Jacques grinned. 'Tell her anything, but make sure it's diplomatic. Now, what are you doing tonight?'
Hélène sniffed. 'What I do tonight is my business.'
'Well said, but my intentions are honorable. I have a party to attend, and I want you to come with me.'
The house was seventeenth-century, Hélène thought, and most of the guests could probably trace their lineage much farther back than that. There were ambassadors, film stars, politicians, industrialists, artists, and financiers. The guests spilled from the foyer and the salon into the music and sun rooms.
'Jacques,' an elegant middle-aged woman with angular cheekbones said as they politely pushed their way through the throng clustered in the foyer.
Jacques stopped and smiled at her. She lifted her bony, jewel-studded hand grandly and he bent over and kissed it gallantly.
'You've been hiding, you naughty boy,' she said with a reproachful pout.
He smiled. 'May I introduce my newest model, Hélène Junot? Hélène, our gracious hostess, the Vicomtesse de Sevigne.'
'How do you do?' Hélène said politely. She stared at the woman in fascination. She had read of the de Sevignes in all the society columns. They were among the richest people in France. The reclusive old Vicomte was a financier; the Vicomtesse was a partygoer, a party-giver, and the owner of a chic costume-jewelry boutique. She was also an interior designer, for friends; a hairdresser, her own; and a couturiere of sorts, by insisting that the designers of the hallowed houses alter their great creations to her own specifications. They obliged, but only because they recognized the Vicomtesse's innate good taste.
'Jacques is a terribly talented young man,' the Vicomtesse said to Hélène. 'His photographs are works of art. And he is so handsome. He could sweep half the women in Paris off their feet.' She sipped her champagne delicately.
'Unfortunately, he prefers to go to the pissoirs to pick up his bed partners,' a slurry male voice said from behind.
The Vicomtesse paled beneath her carefully applied makeup. Abruptly the conversation around them ground to a stop. People began to stare; a few started to move away in embarrassment. A deep flush rose up Jacques's face and the Vicomtesse and Hélène turned around slowly. Hubert de Léger was smiling innocently at them.
Hélène felt sick with disgust. She couldn't believe that Hubert was here. Even worse, that he had just said what he had, and so loudly.
'Did I say something wrong?' Hubert asked in a charming voice.
'You bastard,' Jacques said quietly. 'One of these days I'll knock your filthy teeth out.' He clenched his fists threateningly.
Quickly Hélène grabbed his wrists and restrained him.
'Fancy a cream puff being so brave,' Hubert said with a faint smile. He turned to the Vicomtesse and gave a little shrug. 'I suppose if one invites so many people, one pervert will be bound to slip in. You are forgiven, madam.'
Without answering, the Vicomtesse swiftly hooked one arm through Hélène's, the other through Jacques's. 'I think we should pay our respects to the guest of honor,' she said quickly. 'Come.'
As she marched them across the salon, she apologized for Hubert's behavior. 'He is worse than a peasant,' she said derisively. The words were bitter, but Hélène noticed that a careful smile masked her face. Anyone looking at her would have thought that she was chatting amiably.
Halfway across the room, the Vicomtesse drew to a halt. 'Ah, here is our guest of honor.' She extricated herself elegantly from their arms and gently pulled an old white-haired man out of a crowd of people. 'Stanislaw, cheri,' she said, kissing him on the cheek.
Hélène stared at the old man. She had seen the world-famous pianist once before. It had been at the opera. While she and the Comte had been in the box, Stanislaw Kowalsky had been sitting in the front row.
The Vicomtesse made a sweeping gesture. 'Stanislaw, I would like you to meet two of my friends. Hélène Junot and Jacques Renault.'
The old man smiled pleasantly and bowed to both of them. 'I am enchanted to meet you, mademoiselle,' he said to Hélène. He took her hand and kissed it, his breath barely brushing her flesh.
Hélène was speechless. He looks so small and shrunken, she thought. Strange, that such a little man could take the world by storm. She couldn't help noticing that his arms were long, his fingers slender, flat, and elongated, the small pink fingernails clipped down to the quick. But in his own way he was impressive-looking; even the unruly tufts of white hair on his head were worn like a regal crown. His eyebrows were gray and bushy; his dark eyes beneath them twinkled with merriment.
The Vicomtesse smiled. 'Mademoiselle Junot is a model. She has just done a spread for Vogue. Monsieur Renault took the pictures.'
The old man smiled. 'I am certain they will turn out to be fine pictures. With a model so lovely, who could fail to take a beautiful picture? Unless, of course, Monsieur Renault forgot to put film in the camera.'
'I hope not.' Hélène laughed. 'He had me hanging off the second platform of the Eiffel Tower.'
'Jacques!' The Vicomtesse looked horrified. 'Haven't you learned enough from that Notre Dame incident!' Mystified, the Vicomtesse looked at Hélène and shook her head. 'I don't know how you did it. You must be very brave. Myself, I find it difficult even to climb a flight of stairs. I'm afraid I'm a terrible coward.'
'Hardly, my dear,' Kowalsky said to the Vicomtesse. 'You are the bravest woman I have ever met.'
'Please,' she protested.
He held up a liver-spotted hand to silence her. 'During the war, she hid thirteen downed American fliers and two Jewish families in her chateau. And imagine—at the same time, the Nazis occupied another wing of the same building! She hid us right under their noses for three whole years!'
'She hid you?' Hélène asked in surprise.
'My family and another. She is very brave, non?'
Hélène looked at the Vicomtesse with new respect. She seemed so frail and delicate, hardly the stuff of which heroes were made. But the eyes told otherwise. If you looked deep into them you could tell that they were eyes that had lived. They were unwavering, strong, and filled with character. Still, it took courage for a woman of such social standing and wealth to put her life on the line for others. She had so much to lose.
'But what about the piano?' Hélène asked Kowalsky. 'I've heard that pianists have to practice for hours every day. You must have had to start over from scratch after the war.'
The old man smiled. 'No, I played throughout the three years. But I played for ghosts. You see, the Vicomtesse was good enough to dismantle the keyboard of the Bechstein in her salon. She brought it to me during the middle of the night, and I was able to practice and play without anyone being able to hear it.'
'It was such a pity,' the Vicomtesse said. 'Just think! I had the world's finest concert pianist under my roof and I wasn't able to hear a single note that he was playing! Sometimes I think it was crueler to me than anyone else, I love his music so.'
Hélène nodded. She smiled gently at Kowalsky. 'It must have been sad for you, too, not to be able to hear what you were playing.'
He smiled. 'Ah, but you see, I did hear it. I could imagine the sound of every note. Don't forget, Beethoven composed music when he was deaf. I think I could play even if I were. To lose one's hearing is bad, but to lose one's faculties is disastrous. Thank God, I still have them.'
'Come, come. Let us not be so maudlin. This is a party,' the Vicomtesse chided them. 'What would people think if all we did was to discuss such weighty subjects?'
Kowalsky nodded. 'Of course.' Then his eyes glittered. 'Is your piano tuned?'
The Vicomtesse drew a deep breath. She looked at him with surprise to see if he was serious. 'Really, Stanislaw, there's no need. . .'
He patted her hand. 'I would love to play a few pieces.'
She was delighted. Hubert's outburst had nearly ruined the party. Having Stanislaw Kowalsky play would not only overshadow that but also make her the hostess of the season. 'You really do
n't have to, you know,' she said without meaning it.
'And that is why I shall,' Kowalsky said. 'For you, I would do anything.'
The Vicomtesse clapped her hands. Immediately the room fell silent. All eyes were on her.
'As you know, Monsieur Kowalsky is our guest of honor,' she announced in a clear, melodious voice. 'I don't need to tell you that his charity concert at the opera tomorrow has been sold out since two months ago. But tonight he has decided to honor us.' She paused dramatically. 'If you will follow us to the music room. . .'
An excited murmur rose from the guests. Kowalsky bowed to the Vicomtesse and Hélène. 'Could I have the pleasure of being escorted to the music room by both of you?'
'We'd be delighted,' the Vicomtesse said without hesitation.
Hélène turned to flash Jacques an apologetic look as Kowalsky hooked one arm through hers, the other through the Vicomtesse's. Then they led the crowd into the big, high-ceilinged music room overlooking La Cite and the floodlit rump of the cathedral. Quietly the guests pressed around the big grand piano as Kowalsky took his seat on the bench. He smiled at Hélène, stretched out his arms as if to push back his cuffs, carefully poised his hands above the keyboard, and then brought them crashing down in Chopin's 'Ballade in G Minor.' The resonant beginning notes gave way to a light airiness, the tune wafting effortlessly from the piano, always the clear, sweetly melodious notes mingling with the richness of the lower ones.
Hélène watched in fascination as his fingers flew effortlessly up and down the keyboard, sometimes slowing deliberately, then skipping quickly across the keys again. Behind the piano he seemed so big, so lively, so much in command. He was like a lion tamer and the piano was his lion. For him, it performed to perfection. The music swirled and flew and quickened until it reached the last deep chords. He didn't stop there. Immediately he moved into a piece by Schubert.
The guests listened intently, but none with as much rapture as Hélène. The beautiful notes climbed and fell and swirled and danced around her, finally working up to a crescendo.
For a moment the guests stood in stunned silence. Then they forgot where they were and burst into wild applause.
Kowalsky smiled and gave a little bow of his head. Then he began playing Debussy's 'Serenade for the Doll.' As he played, he smiled up at Hélène. She stood there mesmerized, her breath caught in her throat, her arms breaking out in gooseflesh. She had never known music to do this to her, not at the opera or at the ballet. It was as if he were playing to her alone. When he finished the piece, he rose to his feet. The applause was like thunder. He made a courtly bow and took the Vicomtesse's hand.
'How can I ever thank you for this precious gift, Stanislaw?' she asked softly.
'Please,' he said politely. 'The pleasure was entirely mine.' He gave a little smile. 'I think I am a bit tired. I have the concert tomorrow and I'm afraid I shall need my rest. You will excuse me?'
The Vicomtesse smiled graciously. 'Of course, Stanislaw. And thank you again for the recital. My guests will be talking about it for years to come.'
'I am always only too happy to accommodate you,' he said gallantly. Then he turned to Hélène. 'It has been a pleasure meeting you, mademoiselle.'
Hélène smiled. 'Not as much as mine.'
'Would it be forward of me to ask you to attend my performance tomorrow? As my guest, of course.'
'But. . .I thought it was sold out.'
'A seat shall be found for you.'
Hélène smiled at him. 'I would be honored.'
Once again he bowed formally. 'Good night.'
The Vicomtesse watched him leave. 'He is such a kind man,' she said softly. 'I wish he did not feel so indebted to me.'
'He plays beautifully!' Hélène said. 'It was magic.'
The Vicomtesse allowed herself a smile. 'He always plays beautifully. But the 'Serenade for the Doll'? It was plain as day. He was playing that to you.'
Hélène found herself blushing and turned away.
The Vicomtesse touched her arm gently. 'Stanislaw is an old man,' she said wisely. 'He is old because of his years. But inside, he is a youth trapped in a frail body. He is seventy-two, would you believe?'
Hélène shook her head. 'He certainly doesn't act it.'
The Vicomtesse smiled. 'He has a son and a daughter, both much older than you. They have lived in America since after the war.'
'Did you hide them, also?' Hélène asked.
The Vicomtesse had a faraway look in her eyes. 'Yes, but unfortunately the war drew them apart. Being cramped together in a tiny attic room for so long was not good for them. They grew to hate each other.'
Hélène nodded. 'You have been a good friend to him,' she said softly. 'I can see how much he appreciates it.'
'He 'appreciates' you, also,' the Vicomtesse said suddenly.
'Me? What do you mean?'
'Can't you tell? He's in love with you.'
'No.' Hélène looked at the Vicomtesse to see if she was serious. The dark eyes and elegant lips held an expression of truth. 'But. . .he doesn't even know me!' Hélène stuttered.
'He knows you better than you think,' the Vicomtesse said. 'Stanislaw has good instincts when it comes to people. Besides, the last time he played the 'Serenade to the Doll' was when he met his late wife.'
Hélène shook her head and looked away. She did not know what to say. The Vicomtesse's revelation dumbfounded her. But it went deeper than that. Even if Stanislaw Kowalsky had fallen for her, he wouldn't want her. Not only was she too young for him but also there was her past to consider. Her miserable tenure with the Comte.
But she was wrong. After the concert, Stanislaw listened to her story quietly over a simple peasant dinner in a Hungarian restaurant and then smiled. He reached across the checkered tablecloth and covered her hand. 'We have all done things we are not proud of,' he said simply. 'Sometimes we did not have much choice.'
'But don't you see? I did!' Hélène told him vehemently. 'I knew exactly what I was doing!'
But it did not matter to him. Three weeks later, he asked her to marry him.
For the first time in months, Hubert felt really good. He hadn't realized what a bad turn his life had taken until he'd smashed up Le Bon Coin, a little bistro near the university. Almost before the gendarmes threw him in jail, the family's slippery lawyer, Maurice Hugo, had everything under control. Before the night was out, the proprietor of the bistro had received three envelopes containing money. One for damages incurred during the brawl, one for the loss of customers during the necessary renovation, and one because he was a forgiving man of the world and could surely see that there had been a mistake, that there hadn't been a melee, merely a boisterous celebration. A fourth envelope had ended up in the hands of the gendarmes. Like magic, Hubert de Léger's name disappeared from the police files.
Any harm this incident might have produced had been quickly averted, but the Comte's face had been white with anger. Hubert's behavior had cost a great deal of money, but more important, a family branching out into politics and diplomacy did not need the black mark of a barroom brawl against it. It was not enough to just sweep such an incident under the rug. There would perhaps be another one, and then another. Somewhere along the line, one of them could spark off a major scandal and cause irreparable damage to the de Léger name. The Comte realized that his son was, in effect, a walking time bomb. The cure was not to whitewash the harm caused by his disastrous behavior, but to wipe out the cause of it. Hubert needed to be dried out and get professional counseling. Without hesitation, the Comte had him signed into an exclusive clinique near Deauville that specialized in treating alcoholism and its related emotional problems.
At first, it had been hell for Hubert. He was moody and struck out at anyone and anything. He battled constantly with the doctors and nurses, and started fights with fellow patients. Once he managed to run away and was picked up at a local bar, hardly able to stand, and taken back to the clinique. It was there, while he was drying out for the sec
ond time, that he saw the picture in Ici Paris. Hélène's familiar face was smiling reluctantly into the camera, and beside her was a withered old man. Hubert had to reread the headline five times before he could begin to believe it: 'WORLD-FAMOUS PIANIST TO WED FASHION MODEL.'
At that moment, Hubert knew what he had to do. He wouldn't say a word to anyone. He would fool the doctors with his best behavior. Then maybe they would release him from this prison in record time. He hoped that it wouldn't be too late to stop this revolting marriage from taking place. If it was, he'd just have to find a way to break it up.
His lips curled into a tight smile. At least he now knew where to find her.
Hélène looked up at the train as it labored slowly into the Gare Montparnasse. Most of the windows were down and the passengers were leaning out with expressions of expectancy. She recognized Jeanne and Edmond immediately. They were in the fourth coach from the front. Her face broke into a smile and she began waving her hand. Suddenly Jeanne caught sight of her and nudged Edmond. They waved back excitedly. Hélène hurried along the platform beside the second-class coach until the train hissed and jolted to a stop.
As soon as they stepped off the train, she flew toward them and threw herself into their arms. 'I'm so happy to see you!' she cried, her voice husky with emotion.
Their embrace was long and emotional. For a moment, none of them said anything more. They were content just to hold each other. Edmond gently stroked her hair.
Hélène looked at Jeanne. She hadn't changed much. Still the mousy hair and pale skin, the soulful but strong dark eyes, the sturdy provincial clothes. But Edmond had changed; she could see that right away. Somehow he looked thinner, and there were tight lines of tension around his mouth. He must be working himself hard, she thought. He had three mouths to feed.
Suddenly she felt a tinge of guilt. Things were not going nearly as well for them as Jeanne had written. They were probably struggling to make ends meet in Saint-Nazaire while she was living it up in Paris.
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