Days of Winter (45 page)

He held her for a long moment and then went into the nursery, where Madame already held the child in her arms, and the three of them walked down the stairs to join the rest of the family … including, of course, Jean-Paul, who stood there with Uncle Leon. Leon had arrived only yesterday and would be returning immediately after the ceremony (which, for him, was something of an alien affair and one he would never have attended if it were not for his beloved niece and her child … this, he had decided, he owed the memory of her father as much as herself). The adults rode in the same limousine, with Madame holding her grandchild, while the older children and Madeleine followed behind in the second on their way to Nôtre Dame Cathedral.

The baptism was solemn and touching. For a brief moment, though, Jeanette wished it might have been different, remembering when she and her father had gone to synagogue on Saturdays. Stealing a look at Uncle Leon, she suspected he would understand and share her thought, but his face revealed nothing. …Jean-Paul was handed the child for the blessing, and to take the oath of godfather. And for more than a brief moment he too wished things were different. Merely anticipating the birth of his child that he wouldn’t be able to claim for his own was one thing, but holding
his son
in his arms—his own flesh and blood—that was quite another, and he wanted to call out to all of them, to somebody, that this boy was his, they couldn’t take it away from him. …He remained silent, stone-faced, as the new name was given—Henri Etienne Dupré.

A reception followed at the house on the Boulevard Victor Hugo, during which the guests appropriately fussed over and admired the new baby, some saying he looked like Etienne, some like the late Marshal Dupré and even a little like Antoinette. All agreed Henri was a beautiful, healthy baby, and toasted the proud parents. No one, Jean-Paul noted as he stood by drinking his champagne too quickly, mentioned any resemblance of the new baby to himself.

I
N JULY JEANETTE TURNED
twenty-one, and this year the birthday party was held in the ballroom. It was an evening that Jeanette adored. In one year she had gone from the depths to the heights, and while she had her own inner reservations, this night she was determined to let herself go and savor the full measure of all of it. She did regret that it would be the first summer that the Dupré family would not go to Provence … because of the new baby … but for the month of August they would take a house in Deauville, which was only two hours by train from Paris. …

And then suddenly, whirling from one dance partner to the other, her face flushed with excitement, Jeanette found herself in the arms of Jean-Paul, and as he twirled her away, his arm tightened around her waist, and his voice equally tight was saying, “When?” and she, taking a deep breath, answered, “Soon. …”

The doctor’s six-week period of abstention had passed and Etienne had moved back once again to their suite, where, for the first time in months, he made full and passionate love to his wife (the depths of this man, the strength and gentleness of him were something that few would have guessed, as Jeanette had not really known until their first time together).

The next day Jeanette went to a Doctor Samuel Blum in a building on the Champs Élysées, not far from the offices of Monsieur Dryfus, where she was fitted for a diaphragm, which she would never be without when she was with Jean-Paul. She had made up her mind when Henri was born, from now on any children she might have would be Etienne’s … and soon the time would be on hand for her first meeting with Jean-Paul. …

And then it was at hand, and she drove to it in the roadster she’d been given on her birthday and that Etienne had taught her to drive on the back roads to Versailles. Now she could come and go as she pleased. …

When she nervously put the key in the door, Jean-Paul was there to open it wide and immediately take her in his arms, kissing her and carrying her into the bedroom. And when they finally lay together, it was as though a dam of longing had burst, especially for him, though she did not deny or attempt to deny to herself that some of the old feeling was still there for her as well. Their love-making was a kind of frenzy … as though they could not get enough of each other, their bodies independent of their senses, taking over and demanding a satisfaction that was beyond them to furnish. For Jean-Paul it had been a special misery, this waiting, since for the first time in his life he’d given up his other mistresses, almost masochistically holding himself out for the one woman he knew—but couldn’t accept it—that he could never really have.

Finally noting the time, she abruptly sat up in bed. It was six-thirty, she’d lost all sense of time. She reached for the telephone as Jean-Paul tried to take it from her and pull her back down on top of him. “André, please let me speak to Monsieur Dupré,” and Jean-Paul buried his head in the pillow to muffle her words explaining to Etienne that she would be a little late, yes, Antoine her hairdresser had kept her waiting longer than usual, she would be home shortly. …

When she came back from the bathroom, dressed and ready to leave, it was a question in Jean-Paul’s mind which he wanted to do more—rip off her clothes and make her impossibly, compromisingly late for her precious Etienne, or kill his beloved brother, who had been and seemingly always would be in his way. …

Except for the not so extraordinary colic and the painful cutting of the first center tooth, baby Henri was growing altogether normally into a chunky, handsome and happy child. His sounds of contentment were delicious and satisfying to his parents and relatives.

His favorite, it seemed, was Etienne, who was completely devoted to him and was perhaps something more of a treat, not being with him as much as his mother. On Sunday mornings Etienne would bring him to their bed, imitate his wonderfully ridiculous sounds, which he and the baby seemed to share a special knowledge of, hold him in the air with outstretched arms as the child kicked and giggled. …And it was on such mornings as these that Jeanette felt her affection for Etienne grow even stronger as she watched the two of them, sensing, knowing that they were becoming a family … something she had never really known herself … and feeling this she felt even closer, and safer, with him, and wanted to shut out all that might intrude or threaten. …

During the next six months Jeanette found herself on a dizzying dazzling carousel, her hand firmly attached to the brass ring. She had, after all, the best of all possible worlds … her lover, her child and her loving, devoted husband who deliciously and shamefully indulged her with a new ring, a new necklace, earrings, whatever he thought might please her … and for any occasion, however minor. It was a heady time, with the blessing of endless diversions to turn one’s nagging doubts and uneasiness away. And in addition to everything else, the other children were, of course, growing and changing … Luden turned eight, Nicole became six and Desirée four. Madame, too, had a birthday. Etienne’s hair turned strikingly and prematurely gray at the temples, which made him, she felt, look even more distinguished. A proper note for his birthday, in honor of which, and without the help of Madame, who was only too happy to relinquish her place to her daughter-in-law, Jeanette arranged a gala birthday party. Etienne was now twenty-six … Jean-Paul would shortly be thirty. …

It was a very special year. Jeanette’s life took on a momentum of such delights that from time to time she had to pinch herself to make sure it was all real. The Etienne Duprés, along with Jean-Paul, who often was in their party, were surrounded by a coterie of friends at the ballet … the opera … the new art shows … Jeanette was chosen one of the best-dressed women in Paris. Her clothes—Etienne insisted, and she couldn’t pretend she didn’t delight in them—were from Dior.

On a particular afternoon, after she and Blanche Canard had lunched at Maxim’s, they went on to Dior’s fall showing. Waiting for the parade of models to begin, Blanche was asking Jeanette what she thought about the new hemlines, and Jeanette was about to answer when it became clear that something had struck her that would make small talk, indeed any talk, altogether impossible. She had turned suddenly pale, and when Blanche asked what was the matter, was she ill, Jeanette did not answer.

How could she, when she had just received the shock of her life. … She had seen her past across the room … she had seen—impossible and yet undeniable—the smartly turned out figure of her
mother.
And not only had she seen her, but she had looked directly into her eyes, because at that moment Magda had happened to glance up, and the two of them … mother and daughter … stared across the room, across the years, directly and shockingly at each other.

Magda, always impulsive, had all she could do to restrain herself from going at once to her daughter, but the possibility of it was quickly eliminated when Jeanette, her whole body stiff, got up and, without saying a word, walked out of the salon, leaving a completely bewildered Blanche Canard.

Sitting in the back of the limousine on her way home, Jeanette would have liked to believe that she had been mistaken, it had been such a long time, but of course she knew that was nonsense. …She’d seen her mother’s picture several times before, as she’d told Uncle Leon. There was no mistake, no mistaking her, or the rush of painful memories that now came back to her, and most especially the memory of her father’s death. …

This evening was to have been the culmination of a particularly pleasant day, an attendance of the opening of the opera, and for some time Jeanette thought of canceling, pleading illness, but realized it would have been unfair to Etienne, and indeed, to herself. Her mother had done enough … why should she be allowed to cause her further loss, even something so frivolous as the opera …? No, she would force herself to go, and to celebrate her defiance and liberation, she chose an exquisite gown—a jade green, iridescent taffeta with matching bouffant cape, and slipping on her diamond and emerald jewelry, she even managed to hum an aria from
Carmen,
the opera of the evening.

When Etienne saw her, and took her in, he could only shake his head and mutter, “Magnificent, absolutely magnificent, my dear, but we must hurry or we’ll miss the overture … and Jean-Paul, as usual, is getting very impatient …”

During intermission the Duprés went down the grand stairway to the lower level for refreshments. As they stood there, champagne glasses in hand, friends stopped by to chat with Etienne and Jeanette. Jean-Paul, feeling bored, wandered off, not in the least interested in how Marcel Larousse had enjoyed his trip to the United States with his overstuffed wife, or how much they had loved New Orleans because, you understand, it is, after all, French. He was about to give up his search for relief when he felt a tap on his shoulder and, turning, saw a familiar and most welcome face.

“Alexis,” he said, “how pleasant to see you … and you, Countess, radiant as ever, if I may say so.”

“And thank you, sir,” Magda—now Margot Maximov—said, remembering him from the first time they’d met and she’d thought him so young … so attractively young … to be in the diplomatic service. “I don’t believe we’ve seen you for some time. …”

“The loss is mine, Countess, and now, if you’ll give me a moment, I’d very much like to introduce you to my brother and his wife,” and before Jeanette could say a proper good-bye to the Larousses, Jean-Paul had taken her by the arm and led her over to meet “my good friends Count Alexis Maximov and the Countess Margot. …”

Jeanette stood frozen, not hearing, only seeing and not believing it possible that twice in the same day she could be seeing … her. She was unable to acknowledge the introduction. She thought she might faint. No, she was sure of it Etienne, and Jean-Paul, couldn’t help noticing that something was obviously wrong with her, though they had no idea what. Could she be that much in awe of the countess?

“Jeanette …” Jean-Paul said quietly.

“Yes …” His voice might have been a distant echo.

“I’d like to introduce the Count and Countess Alexis Maximov. …”

Finally managing some measure of composure, she answered coolly, “How do you do, I’m … pleased to meet you.”

Smiling, “The pleasure is ours,” Magda answered her daughter.

Memories again, an avalanche of them, came down on Jeanette … I love you, Uncle Alexis … oh, ma petite poupée, Mama loves you so much. …She had to leave … to get out of there. … « Etienne, I’m sorry but I must go. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, you’ll remember I said I wasn’t earlier. …”

“Of course, my dear,” and made his hurried apologies and good-byes to the count and countess and told Jean-Paul to please stay and enjoy the opera and they would take a cab home.

Later, in the cab, Etienne decided that Jeanette had simply been overdoing it with all her activities and what they needed was a holiday, preferably the fresh air of Switzerland, which would surely restore her. In fact, the trip would celebrate their first anniversary. She would, he assured her, love Lucerne with its mountains, its magnificent view from the terrace of the hotel … she’d learn to ski … yes, definitely, a holiday was exactly what she needed. …

Etienne drove with the aid of special pedals, but in spite of herself, and especially when she was as now away from Paris and in difficult terrain, she felt less than secure with him at the wheel, though of course she would say nothing. More important, though, was her being away from Henri, which made her feel as though a part of her had been left behind. There were times when the pretending seemed more than she could endure, and at night she often stayed awake well into the early morning staring up at the ceiling while Etienne slept peacefully, unaware of her feelings. She tried to tell herself that she was being unreasonably pettish, that she had everything a woman could want, but there was no denying that she felt completely hemmed in at Lucerne. She hated the mountains, they gave her claustrophobia. She found the hotel too quaint, almost cute, and the people pretty much the same. Skis and snow and hearty talk of special waxes and slopes and exotic siding terms left her literally and figuratively cold. Finally she could do nothing else but ask Etienne to cut their holiday short, pleading a bad case of homesickness.