Edmond shrugged painfully and looked away. His face was an expression of self-contempt. 'I'm not certain. She didn't want to worry me, so she kept quiet. Finally I knew that something was wrong and insisted. . .' With shaking fingers he reached for a rumpled pack of cigarettes.
The door to Jeanne's room opened suddenly. A nun in flowing black robes and a starched winged hat came out. She was carrying a tray expertly balanced against her hip while she silently pulled the heavy door closed behind her.
Hélène hurried over to her. 'How is she, Sister?'
The nun frowned disapprovingly and shook her head. 'I cannot say. The doctors will be out shortly, I believe. They will be able to tell you more accurately than I.' The nun looked past Hélène and eyed Edmond severely. 'I'm sorry, monsieur, but smoking is strictly forbidden!' she announced in sepulchral tones.
Edmond took a quick last puff and looked around helplessly. Finally he dropped the cigarette on the stone floor and ground it out under his heel, shredding the tobacco. The nun said nothing, but gave him a stern look before she swept away down the corridor.
A team of doctors came out of Jeanne's room shortly after nine o'clock. By then Hélène had been waiting nearly three hours. She, Edmond, and Dr. Rosen quickly surrounded the doctors.
Edmond recognized one of them. 'Dr. Dufaut, can we go in now?'
The doctor cleared his throat and held up his hands. 'Yes, but only for a moment. Your wife is quite weak. She needs rest.'
'How is she, doctor?' Hélène asked. 'I mean, will she—'
'It's still too early to tell,' the doctor cut in smoothly, sidestepping the question before it was fully formed. This was familiar territory for him. No matter how badly a patient was doing, you never admitted it. You had to leave the relatives with hope. He smiled tightly now. 'Let me assure you, we're doing everything for her that we possibly can.'
Dr. Rosen stepped forward. By habit, he took off his glasses and began polishing them with a handkerchief. 'What, exactly, is wrong with Madame Junot?' he asked.
Dr. Dufaut frowned and looked at him closely. 'Who are you?'
Dr. Rosen smiled agreeably. 'I'm Simon Rosen. I'm a doctor and a close friend of the family's. I am here at their request.'
The doctor took a deep breath and turned around. 'You may go in now,' he told Hélène and Edmond, 'but the nurse won't let you stay long.' Then he took Dr. Rosen aside.
The sickroom was dim and Hélène was not prepared for the sight of Jeanne lying on her pillow, breathing heavily. She didn't move. Perhaps she hadn't heard them come in.
Hélène took a deep breath and stifled her tears. This was not the Jeanne she knew and loved. The Jeanne who had waited on tables in Saint-Nazaire, who had given her the guidance and love of an older sister, who had married Edmond, who had given birth to Petite Hélène. This woman was a stranger. Her face was beet red and swollen. She was staring vacantly up at the ceiling. For a moment Hélène found herself looking up too. But there was nothing to be seen there.
'Jeanne. . .' Edmond said tentatively.
Slowly Jeanne turned her head on the pillow to face him. Her eyes were glazed. Trying hard to focus. 'Edmond?' she mumbled thickly through swollen lips. 'Edmond, I'm. . .I'm sorry.' Her eyes brimmed over with tears. Her voice was tiny. 'Edmond. . .'
He was beside her now, searching for one of her hands and holding it tightly. 'You'll be all right in no time,' he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. With his free hand he stroked her forehead. 'The doctors said you're making fine progress. Just keep it up, and in no time we'll have you back home.'
'If things are going so well, then why are you looking away?' Jeanne asked calmly. She stared at him, and there was a sure look in her eyes as she shook her head. 'No,' she whispered. 'I'm not going to go home. Never again.'
Hélène stepped forward. 'Jeanne!' she said in a choked voice. 'I won't have you talking like that! You mustn't give up! You have everything to live for. You have me, Edmond, Petite Hélène, the new baby .. .'
'Hélène, dear sweet Hélène,' Jeanne said gently, looking up at her gratefully. 'You came. Edmond said you would, but I thought he was only saying that to placate me.' Jeanne shook her head from side to side. 'I know I won't get better. Just. . . just promise me one thing.'
Hélène and Edmond nodded.
'Don't let Petite Hélène see me like this. Don't make her. . .' Jeanne twisted her face away from them and looked out over the side of the bed.
'Don't make her do what?' Edmond asked gently.
Jeanne closed her eyes wearily. 'Don't make her. . .kiss me when I'm dead. I want the coffin closed. She's too young to have to see such. . .ugliness.' With an immense effort, Jeanne fought to open her eyes. They were clear of tears. Her other hand found Heine's, and the icy fingers closed over it like a vise. Her voice was growing fainter. 'Hélène. . .' Jeanne swallowed and lifted her head. Her eyes were unwavering. 'You'll. . .take care of Petite Hélène? Like your own daughter?' she asked in a small voice. 'Can you promise me that?'
Hélène nodded solemnly and squeezed Jeanne's hand. 'I promise,' she said huskily.
Jeanne smiled and slowly let her head sink back down on the pillow. She let go of Hélène's hand, the fingers unwrapping slowly.
A nurse came into the room. 'Please, you'll have to wait outside for a while,' she said sternly. 'The patient is tired.'
'Don't make them go!' Jeanne's face was suddenly contorted with fear. 'Please,' she begged. 'Let them stay! I don't want to die alone!'
11
Jeanne did not die alone. The terrible thing was, she needn't have died at all.
When Hélène and Edmond went back out into the corridor after visiting with her, Dr. Rosen quickly slipped inside to examine Jeanne for himself. It was not long before he returned, but the wait seemed interminable. Hélène looked at him hopefully, but his face was grim. He drew her and Edmond aside and glanced around to make sure they couldn't be overheard. When he spoke, his voice was low. 'We've got to move Madame Junot to another hospital.'
Hélène stared at him. 'But why?' she asked in surprise. 'I don't—'
Dr. Rosen didn't let her finish. 'Because this is a Catholic hospital,' he explained, 'run by nuns and priests, following the doctrine of the Church. Listen carefully, for we don't have the time to run through this twice. There isn't a moment to lose.'
He turned to Edmond and looked up at him from above the glasses which were slowly slipping down his nose. He jabbed them back in place with his thumb.
'Your wife is diagnosed as having acute toxemia. That diagnosis is, unfortunately, correct. The illness was brought about by difficulties arising from her pregnancy. It is a dangerous condition, often fatal. In her case, assuredly so. The toxemia can cause'—he ticked the complications off on his fingers—'renal failure, that is, failure of the kidneys to function, which has already occurred; pneumonia, which is also beginning to set in; and pulmonary edema and cardiac failure could follow. In other words, the chances of heart failure are now great. While you were visiting her, I had a discussion with Dr. Dufaut. It is my opinion'—Dr. Rosen glanced from Hélène to Edmond—'that what Madame Junot needs is an immediate abortion!'
The word cut through Hélène's heart like a searing knife. Instantly a terrible nausea rose as a flood of memories engulfed her. Visions of her own baby that she had had cut out of her flashed before her eyes. She tried to swallow.
Edmond was visibly shaken. Somehow he found his voice. 'An abortion!' He turned away suddenly. 'My God, no!'
Dr. Rosen placed a hand on his arm. 'Have courage, young man.' He turned to include Hélène. 'An abortion is the only thing that will spare Madame Junot her life. To do that, we've got to get her out of here. Catholic hospitals forbid abortion under any circumstances, and this one is especially strict. We must get her to a private clinic immediately.'
Hélène wiped her eyes. 'Where do we. . .find one?' she whispered.
'There's a good private hospital in Passy. Please, don't misun
derstand me. I'm not in favor of taking a life. In this case, it is the only way in which we can save Madame Junot's life. Otherwise, both she and the child are doomed to die. Even Dr. Dufaut admitted that to me.'
Sudden anger pushed through Hélène's shock. 'And yet he won't perform it?' she asked incredulously.
Dr. Rosen shrugged helplessly. 'He is a devout Catholic.'
Edmond was silent. Hélène looked at him levelly, waiting for a moment. 'Edmond,' she prodded quietly, 'there isn't much time.'
His face was white with anguish. Then his eyes fell. 'Please, Hélène,' he begged huskily. 'I. . .I can't make that kind of decision.'
For a moment she could only stare at him. A fleeting realization came to her. Her stalwart Edmond, who as a child had bravely killed the Boche and led her on that impossibly treacherous journey halfway across France, was now hunched over in pain, indecisive and afraid.
But Hélène's mind was working swiftly. Tenderly she wrapped her arms around her brother. His body was locked in stiff tension, the muscles frozen. 'I trust Dr. Rosen,' she said softly. 'Now's not the time to go into it, but he saved my life once. If he says an abortion is necessary, then it is.'
Edmond could only nod. 'It isn't me, it's Jeanne. She's so devout. She'd never allow it.'
'I'll talk to her,' Hélène declared briskly. 'She'll listen to me.'
After giving Edmond quick orders to prepare for Jeanne's transfer, she went back into the sickroom, got rid of the nurse, and went over to Jeanne and sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached for the wet sponge, wrung it out, and gently began dabbing Jeanne's forehead. Jeanne lay still. For a moment Hélène was afraid she was dead. Then slowly Jeanne's eyes fluttered open. She smiled thinly. 'You came back!' she whispered. 'I knew you wouldn't let me die alone.'
'I won't let you die, period,' Hélène said grimly. She looked down at Jeanne. 'Edmond and I are transferring you to a different hospital.'
'A different. . .' Jeanne looked suddenly confused. 'But. . .they're so good to me here.'
'I know that,' Hélène said gently, 'but another hospital can make you well again. Think of Petite Hélène and Edmond. Don't you want to live for them?'
A glimmer of hope pushed its way through Jeanne's dull eyes as she struggled to sit up. 'What must I do?'
'We shall take you to a private clinic. You'll probably have to stay there for a few weeks. Then you will be as good as new.'
Suddenly a look of understanding crossed Jeanne's face. She snatched her hand away and her eyes moved down the length of her body to where her swollen belly distended the blanket. After a prolonged moment her gaze moved back up to Hélène. Her eyes were penetrating. 'And my baby?' she asked softly.
Hélène looked away. It was useless to lie. Her expression would give her away. 'The baby must die,' she whispered.
'No!' Jeanne croaked sharply. She shook her head stubbornly. 'I know what it is you want them to do to me! I won't let that happen!'
'But you must!' Hélène pleaded. 'Your life. . .and what about Edmond and Petite Hélène! What about them? They love you, Jeanne. Edmond needs a wife. And Petite Hélène needs a mother.'
'Not one who is disgraced in the eyes of God. Please, Hélène. . .' Jeanne sought Hélène's hand again and squeezed it with the little strength she had left. 'Forgive me, but I cannot.'
Jeanne's last request was to die in the chapel, and she was wheeled there on a rolling stretcher to spend her last minutes lying in front of the altar rail, the stained-glass windows throwing their kaleidoscopic splotches of color everywhere. The last earthly sight she saw was the gleaming crucifix the priest held over her as he said Last Rites.
12
This house is dead, Hélène thought as she watched Petite Hélène getting dressed in a somber black dress. It was like the villa on Cap Ferrat after Stanislaw died. Something that had lived and breathed had gone out of it. Overnight, the house that had been such a happy home had become nothing more than an empty shell.
Petite Hélène finished dressing. She came toward Hélène and turned around solemnly. 'How do I look, Tante Hélène?' she asked quietly.
It has already affected her, too, Hélène thought. She was more mature, more serious and grown-up. She had taken the news of her mother's death very soberly, almost without emotion. Even that morning at the funeral, she had been dry-eyed. Of course, Hélène hadn't really expected her to understand what death was. Not yet. Often it took a while for the tragedy to sink in. Especially with children.
'You look lovely,' Hélène said automatically, retying the black satin ribbon in the girl's fiercely orange hair.
'Where are we going?' Petite Hélène asked.
'I thought it would be nice to walk in the Bois for a while,' she answered. She forced a smile. 'Afterward, we can stop somewhere and have an ice cream.'
'I don't think I want an ice cream.'
Hélène shrugged. 'In that case, we shall just walk. Hurry, or we'll miss the sunshine.'
When they got outside, the day was still bright and fresh. Aimlessly they wandered along the less-used paths in the Bois. Hélène couldn't help looking around constantly. It was as if Jeanne's soul could be found here floating somewhere among the thickly leafed chestnut trees, dancing among the fragile flowers that bent in the breezes, even soaring elusively overhead alongside the birds that swooped in the puffball skies. After an hour, they sat on a bench in the Jardin d'Acclimatation and watched the children at play. Petite Hélène was five years old, but she was in no mood for the animals and the rides. It was as if she had suddenly shed the Renoir-girl quality and outgrown the laughter and games. Instead of mingling with the children as she usually did, she sat quietly beside Hélène, her short legs not quite reaching the ground. After a long silence, she turned to Hélène with that curious, adult wisdom that some children tend to have. 'Tante Hélène. . .?'
Hélène looked at her silently.
'Maman's gone, Tante Hélène. We'll just have to keep on living, won't we?' She turned her head slightly and looked vacantly at the noisy playground. A crowd of screaming children was hanging on to the whirling merry-go-round. 'Just sitting here waiting won't bring her back.'
Suddenly Hélène found herself crying. She drew the girl against her, wrapping her in her arms and holding her close. The tears were streaming unchecked down her cheeks. Petite Hélène was right, she thought. Jeanne was gone. Her soul wasn't here in the Bois. It was in this girl she was holding in her arms. A soul was passed from mother to daughter, from father to son. Only, her own soul could never be passed on, for she could never have children.
Silently she let Petite Hélène go and wiped away the tears that shone on her cheeks. Petite Hélène was watching curiously. 'Can I get you something, Tante Hélène?' she asked in a small voice, embarrassed at having caused the outburst.
'No,' Hélène said huskily. There was a distant look in her eyes. 'I. . .I'm fine.' Suddenly she changed her mind and unsnapped her purse. She took out a few twenty-franc bills. 'Here, go to the kiosk and buy some newspapers and magazines.'
'Any particular ones?'
Hélène shook her head and nodded with her chin. 'You pick them out.'
Petite Hélène looked at her, quietly palmed the money, and left. Thoughtfully Hélène watched her going down the path. Even the girl's walk had changed. It no longer had that awkward childish bounce. She was still many years from puberty; she was also many years from being a mere baby. The painful years were yet to come. Or were they already upon her?
When Petite Hélène returned, she carried a big stack of newspapers and magazines. Wearily she dropped them on the bench and then plopped down beside them.
Hélène looked blankly at the publications. Ici Paris was on the top. She made it a point never to buy it, but she didn't want to disappoint Petite Helene. Slowly she picked it up. For a moment she could only stare at the cover. It took a moment for it to sink in. The big color photo showed a pouting Blanche Benois on the arm of Nigel Somerset, scion of a
dukedom, at the Black-and-White Ball in Venice. It was the very ball to which Zeno Skouri had invited her. Only now did she realize that things had been so topsy-turvy that she hadn't given much thought to Nigel.
Wearily she closed her eyes and let the paper drop unread onto her lap. She felt very, very alone.
Hélène drew a deep breath as she climbed out of the taxi in front of Fouquet's. For a moment, she couldn't help but stop and glance around at the pulse of the city. For the first time since Jeanne had died, she felt a little something stir inside her. The late-summer weather was on its best Parisian behavior. The cafe owners were jubilant; everywhere, the outdoor tables were doing a brisk business. The chestnut trees lining the avenues were deep dark green, not the lush, fresh green of spring, but that perfectly mature green when they are at their ripest.
Hélène clutched her purse more tightly now. The brilliant day had soured suddenly as harsh reality grabbed hold of her. Quickly, without another glance around, she entered the terrace of Fouquet's. At the far end, she saw Jacques already sitting at one of the sidewalk tables. He waved at her as the maitre d' led her to the table and helped her into her seat.
She put her purse on the table and started to pull off her gloves. 'Hello, princess,' Jacques said quietly.
Hélène nodded curtly. The packed tables and the traffic beyond the sidewalk seemed suddenly to fade into the distance. Her voice was low but clear. 'Well?' she asked, getting right down to business. 'Why not the office? Why Fouquet's?'
'Because it's appropriate,' he replied. 'But all in good time. Besides, I vaguely recall your warning me never to set foot in the office again.' He sat back and studied her. He made a production of frowning. 'You're not looking very well,' he said in a reprimanding voice. 'You're all pale and washed out. Black does not suit you. You of all people should know better.'
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