kind of man who demanded lobster and truffles for lunch, changing his mind at the last second, deciding it ought to be veal and asparagus soup. The reduced offerings available did not please him. There was nothing to be done about it. Had they taken the Thursday train, they would have been able to travel aboard the more luxurious Southern Express. But they had left Oldhouse two days before their scheduled departure.

  Hector could not bear to remain there a second longer.

  He had attempted to speak to Nina before he left, knocking at her door and trying to coax her out, but she had not responded. Not a word. Her mother and her sister both were terribly embarrassed and spoke apologies. Hector could do nothing more than nod his head. He had no idea what to say.

  Hector promised himself he would write to Nina later, once a sensible amount of distance remained between them. He’d write from Bosegnan, he’d atone.

  “Eat your cake,” Étienne said laconically.

  “Truly, Brother, can you treat me more like a child?” Luc replied as he lit a cigarette and frowned, looking at Hector. “They were saying Nina Beaulieu barricaded herself in her room and has gone mad, all because you did not propose to her.”

  “Stop it,” Étienne said. “You’ve asked thrice already and he is not answering.”

  “I ask because it seems extreme. No wonder I don’t dare to propose to a girl.”

  “You don’t propose to girls, because there is not one who would be willing to endure you.”

  “Again with the jabs, Étienne!”

  Hector watched the men squabble, as they often did, and raised a glass of wine to his lips. The train was moving but Hector felt as though it were going nowhere. He saw flashes of green, trees and rocks and mountains, pass by. They blurred together and he turned the glass he was drinking from between his fingers, examining its facets.

  He knew, sitting there in the dining car while others ate and smoked and chatted, that Valérie was correct. It was all over. Not merely his courtship of Nina, but his eternal pursuit of Valérie herself. He had been able to love her, hopelessly, for years and years. She was married, she was far from him, and when he saw her again she was cold. Yet his love did not diminish, his adoration of this woman did not cease. He was chained to her, to this brilliant ideal of a perfect love.

  Because he had always known that if he could have Valérie in his arms again, all would be well. It would be as though the decade that separated them had never happened and they would return to the happy days of their youth when everything was possible. It was as if he could unwind the clock with her aid. And once this happened, there would be nothing but joy.

  But then she had spoken and revealed the true reason why she had cast him aside, and Hector realized with horror that this perfect love he’d built in his heart was ugly and grim. Had he known Valérie was difficult? Yes. Had they fought before? Yes. He had, nevertheless, failed to understand her cruelty.

  Had she been kinder in their youth? Sweeter, perhaps? Had the years made her harde
r? It did not matter. His had been a futile endeavor. He could not have Valérie back, because the Valérie he loved had died, or perhaps had never been.

  It was his fault alone. Other men were happy enough, living with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Hector had wanted more. He wanted the thrill of passion, the feelings people sang about in operas. Theatrics, but then hadn’t he made a career for himself on a stage?

  The glass Hector was holding in his hands caught the rays of the sun, sparkling. He set it down against the table and frowned, watching the countryside.

  He tried to recall what Valérie had been like when they met. He had vivid images of her, of the exact details that made her. The dimples in her cheeks and the white ribbon in her hair. She had been elegant, proud, exact in manners and words, quarrelsome at times and harsh far too often, spiteful and beautiful, passionate in her affections. But in the end, she had given nothing true to him. Despite her lovely words and her kisses, she had remained veiled and sealed off.

  He’d been a heedless boy who had turned into a man full of rancor and discontent, sensing that life had betrayed him, stolen from him what he ought to have possessed. He had thought the missing piece was Valérie—and he had been right, but not in the manner he expected.

  He crossed his arms and pressed his forehead against the window.

  And then he saw the river flowing not far off and he thought of Nina Beaulieu, who had not wronged him in any way and whom he’d hurt nonetheless.

  At that moment, Luc Lémy rose and excused himself, loudly proclaiming he was heading back to their compartment since everyone was terribly glum.

  Once they were alone, Étienne folded the newspaper he had picked up at the station. “Now that he is gone, shall we talk or do you intend to travel to Bosegnan in absolute silence?” Étienne asked.

  “Silence would be good.”

  “Silence when you are drunk is fine, but sober it chips at your mind. You had a row. How bad was it, truly?”

  “Terrible. She saw me and Valérie kiss.”

  “Dear God, Hector.”

  “Hush,” Hector said, raising a hand, palm open. “I realize how idiotic I was.”

  Étienne refilled his glass of wine and he grabbed Hector’s glass and refilled that one, too. Hector needed stronger liquor, a drink that would burn his throat and blot his thoughts. It had been years and years since he’d been roaring drunk, not since the days when he would visit taverns with Étienne, but he dearly wished he could attempt this sport again for a single day.

  “Does anyone else know about this? Aside from Valérie, Nina, and you.”

  “No. I imagine she would have told her mother already if she cared to tell—she had two days to speak her mind to her before we left. Not that it matters.”

  “Perhaps you are right and she’s decided to be magnanimous. But, Hector, what a fine mess this is. And Valérie, you and she—”

  “Nothing,” Hector said. “There is no ‘Valérie and I.’”

  He had been riddled with the disease of love, but Valérie had operated on him and finally, brutally, cut out the putrefied flesh. Hector lifted his glass and did not drink. His hands, used to performing tricks and juggling objects in the air, seemed to fail him and had grown weak.

  “I am sorry about that even if I could have predicted something like this would happen. I know the extent of your feelings for her,” Étienne said. “I’m also sorry about the girl. You appeared to get along well enough.”

  “Yes.”

  Étienne waited for him to elaborate but instead Hector drank his wine. Étienne, understanding there would be no more conversation, slowly unfolded his paper and began reading it again. But then Hector changed his mind and spoke.

  “I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  “Like Valérie? Ah, I admit she’s easy on the eyes, but hard like a diamond,” Étienne said, shaking his head.

  “Like Antonina,” Hector replied.

  He recalled when she’d told him about Bosegnan and how, even though he did not really care to visit the city, he grew interested in it because she liked it. He had wanted to look at it so he could tell her about it later, sharing his impressions. He did not understand many of the other things she fancied, like her precious insects, but he did enjoy when she spoke about them. He missed her already.

  “I think she wanted nothing from me,” Hector added, “nothing at all but to let her love me.”

  Étienne raised his eyebrows at that, but as usual he had a perfect reply. “It’s a damn tragedy. Now, drink up. Let us not mention any women for the remainder of the trip,” Étienne said. “Once we reach Bosegnan, we can have champagne and ask Luc to take us to meet his friends. He’ll find a party somewhere, he always knows someone no matter where he goes. We shall be merry and we shall be young again.”

  Hector nodded but he knew it was a lie, that they’d never be young. He couldn’t be like Luc, he’d never been like Luc in the first place. But it was fine, he’d be fine. He’d press the memory of Valérie away, like a precious, dry flower. In time perhaps he might even be able to make amends to Antonina Beaulieu.

  But then he thought of her face when he’d last seen her, her eyes pained. And he knew that despite whatever he might want to tell himself, he could not heal her shattered heart.

  Chapter 21

  SHE TOOK HER MEALS IN her room and did not venture outside, despite her mother’s pleas. Gaetan arrived in Oldhouse for his annual summer visit, but even he could not persuade her to come out. When Gaetan and Valérie left, she was relieved.

  At first, when Nina lay upon her bed and curled up under the covers, she could summon no proper thoughts. She made the books tumble from the bookcases many times over, the unintentional expression of her anger. One evening the box of cards Hector had gifted her fell upon the floor, the cards scattering all around her, and Nina thought she was about to cry again.

  She’d cried far too often.

  But she did not weep, instead gathering the cards with her thoughts and shuffling them. He’d taught her this, at least the principles of it. She shuffled the cards once and muttered his name, then she shuffled them again, and again she said his name.

  She was struck with the idea that if she did this enough times, if she said his name out loud, it would eventually lose its meaning. She sat on the floor, in her nightgown with her arms wrapped around her knees, and she said “Hector Auvray” half a dozen times while she attempted to shuffle the cards without making a mistake.

  She did it every day from then on. Sometimes she lost control of the cards and she had to start again, and she did not shuffle them well at first. But every evening she worked on this trick.

  When she felt she had mastered it, she began to work on another.

  Slowly she sought the books that until then she had forgotten, content only to dash them across the room. She ran her hands over the pictures of the butterflies, which had given her pleasure, their colors bright upon the page.

  He did not write to her, not one single letter. It pained her, but what was one more hurt atop other lacerations?

  At the end of summer, Madelena had her baby, and three days later Nina made the trek to her sister’s house. It was the first time she had ventured outside her room, and she felt strange, sure everyone stared at her when she came downstairs with a hat in her hands.

  Her mother, however, gave her a warm embrace and declared in a neutral voice that they would travel to Madelena’s after lunch.

  Madelena’s baby was a darling thing. It already had hair, and when Nina held it in her arms she saw that the baby’s eyes were gray.

  “Will they stay like this forever?” she asked Madelena.

  “Martin says they’ll change and turn their true color in due time,” her sister said.

  Madelena lay on a huge four-poster bed with crimson covers. The Évaristes had always taken red as their symbol, ever since they’d made their fortune importing precious dyes that would be used to turn plain wool into beautifu
l, colorful garments. Even Martin’s hair was red, and Nina had teased Madelena about this.

  Nina handed the baby back and her sister cooed at the child, smiling down at her daughter.

  “What will you name her?”

  “I was thinking Viridiana, but Martin might call that a betrayal.”

  Nina chuckled at that and Madelena smiled once more. Nina sat on the chair that had been placed by the bed, her hands in her lap.

  “How are you, truly, Nina?” Madelena asked softly.

  “Mother told you I’m fine.”

  “Mother is not here now.”

  Nina held her hands together. She did not reply.

  “Nina, you can talk to me and I will always listen,” Madelena said.

  Nina had a look of perfect misery, which she tried to disguise by speaking calmly. “I loved him and he didn’t love me back. That is all there is to it,” she said.

  “Ah, Nina.”

  “Please don’t be sorry for me,” Nina said, looking up at her sister, eyes sharp. “All of Oldhouse already pities me—I cannot abide your pity, too.”

  Madelena gently shushed her baby, which had begun to stir. She rocked the child.

  “I remember when you broke your arm,” Madelena said once the baby calmed down. “You were seven. It was when we went to the Devil’s Throne.”

  The Devil’s Throne was a rock outcropping that had a funny shape. In a part of it, one could sit as if upon a chair. They said this had been a sacred spot at one point and that a statue of Ione, goddess of the forest and the hunt, had stood there in the days when pagan customs were the norm, before the fort at Dijou was built. But not a speck of the statue was left now, though in these parts, people might still pray to Ione and honored saints alike. Certain habits did not die.

  “It was my left arm,” Nina said. “I remember. Mother was furious at us.”

  “The next summer we were playing there again, and again you jumped atop those blasted rocks. As if falling once wasn’t enough.”

  “I didn’t fall the second time.”