Days of Winter (33 page)

“No, thank you, monsieur. It’s strictly forbidden—”

“But who would know? As a matter of fact, I was going for a walk myself. It would be my pleasure to have your company … walking alone is too lonely, especially on such a lovely night.”

“Yes … that would be nice … but if I were found out, then what?”

“Oh, my dear mademoiselle, you worry too much for someone so young and charming. Besides, who will know? If you don’t tell, I promise I won’t.”

She looked at him, directly this time. “All right, monsieur. But let’s hurry. …”

As they walked, she talked constantly, although he scarcely heard what she was saying. Her mother was a laundress, her father a member of the merchant marine and was away most of the time. She told him about her farmer boyfriend. …Jean-Paul answered by saying “Yes,” “No,” “How delightful”—or whatever.

When they reached the front door of her house, the lights were out. As they stood in the moonlight, she thanked him for walking her home. “I enjoyed it …” She put her hand on the doorknob.

He took her other hand in his and kissed it. “This has been one of the nicest evenings I’ve had. Just meeting you.” He bent and kissed her. Then, slowly and calmly, he closed his arms around her body, feeling the firm bosom move beneath his embrace. She didn’t resist. The kiss started slowly, then gathered force until she clung to him, one hand fondling his face, her fingers running through his hair. He placed his own hand on the doorknob as he freed it from her grasp and turned it. Then he pushed the door open with his foot.

He picked her up. She pointed out her room to him. Once there, he stood her on her feet, continuing to kiss her. He undid her blouse, unbuttoned the bodice, released the skirt, then took off the petticoat. He kissed the exposed nipples. His mouth ventured downward. She stepped out of her panties, then her shoes. She removed the round garters, pulled off the black silk stockings and stood before him, nude. She then quickly undressed him, taking off his jacket, his tie, unbuttoning his shirt. She kissed his body as her fingers unbuttoned his trousers and shed his underclothes. He lifted her off the floor, her legs wound around him, and by the time he lay down with her in his arms, he had already entered her. She was not naïve, as he had first thought, but clearly a bitch in heat. Obviously he wasn’t the first to have her. …She made love passionately, keeping pace with each of his twists and turns. Her responsiveness was remarkable … she knew when to go slowly, when to push harder, to squeeze, to entice, and when to glide and guide hands to the right places. When the climax finally came, they both lay quietly, in complete satisfied exhaustion.

The last thing he heard before dropping off into deep sleep was her voice whispering in his ear, “You are magnificent, monsieur.”

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He yawned, then sat up abruptly. My God, it was morning! He shook the sleeping body next to his. The girl awakened languidly, stretched and reached her arms out to him.

“What time is it?” he said.

She looked at the bedside clock; it was five o’clock.

Thank God! They were scheduled to leave at eight to reach Provence by dark. He hurried into his clothes as the girl watched him.

“Must you go, monsieur?”

“Yes, to my great regret. It’s best this way, before your mother wakes up. No one must know about this—just as you said last night.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Nothing could keep me away, I’ll be back in September—”

“But that’s such a long time from now.”

“Three months, what is that?”

“A very long time, after last night.”

“We’ll take up where we left off. And someday you’ll come to Paris and be my guest—”

“Do you really
mean
that?” she said, getting out of bed, not bothering to cover her naked body.

“Do you think I could ever forget you? After this?” He slipped into his jacket, kissed her on the forehead. She reached for his mouth, but he was already on his way out, saying, smiling, “Now, I must go, really. Until the next time …”

He walked rapidly, running when he could, across the pasture. Once back at the Auberge de la Fontaine aux Muses he took the stairs two steps at a time, and reached his room. He shaved, then took a bath, lying back in the tub, laughing quietly at the evening’s success. Suddenly he realized he didn’t even know her name. Well, it didn’t matter. Any port in a storm …

At eight o’clock the Dupré entourage moved out, amid good-byes and much waving from the management. They drove at a more moderate speed, twenty-five miles an hour, because the roads were bumpy and had begun to narrow. There were new delays. …From time to time a herd of sheep crossed over the road going from one field to another. Marie Jacqueline had a coughing and sneezing attack from the pollen and had to be administered to from the ever-present medicine kit, from which she took a pill, then inserted the atomizer into her nostrils, inhaling deeply.

Looking at his wife, Jean-Paul said, “Perhaps these trips are too strenuous for you. Perhaps you should have stayed in Paris. …”

She glared at him. “You speak as though these spells are my fault.”

“Well, aren’t they?”

“How dare you say that to me! You
know
I’m allergic to pollen—”

“That’s my point. If you’d get rid of those damned cats, or stay away from the pollen, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many allergies.”

“Everything I enjoy you criticize,” she said. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t
have
the cats now, so how can that—”

Madame Dupré could stand no more. “Jean-Paul, I won’t allow you to speak that way to your wife. I think you owe Marie Jacqueline an apology.”

He bit his lip, and without looking at her finally said, “I’m sorry I spoke to you that way.” His famous smile was missing. Then he picked up the mouthpiece and instructed André to stop the car. André signaled the other vehicles and stopped. Jean-Paul got out of the back seat and into the front, where he sat with André until they reached the Moulin le Cols, where they would lunch.

It was just twelve o’clock, and the party was greeted profusely by the owner, the chef and the staff. By twelve-thirty the family and Jeanette were seated at the large round table. The wine was poured and a country luncheon served. But for all the bucolic atmosphere of the deep, lush countryside—which could be seen through an entire wall of glass doors—lunch was a silent, depressing affair. The adult Duprés ate almost mechanically, neither enjoying nor savoring the good food which had been so carefully prepared for them. Each kept his, or her, own thoughts.

Madame sighed with impatience. What, she wondered, has become of my family, my life? Jean-Paul was unhappily married. He was completely incompatible with his wife, which pained and grieved her. They were childless, which also grieved her. Jean-Paul was unkind and contemptuous toward Marie Jacqueline, which further grieved her … although in the beginning, when he had announced his intention to marry, she had not approved of the union. (That, at least, was a comfort.) Not because Marie Jacqueline was unsuited to become a Dupré. She was. In fact, the Mallettes were fully as distinguished as the Duprés. Their name evoked equal respect. But, really, she had never cared for Marie Jacqueline. The girl was neither warm nor pretty nor appealing in grace. From the beginning, she had known that it was not a marriage of love. She knew that Jean-Paul was not sufficiently mature at twenty-four to be a faithful and devoted husband, such as she had had. He still had too many wild oats to sow. But she had not opposed the marriage, wrong as she knew it was. And now her only daughter was gone, and her dear Etienne would remain a celibate all of his life, wifeless and childless, with no one to care for him. What
would
ultimately become of her dearest son …? Oh, dear God, she thought, I thank you, heavenly Father, for sparing my beloved Henri the sight I now see before my eyes. She took out a white handkerchief, edged with black lace, from her sleeve and pretended to wipe her brow, but the handkerchief went to her eyes as she wiped the two glistening tears that were ready to fall down her cheeks. She blinked back the rest and continued to attempt to eat.

Jean-Paul looked across at his mother. She was the only person in the world who could stir in him a feeling of true, honest love, and guilt … even remorse. And at this moment, as he saw the handkerchief reach her eyes, he felt all three. He never wanted to make her unhappy, as he’d done today, but he simply couldn’t stand Marie Jacqueline and her eternal wheezing. He hated having his mother see the worst in him, which he always tried to prevent, wanting her to see only the little boy of four, whom she’d loved, the love he still remembered and wanted. …With all the compassion he was capable of, his heart went out to her, knowing how she suffered when his father had died, when not even
he
could console her, as he was unable to comfort her now on the death of his sister and brother-in-law. Nothing and no one could replace them, or diminish their memories for her. If only he, Jean-Paul, had been enough for her, but of course he never was, which he could never accept, or understand. …

Sipping his wine, Etienne observed Marie Jacqueline. He knew it wasn’t the cats or the pollen. It wasn’t the allergies that caused her illness, it was the lack of love, of compassion, that was killing her. There were many ways to die … not only the way his sister had perished. Yes, he felt more than sorry for Marie Jacqueline. He couldn’t even express his pity in words. Let her have her cats. What else did she have? No husband, no children to love and be loved by. At least she might have given them what she’d been deprived of. What’s going to become of us, he thought. Just a decaying family, that’s all we are. After our generation, the Dupré name will be finished. The children were only half-Dupré. The house of Balevre, the name of the children’s father, would at least be perpetuated by Lucien, but …

The coughing started again, and Marie Jacqueline tried desperately to suppress it by taking a sip of wine. She knew Jean-Paul would say nothing this time, with his mother present, but she felt his irritation anyway. Stronger than irritation, his anger. Dear God, why had she married him? How different he was from the young man who had courted her, showering her with gifts and flowers and candy. She’d been the envy of every debutante in Paris. She’d plucked the most eligible plum, especially considering she was three years older than he was. He’d been so handsome, with such perfect manners. He was such a
complete
gentleman, and so clever at turning a phrase. Like day into night was the change in Jean-Paul, almost from the very moment he had taken her to their marriage bed. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t gentle, as he should have been, since she’d saved herself for him. He was brutal when he entered her on their wedding night, as though she were an enemy, not his bride. She would never forget that … or forgive him for it.

After that, on the dutiful occasions when she performed her wifely and religious obligations, she did so with revulsion, hoping … praying to the Virgin Mary that at least she would be blessed with one child. If at least one son could be born, it would put an end to any further sexual responsibilities toward her husband. But Mother Mary apparently had reason not to bless her with a son, and, finally, after four miscarriages, Jean-Paul never again stepped over the threshold to her bedroom. There was no need; he had mistresses who relieved him. She wondered, as she had many times before, how two brothers could be so different, coming from the same womb. She felt drawn to Etienne, almost as though they shared an affinity. If only Jean-Paul had Etienne’s nature, and his own magnificent body, how different her life might have been. …

The only one who had no such gloomy, regretful thoughts was Jeanette. For the first time, she was sitting in an intimate circle with the whole Dupré clan. From time to time her eyes wandered to the scenery beyond—but not without first glancing at Jean-Paul, feeling her excitement at just being with him in a situation as familiar and intimate as this. It no longer mattered to her that she had to keep secret her love for him inside herself. It was enough that in her fantasies he belonged to her … when she grew warm from wanting him all through the night. It was a desire she knew would never become reality, but her life seemed fulfilled just the same … just knowing she loved, was able to love, this way. …She laughed to herself, watching the red-eyed, drippy-nosed Marie Jacqueline. Silly goose that she’d been, thinking herself too thin and not pretty enough. If indeed Jean-Paul had married Marie Jacqueline for the reasons Clothilde had said—which she doubted—then he surely deserved the money. It should have been enough for
her
just being Madame Jean-Paul Dupré.

After lunch was over, Madame retired. So did Marie Jacqueline, to rest before resuming the journey. Jean-Paul went off for a stroll through the meadow and lay down under a tree, feeling the marvelous earth beneath him. He was thinking of the girl who was waiting for him in Provence. He’d had a liaison with her for several summers now, the buxom wife of a farmer, much the same sort as the little tart he’d taken last night. He enjoyed these women of Provence; they were worth a dozen Paris courtesans. Their instincts guided them. There was nothing studied in their advances. There were no games, no tricks, just pure animal hunger. …With such delicious thoughts, he fell asleep.

By two o’clock the entourage was progressing again. In the second car, the children were restless. Lucien fussed at Nicole, who complained, “Lucien won’t let me have the red crayon.”

“Why, Lucien?” Jeanette said.

“Because I need it for my picture, and she’s using yellow and green.”

“But I want to make red flowers now,” said Nicole.

“Let Lucien finish and then you can have the red.”

“I want it now.”

“No,” Jeanette said firmly. “When Lucien has finished, he’ll let you have it. He had it first, so that’s only fair.”

“He didn’t. I did,” said Nicole.

“That will be enough,” Jeanette said. “Come trade places with me, Nicole. I’ll sit between you.”

“You love him more than you love me,” Nicole said.