"I'm fine," she managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Thank you."
Stowing her suitcase on the rack, she sank onto the seat between a small gentleman with a full moustache and an amply bosomed matron. She clasped her hands together so the other passengers wouldn't see how they shook, grateful for the seat because she wasn't certain how much longer her legs would have held her up. When she'd arrived in Paris, she'd been agog, her head periscoping from one side to the other soaking in the sights. Today she didn't even notice the train pulling out of the station.
Why was Luc on the train? Should she go and ask him? What would he answer? Her mind stuck, churning over the question. Confronting him and being told he was visiting a friend in the country to do some painting would make her seem mad. No, asking him was out of the question. But her heart refused to stop its loud pounding; she was feverish one minute and chilly the next. Was she scared of him? No, she decided, it wasn't that.
She had a sudden image of walking arm in arm with Luc along the promenade in one of the small towns on the Cote d'Azur that he and his friends often discussed. They smiled at each other with love. Luc had rented a cottage near the sea with a garden where he painted in the mornings. The sun shone in the clear sky above and the sea lapped on the beach below—they were so happy.
The train jolted and the large lady, whose blue muslin covered arms pressed into her side, rocked forward. Don't be so foolish, Hélène scolded herself. Luc's business had nothing to do with her, and she was probably the last person he wanted to bump into, especially after yesterday. What was wrong with her? Had her stay in Paris made her think the world revolved around her wishes? Her parents had brought her up differently, and she knew better.
Hélène gazed out of the carriage at the lush countryside. Paris was behind her and she was going home. By evening she'd be in Bordeaux and tomorrow Claude would be up before dawn to come and fetch her. She worked at conjuring up Claude's face. His smile. The color of his eyes. What would he think of the changes in her? She wasn't the same girl who'd set off for Paris, the one deeply in love with her fiancée. Paris had changed her. Luc had changed her. She wasn't sure anymore if she could give her heart completely to Claude because Luc had stolen a piece of it. The train journey was torture. She couldn't stop thinking of Luc sitting in another carriage close by, and her thoughts kept returning to yesterday.
At Orleans the train stopped for half an hour, so she got out to stretch her legs. Not having the nerve to walk far, she stayed close to her carriage, peering into those on either side. No sign of anyone who resembled him. By the time the train pulled out, she was convinced she must have made a mistake. The man she'd seen wasn't Luc.
When the train pulled into Bordeaux, Luc waited behind, letting the other passengers leave ahead of him. He'd spent the whole journey considering his reckless behavior. Now he was debating whether he should take the next train back to Paris or not. He alternated between envisioning one last passionate plea where Hélène might be persuaded of the depth of his feelings, to cold rationality when he knew no matter what happened he'd never leave Émilie and his children.
In the end, it was the memory of Giselle and Guy's laughing faces which assuaged both his guilt and his fever. Their absence had reminded him what life was like without them. He promised himself that soon his life would return to normal as it had been before Hélène.
"Monsieur!" The guard's voice interrupted his reverie. "Everybody must get off the train."
Luc apologized and grabbed his bag. He was the last passenger, and the platform was deserted. Yes, everything was becoming clear. He'd buy a ticket and go back to Paris. This crazed behavior must become a thing of the past‒he had to put it behind him‒no more constant chewing over his actions. Hélène would be greeting her fiancé; he must focus on paintings for the exhibition and lose himself in his work.
Luc remained calm and resigned, even after the ticket clerk informed him the first train to Paris wasn't leaving till 9.30 tomorrow morning. There was a station hotel if M'sieur needed somewhere for the night, or the clerk could recommend a boarding house if M'sieur preferred that?
Luc chose the station hotel as it was nearest. A receptionist booked him in, allocating him a room on the first floor with a large window facing onto the Place du Saint Jean. The room satisfied Luc with its dark polished wooden floors and serviceable table and chair, chest of drawers, and wardrobe that had seen better days. It would suffice for one night. Most important, it was near to the station, and this time tomorrow he'd be back in Paris. He'd hardly eaten since breakfast, but wasn't hungry. As he looked out over the square, his habitual compulsion to capture life around him surfaced.
Making himself comfortable on the chair by the window, he got out his drawing pad and pencils. Manet had instilled the necessity of always having them with him early on in their acquaintance, and he started to draw. As he worked, the fugue which had permeated his existence these last weeks, lifted. He sat and sketched, absorbed in catching his impressions of the busy evening square.
Luc felt satiated, at peace; he was moving along the desired course. This was his purpose in life. It wasn't till the warning noises from his stomach broke his concentration that he decided it might be time to find something to eat.
After eating in the hotel restaurant, he sat in the bar sipping a brandy. As the evening deepened, he fancied a stroll around the square, enjoying the sensation that being in a different place gave. Returning to the hotel, he nodded pleasantly as the doorman bowed when he entered. His birth had blessed him with an education and a distinguished ancestry, and despite an upbringing without luxury he took it for granted that he was one of those for whom others opened doors. This was the way of the world.
He was outside his room, key in hand, when the door to the next room opened and someone bent down, about to place a tray on the floor. For an instant he didn't breathe as he recognized the hair.
Hélène.
His ruminations of the afternoon fled. He froze. Everything narrowed to this one moment of concentrated observation: a bird's sweet trill wafted in through the open window at one end of the corridor; the formal tick-tock of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs; an insect thrummed past his ear; the smooth cotton of his shirt against his chest; the pounding of his heart. His breath caught in his throat.
Hélène looked up. Her shock mirrored his. She dropped the tray. It hit the floor with a clatter, bowl and plate rolling to a noisy stop by the door as she stood transfixed. He had followed her. Why was he here? Staying in the room next to her? Her knees buckled, and she collapsed.
Then he was beside her, helping her to stand. "I thought you'd left Bordeaux." His voice was muted, soft, concerned.
"Claude's coming for me in the morning." She faltered as she registered the warmth from his hand through her sleeve. "But why are you here?" Yet as she spoke, she knew the answer. She leant against the door frame.
He gathered up the knife and fork from where they'd fallen, replacing them on the tray and pushing it away from the door. Ushering her inside the room, he closed the door.
She allowed him to lead her over to the bed.
"Come," he said sitting down next to her. He stroked her face, his fingers gentle. Tracing the curve of her brow, and along her cheek, he leaned in and kissed her.
She responded eagerly. Images of the sea, the cottage, living with him, and seeing him from morning to night returned.
They both wanted this.
"Will you leave your wife and children for me?" she asked.
He pulled back. "Why do you ask?"
"Will you?" she insisted.
He walked over to the window, staring out over the square without answering.
"Look at these." Hélène pointed at the tall vase of flowers on the dresser. The roses, lilies, forget-me-nots and chrysanthemums were magnificent as they caught the deep gold light of the setting sun. She crossed the room, pulling out one rose, caressing its velvet surface. "For you artists, women are like these f
lowers. When they are fresh and young, they are beautiful. But," she plucked first one petal, then a second and a third, tossing them one after another to the floor, "as they age, they lose their bloom till nothing remains." She finished stripping the flower and flung the bare stalk at him. It fell at his feet. "If you won't give up anything for me, how can you expect me to give up everything for you?"
He stared at her torn between desire and despair. He had no answer.
"I think you had better go." She turned her back on him.
As he moved towards the door, his footsteps quiet with slow deliberation, she realized how easy it would be to surrender. She did want him. To have his arms around her, his mouth on hers; his touch on her skin made her feel as if she was on fire. In Paris she'd been flattered, and overwhelmed, by the attentions of a famous artist. But back here in Bordeaux, ready to start a new chapter in her life, she recognized that if he had been less than honest‒at least he'd been that‒she would have risked her future for him. As the door closed, she threw herself on the bed, burying her sobs in the pillow, so that no one, especially not him, would hear.
Luc returned to his room. His earlier sketches lay strewn on the bed. Almost without any conscious control over his movements, he picked up his pad and pastels and returned to his seat overlooking the square. Deep shadows had gathered in the corners and small pools of yellow light shone under the gas lamps. There were a few people out, couples and groups sauntering out for late evening strolls or on the way to visit friends, but that sense of needing to get somewhere was absent. Snippets of conversations drifted up accompanied by the heady scent of jasmine from the potted plants outside the hotel entrance.
Seeing Hélène highlighted the precariousness of his state of mind. A finality tinged his thinking. Not that deadness which comes with callous endings because Hélène would forever be utterly and completely alive to him. It was the acceptance that whatever lived in his imagination with regard to Hélène would never manifest other than in his inner world.
He needed to do something which would stop his fixation on Hélène from consuming him. He drew, letting the sheets of paper fall off the table as he finished, not noticing that darkness had fallen until he could barely see. At last he stopped, and with great care gathered up his drawings, placing them in a neat pile on the table. From time to time the plaintive bark of a dog at the rising moon was taken up and bounced around the town, disturbing the night before silence fell once more.
Without bothering to undress, he lay fully clothed on the bed and surveyed the ceiling. He couldn't sleep but nervous exhaustion left him unable to move. Whatever he tried to think of—his circle of friends, his family, his painting, nothing made any difference; his thoughts travelled back to Hélène. Finally, he surrendered, allowing his mind to wander where it willed.
He relived their relationship from the very minute she'd walked in the door, taking Louise's place as a model. He recalled his impressions when he'd seen her for the first time. She'd been a mixture of timidity‒scared, not knowing what to expect‒and courage because her fears hadn't prevented her coming alone to his studio so her cousin didn't lose the income. It was more than being a country girl in the city, it was the fresh way she viewed the world, full of interest and innocence. He went over every sitting, every look, every gesture, and every conversation. From this moment on, memories would be all he had of her.
Towards dawn he rose and splashed his face with water. He studied the drawings he'd made last night. Most were of Hélène: a profile, a hand, full face with eyes cast downward; one was of the rose, half stripped of its petals; but several were of the vase of flowers from her room. He liked these, and an idea for a painting struck him, partly because the sketches were good, but partly because of what she'd said to him.
He listened to the early morning workers calling out greetings to friends from across the square. Doors opening and closing, footsteps on the hotel stairs, and the sounds of people waking told him time was short. Hélène would soon be leaving. He understood he'd never see or speak to her again. What was the point in creating more misery for either of them? But he had one final thing he wanted to say to her. Picking up a pencil and paper, he began scribbling down his thoughts.
My dear Hélène,
I realize we have parted for the last time, but I must tell you that knowing you has changed me. My golden hearted Hélène, I would have given you everything that I possibly could, though we are both aware it is not enough to win you. But remember this, I did, and still do, love you. With every beat of my heart. You have shown me my world afresh. And I know you love me because I have seen it in your eyes.
I am broken into a thousand hard useless pieces and my days will be empty without you. I cannot ask you to be with me, but I shall keep my sweet love for you locked away in a secret place deep inside my soul where I shall cherish it. When dark clouds descend, for my life will become bleak without your presence, I will take out these precious memories of our time together, and they will comfort me.
Your distraught admirer,
Luc.
Reading it through, he was satisfied with what he'd written. He thought of her sleeping. She would find the letter when she woke. He was about to push it under her door when the rattle of cartwheels and the slow clop of a horse's hooves outside caught his attention. He stiffened as he heard Hélène's voice. He ran to the window, peeked out‒he didn't want her to catch him spying on her‒and glimpsed a fair-haired young man sweeping her up in his arms. The young man swung her around before putting her down and kissing her. They laughed, examined each other and kissed for a second time.
Claude, for it could be no other, took her small case, placing it with care in the back of the cart. She waited, smiling at him as he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up on to the front seat. He strode around to the other side of the cart and climbed up, seating himself with quick, graceful movements. With a flick of the reins, the horse and cart lumbered into motion. As they drove away, Luc leant out and saw Hélène lean her head on Claude's shoulder and his head incline towards her. He watched till they disappeared, oblivious of the tears rolling down his face.
Chapter Nineteen
Our perception of time changes as we age. When we are young, the days are endless and we cannot see how we will ever get old. But when you are older, you realize how quickly the years pass. This is a 'spot' life, short in the grand scale of planets, stars and universe. Yet allowing fear to prevent living life to the full should be deeply regretted.
Paris, July 2007
Anna flew off the bed with the grace and speed of a high jump champion going for gold. One knock on the door and romance was gone.
"Tidy the bed," she hissed at François, looking for her clothes "then go and let them in."
"Are you sure you've never done this? And why are you whispering? They can't hear us." He hissed back at her.
"I'll tidy myself and be straight out."
"Use the other door—it leads into the sitting room."
Anna swept up her nightclothes from where they'd been tossed, sprinting for the bathroom as François ran around smoothing the sheets and flicking the coverlet straight. Neither of them paid any attention to the fact they were stark naked.
"Come with me to find out about the letter, and for one last viewing of Hélène's portrait in the morning," she said before closing the bedroom door.
In the bathroom, Anna jerked her nightdress over her head, shoving her arms into her dressing gown with an odd sense of fast forwarding through the motions. What could be more embarrassing than being found in a compromising situation with a man‒who wasn't your husband‒by your daughter? She giggled. In retrospect, Ingrid's question that morning about having an affair appeared prophetic.
A generous splash of cold water refreshed her, and she checked her appearance in the mirror, smiling at the unaccustomed flush on her cheeks and bright shiny eyes. Finding a hairbrush, she dragged it through the tangles, deciding to wait till Ingrid and Jean
Paul were in the room before making her appearance. She stared at her reflection a bit longer, grinning at this new exhilarated self looking back brazenly at her.
She cracked open the door to the sitting room and watched François stash the two empty brandy glasses in the sideboard, tightening his belt before reaching for the door handle. The knocking stopped, and she smiled as he put his ear to the door, watching him take a deep breath before opening it. She glimpsed Jean Paul and Ingrid jumping apart, two startled rabbits caught in the headlights.
"Is my mother here?" Ingrid inquired, recovering her poise and walking past François, flicking her hair back as she entered the room.
"She's in the bathroom."
"You took your time opening the door, uncle."
The unrepentant couple exchanged a look.
"Ah, there you are at last." Anna swept out of the bathroom, glaring at the youngsters with a frosty expression. She hoped it was enough to hide the fact that all she really wanted to do was dance across the room. She took the position that the best type of defense is attack. "You pair are late." She hoped any oddities which the young couple might have noticed would be forgotten as they explained their tardiness.
François eyed Ingrid. "And your mother is not happy with you."
Ingrid's attention flickered back and forth between the two adults, and her shoulders slumped a fraction.
"Come on, Ingrid, bed. Thank you, François, I see you were right. They are fine."
Ingrid followed her mother meekly, turning and blowing kisses at Jean Paul, before scurrying along the corridor to keep up with Anna's forced march. "Mum?"
Anna didn't answer. Chaotic, euphoric thoughts chased around and around. I've made love with François; I've had sex with a man who isn't my husband. I shouldn't but I did. I feel terrible. I feel great.
"Mum, are you okay?"
Anna couldn't trust herself to speak. Greg's wounded expression, alternated with vivid pictures of François, flushed with exertion, as they'd relaxed in that one, far too brief, moment before Ingrid and Jean Paul returned. The lift hummed to a stop, and the doors slid open.
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