Days of Winter

by Cynthia Freeman

  “And now … why are you looking so closely now?”

  “I was a schoolgirl when I met you, Jean-Paul. I was also a very bitter young person. I was entitled, I felt, to anything, everything.”

  “And now?”

  She didn’t want to cry if she could help it. She also wouldn’t discuss Etienne if she could possibly help it.

  “I discovered I couldn’t go on living the way I had been. How can I explain it, Jean-Paul? You intrigued me, fascinated me. I was innocent but in a way I wasn’t. My feelings were close to the surface. You knew what to do with them. …Please, Jean-Paul, I’m not blaming you … much more myself. …But I do know that what I felt wasn’t love. I think you know it, too—”

  “We had a child,” he shouted. “We had a child. You’ve conveniently forgotten, it seems, who the father is.” He was deep into his third glass of brandy.

  “No, I haven’t and it was seeing what I thought was your genuine pain at not being able to claim your son, to have his love, that made me understand I’m not the only one who has been hurt, but, Jean-Paul, you must accept it, his father is Etienne, and cruel as that is for you—”

  “That crippled little bastard couldn’t be the father of anything—”

  “You’re wrong, Jean-Paul. Etienne may walk with a limp, but I assure you he’s less crippled than you … or I.”

  “Why, you pitiful little slut, how dare you? I picked you up from nowhere, a damned nobody. I made you respectable, a lady …” He shook his head and finished the brandy. “You could hardly wait to take what I gave you every time you came here. …But I gave you much more—I gave you a home and a child with a name. My God, you should be in the gutter where you belong.” He wanted to choke her, kill her. …

  “You really gave me nothing. You only had me believing that. You used me, and your mother, by conniving to hurt Etienne, whom you’ve always despised. Clothilde told me how you tried to drown him. I didn’t believe it then, but I believe it now. She told me that sooner or later you destroy everything you touch. Your wife is in an institution because of you—”

  And now all his restraint was gone. “Suppose your crippled husband knew that Henri isn’t his. What do you suppose he would do? I’ll tell you. He’d throw you out, which is exactly what you deserve. God knows you don’t deserve to have the name Dupré!”

  She’d been expecting it. “He might, Jean-Paul, and he would certainly be justified. …But I don’t think you’ll tell him, because if you did I would have no reason not to also tell him how you manipulated us all, including your mother, into the marriage. I don’t think I’m what you’ve called me, Jean-Paul, but you may be right, perhaps I’m not a lady … at least not if that means fighting for my child and my husband.”

  His body seemed to slump. He had lost out to his lousy crippled brother, a man he despised with a passion, just as he now despised this outrageous girl. He had given them a child, a son, a boy he loved. And now he was helpless to do anything about it. She was right … if his mother ever learned the truth, she would never forgive him. …He might even lose his inheritance. …

  But he promised himself one thing … if it took the rest of his life, he would even the score with both of them. Somehow, some way, he would do it “All right, get out of here, you miserable little whore. Go back to your precious crippled husband. …I only hope that some day your body is as repulsive to him as it is to me. …”

  How she ever got home, she would never know. She got into bed and put her hands over her ears, trying to shut out the memory of Jean-Paul’s words. Over and over again, they reverberated in her head. She felt such hatred for herself, she wanted to die. …Jean-Paul had done a far better job than he could ever guess. …Oh, Papa, am I, after all, my mother’s daughter …?

  For weeks she couldn’t face herself. Sometimes she fell into deep depressions. She found herself asking her husband time and time again, “Do you love me?”

  He was bewildered by the question. Did she really need reassurance? Surely she already knew? That was a question she had never had to ask before.

  And for the first time in their marriage, she even made excuses when he wanted to make love to her, excuses he couldn’t quite accept but he didn’t press the issue. She had almost died … the doctors had warned that they couldn’t predict all her reactions, that even months after the operation there could be unforeseen complications. …When she was ready she would let him know.

  She knew Etienne was confused—though she was glad the doctors had provided a built-in excuse—but how could she make love to Etienne when she felt so unworthy … unclean, even …? She didn’t leave the house for weeks, remaining shut up in her room most of the day … my God, like Jacqueline. …She scarcely saw Henri, feeling she wasn’t fit to be his mother. Her mind lived now in the torment of the past. She was, she decided, the most sinful woman alive, and there could be no atonement. …

  One day, unable to see her as she was any longer, Etienne came to their room and sat in the dim shadows that came between dusk and evening. “What’s wrong, my dearest? Don’t you feel well? Please tell me.”

  She lay motionless on the bed, her hand over her eyes. “It’s nothing, Etienne. Really nothing—”

  “I’m going to call Dr. Villon, there’s something wrong that you’re not—”

  “No, please don’t. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “But you seemed so well and happy when we came back from our holiday.”

  “I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll be all right in a few days.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything …”

  “Tomorrow, I want you and Henri to take a long drive with me into the country and we will have lunch. …”

  She opened her eyes and turned to look at him. “Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do. You know that.”

  Tears were running down her cheeks and she reached out to him. “Oh, God, Etienne, I’m sorry, I’m so miserable. …”

  That evening, thoroughly alarmed now, he went to see his mother. “Maman, I’m very worried, there’s something terribly wrong and I’ve no idea what it is. She doesn’t want me to but I think I really must call the doctor—”

  “Listen to me, Etienne … I’m not certain, but I strongly suspect that Jeanette wants another child, and through no fault of hers … or yours … hasn’t been able to become pregnant. I know how I felt after your birth, when I wanted another baby so much … your father did too … and wasn’t able to … well, Jeanette is probably going through the same disappointment, and depression. Just have patience, Etienne. That’s what a woman needs most of all. Believe me. …”

  Of course, she was right, and he remembered their talk about another child and how he’d turned aside the idea. No wonder she kept asking, “Do you love me?” Oh, God, why had he been so stupid?

  The next day he insisted they drive to the country. The weather was cold and crisp and fall was in the air as the leaves drifted slowly to the ground. He saw to it that she was bundled up in a fur coat, and her lap covered with a car robe. Henri wore a navy blue overcoat, a beret, a red knitted muffler and mittens. He sat between them, and clearly enjoyed the ride and magnificent countryside.

  By noon they found a quiet inn where they stopped for lunch and sampled the new Beaujolais. The proprietor poured it himself, with a flourish.

  “Delicious,” said Etienne, after letting it rest on his palate. He hoped his own grapes had produced as fine a vintage. As he looked at Jeanette picking at her food and forcing a smile, he decided he was going to have to be not only patient, but more reassuring to her about his love.

  And as she looked at him, she made up her mind to make a special effort—which, of course, was the beginning out of her long funk—to be more pleasant and responsive to him. He’d been so incredibly kind and patient. …

  When they returned home Jeanette did seem in somewhat better spirits. That night Etienne thought he read a change in her and proceed
ed to make passionate, almost desperate love to her, and she did her best to respond in kind. She owed him this, at least, and so much more. …

  In the weeks that followed she seemed gradually to restore herself until suddenly, one day, she realized that she hadn’t awakened with the too familiar, ugly, haunting thoughts of Jean-Paul

  As for Jean-Paul, it seemed he had been sent off to Tunisia by the Foreign Office. That, in any case, was what he had told his mother. It at least helped to explain his continued absence from the house. …

  But in December he returned, and one day he called his mother on the telephone to ask if he might come to dinner that evening and bring a friend. Madame was overjoyed. Excitedly, she went over the menu with Clothilde, making certain it included every special dish that Jean-Paul loved. She personally selected the red, white and gold Limoges service, and the Baccarat wine goblets. She decorated the table with red roses in a crystal-and-bronze bowl with five-branched candelabra at either end, welcoming in the Christmas season, and her son too long away from her table.

  Jeanette fought to keep her new-formed composure when she heard Jean-Paul would be there, but inwardly she was far from certain she could get through the evening. But she had to. He was out of her life … well then, prove it …

  She dressed with special care in a long, delicate pink gown. Her hair was fussed over until it was exactly the way she wanted it. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing the agony he had put her through. Her cheeks were rouged slightly more than usual … to show her off well in the candlelit room.

  But when the doorbell rang, her heart began to beat loudly in her ears. For a moment she thought she might faint. Then he was there, coming into the room, with a dazzling woman on his arm.

  “Maman,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ve missed you very much.”

  “And I you, Jean-Paul,” she answered, at the same time appraising her new guest She knew perfectly well that Jean-Paul had mistresses, but still … a son did not bring a mistress to his mother’s home.

  Jean-Paul recognized the look on Maman’s face. Laughing to himself he said, “Maman, may I present Madame Lazare, the wife of our distinguished ambassador to Tunisia?”

  “How do you do?” Madame said coolly.

  Jean-Paul understood the tone of Maman’s voice, both when she was pleased and when she was not. He realized that she was wondering where and with whom the distinguished ambassador himself was dining tonight. …

  Madame Lazare said, “May I thank you for having me this evening. I’m truly pleased, Madame, to meet you and your family.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” Madame answered with reserve.

  After making the introductions, Jean-Paul turned his attention completely to Etienne. After fifteen minutes of seemingly innocuous small talk he said, “Tell me, how is my godson?”

  “Getting bigger every day, and into more mischief than you can imagine.”

  Jean-Paul laughed. “I can’t imagine where he would get such habits … certainly not from you, or his mother. …”

  Jeanette, furious, could only pray the evening would end soon. Obviously Madame Lazare had been brought here for her special benefit. Even at the risk of offending his supposedly beloved Maman. Well, she would play his game and beat him. … “You must miss Paris, Madame Lazare, when your husband’s work takes you away?”

  “Not at all. I’m here more often than I am in Tunisia. After all, I must do all my shopping in Paris.”

  “Then that must take you away from your husband a great deal?”

  “My husband is so busy with his duties, I’m afraid he hardly has time to miss me before I am back. Tunisia is a most delightful place. You must come and visit us.”

  “How kind of you. …”

  Jean-Paul stood watching, pleased. He had slapped Jeanette in the face, and she knew it, although he had to admit she was handling herself far better than he’d imagined she was capable of.

  At dinner Françoise Lazare sat across from Jean-Paul. Unfortunately, Jeanette found herself seated next to him. Etienne sat at the head of the table, Madame sat at the other end. Jean-Paul talked a great deal, telling amusing little stories that made even Madame laugh a little. Jeanette could hardly stand to listen to the sound of his voice, and it was all she could do to remain through dinner, but she would stay if it killed her. …She smiled now at Madame Lazare.

  “Do you have any children?” she said, which was rather obviously out of context in the conversation.

  “Yes. Two—a son and a daughter.”

  “How nice for you. And where do they attend school? Here in Paris?”

  “Oh, no, in Switzerland.”

  “How nice.” Jeanette’s voice was somewhat slurred. She had been drinking more than usual. “We hope our next child will be a daughter and the next a son, although it doesn’t really matter. We’ll be grateful for whatever comes along. Won’t we, darling?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Etienne, beginning to feel increasingly edgy and concerned for her.

  “But we will never send them away to school, will we, darling? Children grow up so quickly. Parents deprive themselves of the joys of their childhood by not having them close at hand. …Why, our own Henri will soon be three, and we’ve definitely decided he will go to school here in Paris … so his father and I can see him every day. Of course, the schools in Tunisia are probably unsuitable.”

  Françoise Lazare was definitely offended. Jeanette knew it, Etienne knew it. Madame knew it, and thought, bravo, Jeanette! Jean-Paul, looking at Jeanette, wanted to kill her.

  Dinner finally came to an end. Although Jeanette had a headache, she was determined not to go to her room before Jean-Paul and his friend left … not even if it killed her.

  They returned to the salon. Without being asked, Jeanette said, “In honor of Madame Lazare, the wife of our distinguished ambassador to Tunisia, I’d like to play my husband’s favorite piece, Clair de Lune.” She was by now also feeling decidedly tipsy.

  Adjusting her gown, she sat down and began to play. One or two bars were slightly ragged, but she continued to the end. Staggering, ever so slightly, she got up and curtsied as though before royalty, smiled brilliantly at Jean-Paul, then seated herself next to Etienne, and took his arm.

  “That was … delightful,” Madame Lazare said coldly. “And now, thank you, Madame, for a … for your hospitality. But I have an extremely early appointment in the morning. …”

  And she walked to Jean-Paul’s side and took his arm, the arm of a very frustrated diplomat … The little bitch, Jean-Paul thought, she’d learned the master’s technique too well. Never mind, his turn would come, he hadn’t forgotten what she’d done to him. He’d find a way, have no fear about that. …

  He kissed Maman good night, thanked her for dinner, saying he would be here every evening from now on since he was back in Paris to stay. He put his hand on Etienne’s shoulder, barely touched Jeanette’s hand, which she extended regally, if unsteadily, and with Madame Lazare clinging to his arm as though it were a life raft, made his departure.

  The morning after, Jeanette reviewed her behavior and realized she’d no doubt been drunk for the first time in her life. Had she, she wondered, made a complete ass of herself? She said it out loud at luncheon to Madame, adding, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you, Maman.”

  “Not in the least … I was proud of you. I don’t understand at all, Jean-Paul bringing that woman here, unaccompanied by her husband. The very idea! He knows I am no fool, that I know about such things. Why would he offend me, and in my own home …?”

  Jeanette wished she had never brought up the subject, and was grateful when Etienne joined them and the conversation turned to the latest news. “What do you think, Etienne? Will there be a war?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said, “but I’m sure that we French can handle Herr Hitler. …”

  Jeanette was relieved to hear it, and unable not to be grateful as well for a likely side effect … Jean-Paul, in his
government role, would surely be too busy to fulfill his threat of the previous evening to be with the family every night for dinner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HITLER WAS AN EXCRESCENCE flowing across Europe. It was feared that before long, France and England would have to become involved. With the threat of war in the air, as Jeanette had suspected, Jean-Paul no longer joined the family at dinner. That, at least, saved some embarrassment. He often was detained at the Foreign Office well into the night. He threw himself into his work with all his vigor. The stronger Hitler became, the more territory he acquired, the more Jean-Paul became convinced that one day Adolf Hitler would, as he had boasted in Mein Kampf, rule the world. And Jean-Paul was determined to be on the winning side. Secretly, he became purposefully pro-Nazi, joining with those who felt the same way.

  At the first meeting he attended, he was more than a little surprised to see some of the leading French statesmen and diplomats also present. Naturally their sympathies were a guarded secret, and Jean-Paul was appropriately cautious. When he discussed the force and magnetism of Der Führer, he was careful to make sure that the people he talked to were of the same opinion. …His diplomatic training, as he’d always known it would be, became increasingly valuable.

  It was a crisp, cold January morning when Jean-Paul Dupré arrived at Templehoff Airport in Berlin. A limousine dispatched by the French Embassy was waiting. The car, tri-colored flags attached to the front fenders, sped along the wide boulevards, which were lined with banners of bold red swastikas on backgrounds of white. Golden eagles hung above the entries of all the state buildings, presumably to make Berlin look like Rome at the height of its might and glory. Black-and brown-shirted S.S. men were everywhere. Many people all over the world feared that Europe was on the verge of war, that if the little house painter from Munich occupied Poland the conflict could become incendiary. But here, in Berlin, all appeared to be calm and serene. Well-fed, well-dressed Berliners went about their normal routines—shopping, working, eating their wiener schnitzel and guzzling their schnapps.