by Frank Yerby
But they had come up to the group around Fleurette now. Several of the younger men had already joined it. Buzot and Barbaroux were vying with each other to render her homage, trying to outdo each other in their gallantries. Roland de la Platnière himself, Minister of the Interior and Manon’s “wife” as all the world jestingly called him, stood at Fleurette’s side. He was a tall man, thin as a reed, dry, pedantic, dull. Manon had married him because, in her intellectual youth, one of the co-authors of the Encyclopedia had seemed a demi-god to her. But the feet of clay—that indeed the whole man was clay—had soon become apparent.
“Flenrette. . . .” Jean said.
Again that quick, vivacious lift of her small head, those darkly beautiful eyes staring straight at his face as though she could see him.
“My God!” Nicole whispered, “how incredibly lovely!”
“I want to present two new friends,” Jean said slowly, “who will become old friends, I hope. Citizen and Citizeness Bethune—my wife.”
Claude Bethune took Fleurette’s hand and kissed it. But moved by some obscure impulse, Nicole bent forward and kissed her cheek. As she did so, Fleurette felt her tears.
“Why do you cry, Citoyenne?” Fleurette said.
“Forgive me,” Nicole whispered, “but I am horribly impulsive. My husband says it’s because I’ve been so ill. I wept, my dear, at the thought that eyes so beautiful could—not see. . . .”
“Nicole!” Bethune growled.
“Do not rebuke her, M’sieur,” Fleurette said. “Her voice is kind, and I am quite used to pity. It is very tiresome sometimes, but only when the person pitying me does so out of a feeling of superiority. When it is sincere, when it shows real kindness, I don’t mind it much. Come, Citoyenne Bethune, and sit by me.”
Nicole came over, and the too handsome Barbaroux made a place for her.
“Look at them!” Manon Roland exclaimed; “Venus—and Diana—the opposites of perfect beauty!”
“I,” Claude Bethune murmured, “would have said day—and night. But they do set each other off, don’t they? Come, Citoyen Marin, a glass and a word with you.”
Jean nodded and moved off with the provincial business man. Glancing back, he could see Nicole and Fleurette already deep in conversation, both of them now perfectly at ease as though they had known each other all their lives.
Standing by the buffet, Claude Bethune looked at Jean with sombre eyes.
“I, Citizen Marin,” he said slowly, “have been dreading this day. . . .”
Jean stood there, waiting.
“I knew it would come some time, in spite of all my hopes. I removed my residence and my business to Paris to avoid it. And here, ironically, I find it almost at once.”
“I think I follow your drift,” Jean Paul said. “You know nothing of your wife’s past, do you?”
“No. Nor do I want to! You, Citizen Marin, are of a distinguished family. Besides, you yourself are a man of parts and attainments. . . .”
“The flattery,” Jean said dryly, “is unnecessary, M. Bethune.”
“I do not flatter. I have heard of you, as has anyone who has lived in Paris for any length of time. You are known as a just and honourable man; it is said that you are not wanting in mercy. ‘Tis upon that I must rely.”
“Mercy?” Jean said. “Why?”
“Look, I am not young. Put yourself in my place. Now, late in life, I have found perfect happiness. Naturally I want to keep it.”
“Naturally,” Jean said.
“I have told you that I have no desire to learn of my wife’s past. What is more important, I don’t want her to. She has forgotten it—because, I think, it was so terrible that her mind cannot bean to contemplate it.”
“It was,” Jean said grimly.
“Don’t tell me! This much I know. When I found Nicole, whose last name I do not yet know, she was mad. She wept day and night and could not eat. She was terribly, terribly ill—from exposure, from starvation, from—brutality. . . .”
“She had been ravished,” Jean said with blunt cruelty, “that was it, Citizen Bethune?”
Naked anguish showed in Bethune’s eyes, and instantly Jean was sorry. I have been hating this man, he thought, and my hatred is petty, and worse. He is a man, and nowise is this his fault.
“Yes—” Bethune whispered, “repeatedly. . . .”
Jean put his strong hand on Bethune’s shoulder.
“My friend,” he said gravely, and his eyes held Bethune’s, “this I must tell you, because it will be good for you to know. Your wife was the finest, sweetest, and most decent of women. I knew her well. I do not lie. I will not tell you more because there are things in her past dangerous to her present safety. But nothing in her past reflects any discredit upon her. She was, and is—an angel.”
Bethune gazed at him shrewdly.
“She was an aristocrat?” he whispered.
“A noblewoman,” Jean murmured, scarcely moving his lips, “of one of the greatest families in France.”
“I knew it! Her manners, her grace . . .”
“Quiet!” Jean warned. “Let one of these howling Jacobins discover that, and. . . .”
“Thank you, Marin,” Bethune said quietly. “You don’t know what a weight you’ve lifted from my heart. I’ve tortured myself with formless jealousy—that she could have been a courtesan, for instance—they, too, often have lovely manners.”
“I know. That’s why I told you.”
“But what I fear most is the fact that my wife’s mental health is still—delicate. You’ve seen how easily she cries. If she were reminded, if the past were brought back to her, she might easily slip back into the madness I laboured so long to bring her out of.”
Jean thought suddenly, bitterly, of the two little mounds of earth, of the pitiful bones of Nicole’s children, brutally slain.
“You are right,” he said. “I know better than you how right you are. You have my most solemn oath, Citoyen, that never in this life will I do anything, say anything, either to your wife, or mine, or anyone upon the face of God’s earth, that would cause her to be confronted with her tragic past.”
Claude Bethune put out his hand. Jean took it.
“You, Marin,” he said, “have my undying gratitude and my lifelong friendship. At long last I have met a man who is all that people say of him.”
“Thank you,” Jean smiled; “but we’d better go back now. The ladies will be getting suspicious.”
“Right,” Claude Bethune said.
“Jean,” Fleurette said in the carriage on their way home, “I just love that Nicole Bethune! She is the sweetest thing; I’ve invited her to visit me—often.”
“No!” Jean got out.
“Why not?” Fleurette asked.
“I—I cannot tell you that. But take my word for it, love, we must see as little of them as possible. The connection is politically dangerous. . . .”
“Oh,” Fleurette said.
The carriage moved along in silence. Just before it turned into their street, Fleurette spoke again.
“Jean,” she said, “why did you lie to me?”
“I?” Jean gasped; “whatever on earth made you say that?”
“Because I know. This has nothing to do with politics. I gathered from the way the young men spoke of her that Madame Bethune is terribly beautiful. You knew her before, didn’t you? Were you in love with her?”
Jean Paul stared at his wife.
“Yes,” he said quietly; “to both questions—yes.”
More silence. The carriage moved on, stopped before their gate. “For God’s love, Fleurette,” Jean shouted; “say something!”
“Why?” Fleurette said. “What is there to say? She remembers nothing of her life before her illness. She told me that you recognised her, that she was hoping you’d tell her husband what you knew. I know now you didn’t tell him, because you couldn’t. I like her. That she was once in love with you is unimportant; it simply shows she has good taste.”
/> “Thank you,” Jean said dryly.
“I know you’re disturbed by seeing her again, but you’ll get over it. I’ll see to that. I’m not going to ask you how you feel about her now, because I don’t think you know. You men are so terribly stupid. And that, too, is unimportant; because she’s married to a man whom she loves. You, my great bear of a husband, have a wonderful sense of honour. However much you may be confused at the moment, you won’t do anything about it. First because you don’t even know how to play dirty tricks; and secondly because I won’t let you.”
Jean stared at her, wondering: Whence came this wonderful sense of security? It is, I think, because life has done all it could to her, and now she knows her strength.
“I am listening, Madame General!” he mocked.
Fleurette turned to him and took both his big hands between her own.
“I love you, Jean,” she said simply, “far, far more than you’ll even love me. I know that. But I don’t care. After a life of sorrow, I have finally found happiness. More than I ever dreamed possible. The whole point is I am not going to give it up. I’ll fight for my happiness, fight for you—in any way I have to. I don’t think this poor, half-demented woman is any threat. Even if she later becomes one, I can handle her—and I have already proved to my own satisfaction that I can manage you, without your even knowing you’re being managed. Alors, what are we waiting for? Help me down, my great, handsome husband of the ten thousand mysterious loves!”
Jean stared at her a long moment. Then, very slowly, he started to laugh. But it was very good laughter, lacking even mockery. Fleurette stopped it finally by closing his laughing mouth with a kiss.
“Come,” she whispered, “and I’ll convince you once and for all you have no need to look at other women. For what, mon Jean, could you find abroad that you have not already—at home?”
But the Bethunes did pay them a call, and seeing Fleurette’s unfeigned delight in Nicole’s company, Jean knew that he was powerless to interfere. The two women struck up sisterly camaraderie as close as that which existed between Fleurette and Marianne.
“It’s a good thing,” Claude Bethune pointed out; “beware of a woman who has no true feminine friends, Jean. There is sure to be a predatory streak in her character. Besides, this friendship seems good for Nicole, and apparently your Fleurette enjoys it. You—you’ve told her nothing, I hope?”
“No,” Jean smiled. “I know that much about women. They could never keep such a secret for an instant.”
But he was not prepared for their becoming literally inseparable. Nicole was in his house morning, noon, and night. Seeing her laughing, gay, filled with happiness, he suffered. Seeing her, as he often did, sad, brooding, he suffered more. Often he found her blue eyes following him with accusing speculation. He had told her the first time she requested information about her past that he would not give it, simply because it was not good for her to know. She seemed to accept this, but he was more and more aware of the angry puzzlement in her eyes.
He had at length an answer to the letter he had written Bertrand:
“Of course,” it read in part, “Lamont is alive. I see him frequently, poor devil. Why do you ask this? La Moyte is here, and your red-haired minx, Mile Talbot; she is making his life a hell—they have the most disgraceful scenes, and in public too.
“Everyone is alarmed over the war. I have at last got passports for Simone and myself to go to England. You’ve been very good about sending me monies; but now I have, I think, a wonderful scheme! Send me, if you can, all that is left of my inheritance. I will open Marin et Fils in London. You’ve mentioned your fear that a war with England would ruin you; here, dear brother, will be your preservation. I shall become a British citizen as soon as possible. You invest as heavily as you can in my company. Then, when the war is over—join me! You may depend upon it that an English Marin and Sons will never be swept from the seas. . . .”
There was more. But the chief things had been established. Nicole’s marriage to Bethune had not a shadow of legality, honest mistake that it doubtless was. And Bertrand’s scheme for salvaging the family fortunes against the wreckage of war was perfectly feasible.
But, Jean mused, is it patriotic? In the event of war, will I not be arming the sinews of the enemy? Will not even my brother become the enemy? God, it makes a man’s head spin. . . .
And this other thing. It is bootless to tell Bethune that he has merely a mistress, not a wife, since it can only cause him pain and arrange nothing. . . . Sacré bleu! Is there nothing simple in life?
But nothing was. Already in the Legislative Assembly the mere possession of wealth was beginning to make a man the target of unbridled attacks. It was this that beat down at last Jean’s scruples against investing in Bertrand’s company. If my country denies me the right to keep the money I’ve earned by my honest efforts, I must limit my defence of her to the bearing of arms; for in this she is not right, and I am entitled to protect myself. . . .
But it was Pierre who pointed out how alarming things had become.
“Look, my old one,” he said, “I took the liberty of buying that old tenement in the Fauboung Saint-Antoine where you used to live. If they keep up their legal attacks, you’re going to need it. You’d best sell that magnificent castle of yours.”
“Never!” Jean growled.
“Listen, and don’t be a stubborn fool! Today France is ruled by men who were failures in everything they attempted, misfits, madmen—and their politics is merely envy elevated to a religion. Tomorrow your glaring wealth may cost you your life and Fleurette’s too! Pack away your fine clothes—come back to the apartment, live simply but comfortably, loudly complain of reverses in public, and you’ll be let alone.”
“The day,” Jean said flatly, “that I crawl into a hole because of the sewer rats of Paris, I would rather be dead. As for the vermin that currently infest the Assembly, I would not waste my spittle upon their dirty faces. In most things, mon ami, I have always been a man. The day that they make of me a whimpering thing, dependent upon their sufferance—that day I die!”
Pierre shrugged.
“As you will, my old one,” he said.
On the morning of June 20, Jean was alone in the house except for the servants. Fleurette had gone shopping with Marianne to buy certain rare silks, lately smuggled into Paris. Jean had a small office on the first floor, where he often worked alone. In truth, he had a secret set of books there which alone showed the true state of his business, kept there under lock and key far from the prying eyes of bureaucracy. The manservant knocked on the door.
“Madame Bethune is below,” he said.
Jean groaned inside his heart. How can I see her, he thought, like this—alone? Every time I look at her my whole body tingles with memory. I think that sometimes she almost remembers too—I have surprised upon her face certain expressions like—like tenderness. My imagination, perhaps. . . .
He got up from his chair, patted a glossy lock of hair back into place, and went down the stairs.
Nicole put out her small hand to him.
“Fleurette is not here?” she said.
Slowly Jean shook his head.
“Then I must go,” Nicole said nervously.
“Why?” Jean said mockingly; “are you afraid of me?”
Nicole studied his dark, scarred face.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Why?” Jean Paul said. “My face?”
“No. I—I don’t know. Ring for some coffee, M. Marin, and I’ll try to explain
Jean opened the door to the petit salon.
Entrez, Madame,” he said.
Nicole sat on the edge of her chain staring at him. Jean didn’t say anything until after the servant brought the coffee. Then, very sadly, he smiled.
“You were going to tell me why you feared me,” he said.
“Must I?” Nicole whispered; “it is, I think, a shameful thing. . . .”
“As you like,” Jean said gravely; “I
would never press you.”
Nicole stiffened, and her eyes flashed blue fire.
“I’ll tell you,” she said. “Perhaps I’m wrong. At any rate, I sicken of it—the way I feel, I mean. I love my husband. He is the kindest, the best of men. But my past is a blank. I must ask you one thing: was I ever, in my past life—married to you, perhaps?”
“No,” Jean said.
“Then I am mad!” Nicole whispered in pure horror.
“Why do you think that?” Jean said.
“Because, because—oh, Jean, I cannot say it!”
“You called me Jean,” he pointed out, “you’ve never done that before.”
“Never before to you. But how many million times to myself when I am alone! I have had to stop myself on the brink of calling my husband ‘Jean’. You ask me why I fear you; the answer is that I don’t—’tis myself I fear! I look at you and my hands yearn to stroke your face, in some old, old way—as though they have done it—how many times before?—as though they were accustomed to the feel. I see your mouth, your wild, terrible mouth, forever smiling as though it mocked God and Satan, and I know, I know precisely how your kisses feel. . . .”
She bent her head and gave way to wild and soundless weeping.
Jean sat there frozen, not daring to move.
She straightened up, looking at him, her eyes twin sapphires, her cheeks diamond-streaked.
“I love my husband. I have loved him with my body, dutifully, as a good wife should. But, Jean, tell me, have you a scar from an old wound—a pistol shot, I think, on your back, to the left, just below your ribs?”
“Yes,” Jean said grimly, “I have.”
“How did I know that? Tell me how? How could I know your body as I know my own? I am a decent woman; but I know your skin is bronzed and silken-smooth with but the lightest down of hair upon your chest. I know your arms are like bands of steel, and your mouth, your mouth. . . .”
She stood up wildly.
“Let me go!” she screamed, “let me out of here!” Jean stood up and moved aside.
