Like a queen, Odile Joly received each guest individually. When the guests entered the apartment, a servant took their coats and had them line up; another servant took them, one by one, to see Odile Joly. Never one to do things by halves, she sat in lonely splendor on a mountain of cushions and Oriental rugs inside a silken tent specially erected for this occasion. The tent was lit by lanterns and lined with pots of bushy areca palms. Sandalwood incense burned in a brass brazier, and an Indian singer sat cross-legged in a corner strumming a harplike instrument and singing in a high-pitched voice. For this occasion, Odile Joly had gone all-out. She wore a sheer veil, an elegant silk sari she had bought on a recent trip to India, and gleaming gold jewelry. She allowed each guest to do two things: congratulate her on her success and longevity and pick her mind for a single pearl of wisdom by asking one, and only one, truly important question.
Odile Joly enjoyed herself immensely. She knew how everyone seized upon her every word as if it were gospel, and she made a game of it. When a model asked her for the secret to beauty, she replied elusively, 'Beauty is that elusive gift that no one can find.'
When a man asked her for the secret to success, Odile Joly looked thoughtful for a moment and mused, 'Hmmm. . .success.' She placed a finger across her lips, apparently deep in thought. Then she looked up, her dark eyes sparkling with sudden knowledge. 'Success is either there or it isn't.'
When asked what was the most important thing in the world, she succinctly explained, 'Economy of motion.'
'When should I get my first face-lift?' someone else asked.
'Face lift! Non, non, non, non! Never get a face-lift. Add wrinkles!' Odile Joly cried. Then with a look of self-satisfaction she settled back on her mountains of cushions. 'Wrinkles,' she sighed happily, 'add character.'
Hélène was nearly overcome by the sumptuousness of Odile Joly's apartment. She had never before been there. Though it was an apartment in a hotel that was known for its luxury, she had expected something Spartan like the workrooms in the maison where the cutting and designing went on, or at the most, a comfortable but uninspired suite of hotel rooms. She was mistaken on both counts.
The enormous suite had been decorated by Odile Joly herself, 'with a little help' from the great English decorator John Fowler. Along one wall of the formal living room were built-in black-lacquered bookcases, and in front of them was a long couch filled with goose down and upholstered in rich bone-colored suede. The two end walls were completely mirrored except for the delicately carved marble fireplaces. The coffee tables and the chairs were genuine Empire, the carpeting was a thick wool pile that looked like velvet, and life-size bronze deer stood around looking as if they were grazing upon it. There were coromandel screens, ormolu clocks, furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl, paintings by Turner and Renoir, a pair of tiny Titians, and a collection of Kang H'si porcelains. As if all this were not enough, even the ceiling was mirrored.
As Hélène awaited her turn to see Odile Joly, she kept thinking back to how much her former employer had been responsible for her own success. For it had been Odile Joly who had sought her out so many years ago at the
Andre Lichenstein Gallery and offered her a job as a model. It was she who had recommended her to Jacques to pose for the sensational Eiffel Tower pictures. Then, when she had begun Les Modes, Odile Joly had once again given her all the support humanly possible, even breaking with the High Fashion Association in order that Les Modes might have the jump on covering her collections. Perhaps without Odile Joly, Les Modes would never have become a success. Perhaps would never have come into being at all. Or would it have anyway? Were some things in life just destined to happen? Would Hélène have found another way to do it? They were questions to which she would never find the answers. All she knew was what Madame Dupre had once told her: things happened when you were ripe for them to happen.
But of one thing she was absolutely certain. Three people had helped her get to where she was today. Madame Dupre, Odile Joly, and Stanislaw. They had been her guardian angels.
At seven-thirty-three a footman came over to Hélène and bowed. 'If you'd please come with me, mademoiselle? Odile Joly will see you now.'
They walked down a long corridor and stopped at a door at the end. The footman opened it, stood aside, and then followed her inside.
Hélène stared curiously at the huge tent. Then the footman held the flap open and she ducked inside. She caught her breath. The tent was so beautifully exotic that for a moment she forgot she was in Paris. The singsong wail of the Indian singer, the incense, and the jungle of green palms mixed with the arabesque of the rugs and cushions were part of another world.
Instinctively she took a step backward. In one corner she had noticed movement and then heard a menacing growl. It was an ocelot, sleek and alert and sitting on its haunches. Its yellow eyes seemed to glitter hungrily.
'Don't worry, Sheba doesn't bite,' a chuckling, throaty voice said.
Hélène turned her face to the left. Like a venerable guru, Odile Joly was sitting on a pile of pillows, her back as ramrod straight as a young girl's. The light from the lanterns threw a soft glow on her wrinkled face. Her deep-set eyes lit up and her face crinkled into a sudden smile. 'Hélène!' She held out a gnarled hand. 'Come over here and let me have a good look at you. It has been a long time.'
Hélène glanced hesitantly at the big cat and noticed it was chained to a post. She smiled nervously and gave it a wide berth as she slowly walked over to Odile Joly. She looked down at her. 'Yes, it has been a long time. Happy birthday, and many happy returns.'
Odile Joly made a weary gesture. 'I've had so many birthdays I stopped counting them half a century ago. Here, sit down beside me.' Odile Joly patted the cushions.
Hélène knew what an honor this was. Everyone else had been whisked in and out within a minute. She looked around hesitantly. Then she smiled. 'Are there any snakes in here?'
Odile Joly narrowed her eyes. 'In here, none. But I'm sure the rest of the apartment is filled with vipers.' She waited until Hélène had taken a seat. 'You've done very well for yourself, cherie. You're one of the few people I've learned to respect—did you know that?'
Hélène blushed at the compliment. It was the last thing she had expected. 'Les Modes would never have gotten to where it is without your help,' she said.
'You've worked like a maniac. It is only too bad that your personal life did not work out as beautifully. I adored Stanislaw.'
Hélène felt a sudden lump in her throat. 'Yes, so did I,' she said softly. 'He was an exceptional man.'
Odile Joly nodded. Then she looked at Hélène shrewdly. 'A few minutes ago, a man asked me for the secret to success. Do you know what I should have told him?'
Hélène shook her head.
'I should have said, Ask Hélène Junot. She has found it.''
'I think that's overstating it a bit.'
For a while, neither of them spoke. 'Well, aren't you going to ask for the answer to one important question?' Odile Joly asked finally.
Hélène laughed helplessly. 'I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to begin.'
'Good girl.' Odile Joly paused. 'You know that I don't give parties very often?'
Hélène nodded, wondering what she was leading up to.
'People are racking their brains trying to figure out why I broke down and gave this one, although they don't dare come right out and ask me. They think it's my farewell to life.'
'That's ridiculous,' Hélène said. To her, Odile Joly always was and always would be.
Odile Joly smiled ruefully, held her hands out, and looked at them. She shook her head. The fingernails were perfectly lacquered, but the skin was ancient and age-spotted. 'I'm eighty years old now. Perhaps I'll live for another ten years, perhaps not.' She shrugged philosophically. 'Why do you think all these people came? To wish me many happy returns?' She laughed dryly. 'No, they wanted to see how much life an eighty-year-old woman has left. They wanted to see how much I've slowed down.' She l
eaned forward and reached down to a round brass box at her feet. She lifted the cover and took out a chunk of raw, bloody meat. She tossed it over at the ocelot, which sprang to its feet. A second later, its teeth were embedded in the meat as it started to chew.
'They came to see how life has eaten me up after all these years.' Odile Joly nodded in the cat's direction. 'Just like Sheba devouring the meat.' She sighed and met Hélène's gaze. 'I'm a dinosaur, a leftover from the last century. There are a hundred new designers out there waiting to take my place. And it's funny. I really am getting tired, you know. I can feel that deep inside my bones.'
Hélène felt sorry for the old woman. She knew how hard it must be for her to have to slow down. Mentally she was so active; she'd always had the energy of the hyperactive. It seemed strange that her body could be slowly wearing down. And yet, Hélène had always thought Odile Joly to be as indestructible as a French monument. It seemed peculiar to see her in another light. As just another mortal.
Suddenly Odile Joly seized Hélène's hand and held it tightly. 'Make sure your photographers cover this party thoroughly!'
Hélène did not speak. A worried expression crossed her face.
'Don't look at me that way!' Odile Joly said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. Tell me, what issues of La Moda and Les Modes are you preparing right now?'
'November.'
'Oh.' Odile Joly sounded disappointed.
'What's the matter?' Hélène asked.
Odile Joly smiled. 'I was wondering if it was possible for you to stick a few extra pages into an earlier issue. . .' Her voice trailed off.
Hélène thought quickly. She knew Odile Joly well enough to realize she was sounding her out about giving her another scoop. 'I could kill an article in the September issue,' she said without hesitation. 'That's still in page proofs. I'm afraid the others are already at the printer's or in the warehouses.'
'September is fine.' Odile Joly nodded and smiled in relief. 'Use the party photos from tonight. And when you leave, send your photographers in here to do some nice big portraits of me. You see, cherie'—she lowered her voice confidentially—'I'm finally ready to retire.'
Hélène couldn't believe her ears. 'R-retire!'
'Yes, once you're eighty, I think it's high time. After all, it's important that one knows when to retire.' Odile Joly smiled. 'I wouldn't want people to say, At last.' However, I'll wait to make the public announcement. I'll wait until. . .' Her dark eyes flashed mischievously. 'Until the day the September Les Modes and La Moda come out.'
Hélène took both the woman's hands and squeezed them affectionately. 'Thank you,' she said, her voice suddenly husky. She knew at that moment how much the old woman loved her. Even as she was retiring, she was seeing to it that Les Modes would benefit by it.
'Now, go out and party,' Odile Joly said gruffly. 'The people waiting to get in here are probably lined up for kilometers!'
She smiled as Hélène left. Her former mannequin had done well. She hadn't let that turn her into a fool, either. Odile Joly had watched her closely, following Les Modes's steady climb to the dizzying heights of power. Just as there would never be another Odile Joly, she thought, there would never be another Hélène Junot.
After leaving the tent, Hélène had a few words with her photographers and then she left the party. It was early evening, but her business hours didn't stop at five. There were still many things she had to do. Like approving the architect's renderings for the two d'Itri boutiques. The mock-Egyptian interiors needed a few changes. But they would have to wait. First she would call Luba and together they would start mapping out the layouts for Odile Joly's farewell from the fashion world.
As Hélène came out of the Plaza Athenee, she saw a limousine plowing through the sudden deluge and watched it roll to a halt in front of the hotel. Probably another guest coming to honor Odile Joly, she thought. She watched the doorman hurry down the steps, holding up an oversized black umbrella. Only when the passenger ducked out of the limousine did Hélène freeze.
It was Nigel Somerset.
Her knees went suddenly weak and she felt her body starting to sag. She caught hold of the balustrade and clung to it. For a moment she just stared down at him. Then, as he hurried up the steps, she averted her face so that he wouldn't see her. She tried to stem the waves of longing washing over her.
'Hélène!' The word was almost a whisper, low and filled with a thousand memories and promises.
He had seen her. He had spoken to her.
Her heart sang loudly, joyously, triumphantly. Slowly she turned around.
'Nigel!' The voice was choked and husky, a voice belonging to someone else.
Then she quickly turned away again as a woman came out of the revolving brass doors to meet him.
The voice had belonged to someone else. To Hélène Giraudoux.
4
Forty thousand spectators crammed the tribunes at Auteuil to watch the horse race. Two hundred thousand others surrounded the racecourse; many people had camped out there for two days. It was the first of November, the traditional date of the autumn Grand Prix. This last race of the season always drew a good crowd, but never before had a race been known to virtually stop the wheels of industry. All over the country, factories and businesses reported that fifty percent of their work forces had called in sick. The bookmakers in Montmartre were doing business as never before. Not only had the racing buffs tuned in to the race, but all of Paris was out in its finery, buzzing with low-keyed excitement. It was the same all over France. Those who couldn't be there were glued to their radios.
This season, for the first time, five horses were running neck and neck. The horses were so evenly matched that no one could even guess the odds. The way it turned out, the race had become a showdown between five of the leading families of France. Running were the de Rothschilds' Baron, the de Sevignes' Tres Jolie, the de Gides' Mylene, the d'Ermos' Piper, and the de Légers' L'Afrique.
The excitement had begun on Palm Sunday and built up steadily all summer long. On Palm Sunday, the de Rothschilds' Baron won the President of the Republic Stakes.
On Whit Monday on the St. Cloud racecourse, the de Gides' Mylene placed first.
On the last Sunday in June, the same horses had run again, this time at Longchamps for the Paris Grand Prix. The de Légers' L'Afrique had come out the winner.
In Vincennes in September, the d'Ermos' Piper had won the summer Grand Prix.
At Longchamps on the first Sunday in October, the de Sevignes' Tres Jolie came in ahead of the others in the Arc de Triomphe Grand Prix.
Steadily, with each race, excitement had risen until it verged on feverish hysteria. All five winners of the season's previous races were present again for this last big race. It was clear that one of these five would be running away with the prize.
Hélène took Petite Hélène to watch. 'After all,' she'd explained to the nanny, 'she must be exposed to all facets of society. I know she's young. But she should have some idea of what is going on in the world.'
A hush had now fallen over the crowd at Auteuil as the horses shot down the racetrack. Their hooves threw up clumps of earth as the cadence of their run beat out a staccato drumbeat. Right from the start, five horses pushed ahead of all the others. Baron was in the lead. No more than half a neck behind him, L'Afrique, Tres Jolie, Mylene, and Piper were already inching ahead.
Petite Hélène craned her neck and lifted the binoculars to her eyes, but the horses were past the grandstand now and it was difficult to tell just which one was in the lead. They seemed so close together.
The crowds began yelling and screaming.
When the horses turned the corner of the oval and were opposite the grandstand, L'Afrique was clearly in the lead, but not by much. The others were not far behind. It would be a very close race.
Edgardo Jimenez, the jockey hunched over L'Afrique, turned his head and glanced backward at the others. He could see Tres Jolie gaining on his right, Piper on his left. He could no
t see the bent-over jockeys, just the horses' heads. The air roared with the sound of hooves. His face tightened with determination.
Hubert de Léger had warned him what he would do if L'Afrique placed anything other than first. He would be fired, ruined. Hubert de Léger had told him he would see to it that he never rode again. That he would be deported back to Argentina.
Jimenez dug in his knees, screamed at his horse, and beat its rump furiously with his riding crop, forcing it to fly even faster.
The others must not catch up.
Ermanno Foggi, the Italian jockey astride Mylene, smiled grimly to himself. He was at the rear, a neck behind Baron, two lengths from L'Afrique. He had let himself slow down purposely, waiting for the moment that would now soon come. It was his style always to stay near the front, but never to push his horse to its absolute limit until the last quarter stretch. Then he would summon all its remaining strength and shoot ahead, squeezing between the others and with a final burst of speed dash across the finish line first.
Ermanno Foggi needed to win. His young daughter needed expensive surgery and the de Gides family had promised him a hundred thousand francs extra if he won.
As if one, the screaming people in the grandstands rose to their feet as the horses reached the last quarter of the oval track. Piper and Tres Jolie had gained on L'Afrique; now the three horses were running neck and neck.
Ermanno Foggi shot ahead now. He and Mylene were one and the same. He didn't even look sideways as he passed Baron. His eyes were focused straight ahead as he skillfully cut in front of Baron, blocking him. Now in front of him were L'Afrique, Piper, and Tres Jolie. They were tightly knit. He cursed. He needed an opening.
Edgardo Jimenez was panicking. On his right, he could see the blurry chestnut form of Tres Jolie. Gaining. Already, Tres Jolie was inching ahead. He must not let that happen. Tres Jolie must be stopped at all costs.
Jimenez knew that the time to make his move was now or never. He had pushed L'Afrique to his limits since the start, and the horse was tiring. If he didn't act swiftly, he would be deported.
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