After eating she tried to read. But her thoughts wandered back to the past. At ten o’clock she turned out the bedside lamp and waited for sleep, but sleep eluded her. She gazed out at the moonlight. When she turned on the lamp and looked at the travel clock Uncle Leon had given her, it was one o’clock. Impulsively, she decided to take a walk. Quietly she dressed, went outside and walked toward the Seine.
After an hour or so, she sat down on a bench to watch the moonlight play on the waters.
“Mademoiselle?” It was a gendarme. “Can I help you?”
She was startled, not knowing what to say. “No … no, thank you. I’m just on my way home.”
“I think that’s a good idea. It’s much too late for a young lady to walk the streets of Paris alone.”
“You’re quite right. …Thank you.”
She got up and hurried away. When she let herself back into her room it was almost four o’clock in the morning. She went to bed without undressing, and this time fell quickly asleep.
She woke up at ten, feeling curiously refreshed. A feeling of spiritual strength coursed through her. …Thank you, Papa. Today is the day I begin the rest of my life here in Paris. And for both our sakes, I’ll try to accept the past. …No more indulging in self-pity. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. …
She asked the concierge to have breakfast sent up. She undressed, brushed her teeth and bathed. As she finished drying, there was a knock on the door. “One moment, please.” She slipped into her robe, tying the sash around her waist. When she opened the door, she was greeted by a smiling young girl, about the same age as herself.
“Good morning, mademoiselle. My name is Madeleine. I hope you slept well.”
“Thank you, yes.”
Madeleine placed the tray on the table. On her way out, she said, “Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
Under a white napkin, Jeanette found two warm, fresh croissants, sweet rolls that smelled of cinnamon and walnuts, a bowl of fresh churned butter, marmalade, a pot of coffee and a pitcher of cream. Since she had eaten little the night before, she took a large bite from a croissant, poured a cup of café au lait and walked to the window.
Below, the gardener was on his knees, spading the rich, black earth between daffodil bulbs. As he got up to stretch, throwing back his shoulders, he happened to glance up and saw Jeanette. “Good morning, mademoiselle,” he called out, smiling.
“Good morning, monsieur.”
“Beautiful morning, is it not?”
“Oh, yes, it is, it is. …”
She was going to wear her tweed suit; it was warm and simple. She chose her navy shoes and bag, and short white cotton gloves. She made sure to button the jacket, and adjusted her hair under the pink felt cloche. Then she appraised herself. She approved.
She decided to take a taxi, since cabbies were often a storehouse of information. She asked her driver for the name of the most likely newspaper in which to advertise for a position. He was most helpful. He drove her there—going twelve blocks out of his way to insure a big fare. Jeanette thanked him and tipped him generously.
She placed an ad in the classified section, offering both tutoring and piano instruction. Then she decided to be a tourist and walk the streets of Paris.
It seemed that all of Paris was alive. …She soaked up the sounds, the smells and the sights. In bakers’ shops queues of people waited to buy bread. On the Rue de la Paix women went in and out of dress shops. Jeanette looked at the jewelry stores … they were magnificent, especially Cartier’s. She admired the petite lingerie shops, all soft lace and silk. Her heart beat faster with excitement as her pace quickened. She turned into the Avenue de l’Opéra and watched the people at sidewalk cafés. Seating herself at a table, she fantasized about the people around her. She gazed at the opera house. How beautiful it was. And how incredible to be so close to the source of such wonderful music. …She had a demitasse.
Next she went to a bookstore, where she bought a map of Paris, a guide to the metro system (which she had been told was the greatest in the world) and a guide to the Louvre. Then she registered with three employment agencies.
That night, after first considering eating alone in her room, she decided to go down to the dining room. Dinner was served from seven-thirty to nine. By the time she got there, many guests were already seated. Most were widows on small pensions who had lived in the same room for years. They were hardly friendly. The only welcome sight was Madeleine, who had been questioned endlessly by the dowagers about the new tenant, and pretended by evasion that she knew a great deal more than she was willing to divulge. She greeted Jeanette warmly, and with a true native Parisian’s love of the city told Jeanette she hoped she was enjoying her first view of the sights.
Later, alone in her room, Jeanette told herself to be patient in her search for a job. Things were bound to work out. She was in the city where Mama and Papa had first met. Surely good things would happen here, where they had fallen in love, before the bad times. …
For a moment she stood staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. …Well, face it, Jeanette Hack, you are not your mother, with her strength, are you? You don’t want to be like her, but still you would like to share the part of her that was strong enough to let go, to walk away from what she could not live with. …You despise her, and yet you do admire that. She was fourteen when she came to Paris, fatherless, motherless and penniless, but she survived. …
The next morning Jeanette arose early. Today held the promise of something she had dreamed of doing since she had been a little girl. As she walked along the Seine, she could almost hear her father telling her the story, before his bitterness had set in. She followed the route up the steep stone stairs to Nôtre Dame, and paused at the lonely café where Rubin had met Magda. Then on to 27 Rue de Fleures … she tried without success to find Sylvia Beach’s shop, but it was gone. She walked the crooked streets of Montmartre, hoping her footsteps might fall in exactly the same places as her father’s once had. Finally she stood at the stone railing along the Seine, once again watching the boats glide up and down. But her thoughts were in another place. …Should I stand before the door, dearest Tante Solange, where you lived, or should I leave that in the past, where it belongs …? You are all gone … your world is gone. …Dear Papa, only the ghosts of your memories remain through me. May they all rest in peace. …
On Saturday morning she went to the synagogue for memorial services, and wept during the Kaddish. But she was filled with gratitude that the depth of her loss could be faced with quiet bereavement. …Later, she went to the Tuileries, remembering the happy times when she and her father, Rubin, had gone on Saturdays to the synagogue and then to Hyde Park. Her thoughts were interrupted by a small boy who asked if she could reach his ball, which had rolled under her bench. She handed the ball to him, impulsively kissing his cheek, and watched him run back to his mother. What a beautiful sight … mother and child. Suddenly she was so happy. …Tomorrow was Sunday, her first Sunday in France, and she would be spending it with the Dryfuses and their children, her very first invitation. …
The Dryfuses lived on the outskirts of Paris, near Versailles, in a house three hundred years old. Although Madame Dryfus was twenty years younger than her husband, and a head taller, it seemed not at all odd. There was an unmistakable bond of love between these two, which greatly impressed Jeanette. Devotion was so rare. Most people seemed to tolerate each other … if they stayed together at all. …
“The children are so eager to meet you,” said Madame Dryfus as she led Jeanette out into the garden. She introduced Jeanette to Berton, who was five, and Meirer, who was eight.
They ate lunch in the garden under a huge chestnut tree. Monsieur Dryfus observed Jeanette’s pleasure with the children. What an extraordinary young woman, he thought … not only beautiful but poised and perfectly charming. She seemed far too mature to be only nineteen … but there was such sadness in her eyes. …Of course, how could
it be different? A father who had gone mad, and a mother who had abandoned her when she was only a small child. …
“Tell me, Jeanette, are you satisfied with your lodgings?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m very pleased.”
“And Paris …?”
“Oh, monsieur, how could anyone not fall in love with Paris?”
Her only problem, she added, was in finding a job, but he told her not to worry, sooner or later something would turn up, and meanwhile, she should enjoy the city.
When it was time to leave, Madame Dryfus told her how very welcome she was. She hoped Jeanette would visit frequently. Monsieur Dryfus took both her hands in his. “I want you to know that your happiness is ours, that you can call upon my dear wife for any reason … and consider me as an uncle in the absence of your own. …Will you do that?”
“Oh yes, monsieur. How kind you’ve been to me. I don’t know how to thank you—”
“There are no thanks needed, my dear. Paris and ourselves will be better for having you amongst us. I mean that.”
Looking at him, she knew he did. It was the end of a rare and beautiful day.
The next weeks passed swiftly. Jeanette, taking Monsieur Dryfus’ advice, did everything that tourists do. She went to the top of the Eiffel Tower … she wandered through the Left Bank … she took a boat ride on the Seine … she ate escargots … she loved the onion soup with the thick crust of cheese on top. …She fell hopelessly in love with Paris, every worn cobblestone … every crooked street. …At last she was home. Oh, Papa, if only we could have shared this together. …Everywhere I go I wonder if maybe you and Mama have been here before.
But no one, it seemed, wanted to hire her. No one answered her ads. None of the agencies sent her out on interviews. She didn’t want to go deeper in debt to Uncle Leon than she was already. Surely someone would need her soon. But in the midst of a world-wide depression, there seemed no call for an English tutor or practical young lady pianist. …
One morning when Madeleine brought her breakfast, Jeanette was still in bed, the blinds drawn. “Good morning, mademoiselle.”
“Good morning, Madeleine,” Jeanette answered dully.
“Are you feeling ill, mademoiselle?”
“No, Madeleine, I’m only discouraged. I can’t find a job.”
Madeleine placed the tray in front of Jeanette. “Please forgive me for being so bold,” she said, “but I’ve liked you from the day you arrived. Not because you’ve been generous with your tips, but because you’re so courteous to me. I think you need a friend, a person to talk with … yes?”
“You’re right, Madeleine. I do need a friend, and I need a job.”
“Where have you looked?” said Madeleine.
Jeanette told her. “At this point I’m willing to take anything. I’d be grateful … I don’t care what it is or how hard to do. …”
“All right,” said Madeleine. “If you really mean you’ll take anything … I’ll see what I can do. Now drink your coffee and eat your rolls. Tomorrow could always be worse, remember that. Also remember better to worry on a full stomach than an empty one.” They smiled at each other, and each knew she had found a new friend.
Madeleine had a relative, Uncle Jacques, who owned a laundry, where most of the family worked except for herself. She made more money, she told them, in service, although there was another reason for her preference, which she now used on her new friend’s behalf. At first he refused to hire Jeanette, but when Madeleine pinched his cheek and sat in his lap … knowing his feelings about her that he’d more than once tried to indulge … he finally relented. Jeanette went to work for him from seven in the morning to seven in the evening—and sometimes to eight. She started with the hand laundry, stirring the cauldrons of boiling water. One day when one of the relatives became ill, she was asked to do the ironing. To Uncle Jacques’ surprise, she did it with finesse. She remained in that job, but for all the praise she received, she earned barely enough to pay her rent.
Each morning at five-thirty Jeanette dragged herself out of bed. She dressed as though she was going to a position of distinction. She took the metro across town, and got to work a little before seven. Then she changed into a white uniform and stood on her feet all day. By closing time she was ready to drop, and had to force herself to wash her face, comb her hair, and get back into her street clothes before she went home, where only Madeleine knew the demeaning work that she did during the day.
One evening when she returned home there was a message from Monsieur Dryfus asking her to call him the next morning.
“Oh, Jeanette,” he said when she got through to him, “if you’re free this afternoon, I believe I might have a situation for you. Can you meet me at three o’clock?”
She was almost hysterical with relief as she assured him she would. She quickly told Jacques she was ill, went home, changed and arrived at Monsieur Dryfus’ office promptly at three o’clock.
“I believe, Jeanette, there may be a position for you with the Dupré family. Poor Madame Dupré has recently suffered a very great loss. Her only daughter and son-in-law were killed in an automobile crash on their way to Cannes. They left three small children, who are now in the custody of their maternal grandmother.”
He sighed deeply, remembering all too well the loss of his own first wife. …“Does the name Dupré mean anything to you?”
Jeanette shook her head.
“No? Then let me tell you something about the family.” And he told her that both Madame and Marshal Dupré’s ancestors had come from the aristocracy of the Bourbon dynasty, and that if it hadn’t been for a diminutive Corsican who helped spread a revolution, well, very possibly Madame Dupré might now be at court in the service of France. At any rate, after the revolution many in the aristocracy were permitted to retain their estates as well as their titles. Among them were the Dupré and Duval families. When the two great families were joined by marriage, it was a symbol to the Parisiens that the aristocracy still lived and would be perpetuated. But for Antoinette Duval and Henri Dupré, their marriage was more than an alliance of two illustrious houses; it was a bond of love and devotion that would last over twenty years. They were passionately in love. Antoinette was considered one of the great beauties of her day. Raven-haired, with dark, liquid eyes and the skin of a cameo, her waist was eighteen inches when cinched in. Henri would never need to think of taking a mistress. Antoinette would become both his wife and his mistress.
The announcement of their marriage had Paris in a whirl. The parties honoring the engaged couple, and the planning and shopping for the wedding were so extensive the lovers had little time to be alone. By the time the marriage day arrived, both of them could hardly wait to slip away. …They spent their honeymoon at Henri’s château in Provence. For three months they stayed there absorbed in their love. Exactly nine months from the day of their wedding, Denise was born in Paris. Two years later, they had a son, Jean-Paul, named for Henri’s father. It was Antoinette’s hope to present her husband with many sons. But when the third child came—another son—the birth was so difficult and prolonged she could never have another. The second boy was named Etienne, after Antoinette’s father.
Jeanette was entranced with the story. Her mind had traveled back in time. …She had almost forgotten why she was here, but Monsieur Dryfus brought her back sharply.
“Dear Madame Dupré lost her beloved husband four years ago, and I’m afraid she’s never recovered from his death. She continues to be in mourning. But it is Denise’s children who especially need you. They’re now with their grandmother in Paris, and the present governess, who’s elderly and quite rheumatic, wants to go back to Provence, where Denise and her husband lived. A new governess is needed, and of course I thought of you.”
“My heart goes out to the children,” Jeanette said, tears in her eyes.
“I was sure it would. Well … are you interested in the position?”
“Yes. But do you think I’m qualified?”
> “Yes, I do. In fact, I took the liberty of speaking to Etienne about you and have arranged an interview. Would tomorrow morning at ten be convenient?”
“Oh, yes … that will be fine.”
“In that case, I’ll tell Etienne that you’re coming.”
Jeanette hesitated in front of the mansion on the Boulevard Victor Hugo. The blinds were drawn. For a moment she felt chilled and unsure of herself, but she walked slowly up the brick path and ascended the steps. The front door was hung with the black of mourning, relieved somewhat by a wreath. Jeanette placed her finger on the bell and rang. The door was opened by an elderly butler, who led her to the library and asked her to be seated. Monsieur Dupré would be down presently. She sat in a high-backed winged easy chair. The room was breathtakingly beautiful. There was a marquetry desk, with heavy ormolu. The walls were lined with walnut bookshelves. An Aubusson rug covered the center of the marquetry floor. Above the mantel was a portrait of Marshal Dupré, dressed in his fine uniform, which was covered with the medals he’d won. It was apparent why Madame Dupré had fallen in love with him. He was probably the handsomest man Jeanette had ever seen. …
She looked at the coat of arms on the opposite wall, and then the door was being opened and her heart began to beat faster … she sat erect and folded her hands in her lap. She wasn’t facing the door and so couldn’t yet see Monsieur Dupré.
As he slowly approached, she heard a peculiar thumping sound. When he stood in front of her she prayed that the expression on her face didn’t reveal her shock: Monsieur Dupré, walking with a cane, apparently had a club foot. His left shoulder was tilted and he was slightly humpbacked. On his right sleeve he wore a black armband.
Although he was only twenty-five his hair was beginning to gray at the temples. Jeanette noted a strong resemblance between him and his father, especially through the eyes. Dark brown, deep-set and soft, there was compassion and kindness in them which seemed to go with people who suffered. Still, he wasn’t handsome.
Days of Winter Page 22
