The butler answered. “The Dupré residence.”
“May I speak with Monsieur Dupré?”
“He’s not in, may Į take a message?”
The butler seemed somewhat harassed. “He had an earlier appointment with Monsieur Dryfus on a legal matter. …”
“Oh, I’m … his secretary and am calling to check …”
“Ah, well, Monsieur left about fifteen minutes ago, although I can’t say where he’s gone.”
“I see. Then he must be on his way.” She sighed in relief. Something must have delayed him, but why hadn’t he called? She told herself not to think about it. He would explain later. The important thing was, he was now on his way. She took another brandy to warm herself, then went to the bedroom and undressed, although Jean-Paul always loved doing this for her. Well, today he would have to forego that pleasure … their time together would be shorter than usual. …
As she lay in bed, nude, her desires began to increase, and with them, her anxieties as the minutes turned to hours. By four o’clock she was frantic, certain that something dreadful had happened, but she could not possibly wait any longer. …
By the time she got home her pulse was racing and her head throbbed with pain. She did not go straight to Etienne as she usually did. (Actually, after spending the afternoon with Jean-Paul, her affection for Etienne was even greater.) She went directly to her room, took two aspirins, and lay down. …
“My God, I’ve been so worried … it’s five-thirty. I didn’t know you were home.” It was Etienne. She had fallen asleep.
“I’m sorry … forgive me … I came straight to the room. I was feeling so ill … just before I came home I felt terribly nauseous—” She forced a smile. “You understand—”
“Yes, of course … the baby … but your hands are so cold. How do you feel now?”
“I’ll be fine. Truly …” At least I will if nothing is wrong with Jean-Paul … please God, let nothing be wrong. …She finally managed to persuade Etienne that there was no more cause for concern but agreed to be more careful about going out in taxis.
At eight o’clock she and Etienne dressed for the evening and went downstairs as usual to join Madame for their aperitif, and Madame remarked on how pale she looked, remembering but not mentioning Jacqueline’s miscarriage during the early months of her pregnancy, and urged Jeanette to eat more … she really must … and rest too during the day, and Jeanette promised. …And then Madame’s thoughts, as did Jeanette’s, turned elsewhere.
“I’m surprised Jean-Paul is so late this evening,” Madame said. “He’s usually here by now.”
“He probably had to stay late at the office,” said Etienne. “I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”
But eight-thirty turned to nine o’clock and there was still no sign of Jean-Paul. “I can’t imagine why he hasn’t called,” Madame said anxiously. “He never fails to call if he’s going to be late.”
“I’ll call his home,” said Etienne, realizing that Madame’s concern was heightened by her memory of what had happened to Denise.
He had just left the room and picked up the receiver to call Jean-Paul when Jean-Paul himself walked in. Etienne, intercepting him at the doorway, was stunned. “My God, what happened to your face?”
Jean-Paul shook his head, not able to speak yet. The right side of his face had deep lacerations, as though it had been clawed, leaving the crevices swollen and red. “I had to come here, I had to be here,” he finally managed to get out.
“Of course you did,” Etienne said, putting his arm around his brother’s shoulder, “but for God’s sake, what happened?”
“Let me have a brandy. I’ll tell you but I must sit down. …”
“Sit here while I prepare Maman for this.”
He helped Jean-Paul to the gold-leafed chair in the vast hall, then went to his mother. “Maman … Jean-Paul is here …in the entry.” As she promptly got up, Etienne said, “Wait, Maman, something has happened, now please don’t become alarmed … he’s all right but his face is bruised. …”
Jeanette slumped down into the chair without a word.
Madame braced herself. “Please bring him in immediately.”
Etienne did, and she saw his lacerated face. She took a compulsively deep breath. “Dear God … Jean-Paul, what has happened …?”
Etienne handed him the brandy. He gulped it down, then another, which he sipped slowly. Jeanette watched in horror, but, she told herself, at least he was safe.
“I hardly know where to begin,” Jean-Paul said, collapsing in a chair. “When I got back from dinner last night Pierre was waiting in the hall. He was white. Obviously, something was very wrong. I asked what the problem was, and he asked me to go straight to Marie Jacqueline’s room. When I got there, it was a shambles. The sheets and pillow cases were torn to shreds. The furniture was turned every which way and her cats were pawing at the drapes. They had been ripped away from the window, and lay in a heap on the floor. And in the middle of the bed lay one of her cats … dead. God, the sight of that cat. …Marie Jacqueline was all disheveled, her hair unkempt and falling loose. Her eyes were glazed and wild. As soon as I came in, she ran to the door and locked it and threw the key into the fire. She was cursing and screaming obscenities. Pointing to the dead cat, she accused me of killing her child … her baby.” Jean-Paul shuddered and shut his eyes. “She had strangled it. …” He could still hear her accusing voice, which he would not repeat to them … “I know that you and Jeanette … your own brother’s precious bitch of a wife … are lovers. …” He’d been certain that she couldn’t possibly know, which didn’t at all diminish the shock of hearing her speak out her wild suspicions … which, of course, were the truth.
He continued, “She screamed it out, over and over again, ‘You’ve killed my child and you’ve killed me too.’ Finally she ran to the bed, picked up the dead cat and used its claws to claw my face. I suppose I was in shock. I kept trying to control her, to quiet her down. …Finally she dropped the animal and went at me herself. Her strength was incredible. When I tried to take hold of her, she lashed out at my face and kicked with her feet. Finally I was able to tie her hands with a piece of cord and put her on the bed. But she kept on screaming. I think she’d simply gone mad. I thought I was going mad. I managed to tie her feet together and secure a piece of sheet around her mouth, it helped quiet the screams some … and then I got outside the room by climbing down the ivy at the window. I called the psychiatrist who’d been taking care of her. When he came, I opened the bedroom door with the master key. The doctor gave her an injection that put her to sleep, then we talked about what the next move should be. He told me he’d noticed a decided decline in her behavior in the last few weeks, which I must admit he’d spoken to me about before … I should have paid more attention but Marie Jacqueline was always such a private person; in fact she had become a recluse, as you, Maman, noticed … but this outburst I had not anticipated, nor had the doctor.”
He paused, taking a deep breath, and sipped the brandy. They all sat waiting. “Well, the doctor said I had no other choice. I had to commit her—”
Madame gasped. “Where did you take her?”
“To a private sanitarium. I signed her in under an assumed name.”
“Oh, Jean-Paul … how will she be treated?”
“She’ll have the best of care. The psychiatrist assured me of that. …It’s taken forever and I should have called you, but I didn’t know what to say. Please let me apologize. There were times when I thought I’d never feel sane again myself. …”
“But how long will she have to stay?”
“I don’t know, they don’t know … there were a million papers to sign and they kept asking me questions. …Three psychiatrists had to be consulted. …When I finally got back to Paris I went home and changed my clothes. …I’d told Pierre to say nothing to anyone. I came straight here from my home. …”
Jeanette was trying to remain outwardly calm. Inside, she was weak with
shock, and relief, and fear. …At least now she understood why the butler earlier had been so vague in his hesitation when she’d called impersonating Monsieur Dryfus’ secretary. …
“You’ll stay tonight, of course,” Etienne said. Jean-Paul agreed, and Madame sent him to bed at once. She’d have
Clothilde send a tray to his room. …
Jean-Paul lay exhausted in his old bed, in the same room he’d slept in as a boy and young man, up to the time of his marriage to Marie Jacqueline. His mother was watching him now much as she’d done, he thought, when he was a child, and memories of her then came back to him … her strength and comforting, the way she’d come to his room dressed for the opera, her dress always rustling and billowing out, a cerise velvet gown, it was … and the smell of her perfume that somehow always made his nose itch. It was still there now, this evening, and it comforted him. …
After she’d said goodnight he lay in the dark, watching the fire die down in the grate. She had even thought of the fire, although the room hadn’t been used in five years. She should have been Marshal Dupré. How quickly she got things done. She had aroused the servants immediately, and fresh bed linen had been placed over the mattress. The comforter had been brought out of storage, a supper prepared, and all of this within minutes … clean towels, pajamas, slippers, a robe. …
He had imagined that Marie Jacqueline’s life would be short, especially the last couple of years, but this he had not bargained for. Put away as she was, she could live for a very long time. People without responsibilities could retreat into themselves, their very madness less of a strain than coping with the stress of normal day-to-day life. Well … there it was … he was shackled in marriage, which he could do nothing about She was still alive … and so was Etienne … but at least he had his dear brother’s wife as his mistress. Except, ironically, she was the only woman he’d ever really wanted as his wife. And although soon he would have a son, he would not be able to acknowledge him as his own. …
At least he did have control now over Marie Jacqueline’s estate. She had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother to contest his power over it When he went back home, he’d have the bedroom cleaned and the door to it sealed, so he could block out the fact that she’d ever lived. He would also, he assured himself as he lay in the dark staring at the ceiling, do away with those damn cats. …
Down the hall, Jeanette lay in Etienne’s arms, but her body was tense and unresponsive. When Etienne finally had fallen into his characteristically deep sleep, she slipped carefully out of bed, put on her peignoir and left the room. She walked down the hall to Jean-Paul’s room and quietly opened the door, locking it behind her. Quickly then she was in his arms, holding him, caressing him … pouring out her need for him, and her relief that he was here, safe … and exhausted and battered as he was, he responded. …
Afterward, relaxed, feeling calmer than he had in twenty-four hours, he said, “I know this will sound harsh, darling, but I wish she had died, it would have been better for her … for everybody. …”
“Don’t, oh please don’t have such thoughts … We do have each other—”
“That’s not true. I don’t have you … I only share a small part of your life—”
“No, Jean-Paul, it’s Etienne who shares only a part. …Please, let’s accept what we have. …Nothing in life can be perfect, I know something about that … but you and I have so much together, let’s be satisfied with that. …”
But he wasn’t satisfied … and, masking his anger, took hold of her and, without preliminaries, made love to her again. And for her it was, as always with him, the impossible, irresistible mixture of wild excitement and guilt.
She lay beside him for a while, until she realized he’d fallen asleep. Then, carefully, quietly so as not to disturb him, she removed her arm from across his chest, got off the bed, unlocked, opened and closed the door, and went back to her husband’s room, and bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IN THE MONTHS THAT followed, Jeanette showed very little. In reality she was seventh months pregnant, but thanks at least in part to her regimen she looked no more than five. After today, they had decided, she and Jean-Paul would abstain from love-making, fearing that it would be too strenuous … and dangerous … at this stage. But it seemed to Jean-Paul, as he lay beside her, that he could feel the child inside her kick, a thrill he had thought he would never experience. …
And then, excitedly, another thought occurred to him. “Darling,” he said, “I’ve decided there can’t be too much of a good thing, not, at any rate, with a natural-born mother like you. …” He smiled and stroked her hair. “I absolutely have decided, no arguments now, that we should have more children, more lovely children that are only yours and mine. …”
And looking at him, she realized her answer would have to be the beginning of the first serious deception between them, because much as she owed him, much as she was overwhelmed and a part of him, this she would never do. …Any more children would be Etienne’s—she owed him that—and … admit it … she wanted them to be … but Jean-Paul would never know, could assume what he wished. …And she heard herself answering him, “Oh yes, Jean-Paul …” But in her lie she turned away so as not to face him.
Of course they saw each other each night at dinner, and often during the day, when Jean-Paul would come to chat with maman, and stay for lunch. Madame was knitting furiously.
After dinner, the four Duprés played bridge. Etienne had taught Jeanette how to play, and she found that she enjoyed it very much. The only time she left the house now was in the company of Etienne or Madame.
The nursery was being refurbished. The brass directoire bassinet had been padded once again with tufted white satin trimmed with tiny blue bows. Once Etienne had asked, “What if it’s a girl?”
Maman had answered, “I think it will be a son, but if it isn’t … and I only say if … we’ll change the ribbons to pink.”
Sheer white netting had been gathered and hung around the bassinet, held by a brass rod that curved at the top, where an enormous blue bow was sewn. All the Dupré children had spent their first month in this enclosure. It could be swung gently back and forth. The rocker in which Madame had held her children to her breast was placed beside the bassinet. Then the brass crib, still as bright as on the day Denise, her first-born, had slept in it, was brought to the nursery and placed in the corner. The layette had been hand-sewn by the best seamstress in Paris.
Madame spent hours telling Jeanette about the mysteries and glories of motherhood.
When she approached her (actual) eighth month, Jeanette began interviewing governesses for the older children. After seeing a dozen less than ideal applicants in the course of one day, Jeanette told Etienne that she was almost ready to settle for anybody, she was so weary of the task. She finally hired the woman with the best recommendations, a widow in her middle forties. Madeleine would serve as a nursemaid for the new baby when the trained nurse left after her confinement.
One morning, at the beginning of her ninth month, Jeanette tripped on the last step, going down to breakfast She’d managed to hold onto the banister as she fell, and seemed more frightened than hurt, but Dr. Bernier was nonetheless called, and all felt relieved when the doctor agreed that she was, and understandably, more frightened than anything else. But at one o’clock in the morning, her water broke in bed, drenching not only herself, but Etienne. Having not the slightest idea of what to do, he called his mother, who came rushing into the room, It was her greatest concern that this child not be imperfect as Etienne had been. She called Dr. Bernier immediately and asked him to come at once. The bedding was replaced, and Madeleine helped Jeanette bathe and get back into bed. Madame alerted the entire staff to be prepared for any eventuality.
Clothilde boiled large pots of water, and even Jean-Paul was summoned. Dr. Bernier arrived an hour later, knowing full well that it would probably be a long time before he was actually needed, but to please Madame he had brought
with him his obstetrical nurse, who immediately took charge.
“Are you in pain?” Etienne asked her nervously.
“No … at least not much. The pains are still too far apart to be severe.”
But soon they became more frequent, and she gripped his hand tightly, wincing and moaning as the pains became more sharp.
“Just relax between the contractions,” said the nurse, “and try to breathe naturally. You’re too tense, madame.”
Jeanette tried, but the next pain was so sharp she bit her lip and cried out. Etienne felt the pain as keenly as though it was his. She held onto his hands, digging her nails into his flesh, until it subsided. It was now six o’clock.
“I think you should leave now, Etienne,” said the doctor. “I want to examine madame again. You may come back later.”
Etienne kissed Jeanette.
“You will come back?” she said.
“Yes, as soon as the doctor says, but I’ll be just outside your door.”
Throughout the night and into the dawn her screams became louder and more frequent. Etienne came and went from Jeanette’s room, and although her suffering was unbearable for him to watch, still stayed beside her until once again he was asked to leave. Dr. Bernier vowed that this would be the last Dupré child born in this bed. It was a thoroughly archaic practice. What he needed now was his hospital staff, equipped with modern facilities, including a little gas anesthesia from time to time. He no longer believed in complete natural childbirth. She needed an episiotomy. By two o’clock in the afternoon he was convinced that, Jeanette being as small as she was, a delivery at home would be next to impossible.
Dr. Bernier knew he should perform a Caesarean. He watched Jeanette writhe in pain. Finally he told her, “You simply can’t go on this way. I’m going to make arrangements to have you taken to the hospital—”
“No, no … my child … must be born in this house … in the same bed his father was born in—”
Days of Winter Page 34
