'Wait here,' she instructed the chauffeur as she got out of the car, attaché case in hand.
He nodded courteously and closed the door behind her. When she was on top of the marble steps, she banged twice on the brass knocker. For a moment she turned and her eyes lingered on the car. The chauffeur was leaning against it, cupping his hands and lighting a cigarette against the wind. Behind him, the green-and-black coachwork flashed snobbishly in the flickering glow of the gaslights. She smiled grimly to herself. She was facing the de Légers on their own terms. First-class.
A liveried footman opened the huge carved doors and a big square of corrugated light spilled out onto the steps. He made a production of clearing his throat. 'Madame?' he said with the reserved air of self-importance that Hautecloque, by its very magnificence, seemed to demand even of its servants.
'I am Madame Kowalsky,' she said formally. 'I believe the Comte is expecting me.'
He looked at her expressionlessly as she stepped into the big foyer. Then he slowly pushed the heavy doors shut. 'Please wait here, madame. I shall inform monsieur le Comte that you have arrived.'
She nodded her acquiescence. Then soundlessly he withdrew down a long corridor and disappeared. She smiled to herself. She didn't know whether it was a new rule in the house or not, but there was only one way a servant could walk so quietly. By wearing crepe-soled shoes.
As she waited, she looked around. She couldn't help remembering what a big deal it had seemed the time she had used the front door instead of the servants' entrance. In five years, some things had changed. At least for her.
A few minutes later, the footman came back into the foyer. 'The Comte will see you now, madame,' he announced. 'He is in the Salon de la Rotonde. Please follow me.'
Hélène nodded and followed him down the hall and through a succession of rooms. When they reached the salon, he opened the double doors, stepped aside so she could enter, and slowly drew the doors closed behind her. She looked around the room. It was exactly the way it had been the night she had dined with the de Légers, the night Hubert had taken her to dance in Saint-Medard and she had refused to go to bed with him. Only the pale blue moiré-covered walls seemed a shade paler. That was par for the course; fabric faded in five years. The fine old paintings all around were cast in soft pools of light coming from the brass arc lamps bowed down over the carved gilt frames. She noticed the Raphael she had admired so much. Then she saw the Comte.
He was standing motionless at one of the windows, one hand tucked in the small of his back as he gazed thoughtfully down at Le Notre's dark park. For a moment she thought he did not know that she was here. Then he turned around and looked at her with an expression of disapproval.
'Hello, Philippe,' she said softly.
He crossed the big Savonnerie toward her. 'I thought I made it quite clear that I did not wish to see you again,' he said coldly.
She gave a little laugh. 'It seems I have the habit of popping up like a bad penny.'
'Indeed. What is it you want?'
She stared at him. 'Why this brusqueness, Philippe? Are we such strangers?'
He did not reply. With his hand he made a familiar elegant gesture. She looked at the nearest settee and sank down into it. It was the same one on which she had sat with the Comtesse while the Comte and Hubert had been at the far side of the room discussing politics and business. Was it really possible that all that had been five years ago? Slowly she set the attaché case down on the floor beside her.
For a moment she was silent. She had been so awed by the de Légers, had been so easily blinded. But now she knew better. They were involved only in themselves, their own business, their own pleasure. They took and they took and they never gave. They thought everyone had a price. Dangle a bauble in front of a girl and watch her melt. The Comtesse was just as bad. Why else would she have used Madame Dupre to copy the great couturiers' creations? They played sick little games, the de Légers. To them, everyone was a pawn who could be kicked off the board without a moment's notice. Maybe they had done that with enough people to believe they really were invincible. But she could be as hard and unforgiving as they were. She smiled coolly at the Comte. If that was the way he wanted to play it, then she was willing to go along with it. She held all the aces and he didn't even know it. Her voice was suddenly brisk and businesslike. 'The reason my solicitor contacted you was that I have a business proposition.'
His blue eyes clouded over and he took a seat opposite her. So that was it, he thought. She was like all the others who had been jilted. He had wondered how long it would take for her greed to rise to the surface. Sooner or later it always did. They were stupid, these girls, to think that all they had to do was to keep coming around and demanding more money. He knew their ploys well enough by now. They came to see him under all sorts of pretexts. They would begin with charming small talk, casually bait the hook, and then try to pull him in. He was used to it. Not once had he given in to their offensive tactics.
'I'm in a bit of a hurry,' he said wearily. 'If it isn't too inconvenient, I'd appreciate it if this didn't take too long.'
'Very well,' Hélène said. 'I don't know whether or not you are aware that I am now a widow?'
He offered no condolences. 'I think I heard mention of it somewhere,' he replied dryly. 'It seems you've become a rather wealthy young woman.'
'Wealthy, perhaps. Terribly rich, no. But I'm finding myself with a lot of time on my hands. I think that during times of mourning it is best to keep busy, non?'
He started to rise to his feet. 'I don't know what it is you're getting at,' he said irritably, 'but I'm a very busy man. Now, if you'll please excuse me. . .
Her voice was suddenly icy. 'Sit down!'
He started, and met her eyes. There was something challenging in them that he'd never seen before. It was as if the soft amethyst had been suddenly cut into brilliant facets. Slowly he took his seat again.
She folded her small-boned hands in her lap. The hardness in her eyes faded as quickly as it had come, and once again her voice was low and controlled. 'As you might recall, Philippe, I once made some mention of having ambitions of becoming a magazine publisher.'
'Yes,' he said noncommittally. 'So?'
'Well, the corporation is now set up,' she answered. 'My solicitor has requested this meeting so that I might make you more aware of the company. You see, I'm selling stock in it.'
'I'm afraid you've come to the wrong person.'
She gave a low laugh. 'No, Philippe. I've come to the right person. You are going to buy ten percent of Les Editions Hélène Junot, S.A.'
He sat back and began to relax. He looked at her with good humor. 'You have a lot of nerve, I'll credit you with that.'
'Don't give me credit for that which you know nothing of,' she said pointedly. 'Do you have a tape recorder?'
He looked at her curiously. 'A tape recorder? What on earth for?'
She reached down for the attaché case, swung it onto her knee, and flipped it open. She took out a reel of recording tape and held it up. 'I think you should hear this,' she said in a level voice.
At first his mouth fell open. Then he began to laugh. 'Why, of all the cheap tricks!' His voice took on a taunting edge. 'I'm afraid that's not very original. It's been tried before by one of your predecessors.'
She looked at him innocently. 'What has?'
'Taping our lovemaking and then making an ultimatum.'
'An ultimatum such as what?'
'Don't play the innocent,' he snapped angrily. 'Demanding a financial settlement. . .or the tape will be sent to my wife. I know that routine and you should be smart enough to realize that it won't work. As I told you once, I demand total honesty from everyone. Not only that. I reciprocate. You see, blackmail is not possible because the Comtesse knows all about the house on the Boulevard Maillot and what goes on there.'
Hélène's eyes fell and her voice was quiet. 'Don't make it sound so cheap, Philippe.'
'You're the one who's bei
ng cheap,' he said. 'Now, I'm afraid you've taken up all the time I can spare.'
'You'd better listen to this tape,' she said quietly. 'It's the only chance you'll get. If you haven't got a recorder, I brought one with me. It's outside in the car.'
He made an impatient gesture. 'I have a recorder in the library. I'll listen to the tape there.'
She got to her feet and followed him into the richly furnished two-story library. He gestured at a round baize-covered table at one end. She went over to it. On it stood a radio, a record player, and a tape recorder. Her face was expressionless as she placed the reel on the recorder, carefully threaded the tape through the machine, and then turned to him. 'Bear in mind, Philippe, that this is only a copy. The original is in a lawyer's vault. Need I say that it's not the same lawyer who arranged this meeting?'
'You make it sound very ominous. Go on, turn the damn thing on. Let's get it over with.'
She inclined her head, smiled pleasantly, and brought a finger down on the green plastic button.
At first there was only a hissing noise. Then came the sound of footsteps and a chair scraping against a floor. Finally the first elegantly baroque notes of the overture from Clytemnestra filled the library.
She took a chair near the Comte's and scraped it closer. 'As you know, my late husband was a concert pianist. One of the greatest in the world.'
'If you say so,' the Comte said dryly. 'Myself, I've always preferred Horowitz.'
She shrugged. 'To each his own. Let's listen, shall we?'
She settled back silently as the familiar piano notes rose and fell, swirled and banged, went through all the moods and emotions that could possibly be lured out of an instrument, and then some. Suddenly the music stopped, there was an abrupt scraping sound, quick footsteps, and then silence.
'Really, Hélène—'
She held up a hand. 'There's more. Be patient, Philippe.'
The sudden sound of footsteps—this is where it started, when she had run through the French doors into the living room.
She watched the Comte closely. His face was an impenetrable mask.
Then there was the unmistakable sound of a telephone being dialed. Suddenly a second set of footsteps echoed loudly, and the receiver was slammed down.
'What are you doing?' a voice hissed.
Despite himself, the Comte leaned forward as he recognized his son's voice. She nodded to herself. He was starting to show signs of curiosity. Then she forgot all about him. She could feel herself starting to tremble as she slipped back in time.
'I'm calling the police.'
'What are you going to tell them?' The sound of a scuffle, then Hubert's voice, humble and desperate: 'Don't tell them. Please. I'll do anything for you. Give you anything.'
'Hubert, just give me the receiver.'
His voice started to whine. 'Will you listen to me for a moment! Do you think I wanted this to happen? It was an accident!'
'How old are you, Hubert?'
'Twenty-five.'
Her little laugh was strained and humorless. Then there was the sound of a slap. 'Twenty-five! To think that you fought with a man of seventy-two! A pianist whose fingers were his life, who couldn't defend himself. And you hurled him off the cliff.'
She caught the Comte's eyes flashing for a moment. Then he got to his feet and faced a wall of books so that she couldn't see his face. But she could see the sag of his shoulders as his hands fell to his sides.
'I told you it was an accident!' Hubert shouted. 'He lost his balance!'
'I don't believe you.' Her voice sounded dull and lifeless.
'All right, then don't!' Hubert screamed. 'I wanted to kill him! You're right. Ever since the day you two first met. He was too old for you! Too damned old and too damned ugly! I'm glad I killed him!'
There was a pause. Then: 'Do you know what you're saying?'
'Of course I know what I'm saying! And if you tell the police that I had any part in it, I'll deny it. I'll call you a liar! He was a frail old man. Even a woman could have tossed him down that cliff.'
The Comte suddenly lunged at the recorder and snatched the reel off the machine. Angrily, he threw the reel against the wall. Then he slumped over the table and grabbed hold of it. His hands were shaking. Suddenly he looked very old and defeated.
Her voice was soft. 'Philippe, at the time all this happened, I didn't even know that the machine was running. Stanislaw had been recording the piece you heard and left the machine on when Hubert attacked me in the garden.'
Slowly the Comte straightened and turned to face her. His eyes were pained but unwavering. 'Hubert's behavior cannot be excused.'
'Don't you think 'inexcusable behavior' is rather too casual a term for murder?'
He ignored her. 'I don't care what you want to call it, but I will not let myself be blackmailed,' he said with dignity. 'Not by anyone or for any reason.'
She looked at him levelly and rose to her feet. 'I'm leaving now. You may keep that tape. As I told you, I have another. More copies can easily be made. I can send them to the police, to the newspapers, even to Ici Paris or Le Monde Internationale.'
His mouth hung open. 'You wouldn't do that!'
'No?' Her lips were grim. 'Try me, Philippe.'
He looked at her in silence.
'I have brought along all the documents you need for buying into Les Editions Hélène Junot, S.A.,' she continued. 'I should mention that they are made out in Hubert's name and require his signature, not yours. The contract specifically states that he cannot under any circumstances sell his shares and that he must attend any and all board meetings as scheduled by me. He must stay in constant touch with me and let me know all his movements. That is to make certain that in case of emergencies he will always be available. Need I state that if he fails to do all this, the tape will fall into rather. . .well, into rather unsavory hands?'
He still did not speak.
'Furthermore, ten percent of Les Editions Hélène Junot, S.A., will cost one million francs. That is the fair market price. I own ninety percent of the corporation and have put up nine million francs as required. So you see, it's not blackmail at all. You're simply being coerced into making a small investment. I should mention that dividends shall be paid quarterly.'
His voice was bitter. 'You've got it all figured out, haven't you?'
'I like to think so. As I said, I shall leave the documents here. You can have your lawyers go through them. I believe they will find everything in order. I will give you seven days to consider this option. If at the end of that time I do not receive the signed documents and one million francs deposited in the company account at the Banque Rothschild—' She shrugged helplessly.
The Comte slammed his fist down on the table. 'I won't have it!' he roared. 'I won't let myself be blackmailed!'
When she left the room, he dropped down into a chair. Suddenly he was very tired. He closed his eyes and sat there in silence.
Three days later, when Hélène returned to Paris, the documents were waiting for her. She went over them carefully. Each copy had been signed by Hubert de Léger and witnessed by one of the de Léger lawyers. She called the Banque Rothschild. One million francs had been deposited in her account. She tapped the documents in her hand. Les Modes was finally on its way. But it was a way she had never expected. She was using it as an instrument of justice.
At least that was what she liked to think. But sometimes, when she lay awake at night, she wondered about it. Was it really justice? Or was it vengeance? Sometimes there seemed so little difference between the two, and then, after a while, she could no longer even tell what that difference was.
11
After she left Hautecloque, Hélène had headed for Saint-Nazaire. She had the chauffeur put in at the Hotel Soubise in Rochefort for the night. By noon the next day they reached Nantes. Then once again she was riding along the Loire. The day was overcast and gray, the clouds low and threatening, and the meandering river in its huge, sandy bed picked up the charco
al tones of the sky. At a little past one o'clock they arrived on the outskirts of Saint- Nazaire.
As soon as she saw the road sign with the name of the town on it, she felt a peculiar sensation. At first it began with a buzzing in her temples and she felt the heat of a blush coming on. The strange thing was, the blush wouldn't leave. It took her a while to realize what caused this. Self-consciousness and fright. There was something about this place that could do that to her. It wasn't just the fear of running into Tante Janine. That was part of it, but it went deeper than that. It was the fear of being recognized by anyone. Schoolmates, shopkeepers, customers who had come to the nursery. In Paris, she was becoming a somebody. Here she was plain Hélène Junot, the gawky kid who lived with the crazy old woman who ran the nursery. Here she would always be remembered for that. It made her feel a deep sense of shame and resentment. It was difficult to put her finger on what it stemmed from. It was simply there. When you left a place, you could never go back. Not as yourself.
She sighed. All the pain of her childhood seemed to be capsulized in this one small, unimportant town. She felt pain in Paris sometimes, but nothing like here. She had lived here for years and still felt like an outcast. It was when she returned to Paris that she felt she was coming home.
She looked out the window. In many ways, the town had changed. A lot of construction was going on, especially on the outskirts. It reminded her somehow of Seulberg. The new houses here had the same boxy shape, the same kind of cold neatness and sharp angles and stuccoed walls. Was that what the war had done? she wondered. Was all the individual character of a place wiped out and replaced with the unimaginativeness of the new? Why was style just swept aside like antiquated dirt and forgotten? Didn't beauty count for anything anymore?
She pushed the button that lowered the glass partition between her and the chauffeur. 'Drive to the church,' she instructed.
She pushed the button again and the glass slid silently back up out of the seat. She stared out the window again. She should never have come here. She knew that now. She should have had Edmond, Jeanne, and Petite Hélène come straight to Paris. Saint-Nazaire was a torture.
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