She buried her face in his shoulder, but he could hear a muffled “Oh yes, Etienne, yes …”
Gently he lifted her head and tilted her face so that their eyes met … eyes that were even lovelier, if possible, he thought, glistening as they now did with tears. He wiped them away, then slowly, hesitantly at first and then with a boldness that surprised himself, took her in his arms, felt the loveliness of her, and kissed her for the first time. When he finally released her, he took out his mother’s ring and slipped it carefully on her finger, looking at her intently as he did so.
“This is my life, my life with you, and the circle means it will never end. I promise you that, darling. And even though I will never be able to give you enough—”
“Please, Etienne, you have already given me more than enough, more than … everything.”
They sat there for a while, his arms around her, around the world. And then it was time to go back, and before leaving her at the cottage he embraced and kissed her again, and, nearly beaming, said he doubted he’d sleep a minute that night, but didn’t care, didn’t, in fact, want to. It would be too awful to wake up and find this had been a concoction of his imagination. No, he wouldn’t risk that. …
Later, when they’d finally parted and she’d gone to her room, she lay down on her bed and let her feelings flood out, at the same time telling herself that at least she did care for him, and that she’d do her best to make him happy, but along with it came the thought that had been there before … that she might, indeed, be her mother’s daughter … a thought interrupted by the emergence from the shadows of the man who had arranged this strange new turn in her life.
“You seem to have done very well,” Jean-Paul said, “judging from the ecstatic expression on the face of my dear smitten brother. Can you doubt that you have done him a favor, not to mention, of course, ourselves …?”
“Please, Jean-Paul, please go away. Not tonight. I can’t see you tonight after—”
“Oh come now, Jeanette.” He went to her and gently lifted her shoulders, his voice quiet and calm. “There’s hardly reason for remorse, although I wonder if perhaps you didn’t overplay your role just a bit. Please remember, my darling, who the real man in your life is. …”
She looked at him, shook her head. “Oh, God, Jean-Paul, what we’re doing is wrong, it’s sinful. How can we live with such deception? How can I hurt Etienne, the finest man I’ve ever—”
“Please, darling”—and his face tightened momentarily—“I think you will find it easier than you think … that is to say, you’ve already made him the happiest man in the world. You didn’t, I’m sure, actually say you loved him, you’re too careful and honest for that.”
“No, but I didn’t say that I didn’t love him either. He believes I do, and that is the deception.”
“Yes, and it is what we agreed to. Now, my dearest, when we return to Paris I won’t be going to Algiers. I’ll stay close to you, and after you and Etienne marry, things will work out and all the difficulties you imagine will adjust themselves. Trust my judgment. I tell you again you have no reason to feel remorse or guilt … you have made Etienne a happier man than he ever dared hope to be, given him what no other woman would.” He took her in his arms, stroked her hair and lifted her face so that their lips met. “What matters most, let’s not forget, is the child, our child … never forget that. Or me.” And then he quickly, skillfully proceeded to make certain that she did not.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ON THE THIRD OF September the house on the Boulevard Victor Hugo became once again the address of the Paris Duprés. Provence seemed very far away as a frenzy of preparation for the wedding began. There were fittings to be arranged, lists to be made up, menus to be planned, all under the supervision of Madame. New arrangements had to be made for the children since Jeanette was no longer their governess. She was now living in one of the bedrooms on the second floor, down the hall from Madame.
Instead of interviewing a new governess immediately for the post, Jeanette spoke to both Madame and Etienne of a dear and trusted friend who could take charge of the children until after the wedding, when Jeanette could hire someone permanently. Madeleine was asked to come temporarily, and accepted only too gratefully.
With the help of Jeanette, who instructed her, Madeleine was moved into the children’s quarters. Because she and Jeanette were friends, the children took to her immediately, especially since Jeanette was still their mentor.
One day, in spite of her busy schedule, she went to see Clothilde. She and Jean-Paul had decided that she must, since Clothilde was the only other person who knew about her love for Jean-Paul.
When she entered the kitchen Clothilde turned around abruptly, somewhat startled. Coldly she said, “Oh, it’s you.
Jeanette hadn’t expected hostility from Clothilde, but she smiled, though her stomach was doing somersaults. “Yes, it’s me. I wanted very much to see you.”
“Why?” Clothilde said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Because we’ve been friends. More than friend … confidants.”
“Ah, I see. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.”
As they sat at the kitchen table, Clothilde looked at Jeanette without speaking. Trying to keep her voice even and cheerful, Jeanette said, “Clothilde, I’m very happy, and very much in love.”
“With whom?” Clothilde asked bitingly.
“With Monsieur Etienne, of course.”
“Really? When you last sat down in my kitchen, weeping away, you were oh so in love with Jean-Paul. What happened so suddenly to change your feelings?”
Jeanette’s throat became dry as she took a sip of the coffee. “Clothilde … have you forgotten what it was like to be nineteen years old and head over heels in love …? What I felt then was only the infatuation of a schoolgirl, attracted to an older man for the first time. You yourself admitted that although Monsieur Jean-Paul was a scoundrel, he was irresistible … didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. I said it then and I say it now. So what happened to your infatuation?”
“The more I saw of Etienne’s gentleness and understanding, the more we were thrown together, the more I realized it was Etienne I truly felt for. It didn’t happen suddenly, like a comet shooting across the sky, it happened slowly, during the days we spent together in the country. The more I learned about him … the stronger my feeling grew …”
Clothilde looked directly into the eyes of Jeanette, and what she saw there was truth and honesty (and she was not entirely wrong). “Now I am happy, my dear. Etienne so deserves your love. And his … infirmity … doesn’t bother you?”
“It brings him closer to me … I’m not exactly perfect myself, Clothilde.”
Clothilde embraced the young girl. “Dear, I had many doubts, I must admit. All I can say is I pray your life together will be filled with joy, and many children. …”
Jeanette thought she would faint, but managed to steady herself, then kissed the old woman and went to her room. The mis-truths, half-truths (she resisted calling them half-lies) didn’t come easily … but she turned her thoughts to Jean-Paul, fortified herself with her overwhelming feelings for him …
Ten days after the return to Paris, Jeanette was presented to Paris society at a reception given in her honor at the Dupré mansion.
Before going down to greet the guests, Madame sat at her dressing table as Renée coiffed her hair. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she thought of the role she had played, and what her obligations were to Etienne.
Although she was still officially in mourning over the death of Denise, she felt she owed this to Etienne. Should she … could she deprive him of his supreme moment? This was the first time he’d ever known such joy. Who did this moment belong to, the living or the dead? Strong-willed woman that she was, Madame decided it belonged to the living. She would always have time to weep, but that could come later. Tonight she would smile. She would wear black, but it would not be
too somber. There had been enough grief in this house, and for such a long time.
When Renée finished, she selected a flowing black Chantilly lace gown that showed off the white skin of her neck, around which she fastened a heavy strand of long pearls attached with a diamond clip. Now she walked down the stairs, taking her place beside her son and future daughter-in-law. She felt enormously proud as she looked at Jeanette, dressed in a printed flowered chiffon gown from the House of Dior. She wore the locket Lucien had given her, and on her left hand sparkled the emerald and diamond ring.
Madame held her head high as she introduced Jeanette, the receiving line proceeding on into the salon. She knew all too well the whispers, the gossip, the phone calls that would be exchanged tomorrow. All of Paris would be talking. Not only was Antoinette Dupré allowing a governess to join the bloodline of the august house of Dupré, the girl was also a Jewess! This bothered Madame not at all. These people didn’t know the circumstances of her life, and she would make no excuses.
As Jeanette saw Jean-Paul come through the door and approach them, her nerve almost failed her. To strengthen herself, she held on tightly to Etienne’s arm. Etienne smiled down at her adoringly.
Jean-Paul kissed his mother’s cheek, then Jeanette’s hand as she diverted her eyes. And then to Etienne … “I want to extend my heartfelt congratulations. I hope this will be the prelude to a long and happy life.”
The brothers shook hands as their mother looked on, blessing Jeanette for being the one who had brought her two sons together in some understanding for the first time in their lives. “And where is Marie Jacqueline?” she asked Jean-Paul.
He shrugged. “Unfortunately, Mother, she wasn’t up to coming. She has a terrible migraine headache.”
“What a pity,” Madame replied.
Etienne, especially generous in his own state of euphoria, felt especially sad for Jean-Paul this evening … how different Jeanette was from the pitiful Marie Jacqueline, and how grateful he was. …
When she went to bed that night, Jeanette lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if she could endure the strain of the next few weeks. She was weary, frightened and apprehensive that something might still happen to prevent this marriage. Suddenly she felt her abdomen. Oh God, please don’t let anything happen to … don’t punish my child for what I am doing. …
She got out of bed, turned on the desk lamp, took out the ledger and began to write:
Forgive me, Papa … I haven’t been able to confide this part of my life to you. …That’s why I haven’t written. Your shame would be too much for me to live with. It’s almost too much for me to bear, but I love Jean-Paul, the feeling I have for him simply overwhelms me, terrifies me … I can’t live without him. It’s shameful … I confess my weakness. …Even now I want to feel him close to me … though we’ve agreed not to until after the wedding. Please forgive me, Papa … I promise to try to atone for the wrong I’m doing to Etienne. …Some way, I will do that … I must. …
Finally she fell into an exhausted sleep.
The religious terms had been agreed upon: Jeanette would not convert to the Catholic faith, but she had agreed without reservation that any issue of Etienne’s and hers would be raised according to his religion, and the document was signed.
The wedding would take place in the large salon. Two hundred and fifty guests would attend. … And the reception would be held in the white and gold ballroom. The furniture was moved out of the salon and the gilt chairs were placed in rows on either side of the aisle. The altar was set up. Now all that remained was for the florist to decorate.
Two days before the wedding, Uncle Leon was due to arrive. But Aunt Deborah couldn’t attend. In the last few months, she’d become completely bedridden. Jeanette was brokenhearted … they were, after all, the only family she had.
As Etienne and Jeanette waited for his train at the station, Jeanette thought how long it had been since she’d seen her uncle. Seven months? It seemed a century since that day she’d kissed him good-bye at Dover. …
But now, incredibly, wonderfully, there he was, getting off the train, and she ran to meet him, then hugging him and clinging to him as though she would never let go. She felt so safe in his arms. Both of them were crying. There was so much to remember, and so much to try to forget. Finally, taking Leon’s arm in hers, she brought him over to meet Etienne, her husband-to-be, and as the two men shook hands, there were more tears in her eyes, and she looked away, stealing a moment to try to recover. …
After dinner that evening Madame chatted with Uncle Leon in the small formal salon where they took demitasse and brandy while Jeanette played the piano softly for Etienne’s ears only. She played all the things he loved. Chopin, Mozart, Poulenc … she closed with their music, the melody that had brought them together, Clair de Lune. …
Early the next morning, the Sabbath, Jeanette and her uncle attended synagogue. When memorial services were over, they walked to the Tuileries gardens and sat quietly for a time. Finally Jeanette said, “Uncle, we’ve had so little time alone, let me take you to a place I love very much.”
And she took him to the little café on the Avenue de l’Opéra. Leon was charmed.
As their orders were taken, Jeanette couldn’t take her eyes from her uncle, scarcely believing that he was actually with her again. He had changed so little, and she had changed so much.
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “You’ve certainly grown up in such a short time. I can hardly believe you’re the same girl—”
“I’m not, Uncle …” And indeed she wasn’t … “It was difficult to write you, I mean about the joy and happiness I’ve found here in Paris. …”
Leon looked admiringly at his niece. “You are happy, Jeanette. I can see it in your eyes. And if anyone deserves such happiness, God knows, it is you.”
In spite of herself, she blushed. If he knew what secrets she held inside her, she wondered how happy he would be for her then. …She thanked God he could not read her thoughts. …
Looking at her, he asked tentatively, “Jeanette, is there anything … anything at all you would like to tell me?”
She nodded, feeling that she had to tell him. “Uncle Leon,” she said, “Etienne knows about my father’s death, but … not how it happened … I’ve kept that from him. …But even more important, I told him that Mama died when I was five years old. …”
Leon looked down, idly rearranging the crumbs on the table. … If only that were true, Rubin would be here today, seeing his daughter being married. …
“Uncle, I don’t want to, but I think about her sometimes, more than I ever thought I would … and I’m almost positive that I’ve seen her picture in the papers here, with Count Alexis Maximov. It must be him, I remember him, and I remember—”
“Well, that’s possible, of course,” Leon said, “but you were so young when she left and—”
“I was young, but I’m afraid in some ways I was older than you knew. Uncle, and I remember, oh yes, I remember what she looked like, I remember so many things, too many, and I know I recognize the lady I have seen in the papers. … Whatever else she was, she was a beautiful woman, my mother, you always said so, Father did, and I had eyes to see as well. She’s changed so little over the years, and the Count Alexis Maximov can only be the man I thought of as … well, do you know, Uncle, when Papa was away in the war, I used to think that Alexis was my father … in fact, I wanted him to be. Up till then he was the only father I knew. But, of course, I hardly feel that way toward him now, nor have I for years … not since he took my mother away. …”
Leon knew she was right, that it was indeed Magda, although she’d made an almost childish—well, wasn’t Magda in so many ways childish, for all her worldliness?—an almost childish effort to disguise herself by changing her first name. His friend Dryfus had reported to him the presence of Magda some time ago, but he hadn’t, of course, mentioned it to Jeanette in his letters, hoping that perhaps she’d not be aware of it, b
e spared the knowing. Well, there had been no realistic chance of that, he now realized, but at least she might never have to meet her mother again. …
And as though a part of his thoughts, Jeanette was saying, “I’m terrified, Uncle, that I may have to meet her one day, see her face to face. I don’t know what I would do, I don’t know if I could stand it …”
“I doubt it will happen, my dear. After all, you are hardly of the same age group, you and your fine husband-to-be hardly move in her circles or are likely to. But even if you do, even in that unlikely event, I have confidence in you, my darling. You will be what you are, a fine young woman, and you will behave with the dignity and courage that are you. Your mother cannot be more than she is. You cannot be less. And now enough of this. …My favorite niece is about to have a wedding. I suggest we order ourselves a wicked French drink of cognac and celebrate.”
She nodded, smiled, and was infinitely grateful.
The Countess Alexis Maximov, lying in bed, had just seen the newspaper announcement of the impending marriage of … her daughter! Impossible … impossible to take in, to absorb. But there could be no denying it … Mademoiselle Jeanette Hack, English, former governess to the distinguished family Dupré, engaged to marry Etienne Dupré, brother of Jean-Paul Dupré, member of the diplomatic corps. …
My God, she thought, she’d heard nothing, known nothing, of the girl’s whereabouts or fortunes since Solange’s death. … Camail had been able to tell her nothing … and now suddenly, after all these years, less than a mile away her daughter was preparing her marriage and she could be no part of it, not even able to see her … tomorrow her child would become a bride and she, the mother, was excluded … still the pariah for all her social credentials as Countess Maximov. Dear Alexis, he could give her only so much … he could not erase the past … And now that past came rushing back and it seemed only yesterday that she had romped on the bed with her little doll … and heard the echo of carousel music … and saw a little girl with balloons in one hand, clutching the hand of Alexis with the other. …
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