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But I could not give up his friendship. How could I exile from my
life the man who had reintroduced me to all the little pleasures I had thought
were lost or blighted forever?

He had given me happiness—a quiet, undemanding happiness, very
different from that which I had known with Frederick, but a true happiness,
nevertheless.

How could I turn my back on it now and sink into a gray and
tedious life of duty and self-denial?

I could not do it.

If Sir Anthony were truly suffering, surely he was free to
extricate himself. All he had to do was to claim that his vague
responsibilities were calling him home to his odious, beloved England.
Permanently. One day he surely would.

Thus ran my thoughts, as I tried to unravel the snarl of my
emotions.

What they amounted to was this: I did not want a life in which Sir
Anthony played no part. I could not give him up altogether, whether or not it
would have been wiser and kinder to both of us to have done so.

But I could not put this to myself quite so baldly. That might
have obliged me to examine my heart more honestly and to recognize not only
that I was already half in love with Anthony Camwell but also that I was very
far from loving him enough to sacrifice my own small portion of happiness for
his sake.

Instead I gave a great deal of thought to what was in Sir
Anthony's heart and as little as possible to what was in my own.

He was back in England now and had told me that he would be unable
to return to France for some time. Perhaps the lengthening intervals between
his visits were his way of trying to loosen the unacknowledged bonds between
us.

Rather than applauding the judicious intent I attributed to him, I
seethed with impatience. Now that I had at last penetrated his careful facade,
how I yearned to see him again! The awareness that both his desire and his
restraint were stronger than my own, made the prospect both terrifying and
thrilling. We were walking a tightrope, from which we must never allow
ourselves to fall. Yet what could ever satisfy us short of the final reckless
plunge?

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was during Sir Anthony's absence from Paris that I received a
note from one Marcel Poncet. He was an art dealer, he said—although I had never
heard of him— and had acquired some paintings of Frederick's which he believed
might interest me, although he understood that my purse was very thin.

I thought it kind of him to acknowledge my circumstances. This was
not the first time a few of Frederick's minor works had found their way back
onto the market, and even they were always far beyond my means. Monsieur
Poncet's thoughtful note, however, implied that if I had a particular interest
in those he possessed, perhaps an arrangement of periodic payments could be
worked out. I knew my financial situation would not allow such an extravagance,
but I replied with a note in which I agreed to meet with him anyway, for I was
curious to discover which of Frederick's patrons had either tired of his works
or fallen upon hard times.

The door to the little shop was locked when I arrived. I rang the
bell.

When the pale-eyed man with graying yellow hair opened the door to
me, I choked back a startled gasp.

He smiled.

"So we meet again, Madame Brooks. I hope you have not brought
your knife."

I did not take the hand he offered.

"I can have no business with you," I said coldly, and
stepped back onto the pavement.

He moved into the doorway.

"Au contraire, madame. I think you will find you have some
very urgent business to attend to here," he said, fixing me with a keen
gaze. I hesitated, unable to step forward or retreat further as I struggled to
assess what threat he could pose to Frederick's memory.

No, it was impossible. I turned and started to walk away.

"What shabby dresses you have taken to wearing of late,
Madame Brooks," he went on smoothly. "Golden fetters are far more
becoming—and conceal your beauty less."

Then I began to understand him.

I turned back.

"You have seen that painting?" I whispered through
frozen lips.

"I own it. And four others."

Around me I could still hear the slow clopping of the hooves of
carriage horses, a ripple of birdsong, the soft chatter of a pair of lovers who
strolled down the pavement arm in arm, yet my world had darkened and narrowed
down to this man, this doorway.

"You look ill, Madame Brooks. Perhaps you will step
inside."

There were several little armchairs in the front room of the shop.
I sank down upon the edge of one.

"Well, you had better let me see them," I said
expressionlessly at last. I was reluctant to follow him toward the back of his
shop, but if I were about to be blackmailed, I supposed I ought to assure
myself that he really had the goods. No doubt I would be paying for them for a
long, long time.

He led me to a dusty back room.

Yes, there they were—all five of them.

I took in the display with only the briefest of glances, then
turned away.

Sitting opposite him once again in the front room, I strove to
remain coolheaded.

"Have you a receipt for what you paid for those?" I
asked after a while.

Poncet took a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and
handed it to me. There was Frederick's bold signature and the date. It was the
day before his body had been found in the river.

"Do not think too badly of your husband, Madame Brooks,"
said Poncet gently. "He wished only to protect you from the continual
harassment of your creditors. He assured me that he would buy these paintings
back from me within the year. You were in no real danger. But it has been more
than a year. And of course his death has increased the value of these works
immeasurably."

I absorbed this silently. Then I asked, "Has anyone else seen
them?"

"No one but my daughter. And that was merely because she was
thoughtless and unlocked a door which she had been told to leave shut. She is
at an age when the young tend to be self-righteous and cannot smile at the ways
their jaded elders sometimes choose to amuse themselves. She was, to put it
mildly, appalled to stumble upon this other aspect of the refined Madame
Brooks. But she will not speak of it to anyone."

"What do you want from me?" I asked wearily.

"It is not my wishes, Madame Brooks, but
yours
that we
are here to discuss." The dealer smiled. "I know the market for
paintings of this sort. It is my speciality. A number of wealthy gentlemen keep
private collections like this for their own entertainment. I can think of
one
Englishman in particular who will be astounded by what I have to offer and
who is able to afford it."

I swallowed the last remnants of my pride.

"If you are referring to... the baronet," I said
haltingly, having found myself unable even to speak Sir Anthony's name under
such distasteful circumstances, "I beg you, Monsieur Poncet, do not offer
them to him."

My voice trembled somewhat. I could not bear to think of the
chivalrous baronet's regard for me crumbling as violently as it must, were he
to ever see these paintings.

"How could I refuse the appeal of such a lovely woman?"
said Poncet. "No, I do not think it will be necessary for me to approach
the baronet in order to realize the full value of what I have to sell."

I was so relieved to hear this that, although his tone was not as
reassuring as his words, I barely noticed the peculiar emphasis he had given
the latter. Still, I could not bring myself to thank him for his willingness to
spare me the ultimate humiliation.

"Very well," I said, and rose to my feet to leave. He
still held all the cards, but he had agreed not to use them as I most feared.
Now I wanted only to escape from the shop and to have nothing more to do with
him.

"One moment, Madame Brooks," he said. "Perhaps you
are not acquainted with my methods of doing business. When I have works like
this in my possession and am preparing to dispose of them, I make sure that it
is widely known. There is always a great demand for well-executed paintings of
this sort, but I must confess that the quality of these is far beyond anything
that has ever before passed through my hands. And I have never encountered a
case where the artist was so famous and so immensely talented or where his
subject was a woman so well known and so well respected. You cannot imagine how
many gentlemen will spring at the opportunity to come to a showing such as the
one I arranged for you today. It will be well publicized and well attended, I
can assure you, and the setting, of course, will be far more accommodating than
this poor little shop. Most of the gentlemen who will attend the sale will do
so, no doubt, purely to amuse themselves. But there
will
be a number of
serious buyers and they will bid against one another for each of these splendid
portraits."

He paused to let me savor the hideous prospect, and then
continued.

"That was my original plan for disposing of these paintings,
but it occurred to me that you, as the widow, might also have an interest in
them, and, if so, that you might be grateful for this opportunity to avoid
having to confront the... enthusiasm of the gentlemen you will otherwise be
bidding against.... You do not seem appreciative, Madame Brooks."

I did not respond. So the sale of the paintings would be a
circus—not a discreet, private transaction between himself and some harmless,
hoary old seigneur doddering about in a moldering chateau and trying to
rekindle the sensations of his rakish youth.

"I know your situation is difficult at present," Poncet
went on. "That is why I am prepared—at no little sacrifice, I must say—to
make you a special offer. A modest but regular monthly payment from you will
keep these paintings a secret between you and me—at least until you are in a
position to pay for them in full."

"And how do you imagine that I could ever pay for them
outright!" I inquired with a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Oh, I think you'll find a way," said Poncet suavely.
"And, in the meantime, the slightest monthly token will prevent matters
from coming to a head."

But the amount he named, when I pressed him to be specific, was
staggering, far more than I could earn from the lessons I gave. And if I failed
to meet his terms, the resulting scandal would surely deprive me of even that
precarious livelihood. I could imagine the kind of "pupils" who would
come to me once the paintings had been unveiled, and what they would expect
from their "French lessons." I wanted time to think.

"There is absolutely no way I could meet your demands in my
present circumstances," I said at last. "Would you consider accepting
one payment immediately, as proof of my good faith, and giving me... perhaps
six months to work out something else?"

How I hated to have to bargain with him! And I had no idea what
the "something else" might be. But I was desperate for time.

"I might consider that," he said, like a cat playing
with a mouse. "Tell me what you think you can do."

I made some rapid calculations in my head and finally named a
figure which I felt confident I could manage to come up with if I were to part
with two or three of my grandmother's treasures.

"I could have a draft for you by the end of the week," I
told him.

"That will buy you three months," he said. "No
more."

"Four," I said, feigning a firmness that was a complete
sham. I had nothing with which to influence him; I held no cards at all.

"Ask me more sweetly, Madame Brooks," he said.
"Soft words and tender smiles can work wonders on a man. That is a lesson
I think you will need to learn rather quickly."

I struggled to swallow my revulsion.

"Could you give me four months, please, monsieur," I
whispered at last with a tremulous attempt at a smile. But tears of furious
impotence stung my eyes.

"Three and a half," he conceded. "And only because
you have asked so nicely. I regret that I cannot afford to be more lenient, but
that ought to give you adequate time to arrange your affairs...
if
you
take to heart the lesson I have given you. I will expect the next payment—the
first of those you will make to me each month—at the beginning of
October."

It was already the middle of June.

I stumbled homeward in a daze. The young American lady, who
presented herself promptly at four for her lesson, at last ventured to remark
that I did not look well at all.

"I am so sorry," I said, forcing my horrible
preoccupation to the back of my mind and rousing myself to greater efforts. I
spent more time with her than usual that day, to compensate for my
inattentiveness at the outset of the lesson.

But at last I was alone and able to reflect upon my grotesque
predicament.

How had I failed to realize that the paintings were gone? That was
simple. I had not gone into the depths of that jumbled closet where they ought
to have been for months. Since Frederick's death I had scarcely opened the
door. Now the mystery of how he had flung off the last of that terrible burden
of debt was solved. And I had told myself that he must have finally enjoyed a
long overdue streak of luck at the gaming tables!

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