Madame Dupre smiled. 'And I am happy, too.'
'Come, let's go upstairs.'
Madame Dupre started to reach for her valise.
'Just leave that there for now,' Hélène said. 'Marthe will bring it up later.'
'Marthe?'
'She's the maid,' Hélène said with embarrassment.
Madame Dupre nodded wordlessly. Then she followed Hélène upstairs. When they got to the guest room, Hélène flung the door open and stepped aside. 'Voila!'
Madame Dupre stepped into the room. The draperies had been pushed aside, and the room was filled with the autumn air. She looked out at the Bois and around the cream-colored room. Against one wall was a big four-poster bed draped with kilometers of cream-colored satin. 'It's beautiful!' she said.
Hélène smiled and led the way. She flung open some doors. 'This is the closet, this is the bathroom. Soap, towels, it's all here. You can get washed up even before Marthe brings up the valise.'
Madame Dupre nodded. 'Such luxury,' she said with a smile. Then her smile faded as she spied the thick white bath towels. Woven into them was a familiar crest. The crest of the de Légers.
Hélène saw the look on Madame Dupre's face. 'Back to square one, right?' she joked quietly. 'Only this time it isn't the servants' quarters.'
Madame Dupre came closer and held Hélène's hand. Within her brown eyes was a sad and worried look. 'Be careful,' she said softly. 'When a woman is in a position. . .What I mean is. . .' She hesitated, clearly embarrassed.
'I know,' Hélène said, forcing her voice to sound light. 'I'm a kept woman who could be thrown out at any moment.'
Madame Dupre turned away. 'It's not that that worries me. We French are very forgiving. We know all about affairs of the heart. Just remember. . .' She shook her head. 'I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I will say no more.'
Hélène's face was expressionless. 'No. Go ahead.'
Madame Dupre made an agitated gesture and turned to face her. 'Hubert is. . .well, like I warned you at Hautecloque, he's a womanizer. He doesn't believe in being faithful to one woman. He doesn't even believe in having just a wife and one mistress like his father. He's a playboy. He loves all women. Now that he's got you, I'm afraid that his interest will wane. I'm afraid for you, Hélène. I don't want to see you hurt.'
Hélène suddenly began to laugh. She sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at her feet.
'What's so funny?' Madame Dupre asked.
The laughter subsided and Hélène's face grew serious. She looked up into Madame Dupre's eyes. 'I am not seeing Hubert,' she said softly. 'I'm the Comte's mistress.'
Punctually at seven o'clock they had dinner in the big dining room. Hélène had had a hand in everything, and it showed.
'It looks lovely,' Madame Dupre said.
Hélène smiled. She had made a special effort tonight and was glad it was appreciated. She had even gone so far as to get a bottle of Chateau Hautecloque-de Léger from the wine cellar. She had opened it and then left it on the sideboard, letting it breathe. Now she picked up the dusty, mold- covered bottle and carefully strained the wine of sediment as she poured it into a silver-filigreed crystal decanter. She brought it over to the table and poured a little into Madame Dupre's glass. Then she stood back.
Madame Dupre brought the glass up to her nose and inhaled the fragrance of the grapes. She looked at Hélène with a smile of excitement. Then she took a sip. She put the glass back down and closed her eyes, savoring the taste. 'Superb,' she proclaimed finally.
Hélène looked pleased. She poured some more wine into the glass and sat down opposite Madame Dupre. After Marthe served the first course, Hélène dismissed her. She wanted to be alone with Madame Dupre. 'Is the beef rib all right?' she asked.
Madame Dupre made a gesture with her fork. 'Delicious. I've never tasted anything so fine.'
'Marthe is quite accomplished,' Hélène said.
They ate on in silence for a while. Then Madame Dupre laid down her cutlery. 'Have you given your magazine any further thought?' she asked.
Hélène nodded and toyed with her meat. 'Yes, but it's still too early to think about. To start a magazine takes a lot of money.'
'How about the Comte? I mean. . .not as a gift,' Madame Dupre added quickly, dropping her eyes. 'As a loan or an investment.' She looked across the table at Hélène. 'Have you brought the subject up?'
Hélène smiled sadly. 'Yes, but unfortunately he's very old-fashioned. He still believes that a woman's place is in the home. I'm afraid he has enough trouble trying to accept the fact that I'm working at Odile Joly's.'
'Have you tried explaining to him that there's not much difference between working for someone else and working for yourself?'
'Yes.' Hélène sighed. 'He thinks women are not cut out for business.'
'Indeed!' Madame Dupre's eyes flashed. 'Have you pointed out to him that there are many women who are successful? Look at all the designers! Chanel, Schiaparelli, Madame Gres, Madame Vionnet.'
'And Odile Joly,' Hélène added with a smile.
'Above all, Odile Joly,' Madame Dupre said. 'They've all been enormously successful!'
'I'm afraid the Comte just doesn't see it that way. Actually, I think he's afraid that if I start a magazine, I wouldn't have enough time left over for him.'
'Then what are you going to do?'
'I don't know. I do know that I'll never be able to start a magazine on my salary from modeling. It's simply not enough. Nor can I hope to start it with the Comte's help and blessing.' She sighed helplessly. 'Sometimes it just eats at me. It's as if my hands were tied.'
Madame Dupre nodded. 'It's very difficult to build up something from scratch. Twice as difficult if you're a woman.'
'So what do I do?'
'You wait,' Madame Dupre advised gently. 'You wait patiently and bide your time until the opportunity comes. If nothing else, I've learned one thing from life: everyone has a time when his moment comes. The secret is for you to recognize it for what it is, and have the courage and stamina to let yourself be carried away with it. And follow through with it. When that time comes, you must not be afraid. I've had my opportunity, and I didn't take advantage of it. It's ironic, but I didn't even realize it was there until it was too late.'
'So I wait,' Hélène said slowly. 'But how long?'
'You are young,' Madame Dupre said. 'So very young. Give yourself time.' She smiled. 'You perhaps don't realize it,' she went on, 'but in a way, you have already begun.'
Hélène felt a ripple of excitement strumming through her body. 'I don't think I understand,' she said slowly.
Madame Dupre's dark eyes were gentle and wise. 'Don't you see it? The magazine is your destiny. It's in your blood. And everything that has happened to you so far is another step toward it. The first time you set foot in my shop was the first step. The month at the chateau was the second. Now you are in the third stage. You are seeing the inside of the fashion industry. You are headed toward it steadily but surely. Mark my words, Hélène. You will make it. It is like the grapes that make the wine. They must be picked at the moment they are the ripest. Not before, not after. You are not yet ripe. But soon you will be.'
Baghat Cheops smiled with self-importance as the slim young man led him into the private office. 'Monsieur Bonnard will be with you shortly,' the young man said smoothly.
Cheops nodded and smiled. 'I am at his service,' he said as he took a seat opposite the desk, which was cleared of everything but some high-intensity lamps. When the young man withdrew, he drummed his fingers on the briefcase on his lap and looked around the room.
The sparsely furnished office was on the second floor of number nine, Place Vendome. In many ways it was like the other luxury shops on the square.
The first floor was devoted to selling, the second to management and buying. On the ground floor, the gold script on the arched windows was duplicated on the scalloped white awnings. It read: 'Claude Jassel.'
Cheops lit one of his brown Egyptian cig
arettes and inhaled the pungent smoke nervously. He put his briefcase down, rose to his feet, and started to pace the room. He never liked to be kept waiting. Even less by a snob like Bonnard. He was impatient to exchange the piece of jewelry he had brought along for a nice six-figure check. He glanced at his cigarette. The ash was long and cocked. He looked around the office, but as usual there was no ashtray in sight, and so he was forced to tap the ash into his trouser cuff. He made a mental note to brush it out once he got home. He always forgot, and his cuffs were filled with ash and cigarette butts.
A few minutes later a tall, distinguished-looking man dressed in an exquisite suit came into the office. 'Bonjour, Monsieur Cheops,' he said briskly.
Cheops stopped pacing and looked at him. 'Bonjour, Monsieur Bonnard,' he replied, his voice suddenly smooth as oil. He sat back down in the chair, carefully pinched the end of the cigarette between his fingers, and placed the butt in his trouser cuff.
Bonnard walked over behind the desk and sat down, folding his hands. 'What may I do for you today, Monsieur Cheops?' he asked brusquely.
Cheops smiled nervously, his gold tooth catching the light flooding in through the window. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his face and he reached for his rumpled handkerchief. 'I have another piece of jewelry which I would like to dispose of,' he murmured, mopping his forehead. 'Discreetly, of course.'
'Of course.' Bonnard permitted himself a slight smile. Cheops was anything but discreet. He had conveniently picked up the word that every society matron down on her luck used. The matrons, however, insisted that the stones of their jewelry be reset before being resold, so that their friends would not recognize the jewels and find out about their reduced circumstances. Cheops, however, used the word loosely; he never insisted on having anything reset. To him, 'discreetly' merely meant not disclosing to whom the jewelry had belonged.
'It is the most magnificent item yet,' Cheops said in a gushy voice. 'The stones are of the highest quality. It is a necklace fit for an empress.'
'May I see it, please?' Bonnard held out his hand.
'Of course,' Cheops said. Hastily he released the catch on his briefcase and lifted the lid. He took out a long slim box and put it on the desktop, pushing it toward Bonnard. It slid halfway across the polished desk. The box was imprinted: 'Van Cleef & Arpels.'
Nonchalantly the jeweler lifted the lid. He took a velvet cloth out of a drawer and deftly spread the necklace out on it. The sapphires were smoldering blue, surrounded by icy white diamonds. Cheops sucked in his breath, but Bonnard barely glanced at them. He switched on the high-intensity lamps. His face was inscrutable as he took out his loupe. Then he studied the stones closely but impersonally. To him, the most beautiful gem was no different from the plainest wedding band. It was merely a piece of merchandise. Only when he showed it to prospective customers would his attitude change. Then he would become fawning, praising the necklace with sumptuous words.
Cheops watched him eagerly. 'The best piece yet, eh?' he said with a grin.
Bonnard was silent. He studied each stone carefully.
Snob, Cheops thought to himself. He always thinks he's better than everyone else. But he consoled himself for the snub by doing some quick mental calculations. He'd probably be able to get about half of what the necklace was worth. He knew it had a retail value of at least 250,000 francs. He congratulated himself on what he'd paid for it; a mere 15,000 francs. He'd probably end up getting 125,000 from Bonnard. A 110,000-franc profit was not bad for making a single trip to the jeweler's. No, it was not bad at all. He only hoped that the woman who sold it to him would continue bringing him more pieces. She probably would, as long as she didn't stop by at the better jewelers. Because he wasn't selling them to tourists and foreigners as he had promised. Most of the jewels had been bought in shops around the Faubourg St.-Honore. And most of them ended up no more than three blocks from where they'd been bought.
He mopped his forehead again. He hoped she wouldn't find out too soon. She was the goose who was laying his golden eggs. Twenty-four karat eggs, at that.
9
It was after two o'clock. The room was dark and the snow was coming down heavily as Hélène sat in the window seat. Her knees were drawn up to her chin and her head leaned back against the window frame. She had been sitting in that position ever since the snow started to fall. That was hours ago.
Her eyes stared out into the night. Through the thick lead glass, the world outside looked distorted. As if everything were either stretched out of shape or compressed, depending on the angle she looked at it. Sort of like funhouse mirrors, she thought. She pursed her lips. Only nothing was funny. It was all frightening. Too frightening.
Up until now everything had been going quite well. Even she had to admit it. She was a top model at Odile Joly and she enjoyed the advantages of the Comte's affections. From him she had gotten the closets full of fashionable clothes, the jewels she had been pawning to pay Haberle, the three fur coats. From him, too, she had gotten the use of the big town house on the Boulevard Maillot. She had managed to put a hundred thousand miles between herself and the grimy labyrinths of Montmartre and the horrors of Saint-Nazaire. There was no doubt about it. She was on her way up.
But now? She turned her head away from the window and stared wearily down at her hands. Now suddenly the tables had turned. She had missed her period. She was never late, but at first she had told herself that that was all it was. So she waited. Then she missed the second month. Then the third. Finally she had panicked and gone to see the doctor. He had confirmed her worst suspicions. She was three months pregnant. Biting down hard on her lip, she wondered what would happen to her now.
She was a fashion model. She didn't have to be told what happened to pregnant fashion models. There weren't any. She knew she was lucky to even have a job modeling. She knew, too, that there were hundreds, even thousands, of beautiful girls already lined up, ready to jump into her place. Ruthlessly awaiting their opportunity. And she had heard somewhere that giving birth left stretch marks. So what if they eventually went away? She couldn't just take a leave of absence and go off to have a baby. When she got back, her job would be gone. And without a job, how could she ever expect to support and feed the baby? She shook her head. It was a malicious cycle that fed on itself.
Then, there was the matter of the Comte. She no longer had any illusions left as far as he was concerned. To him she was nothing more than an exceptionally constructed toy in a lavish dollhouse. He would never tolerate a pregnant mistress. As soon as he found out about it, she would be kicked out, back into the cold. The most she would be able to expect from him would be a financial settlement of some sort. Along with a notice to vacate the town house and find her own place to live.
Finally, and most important of all, there was her dream. Her secret ambition. Her magazine. She had already picked out a name for it. Les Modes. And she knew that Les Modes was the only child she would ever really want to have. She shook her head in despair. The baby. The baby. It wasn't even born yet, but suddenly everything revolved around the baby.
On an impulse she stretched out her legs. Then with her fingers she felt her belly. It was still flat and hard. It didn't feel a bit different. Not yet. It wouldn't be noticeable for a couple of months, but it was there, all right, deep down inside her. She could almost feel it growing, that infinitesimal spark of life.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Over the past few hours a vague plan had been hovering nearby. At first it had been an ugly, shapeless cloud and she kept pushing it away. But now she let it metamorphose into the ugly dark shape that it was. It was a way out.
TODAY
Friday, January 12
1
Hélène and Edmond got off the elevator on the twenty-first floor of the ManhattanBank Building Hélène looked extremely elegant. She was wearing a sable coat, a sable hat, an ivory-colored Givenchy suit with a sable- colored blouse and a single strand of pearls. Her handbag and shoes matched: t
hey were made of choice lizard skin. The attaché case she carried came from Botega Veneta on Madison Avenue and had cost two thousand dollars.
This morning, Hélène had dressed with special care. She had gone through her wardrobe and chosen each item piece by piece. The result was an outfit that made her look rich, and yet it had the elegant understatement and conservative style that was associated with 'old money.' It was a bit of camouflage, since her money certainly wasn't 'old,' but today some camouflage wouldn't hurt. The pearls, she decided, were a good touch. They were not too much; not too little. You could never go wrong with pearls, she thought. She decided that she must look cautiously conservative and extremely restrained. Even aloof. Appearances were all-important.
She looked at the familiar block letters on the wall above the reception desk: 'International Commercial Banking Division.' This part of ManhattanBank, as well as the personal banking division on the floor below, was a side of the banking world that most people never saw. Here the important clients were handled by appointment only in plush private offices. When millions of dollars were involved, there was no waiting in line for surly bank tellers or nasty 'officers.' Up here, everything was strictly first-class. Very professional. Very efficient. Very slick.
The receptionist looked up at Hélène and Edmond and smiled professionally. 'May I help you?' she asked in a polite voice.
'We have an appointment with Mr. Rowan,' Edmond said.
The receptionist reached for the call directory and lifted the receiver. 'Who should I say would like to see him?'
'Miss Junot,' he replied.
'One moment, please.' The receptionist smiled apologetically, punched a four-digit number, and murmured softly into the receiver. A moment later she hung up and smiled again. 'Room two-one-oh-seven,' she said. She pointed down the hall. 'It will be on your right. Mr. Rowen's expecting you.'
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