Sins

by Gould, Judith

  'We'll have to break up the gloominess of all that black. Black is elegant, but not by itself.' Madame Dupre reached behind her neck and unfastened one of the thin gold chains she wore. 'Here, I'll lend you this.'

  Hélène shook her head. 'I couldn't.'

  Madame Dupre smiled. 'Don't worry. You won't break it.'

  Hélène nodded. 'I'll be very careful with it.'

  Madame Dupre smiled and fastened the chain around Hélène's neck. Hélène had never looked better. There was a color in her face that did not come just from riding. It was a flush of happiness and excitement. Love? she thought suddenly. She hoped not. Hubert de Léger was too wild. Too youthful and playful for a sensitive girl like Hélène.

  The same manservant who had taken them to see the Comtesse arrived to escort Hélène downstairs. Suddenly Madame Dupre reached out, grabbed Hélène's hand, and squeezed it. 'Enjoy yourself,' she said. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. 'Remember your manners.'

  Eagerly Hélène nodded. 'I will,' she replied quietly. Then she was gone.

  Hubert was waiting for her in the Salon de la Rotonde on the first floor. He crossed the Savonnerie carpet and looked at her appreciatively. 'We'll have to wait a few minutes. My mother and father will be right down.'

  Hélène's pulse seemed to stop. 'You mean. . .they haven't eaten yet, either?'

  He shook his head. 'No. We usually dine late.' He smiled. 'Don't worry. They do not bite.'

  Nervously Hélène fingered Madame Dupre's necklace. She had counted on dining alone with Hubert, not with the Comte and the Comtesse. She hadn't even met the Comte yet, but the Comtesse had unnerved her enough. She was too imperious, too studiously elegant and refined. Her cold dark eyes frightened Hélène. For an instant she was tempted to murmur her excuses and flee. Instead, in a voice that sounded as if it belonged to someone else she said, 'What a lovely painting,' and gestured to one of the gilt-framed canvases on the pale blue moiré-covered walls.

  'Let's go closer and take a look,' Hubert said. He touched her arm to lead her around the room.

  A faint flush came over her face as he touched her, and it gave her skin a beautifully rosy glow. She looked at him and smiled nervously. He let his hand drop and stood back watching her as she went from painting to painting. For a long time she lingered in front of a small canvas over one of the couches. It was very old, and she could see that the paint had developed a network of fine cracks. It depicted a young boy with a beatific smile and half-closed eyes. 'This is the most beautiful one of all,' she said softly.

  'You have good taste, mademoiselle. That is a Raphael,' a woman's voice said.

  Hélène stiffened and turned around slowly. She knew that clipped voice, with its precise pronunciations, only too well. Swiftly she curtsied. She was surprised that it came off so gracefully. 'Good evening, Comtesse,' she said politely.

  'Good evening, mademoiselle.' The Comtesse smiled coolly and came toward her. 'The Comte will be down shortly.' Her dark eyes looked at Hélène curiously. 'I had no idea you appreciated fine art. Sometime, perhaps, I must show you around. The chateau has many fine examples of Italian and French paintings. It is said that we have the largest collection of Claude Lorraine's in Europe. One of my ancestors was a devoted romantic.'

  Hélène nodded politely. 'I would like very much to see them, Comtesse.'

  The Comtesse turned to Hubert. 'Did you ride today?' she asked.

  He grinned. 'Yes, as a matter of fact I rode with Mademoiselle Junot.'

  The Comtesse's eyebrows lifted a fraction. 'She rides, also?'

  'I. . .I'm just learning,' Hélène said quickly.

  'Every young lady should learn to ride,' the Comtesse said flatly. 'When I was young, I won many ribbons and trophies in dressage.'

  'Really?' Hélène asked. She had no idea what dressage was, but she looked at the Comtesse with surprise. The elegant woman hadn't struck her as an equestrienne.

  A moment later, Hélène saw the Comte enter the room. She curtsied, once again surprising herself with her own grace. It was from him, she realized at once, that Hubert had inherited his stature and physique. But Hubert's face, with its dark eyes and cleft chin, clearly came from the Comtesse, for the Comte's eyes were bright blue. His graying hair still showed streaks of its natural blondness, and he was, Hélène decided, very distinguished- looking.

  'Shall we?' he asked, hooking his arm into the Comtesse's. The Comtesse nodded. Hubert touched Hélène's elbow, and she started. It was as if a spark of electricity crackled in his touch. She could feel it coursing down to her groin and erupting into an exquisite pain. Why does he do this to me? she wondered.

  Then they went into the dining salon.

  The dining salon was rich in elegant woods. It had gleaming dark parquet- de-Versailles flooring, lustrous Regence boiserie walls, a marble mantel, an antique Waterford chandelier over the table, and shiny caned French chairs.

  The sterling candelabra with their slim beeswax tapers, the heavy silverware, the fine Limoges plates, and the Baccarat crystal were set directly on the polished wood table. There was no tablecloth.

  Hélène saw four table settings with baffling rows of forks, spoons, and knives laid out with military precision. A liveried footman stood behind each of their chairs. Hélène had never imagined splendor such as this.

  Solicitously the footmen held their chairs away from the table. Hélène waited until the Comte and the Comtesse were seated before she sat down. She followed Madame Dupre's instructions: 'If you're in doubt about anything—any fork or glass or finger bowl—watch to see what the others do. Just follow their example and you can't go wrong.' Hélène glanced at the Comtesse. She was delicately unfolding her linen napkin and placing it on her lap. Hélène did likewise.

  The dinner was long; most of the conversation was dull. But to Hélène it was the most exciting evening of her life. She felt pleased that she had been invited. She knew that she had not succeeded in breaking down any impermeable social barriers, but she had been invited, and that was a minor victory in itself. It proved that entrance to the upper stratum could be gained. It was a matter of meeting the 'right' people. Staying in the class was a different story. By being beautiful and charming, by having exquisite manners and developing her wit, it could probably be accomplished.

  Mentally Hélène thanked Madame Dupre when a footman held the soup tureen filled with crayfish consommé out to her for a second helping. 'I've had plenty, thank you,' she murmured politely despite the fact that she was ravenous. She knew she had been right in declining when she saw that no one else took a second helping.

  Hélène was dazzled by the food. It looked even more delicious than it tasted. After the consommé came a course of sherbet. At first she thought this was dessert. It wasn't. It was served merely to clear the palate. Then a sterling platter was carried from person to person. On it was a whole pike stuffed with scallop mousse. The fish's back was artfully draped with lettuce leaves lined with little florets. All around the big fish, the platter was decorated with mushroom caps. This course was served with a white butter sauce and was accompanied by a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse. It had been sitting on a sideboard. Hélène raised her glass and savored the bouquet of the wine. The Comtesse once against raised her fine eyebrows. Delicately Hélène sipped at the wine. She couldn't believe how delicious it tasted. Her only wish was that she could have shared this moment with Madame Dupre.

  Most of the conversation eluded Hélène. It centered around vintages, antique cars, politics, and a piece of gossip about a certain Baronne de Savonnieres and her beautiful daughter, Mirielle. Hélène listened in silence, content just to be there hearing these things discussed in her presence. She was surprised to find that the gossip wasn't whispered. It was told amusingly and straightforwardly but with the deadly wit of a rapier.

  Then the subject changed to one she could appreciate. Apparently a fancy-dress ball would be held at the chateau the night before she and Madame Dupre were to return to Saint-Naza
ire.

  The Comte flashed a quick look at his wife. 'Did you invite the Baronne de Savonnieres?' he asked.

  'But of course,' the Comtesse replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  He raised an eyebrow and his voice took on a worried tone. 'But don't you think that with this recent scandal it would have been wise not to?'

  The Comtesse's lips curved into a faintly malicious smile. 'Au contraire, Philippe. Everyone will love me for it! You know how I adore throwing people together—especially enemies!' She wrinkled her Roman nose in delight. 'It makes for such delicious stories afterward.'

  For a while, no one spoke. The silence was broken only by the sounds of silverware scraping on china. Hélène's eyes glowed with excitement. The round window in her room looked down over the front drive. From it she would be able to see the guests arrive. She wondered how she might recognize the notorious Baronne de Savonnieres and her beautiful daughter.

  Dessert was served: enormous velvety peaches on Limoges plates. Hélène was about to pick the fruit up with her fingers, but caution intervened. Discreetly she glanced at the others for guidance. They were picking up their dessert cutlery. Carefully she followed suit. She had never imagined that there were people who ate fruit with knife and fork. It proved that she had a lot to learn.

  Hubert smiled across the table at her. 'You're invited to come, of course,' he said. 'As my guest.'

  Hélène stared at him blankly. She had been too engrossed with watching the Comtesse slice her peach to pay attention. Now she was puzzled. Invited? To what? 'I beg your pardon?' she asked politely.

  'The ball, of course,' he said matter-of-factly. 'You shall come as my guest.'

  Suddenly a thrill of excitement coursed through her. The ball! She hadn't dared hope for an invitation, but now Hubert had asked her. And right in front of the Comte and the Comtesse! Quickly she looked at them, expecting some sort of negative reaction, an imperceptible shake of the head perhaps, or a widening of the eyes, or a faint arching of the brows. But she saw none of these.

  Modestly Hélène lowered her eyes. 'I. . .I don't know,' she said softly.

  'Why not?' he demanded. But as soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth, he cursed himself. He knew why. For the same reason she had tried to turn down the dinner invitation. Because he was a de Léger and she would feel out of place. 'You'll be quite at ease,' he assured her quickly. 'Believe me, you will be a success.'

  'Thank you,' Hélène said, fighting to keep her voice level. 'I will think it over and let you know.'

  Satisfied that her reply was as good as an acceptance, he continued eating his dessert.

  Hélène suddenly felt sick. She cut off a tiny piece of her peach and chewed it dumbly. Would Hubert never understand her dilemma? She wanted to go to the ball. Oh, but how she was dying to go. She wasn't frightened any longer. She wasn't even worried about being out of place. But she had nothing to wear to a fancy-dress ball. The severe black dress she had on certainly wouldn't do. And that was the best one she had. The feeling of disappointment was like a dull ache that spread outward from her heart and extended to her limbs until even her fingertips were numb. She sighed to herself. There was nothing she could do. She would just have to make the best of it.

  After dinner they went back to the Salon de la Rotonde for coffee and brandies. Hélène sipped her coffee but declined brandy. She was not used to liquor, and the wine had already made her feel peculiarly light-headed.

  Carefully the Comte lit a cigar. He and Hubert sat facing each other in chairs at the far side of the salon, discussing business and politics. The Comtesse was sitting beside Hélène on a couch, pointing out some of the paintings in the room and reciting the history behind each one. She seemed to enjoy having a captive audience. As she talked, her cold dark pupils flashed with excitement, as if each historical detail was unfolding right before her eyes. Hélène fell under the spell. It seemed that centuries of de Légers had had their fingers in many pies—in government, in wine, in art. She was fascinated with the Comtesse's copious knowledge, and flattered that the woman was so open with her. Greedily she filed away everything she learned.

  Finally the Comte rose to his feet. Then he and the Comtesse excused themselves and retired. A footman closed the door softly behind them. Hubert smiled at Hélène. 'Did we bore you?' he asked in an amused voice.

  'On the contrary!' she countered. 'I found it fascinating.'

  He changed the subject. 'How about going for a ride?'

  She shook her head. 'I'd have to change again. Besides, you warned me about getting saddle sore.'

  He laughed. 'Not a horseback ride. I meant in a car. To the village. I know—we could go to Chez Gaston for a nightcap! There's music there.'

  'I'm not sure I should,' she said quickly.

  He looked at her challengingly. 'Do I detect fear in your voice?'

  She looked at him sharply. 'Of course not.'

  'Then get your coat. I'll see about a car. I'll pick you up in front, at the entrance.'

  For a moment she couldn't believe her ears. She stared at him. 'Up front?' she asked slowly. 'You mean. . .at the big marble staircase?'

  'Of course. That's the entrance, isn't it?'

  Is it? she thought uncharitably. Maybe for you it is, Hubert de Léger. But for Madame Dupr6, Therese, the rest of the servants, and me, the entrance is the kitchen door. But she said none of these things. Instead, she found herself saying: 'I'll be there in five minutes.'

  He smiled. 'Make that ten. I'll have to gas up the car first.'

  She hurried up the servants' staircase and rapidly entered her room. The connecting door to Madame Dupre's room was still open. When the woman heard her come in, she put down the book she was reading and came to the door. 'You look excited,' she observed shrewdly.

  Hélène nodded breathlessly. 'Hubert de Léger is taking me to the village.'

  Madame Dupre stared at her. 'He's certainly rolling out the red carpet,' she remarked dryly. 'He seems quite taken with you.'

  Hélène caught the undercurrent in Madame Dupre's voice. She looked at her hesitantly. 'You think I shouldn't go?' she asked.

  Madame Dupre smiled weakly. 'You go,' she said, wagging an admonishing finger at Hélène. 'Just be careful. Hubert de Léger is a headstrong womanizer. He usually ends up with what he sets out to get.'

  'I'll be careful,' Hélène promised. On an impulse, she hurried across the room and kissed Madame Dupre lightly on the cheek. Then she grabbed her coat and rushed back out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Chez Gaston wasn't in the next village. It was located in Saint-Medard, ten kilometers north of Bordeaux, in the cellar of an old building. The stone walls had been whitewashed; the place was dark and noisy and the air was blue with smoke. The music was American, played on a scratchy, blaring phonograph.

  Hélène surprised herself. She was a very good dancer. Perhaps it was because she gave herself over to Hubert and let him lead her. His arms were around her and she responded naturally, holding on to him, her head resting on his chest. She thought she could smell the animal like manliness of him. For a while she closed her eyes and let herself go, feeling the delicious strength of him as he moved her gracefully around the floor.

  When the slow dance stopped, she opened her eyes and smiled tiredly up at Hubert. He took her hand and led the way back to their little table. Her steps were slow and she walked very carefully, as if she was not sure in which direction her feet were taking her. He helped her into the rush-seated chair and then sat down across from her. He lifted the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket to refill their glasses.

  She covered her glass with her hand and shook her head. 'I think I've had enough,' she said thickly. She frowned. It seemed to take a lot of effort to form the words.

  'Come on,' he coaxed. 'A little more won't hurt you. Besides, it will loosen you up.'

  She met his eyes. 'Do you think I need loosening up?' she asked softly.

  He grinned an
d made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger. 'Just a little.'

  She looked at his other hand. He was still holding the bottle over her glass. Or was it the second bottle? She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Then she shrugged and threw caution to the wind. She removed her hand and he filled both their glasses to the brim. 'A votre sante,' he said.

  'A votre sante,' she repeated. She drained half the glass in one long swallow. She hadn't realized she was so thirsty. It must be the dancing and all the smoke.

  He fixed his eyes on her and reached across the table. Again a thrill coursed through her body. 'You're very beautiful,' he said. 'Do you know that?'

  A red flush rose up her face. She was suddenly grateful for the dim lighting. At least it hid her constant blushes.

  'Do I make you nervous?' he asked softly.

  She nodded slowly. 'Yes.'

  He smiled. Then his eyes fell to her breasts and lingered there. She forced herself not to look down at herself. What's the matter? she thought. Is the dress torn? Did I spill champagne on myself? What is it? But suddenly, instinctively, she knew what it was. Abruptly she pushed her chair back and got unsteadily to her feet. 'I. . .I think we'd better dance,' she said in a serious voice.

  He sensed her discomfiture and nodded. He followed her to the dance floor. For a moment she stopped and looked down at her feet. They felt strangely light, as if she were walking on cushions of air.

  When they got to the floor, the music changed to a slow dance. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he embraced her. Slowly she moved her body in rhythm with his. She closed her eyes, once again smiling contentedly. Now she felt safe. Here on the floor, he didn't look at her with longing or say things that made her feel uncomfortable. Here it was just him and the music, the firmness of his body, the grace with which he led her. Again she caught that peculiar male smell. Or was it just sweat? Or her imagination?

  His hand moved down to the small of her back and he pressed her tightly toward him. Suddenly she was aware of his groin pushing against her hips. She took a deep breath. The familiar, exquisite pain was growing inside her again. Fiercely she tried to push it out of her mind, but the harder she tried, the more painful and insistent it became. Suddenly she could feel a strange moistness between her legs.