Dare to Love (50 page)

“His music will live forever. You're responsible for much of it.”

George nodded, but as she stepped across the room to rearrange the flowers that stood in a lovely white porcelain vase, I wished that I hadn't mentioned Chopin. His death was too recent, her memories of him still too fresh, too painful. George gave the flowers a final touch, then came to sit beside me on the sofa.

“Tell me all about yourself, my dear. I hear you've been seeing quite a lot of a young aristocrat from Touraine. I may have turned into a rustic country lady, but I still keep up with all the gossip. You and Du Gard are the talk of Paris. They say you're robbing the cradle.”

“Phillipe is actually a year older than I. He—he's a very fine young man, George. I met him in Barivna. He was one of Karl's aides. His father called him back from Barivna to manage the family estate. We kept in touch, and when I returned to Paris—” I hesitated, thinking of Phillipe, thinking of the decision I must make.

“He's in love with you?” George asked.

“Yes. But Phillipe is the first man I've known who hasn't tried to sleep with me. He wants to marry me.”

“I see. And do you love him?”

“Not the way I'd like to love him. I'm very fond of him, and I think in time I could grow to love him. He's tender and kind, attentive, always thoughtful. He's handsome and wealthy and—and there's not a girl in Paris who wouldn't jump at the chance to marry him.”

“You're not any girl,” George said in a gentle voice. “You're Elena Lopez.”

“I know. I've become the creature Anthony Duke created. Sometimes I wish none of this had ever happened. If only I had met Phillipe before Anthony, before Franz, before—”

I paused, gazing at the hazy white rays of sunlight streaming through the windows.

“We would live in the country most of the time,” I continued. “The chateau is lovely, and it would be—very peaceful. Phillipe would always be there. I could always depend on him. The men I've loved—they always leave, George. Brence, Anthony, Franz—each one abandoned me. I could feel secure with Phillipe.”

“I've no doubt you could.”

“He loves me so much, and—for the first time in my life I would have stability. I've lived the life of a gypsy, moving from place to place. Oh, it's been glamorous, and heady and exciting, but—” Again I paused, turning to look into those dark, lovely eyes. “I no longer have any illusions about happiness, George. I'd like to find the kind of contentment you've found.”

George took my hand and held it lightly, hesitating a moment while she considered her reply.

“I can understand your desire, my dear,” she said, “but you're very young. I'm forty-six years old. I have gray hair. I can afford to settle for contentment, but you—you, my dear, have a great many years of living to do before you can make any kind of compromise.”

I was silent. George continued, “You're an extraordinary woman, Elena. You've had fame and glory and glittering success. You could give it all up for love—real love, eternal and consuming—but mild affection isn't enough. I've no doubt you could be content for a while with this young man, but ultimately—”

She let the sentence dangle. She didn't need to finish it.

“It wouldn't be fair to Phillipe,” I said.

“Nor to yourself. You've been hurt, my dear, and you want to retreat. That might be satisfying for a few months, a year, but the music would still be playing, the flags still waving, and you would long to take your rightful place in the parade.”

“You're right, of course.”

George had said nothing I hadn't already said to myself, but it was good to hear it confirmed. Marrying Phillipe would be a compromise, a retreat, an easy out for me at this particular time in my life, but ultimately a disastrous mistake. During the past week I had toyed with the idea of marrying him, for it was a very attractive idea, but I realized now that I had never seriously considered it. I was far too fond of Phillipe to use him, and I would be doing just that if I accepted his proposal.

George and I talked of other things then, in that warm, comfortable room with its plants, its littered desk, its glowing colors. She told me more of life at Nohant and about Alexandre Manceau, the young engraver, a friend of her son's who had come to stay with them. Manceau was very attentive, she confided, and very efficient as well. He helped out in so many ways. He was like a second son to her, she confessed, but as she spoke of him there was a tender smile on her lips, a warm glow in her eyes, and I suspected that her relationship with Manceau was part of the contentment she spoke of so eloquently. The passionate fireworks might be over, she might be plump and have strands of gray in her hair, but George was far too womanly a woman to be able to exist without some kind of love. Manceau was clearly a comfort to her, and I was pleased to hear about him.

“I think I hear my carriage,” I said a while later. “I really must be going and let you get back to your work.”

“Revisions, revisions!” she said. “Act One is adequate, Act Two needs a great deal of work, and they tell me Act Three is utterly impossible. Why did I ever undertake this project?”

As George walked me to the door, the skirt of her gown made a quiet rustle. She took both my hands in hers and held them for a moment, her dark, glorious eyes full of affection.

“It's been wonderful seeing you again, my dear. You must come visit me at Nohant one day soon.”

“I'd like that.”

She held on to my hands, reluctant to let them go, and I could see that there was something else she wanted to say. She finally gave me a quick hug and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“Take care, dear,” she said gently, “and—don't give up on happiness just yet. Hold on to the dream a while longer. Perhaps—perhaps you'll be one of the fortunate ones.”

XXXVI

Phillipe arrived at the house on the Champs-Élysées shortly after six. He had come directly from the hotel, stopping only long enough to change clothes. His hair was gleaming, boyishly unruly as usual, and his eyes were filled with expectancy. Young and splendid and wonderfully handsome, he was in wonderful spirits. He pulled me to him and kissed me exuberantly, confident my answer would be the one he wanted to hear.

“Sorry I'm so early,” he exclaimed. “You look marvelous with your hair like that, and that light blue dress—it's so good to see you! I've missed you dreadfully.”

“I've missed you, too, Phillipe.”

“I suppose you'll want to change before we go to dinner. We're going to the grandest, plushest restaurant in Paris.”

“I—I'd rather not.”

“Oh?”

“I thought we might just go to one of the cafes and have a—a glass of wine.”

“That'll be fine. Shall we leave now?”

“Let's,” I said.

Phillipe kept up a bright, engaging chatter as we drove to an outdoor cafe with its tables scattered beneath gaily striped red-and-white umbrellas. Humble clerks in neatly brushed suits dined early with their girlfriends, vivacious shopgirls whose gloves and be-feathered hats were a pathetic attempt at elegance. Carriages passed to and fro. Couples strolled in the park across the way. Shadows lengthened on the pavement as daylight began to fade. An old woman in a tattered gray shawl attended a pushcart filled with brightly colored flowers.

“This is nice,” Phillipe said. “I'm glad you suggested it. Who needs red plush and fancy chandeliers when you can have Paris itself? Are you sure you'll have nothing to eat?”

“Just a glass of wine. I—I'm really not hungry.”

“Wine it shall be. The best.”

He signaled a waiter and ordered the most expensive wine with an endearing flourish, and then he sat with chin propped in hand, looking at me with that marvelous half-smile playing on his lips. He was so happy, so full of hope, so certain of future happiness. He was one of the truly good people of this world, and he deserved a woman who would love him without reservation. I fervently wished I could be that woman.

“I never knew a week could be so long,” he said. “I thought about you night and day, Elena, as I made my rounds on horseback, as I supervised the construction of a new barn for one of the tenants, even as I cleaned and oiled my gun.”

“Your gun?”

“We're having a plague of rabbits in Touraine. They're destroying the crops. As soon as I get back I'll have to take a shooting party out to discourage the pests.”

“Somehow I can't see you doing that sort of thing.”

“I'm very efficient,” he told me. “If a job needs to be done, I do it promptly, without fuss. That's something you don't know about me. You see me as—as a dreamy-eyed youth. I'm not, you know. Perhaps when you see me in boots and old brown breeches and sweat-stained white shirt with sleeves rolled up to my elbows you'll get a different impression.”

The waiter brought our wine. Phillipe handed me my glass and toyed with his own, the smile still playing on his lips. Around us glass tinkled and merry laughter sounded. Paris wore a festive air as the evening sky became a dark, dull silver.

“I turn brown as a savage in summer,” Phillipe continued. “I ride. I shoot. I even get into an occasional fight. One of the tenant farmers was trying to cheat us last summer. I blackened his eye, kicked him off the farm. In Touraine I'm a different person altogether.”

“Phillipe—”

“You'll love it there,” he said hurriedly. “I—I talked with my father about you. He's eager to meet you, to welcome you. The chateau is lovely, and you could redecorate some of the rooms if you liked. I'm really quite wealthy, you know. I—”

“Don't,” I said quietly.

“I can be the man you want me to be, Elena.”

“I don't want you to be—anything but what you are.”

“And that isn't enough, is it?”

His voice was pleasant, almost playful, and the half-smile curved on his lips, but his eyes were filled with desperation. I felt terrible, for I did love him. I loved the cleft in his chin, the heavy, errant wave that continually tumbled over his brow. I loved his vitality and charm and that aura of innocence. But I loved him as I might love a dear younger brother, and that wouldn't suffice.

“I love you, Elena. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

“I'm sorry.”

“The answer is ‘no,' isn't it? I saw it in your eyes when you opened the front door. I saw the sadness, the reluctance. I—I tried to fool myself, tried to convince myself I was mistaken, but—”

He cut himself short. He sighed quietly and shook his head and took a sip of wine, and then he stared down into the glass. The couple at the table next to us got up to leave. Two of the waiters began to argue amiably. Smells of cooking came from inside the cafe. The old woman in the gray shawl brightened up and smiled a crooked smile as a gentleman paused to buy a bouquet of flowers and present them to the demure brunette beside him.

“Perhaps I was too precipitate,” Phillipe said quietly. “I should have waited to declare myself. I should have given you more time to get to know me, really know me.”

“I do know you, Phillipe. I know you're one of the finest young men I've ever met, and—”

“The answer is ‘no,'” he said.

“I wish it could be different. I wish I could be the woman you deserve. There is so much you don't understand, so much I—couldn't explain. I'm not right for you, but the loss is mine. If I thought I could make you happy, if I didn't know I'd eventually disappoint you, hurt you—”

“I'm willing to take that risk.”

“It wouldn't work, Phillipe. I wish it could. I wish I could use you to solve my own problems, but I'm much too fond of you for that. Marrying you would be an easy solution, but it wouldn't be fair to either of us. The problems would still be there, only temporarily assuaged.”

Silently he set his glass of wine down. A small band began to play in the park across the street. Carriages continued to rumble gaily over the cobblestone street, and a little girl shrieked with laughter. As he gazed at me, smiling a brave smile, I felt that he had never looked more beautiful, and my heart ached miserably.

“I guess that's that,” he said.

“Go home, Phillipe. Go back to Touraine and—and meet a nice young girl who will live for you alone, who will bring you the kind of happiness I could never bring you.”

I spoke quietly, trying to keep the emotion out of my voice. Phillipe did not reply. The music from the park across the way was light and airy, a lilting waltz. Phillipe finally sighed and pushed his glass aside.

“I suppose I'd better take you home now,” he said.

“I think I'll finish my wine. You—you go on, Phillipe. I'll take a cab when I'm ready.”

“If that's what you want.”

He stood up, tall, elegant, beautifully controlled despite the anguish in his eyes. He seemed older at that moment—lost, defeated.

“There'll never be anyone but you, Elena,” he said.

“You may believe that now, but you'll feel differently soon. You'll meet the right girl, and you'll marry her and this—this will all be forgotten.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“It has to be this way, Phillipe. Please understand.”

“I understand.”

“Forget me. Forget me and—please forgive me.”

“I'll never forget you,” he said, “and there is nothing to forgive.”

He smiled that lovely, tender smile, gallant, trying to make it easier for me, polite and charming even in this moment of despair. In a rush of emotion, I longed to take back everything I had said, longed to make it right for him and undo all the pain I had caused. Phillipe hesitated for a moment, then stepped around the table and took my hand. Lifting it to his lips, he kissed it.

“Goodbye, Elena,” he said, looking into my eyes and smiling once more.