Fascination in France

by Barbara Cartland

  ‘But I have to look after her,’ she told herself. ‘She will be swallowed up by all the issues that are not important instead of concentrating on those that are.’

  It was difficult, however, to persuade herself that getting married was not the most important step of all.

  And that was exactly what Lord Waterforde had sprung on his daughter the very day of leaving school.

  Chapter Two

  The Duc de Sahran drove down the Champs Élysées with an expertise and a flourish that was the envy of his contemporaries.

  He was well aware that his open chaise was more up to date and more recognisable than any others moving in the same direction.

  His horses were superlative and his groom, sitting with crossed arms, wore livery that was smarter than the liveries of all the other aristocrats.

  He had been quite young when he decided that he would expect perfection in everything and most of all in his château in Provence.

  He had inherited his father’s title when he was only twenty-one.

  From that moment he had set out to have everything around him as sublime as was possible to find in an imperfect world.

  Being extremely intelligent, he knew that he was the envy of his friends and a source of fury to his enemies.

  It did not trouble him that a large number of people disliked him, but his real friends were very precious.

  That he was talked about was something to be expected, especially as he was also extremely handsome.

  Ever since he had left school, women had fallen into his arms even before he asked their names.

  The result had inevitably made him somewhat cynical.

  He was well aware that, if he had been a poor man with no prospects, he would have had to struggle very much harder.

  Yet he was sure that he would attain all that he desired in life – nothing less than perfection.

  When he reached La Place de la Concorde, he deliberately drove around it twice before moving towards the Rue de Rivoli.

  It always gave him enormous satisfaction to look at the beauty of Paris and to remember also that it had been La Place de la Revolution, from which his family had escaped.

  They had saved their lives, but what infuriated him whenever he thought about it was that the family château had been looted.

  This was a bitter blow because the Revolutionary trend had not been so violent in Provence as in other parts of France.

  Many treasures that had been collected by his ancestors over the years – and the Sahrans were one of the oldest families in France – had been lost.

  The rag-tag and bobtail who burst into The Château when there was no one there to protect it and stole everything that they could lay their hands on.

  The Duc had pored over the diaries written by his ancestors and he had also gone very carefully and diligently through the catalogues made by the different generations.

  There were so many pieces missing that he had set out to find as many of them as possible.

  He had, in fact, succeeded better than his fondest hopes.

  This success had increased, even exaggerated his desire to get his own way in everything.

  It had certainly strengthened his determination, which those who worked for him said ‘was as stiff as an iron bar’.

  In fact, once he had made up his mind, it was very difficult to persuade him to change it in any way.

  Apart from these rather unusual aspects of his character, he was kind and exceedingly generous.

  He was considerate to those who worked for him and was known in Provence as an outstandingly good landowner and employer.

  After his second drive round La Place de la Concorde, he duly turned into the Rue de Rivoli and then he turned again in the direction of the Place Vendôme.

  He stopped outside the shop of one of Paris’s famous jewellers and handed the reins to the groom who accompanied him.

  Inside he was treated with respect and by the female assistants with looks of open admiration.

  It was well-known that the Duc had given some outstanding jewellery to women who enjoyed his favours and the jewellers of Paris competed with one another to attract his custom.

  The manager of the shop hurried to show him some pieces that had just been completed as well as some in older settings that they had recently bought.

  The Duc looked at them with interest.

  Finally he chose a very attractive brooch with diamonds and pearls set in the shape of snowdrops.

  “I felt certain that would attract your attention, Monsieur le Duc,” the shop manager said. “It is from one of our new young designers who has ideas of his own and will, I think, in the future go far.”

  “I agree with you,” the Duc said.

  He waited while the brooch was packed in an elegant pink velvet box, which was covered with tissue paper and tied with a bow of satin ribbon.

  It was the way he always had his gifts packed and the ribbon was kept under the counter so that it was always at hand when he needed it.

  The Duc was shown out of the shop and then climbed into his chaise and drove back into the Rue de Rivoli.

  He was calling at a small house standing back a little from the others.

  Again he left his groom in charge of his horses.

  Carrying his parcel, he went through the outer gate and down a paved path to the front door of the house.

  It was opened, before he knocked, by a servant who had been told to expect him and was therefore on the alert.

  The Duc swept off his tall hat and, as the servant curtseyed, he said,

  “Good afternoon, Térèse. Is your mistress expecting me?”

  “Madame is in the drawing room, Monsieur le Duc,” Térèse answered.

  The Duc walked lightly up the narrow staircase to the small reception room that occupied most of the first floor. It was well furnished and the pictures, which had been a present to its owner, were valuable.

  There was, however, something slightly flamboyant about the curtains and the upholstery of the sofas and chairs.

  The whole room made a fitting background for its owner, Madame Yvonne Bédoin, who was one of the best-known hostesses in Paris.

  She was waiting for the Duc, reclining on a sofa and leaning back against a number of satin cushions.

  They made a perfect frame with their soft eau de nil for the darkness of her hair and the translucent white of her skin.

  She was wearing a chiffon negligee that did little to disguise the exquisite curves of her body.

  When the Duc appeared in the doorway, Yvonne held out her arms.

  “I was waiting for you, René,” she cried. “I was half afraid you had forgotten.”

  “How could I forget anything so important?” the Duc answered with a touch of mockery in his voice.

  He crossed the room unhurriedly and, taking her hands, kissed first one and then the other.

  He then laid in her lap the present he had bought in the Place Vendôme.

  Yvonne looked at it then up at the Duc through her long heavily mascaraed eyelashes.

  “A present for me?” she asked in a soft seductive voice. “You are so kind and, as you can see, I am wearing the necklace you gave me.”

  The Duc glanced at the necklace of diamonds and pearls.

  He realised as he did so that the décolletage of its owner was very low.

  “I am thrilled to have your present,” Yvonne purred, “but at the same time I feel rather neglected that you have not been to see me for so long.”

  “I have been in England,” the Duc said. “I went over to see my horse run in one of their Classic races.”

  “And of course he won – ”

  “Of course,” the Duc agreed.

  He sat down, not on the sofa beside her as she had expected.

  She had moved her legs so that there was room for him, but he chose the nearest chair.

  He then leant back as he watched her open his present.

  She gave a little cry of pleasure
.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” she gushed, “I know who designed this. It will look delightful with my necklace.”

  “That is what I thought,” said the Duc, “and it completes the set with your ring.”

  “You think of everything,” Yvonne said. “There was never a man like you.”

  “That is what I want to believe,” the Duc said. “Now I have something to tell you which you may find a surprise.”

  Yvonne put down the brooch she was holding in her hand and gave him a piercing glance.

  She knew him well enough to recognise that, when he spoke in that determined tone, he was planning something.

  She was half afraid of what it might be.

  “When I was in England,” the Duc went on. “I had a long talk with Lord Waterforde, who is a well-known racehorse owner and won the Gold Cup at Ascot last year.”

  “Horses, always horses,” Yvonne murmured. “I was hoping when you were away that you were thinking of me.”

  She spoke very softly and there was an invitation in her eyes that most men found irresistible.

  The Duc, sitting back in his chair, was not looking directly at her but staring ahead of him.

  “It was after I had discussed several matters with Lord Waterforde,” he said, “including our horses, that I made a decision I have never made before.”

  “And what was that?” Yvonne enquired.

  “I intend to get married.”

  If the Duc had dropped a bomb and it had exploded, blowing off the ceiling of the drawing room, it could not have caused greater consternation.

  Yvonne sat up on the sofa and stared at him.

  “You have – decided to – get – married?”

  There was a shrill note in her voice that had not been there before.

  “That is what I said,” he replied, “and that is what I intend to do.”

  “But why, why? It is something you have never considered before. In fact you insisted that you would never marry after what happened when you were little more than a boy.”

  The Duc frowned because this was something he had no wish to remember.

  He had been little over nineteen when his father, in the way that was usual in France, had arranged for his marriage to the daughter of another Duc.

  She had a large dowry, which was not of particular interest to young René de Sahran, and he had no wish at all to be married.

  Having left school, he was enjoying the delights of Paris where the most seductive and beautiful women in Europe were to be found.

  He was young, handsome and rich.

  Who could ask for more?

  There were nights of wild gaiety that only ended when the sun had risen and there were parties that rivalled those given by the courtesans in the Second Empire, which at the time had been the talk of Europe.

  There were race meetings and duels in the Bois de Boulogne and everything was headily emotional, especially for a man as attractive as young René.

  His father’s decision had come like a bombshell.

  He accepted it, however, because it was part of his family tradition that the heir to the Dukedom should marry young and produce a number of sons.

  He met his future bride only after both families had agreed that they were to be married.

  He found her, as he expected, young, dull and not particularly attractive.

  All that mattered to his father and to her father was that the blood of each was equally blue and so two of the most ancient families in France would be united as they had once been in the past.

  Preparations went ahead for the wedding at which the whole Social world would meet.

  The honeymoon was conventionally arranged to take place in Venice, which was undoubtedly the most romantic place in Europe.

  Two weeks before the marriage was to take place, the bride fell from the bedroom window of her home, eighty feet onto the tiled ground beneath it.

  No one knew how it happened or whether it was an intentional fall or an accident.

  The fact that the girl was dead was a tremendous shock to her parents and to René de Sahran.

  His future wife was still almost a stranger to him and now for the first time he thought of her as perhaps holding strong feelings of her own.

  Perhaps she did not wish to marry!

  She had, however, not given him any reason to think that that was what she felt.

  When he looked back, he realised that he had made little conversation with her.

  They had in fact never been alone, since that was considered incorrect at the time.

  René told himself that never again would he be put in the ignominious position of being part of an arranged marriage.

  “You will get over the shock, dear boy,” the old Duc assured him

  “I have no intention, Father, of marrying anyone,” his son had answered.

  It was difficult to believe that this was what he really felt.

  When he came into the Dukedom, the older members of the family pressed him to produce an heir and he repeated firmly, in a manner that prevented them from arguing any further with him, that he had no intention of marrying.

  Now Yvonne, who had been his mistress for the last nine months, stared at him as if she could not believe her ears.

  “Married?” she exclaimed. “But why, why?”

  “For various reasons, which I do not wish to go into,” the Duc said. “But shall I say the combination of Lord Waterforde’s horses and mine will make us invincible on every Racecourse in the world.”

  “But you are not marrying his horses,” Yvonne said sharply.

  The Duc smiled.

  “Perhaps I am. And what could be more attractive? Especially when we win every Classic race here and in England.”

  “I cannot understand why you talk in this frivolous manner,” Yvonne complained. “We have been so happy! How can you throw all that away just to have a wife? And what is this girl like?”

  The Duc rose to his feet.

  “It’s a mistake for us to quarrel,” he said. “I want to thank you for the happiness you have given me and I wish you every happiness in the future.”

  Yvonne moved off the sofa very swiftly.

  Her arms went round the Duc’s neck and her body, soft and sinuous, pressed against his.

  “How can I let you leave me?” she asked, as her lips were against his.

  He kissed her.

  Then, as if a fire was lit in them both, they moved without speaking from the drawing room into Yvonne’s bedroom.

  *

  It was several hours later when the Duc, driving his chaise, swept up the Champs Élysées.

  He was late for an appointment in his house, which was near the Bois de Boulogne and he knew the man he had invited to meet there would expect an explanation.

  If he told him the truth, he would not be surprised.

  It was what was expected of him.

  He thought, however, that he had perhaps made a mistake.

  He had felt for some time that his liaison with Yvonne was not as alluring as it had been at first and that he should bring it to a close.

  The trouble was he became bored with these affaires de coeur long before the woman with whom he was involved did.

  There were invariable tears and innumerable questions of ‘what have I done? How have I upset you?’ and ‘why do you no longer love me?’

  He had heard them repeated dozens and dozens of times.

  The trouble was that he had no answer.

  Why did a woman become boring, however beautiful she might be?

  Why, after he had made love to her for two or three months, did he suddenly have no wish to see her anymore?

  He had often asked himself why it happened, but he could find no convincing explanation.

  The women he had chosen, who had pursued him as a huntsman pursues a deer, were invariably beautiful, witty and amusing.

  It was impossible when he first met them to find fault or to discover a flaw in the perf
ection of the jewel.

  Yet sometimes in a few weeks, usually after two or three months, the end was inevitable.

  Time after time as he left a woman weeping, the Duc would ask himself what had gone wrong and why he felt as he did.

  But he could find no plausible answer.

  He knew his contemporaries found it inexplicable that he should wish to leave the most beautiful woman in Paris or one who was noted for her wit or who was rich enough to ask him for nothing but himself.

  “Why, why, why, does it happen?” the Duc had asked the morning sun as he drove home after a last ‘goodbye’.

  He knew now as he drove up the Champs Élysées that he had no intention of ever going again to the little house in the Rue de Rivoli where he had spent so much time in these past months.

  Yvonne was spoken of as quite the most beautiful woman in Paris at the moment.

  Her face had made every artist wish to immortalise her on canvas and her figure had been compared to the finest Greek statues both in Paris and in Rome.

  She was witty in that everyone who dined at her table found themselves laughing at the doubles entendres that lay beneath many of the remarks she said.

  ‘She was also in many ways,’ the Duc reflected, ‘compassionate to those not so fortunate as she was herself.’

  He hated women who were hard and who pushed themselves into prominence.

  If ever Yvonne had done this, she had done it so skilfully that he had not been aware of it.

  ‘The truth is,’ he told himself as he neared his own house, ‘I am getting old, too old to spend every night leaving a warm bed at chilly dawn. I intend to settle down in the country with my family and horses.’

  Then he laughed at himself.

  He knew that this was exceedingly improbable.

  The next time he saw a lovely unknown face on the horizon, he would inevitably pursue her.

  Perhaps the truth was, he enjoyed the chase more than the capture. There was something exciting in getting to know the unknown, in finding the unexpected when he least expected it.

  Then he told himself that he had made a decision and would not go back on it.

  He had told Lord Waterforde that he would marry his daughter and that was what he intended to do.

  Tomorrow he would leave for Provence and be waiting at the château where she was to join him from the finishing school where she had been completing her education for the last two years.