Colette halted, her heavy dress trailing behind her. “I apologize,” she said smoothly, twisting her torso to look down at him. “Is there something more?”
Her eyes were dark, her skin pale, her lips a deep red as if she’d been biting them.
“Where have you been all afternoon?” Auguste’s heart was racing.
“Calling on Madame Telfair. She was ill last week. I loaned her a book I wanted returned.”
His wife wore an innocent, questioning look, and a tender smile that made Auguste feel foolish and irrational. He stepped backward off the stairs. Where had he thought she was?
Colette lifted a hand to the brim of her hat. “Are you quite through? I’d like to change if you’ll allow it?” she asked with a smirk. Dropping her hand and gathering up her skirt, she mounted the stairs without waiting for an answer.
“We leave for the ballet at seven!” he called, but there was no reply, just the swish of fabric and a flash of purple silk as she disappeared.
Later, Auguste would remember that she’d had no book in her hand.
* * *
It surprised them all how the two events of the next week collided.
Chapter 16
It was late October and unseasonably cold. Colette stayed longer than usual at Henri’s that day. She arrived drenched in a new perfume, wearing a heavy maroon coat, her cheeks flushed from the walk.
“Here.” She handed Henri a bottle of vintage claret she’d had the cook dig up that morning.
Wrapping his hand around the delicate neck of the bottle, Henri set the wine on the table, the glass cool and smooth under his fingers. He imagined squeezing hard enough to break it, snapping off the top and pouring the wine through the sharp, jagged glass with bloody fingers, shards glinting in their drinks.
All the memories, the guilt and remorse he’d kept tamped down, had stirred into something palpable, something alive and out of his control.
He should have told Colette to go. Firmly. Demanded it. Instead, he took a knife from the drawer and stuck it in the top of the cork, yanking it out with a sharp twist of his hand. He poured them each a glass. The wine smelled rich and spicy. Sitting across from Colette, he remembered when he was a child and she would kiss his forehead, his cheeks, smooth his hair, envelop him in hugs. It had made him happy then, her intemperate affection that seemed so lavish and excessive.
They drank in silence, tension growing between them. Eventually, Colette walked over to the larder, throwing open the doors and peering at the empty tins and jars.
“How is it you do not have a morsel of food?” she said, walking directly behind Henri. Gingerly, she rested her hands on his shoulders. Henri could feel the curve of her palms and the gentle pressure of her fingers through his thin cotton shirt. “Mademoiselle Leonie Fiavre doesn’t seem to be taking very good care of you.” She laughed, kissed the top of his head, and moved away. “Go.” She swept her hand at him. “Get us something to eat.” She went to his bed and sat down, pulling her legs up and stretching out on her side, the thin mattress heaving and creaking under her as she kicked her slippers off—one, then the other, hitting the floor with a soft thump. “Go on then,” she said, propping her hands under her cheek, her eyes closing.
Once outside, the biting cold and bright sun began to clear Henri’s head. He thought he might go to Leonie’s, but really, it was Aimée he wanted to see, to look into her shifting gray eyes and hear her speak in her clear, decisive manner. He could convince himself he hadn’t wanted to be found, and yet he was the one who followed Aimée that night when he saw her through the café window. He allowed her into his apartment. Allowed her to paint beside him. He hadn’t known how much he would miss her until she was gone. When he’d left four years ago, survival made it easy to forget. Now, he thought of her all the time, and he wasn’t ready to lose her again.
Only, he couldn’t go to Aimée with Colette on his bed, splayed out with her ankles indecently exposed. He knew she wouldn’t leave until he returned, and he had to get rid of her before he did anything senseless, irreparable.
He went to the baker’s. The bread warmed his hands through the paper as he trudged back to his apartment, aware of the blue, cloudless sky, of how the light bounced off the hard surfaces of the city, everything looking rapturous and satisfied the way things do in perfect weather. But he recognized it from a distance, from a place so far down inside himself he wasn’t sure he would ever enjoy that kind of beauty again.
Colette was awake when he opened the door, sitting on his bed with a small piece of paper in hand. At first Henri didn’t know what she held, then he saw the tin box next to her, and anger ripped through him.
“What are you doing?” He dropped the bread on the table and sprang to the edge of the bed.
“Looking for a new place to hide your money.” She waved the piece of paper in front of him. “Who wrote this?”
Henri reached for it, but Colette yanked her arm back and held it out of reach.
“You have no right to read that.” He took a step backward, resisting the urge to lunge at her. Memories from his childhood were pouring in, the rage he felt for his father, for his mother, for the powerless, meek boy he had been. His temples pulsed, and his head throbbed, and in that moment he hated Colette.
She stood up. “So, it is a love poem then.” She looked down as if she meant to read it out loud. “It’s quite eloquent. And from the tattered edges it appears as if you’ve carried it around for some time.”
Hard sunlight filled the room. Henri put his hand out, palm up. “Give it to me.”
Colette dropped the poem on the bed and stepped up to him—her perfume overwhelming. “You’re no fun at all.” She took his outstretched hand and pressed it to the side of her neck, his palm damp against her skin. “Tell me you left us for the woman who wrote this poem. Tell me you were never in love with Aimée. Tell me you didn’t leave because of me. That it was something else, entirely.” Colette rose up on her toes. “I’ve hated to think it was because of me.”
She leaned in then, and kissed him. Henri could feel the thin, sinewy muscles of her neck tense under his hand, and he gripped harder, disgusted with his arousal, with how much he wanted the taste of her wet tongue, and to reach under her dress for that warm, wet place between her legs.
Colette was the first to pull away, calculating the fragility of the moment, along with its urgency. She pressed her body against his, moving her hand to the top of his trousers, easing her fingers under his belt.
Henri shoved her, hard, with both hands, and she stumbled backward catching herself on the edge of the bed. A black rush of humiliation shot through Colette. Henri’s gentle nature was what appealed to her, his tenderness. But anger was familiar territory, and she straightened, breathing heavily, her chest heaving against the bodice of her velvet dress as she unfastened the buttons.
Henri watched, increasingly humiliated with each layer Colette shed. He wanted her, but in a frenzied, hungry, grief-stricken way, with a lifetime of longing welling up in him. To be touched. To be loved. To be told he was good.
He ran from the room.
It was half past three when he arrived at the front door of the Savarays. If Auguste had been out, Henri would have left, and never gone back. As it was, Auguste had arrived home half an hour earlier.
He was at his desk, moving his unruly eyebrows up and down and silently mouthing the numbers he was working in his head. Marie was out, and the young housemaid told him there was a man at the door who had not given his name. Auguste said to show him in, assuming it was the messenger boy with the post, or the young accountant he’d hired last week come to help him sort out his financial mess. It appeared that he had been overzealous about an investment and was now feeling the repercussions.
Henri watched from the open study doorway, unable to speak, held motionless by what he was about to do. He knew he didn’t have to go through with it. He could simply step backward and retreat. But that wouldn’t change anything
, and it wouldn’t make any of it go away.
With incredible effort, his mouth salivating at the corners, anger and fear and confusion rattling through him, Henri spoke Auguste’s name.
For that split second before Auguste looked up, he felt a quiet dread at the hushed sound of his name.
Cautiously, Auguste raised his head, scanning the face of the young man for what felt, to both of them, a very long time before fully registering that it was Henri. Finally, he stumbled from behind the desk.
The men stood silently facing each other. Auguste’s large body had gone soft, his shoulders limp, his hands heavy at his sides. He could see how guarded Henri was, how frightened.
“Henri, my boy, please come in. Sit down.”
“No, thank you.” Henri shook his head. His eyes roamed the room: the huge desk, a leather book open on top, an empty glass, an inkwell, a cigar on an end table, flames leaping in the bright, warm fireplace, and Colette, staring from the painting on the wall. “I came because I must tell you why I left.”
Auguste clasped his hands behind his back. “That’s very pragmatic of you. Why bother with petty formalities? Much better to get to it right away.”
He believed Henri had come to declare his love for Aimée. Possibly admit to improprieties with his daughter. For years, Auguste had convinced himself that this was the reason for Henri’s departure.
“The night before I left, Colette and I spent the night together. She came into my room, and I let her in my bed.” It was devastating to say out loud. A hot grip wrung Henri’s gut, and he stood as if stripped naked, knowing there was no tenable thing he could say in his defense.
He wanted to explain that he had not meant for it to happen. That he’d never even thought about it before that night. He wanted to say how dark and confused he was at first, how good it felt, how cold the house and how warm her body. He wanted to say, You were always good to me, but you weren’t my real family and I was always lonely, deeply lonely. And for a moment, that night, the loneliness went away.
But from the look on Auguste’s face, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was a betrayal of such magnitude that Auguste felt crushed by a blow that came at him from all sides. Instead of lunging at Henri, as he would have liked, he stepped away and sank into his chair, suddenly old, and very, very tired.
Quietly, his voice not sounding like his own, he said, “Get out of my house,” but the thought of Henri leaving after just this brief, pitiful moment together, was as devastating as Henri’s admission.
What Auguste wanted was for the boy he loved to drop to his knees and beg his forgiveness, crawl to him weeping. He wanted to hear all the justifications Henri wasn’t able to give. He wanted to hear Henri say it was just because he loved them all too much.
When Henri left, and his boy was gone, Auguste couldn’t get up. He sat thinking that when someone disappears, when there are no explanations, there is at least hope, but when someone turns his back and walks away, there is nothing.
Chapter 17
Colette didn’t know it was Auguste who grabbed her. He clapped a hand over her mouth and pinned her arms from behind, her wrists pinched beneath his hard fingers. She heard the bedroom door kicked shut, and then Auguste let go, spun her around, and shoved her so hard she stumbled, tripping backward onto the bed.
“Good gracious, what are you doing?” Colette struggled to get up, only to have Auguste push her back down, his hands landing just above her breasts, making the skin tingle. If it weren’t for the terrifying look on Auguste’s face, she might have thought this some new, licentious game.
For the last two hours, Auguste had been staring into the empty room imagining his wife with Henri, and now, all the rage Colette had thrown at him over the years, all the rage he’d let bounce off his head, off his heart, rose up like a roaring, blinding wave.
His wife had taken their son into her bed like a common whore. Whore wasn’t even a vile enough word for it. But whore was what he shouted, coming at her with a raised hand, shaking, his eyes blurred, and ears ringing with the swell of anger. He was going to teach her a lesson.
Colette lay on the bed where he’d shoved her, one arm flung over her head, the other across her stomach. She did not make any attempt to rise. A hot flush covered her neck and face, and her breath came in quick, short bursts.
Auguste dropped his hand. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hit her, and as he stared down at her his heart broke. He knew he couldn’t love her anymore. It made him feel as if he’d lost everything.
With alarming familiarity, his anger melted into desire. Intense desire. Instead of striking her he got down on his knees, reached his hands under her dress, and pulled down her drawers.
* * *
It was over quickly. Auguste held a clump of her hair in one hand and gripped her chin with his other, his fingers digging into her jawbone. When he was through he let go and rolled onto his back.
Colette closed her eyes. Her scalp hurt, and her face felt tender and bruised. Reaching down, she pulled her dress back over her legs. Her bustle was crushed beneath her, and she wondered if it was ruined, if she’d have to replace the whole thing, or if the steel might be reshaped. It reminded her of the first time a man had taken her to bed. It happened very much this way, and she’d lain just like this thinking of the most ordinary things. That man had stood above her, pulling his trousers back on, saying that he couldn’t help himself because she was simply too beautiful. And wasn’t it kind of him to show her how special she was?
She now realized it was in this same twisted way that she’d tried to show Henri how special he was, how much she loved him. That was all. She had not meant to hurt him, or anyone else for that matter.
Auguste lay next to her breathing heavily, his fury spent, sweat pooling at the hollow in his neck as he stared at the motif on the bed curtain. It was a repeating pattern of blue flowers circling a white buck being attacked by three white dogs. The absurdity of this, of covering their entire bedroom—curtains, coverlet, upholstered divan, and two upholstered chairs—in this grotesque scene made him laugh out loud, a sharp bark that cracked the silence.
He took a breath, and it was as if the teeth of those dogs were sinking into his own flesh when he asked, “Jacques is not mine, is he?”
Neither of them moved. There was no fire, and the room had grown cold. Colette thought of resting her hand on some part of Auguste, but couldn’t.
“No,” she said, “he is not.”
They lay until the room grew dark, until not even the blue toile canopy was visible anymore. Eventually, Auguste sat up, grateful that Colette appeared only as a shimmering lump of white fabric. He could not have looked her in the face.
“Where does Henri live?” He stood up, pulled on his drawers and trousers, and straightened the frock coat, which he had not bothered to take off.
“Will you hurt him?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
Their voices were oddly kind, as if they knew what sorrows lay ahead, as if they both, in their own way, were sorry.
“Number 18, on the rue de Calais,” she whispered.
Auguste stepped into his shoes and stood over the bed. It hurt to breathe, as if the truth had cracked every rib in his chest. Colette had not moved other than to pull her dress down. She looked almost peaceful, lying still, her hair spread around her shoulders, dark as the night that had crept in on them.
“Have Marie make up a room for you,” Auguste said.
Colette didn’t respond, but he could hear her breathing in the dark, a sound so soft and familiar it felt like a part of his own body.
He turned and left, imagining he’d spend the rest of his life listening for that sound.
* * *
Henri sat at his table with the empty bottle of wine and the poem Colette had found spread in front of him. He had not read it since he was a boy, and he was surprised to find his mother’s words familiar and comforting, not painful, like he imagined. It reminded him that things
were not always as they seemed, and that love was slippery and changeable.
The knock startled him. It was late, and he wasn’t up for seeing anyone, not even Leonie, but the lamp glowed brightly, and whoever it was knew perfectly well he was at home, so Henri answered the door.
It was the boy he noticed first. A pair of short, chunky legs and a head of pale hair dropped forward; he was sound asleep on Auguste’s shoulder.
Jacques had fallen asleep in the carriage, and Auguste had been very careful not to stroke his hair, or hold his hand. That would have been too much. It was hard enough having the boy’s warm body wrapped around his middle.
“Take him,” Auguste said, lifting Jacques through the air, the boy’s limp head rolling back as he was clumsily transferred into Henri’s arms. “This is Jacques. He’s your son.”
Jacques’s soft leather shoes bumped Henri’s thighs as he hoisted the boy up, awkwardly, staring at Auguste, shock and confusion quickly turning to panic as the weight of this very real child settled on him.
Auguste cleared his throat, the emptiness in his arms a physical pain in his body. “You must give him your name, your real name. A man must know who he is; otherwise he has no place in the world.”
He could not look at Henri, or Jacques. He just shoved listless hands in his pockets, bent his head, and hurried back down the stairs.
As the driver slapped the reins on the horses’ backs, Auguste smashed his fists into the carriage seat. He was an imbecile. It was freezing out, and he hadn’t even remembered the boy’s coat. He looked back at the window of the apartment, hoping Henri knew enough to cover the child properly in his sleep. He’d have Jacques’s things sent over first thing in the morning—and currant jelly; Henri wouldn’t know that the boy’s favorite treat was currant jelly.
Auguste remembered driving away from his son Léon’s grave, Colette sitting across from him, irreparable pain on her face. He remembered Aimée’s screams, and how he’d had to hold her in his lap for fear she might leap out of the carriage window.
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