Darkest Longings (23 page)

leaned against him and said, ‘I wonder what everyone will

say when we tell them?’

‘Tell them what?’ he said, horrified.

‘That we are going to be married, silly,’ she laughed.

‘When should we tell them? Shall we do it today, when we

get back? But no, maybe it’s a little too early. I think we

should wait until I return from Paris. Oh, Freddy, I’m so

happy. I love you so much. I want to hold you in my arms and

never let you go. Do you feel the same way, cherie? Tell me

you love me too. Tell me you’ve waited all your life for this to

happen. But you’re only nineteen, how could you have

known it would happen so soon? But me, I have been waiting

for you…

‘I knew that one day you would come, that there was a

reason for all the rejection I have suffered. But those men,

pah! They mean nothing now. They are Spiders compared to

you - you, who are so sweet and so full of love. How am I going

to keep this to myself, Freddy, when I want to shout it from the

hilltops? I think, don’t you, that we must spend our summers in

France, but I can barely wait to see your home, my darling.

And soon, very soon, we shall fill it with children …’

He let her go on, too stunned to interrupt. All he was

thinking was, when, during those few ecstatic moments, had

he asked her to marry him? He had no recollection of it, but

he must have asked her or she wouldn’t be carrying on like

this. He felt almost suffocated by his own breath as he tried

to speak, tried to assure her that he loved her. Only an hour

ago he had hardly been able to stop himself saving it, yet

now…

Why was it that she suddenly seemed like a stranger when

they had just shared such intimate moments? Why was it

that he wanted to pull his arm away, to escape her, when

earlier the very touch of her fingertips had set him on fire

with passion? Why was it that everything she was saying

repelled him? The more she went on, the worse it became.

Even the sound of her voice, that beautiful throaty voice,

now grated on his ears.

By the time her chauffeur had dropped him at Montvisse,

and she had promised a thousand times that she would call

him that night and then again from Paris the next day, he

was beginning to realize that he would never again recapture

the feelings he had had beside the lake. He still could not be

sure why they had changed, and as he turned from waving

Monique off and went into the chateau, he had no idea what

he was going to do about it. He went upstairs to his room,

informing the butler that he wouldn’t be wanting dinner that

evening.

He sat on the edge of his bed, letting the hours slip by. He

saw his life’s plans, his hopes and dreams float away from

him. He longed to talk to someone, but who could he tell?

Dissy was no longer in France, and it was unthinkable that

he should mention this to Celine. In the end, he realized

that there was no way out. If he had asked Monique to marry

him during those lust-crazed moments, then it would make

him the greatest cad on earth if he were to spurn her after

she had all but given herself to him.

At ten o’clock his valet knocked, and with a heavy heart

Freddy prepared himself for bed. The joy of being in

France had been extinguished, and he longed only to go

home.

It was one of those crisp days of early autumn, when the light

was so clear that Paris was even more beautiful than in the

spring. The leaves on the trees lining the avenue Foch

glinted gold in the brilliant sunlight, and the air was bracing.

The breeze that wafted in through the open window of Elise

Pascale’s drawing-room carried not only the sleepy purr

and growl of afternoon traffic but also the haunting strains

of ‘Tout va bien’ played on a gramophone in an apartment

below.

Elise adored this time of year - but then she adored every

time of year, she adored her whole life, and never a day

passed when she did not thank the Good Lord for enabling

her to use her exceptional beauty to such unforeseen

advantage.

It was her striking resemblance to Titian’s Venus ofUrbino that had started her on the road to success, for that was what had first captured the eye of Gustave Gallet, the now

forgotten artist who had passed through Toulouse ten years

ago, and in return for her favours had taken her to Paris.

Before leaving Toulouse her ambition had been merely to

marry a man of means and status, and when Gallet first

appeared she had already made some headway with the son

of the local prefet. But the moment Paris was mentioned, she

had seen all her dreams start to come true… Ever since her

daughter was old enough to understand, and right up to the

time of her own death, Elise Pascale’s mother had read her

stories of the great courtesans of France, La Pompadour,

Diane de Poitiers, Agnes Sorrel, women whose rise and fall

had never ceased to fascinate them both. Elise wanted to be

one of them, she wanted her name too to go down in history,

and it had angered her that she was living in a France where

there were no longer any kings, where she could never be a

royal mistress. But then Gustave Gallet had taken her to

Paris, and she had known that somehow she was going to

make herself the most talked about woman in all France.

Unfortunately, soon after their arrival in the city Gallet

had died, and for three years Elise had been an artist’s

model, moving from one cramped studio to the next. Then

she had acquired her own modest apartment on the Quai de

la Tournelle, paid for by an ageing film director, Alain

Mureau. She had grown fond of Mureau during their eight

months together, but when, at a party to celebrate his latest

film, she was presented to Gerard, the bohemian son of the

Due de Verlons, she had no compunction whatever in

consigning her lover to the past. And with Gerard her career

really began to take off, for he took great delight in

introducing her to his wealthy and influential friends, and Elise soon discovered that there was little she wouldn’t do to get what she wanted, and no one she minded hurting along

the way.

And now here she was, luxuriously ensconced on the

avenue Foch. She never missed her daily prayer of

gratitude - but it was at the shrine of her own voluptuous

body that she most frequently worshipped, for it was that

wonderful body, that face with its brazenly alluring

features, that had got her where she was today. That, and

ambition - which had seized her first all those years ago in

Toulouse, and even now, despite her success, still burned

like a fire in her veins.

And now, as she stood at her drawing-room window

looking along the avenue to the Arc de Triomphe, Elise felt

so triumphant herself, so happy, that she wanted to laugh.

For she was not alone in the room; and her engagements for

the rest of the day were even now being cancelled by Gisele,

her maid, who had taken the diary to the telephone in the

dining-room so that she should not disturb her mistress and

their unexpected visitor.

As yet Francois had said little, but it was not in his nature

to indulge in idle talk, and besides, his presence here, at her

apartment, told Elise all she wanted to know. It would be

unwise to express her delight, though, even if her heart was

singing like a teenager’s; Francois was well aware of the

effect he had on her but he hated her to show her feelings.

So Elise kept them to herself, and displayed instead the kind

of bored sophistication and cat-like indolence he preferred.

It was like a game, a game she had come to excel at: always

careful to read his moods before she spoke, judging when to

disguise her love beneath a mask of indifference; always

concealing the deep, secret fear that one day she would lose

him. For she loved him as she had never loved any other

man.

She took a deep breath, then turned from the window to

look across the sumptuously furnished drawing-room. With

its muted shades of turquoise and yellow it was a blatantly

feminine room, arranged so that every chair and sofa faced

the tall arched windows and the white wrought-iron

balustrades of the balconies beyond. As she looked at

Francois a teasing light flashed in her narrowed emerald

eyes. ‘So,’ she drawled in her low, husky voice, ‘you are

married.’

Francois was sitting in an Aubusson tapestried armchair,

his long legs stretched out in front of him, a Gauloise in one

hand and a glass of his own wine in the other. For answer, he

merely raised an eyebrow, took a final draw on his cigarette

and ground it out in the ashtray beside him.

The corners of Elise’s soft mouth twitched. Lifting a

hand-mirror from the little table beside her, she inspected

her delicately rouged lips and patted the waves of her

expertly coiffed yellow-gold hair. ‘I didn’t expect to see you

so soon,’ she remarked.

When again he didn’t answer, she put down her mirror

and went to sit near him on the sofa. ‘Weren’t you supposed

to be in Biarritz for two weeks?’ she asked.

‘My wife was eager to leave,’ Francois answered, taking a

sip of wine.

‘She didn’t find Biarritz to her liking?’

He met her eyes, and after a moment or two the corner of

his mouth pulled into a smile. ‘Shall we just say that my wife

prefers to be at Lorvoire?’ he said smoothly.

She hated him referring to The Bitch as his wife, but said

nothing, understanding that she would be wise to let the

matter rest there.

‘Have you heard from von Pappen?’ he asked, holding out

his glass to be refilled.

‘I thought he’d left a message for you at Poitiers?’

‘He did. Do you know where he is now?’

‘In Munich, I believe.’

Francois was quiet for a moment. Then, as she handed

him his wine, he said, ‘I am leaving for Berlin in a few days. I

want him to meet me there.’

‘Berlin?’

‘I have a new customer there with a penchant for Lorvoire

wine.’

Their eyes met fleetingly, and Elise smiled. Sitting down

again, she rested her finely pointed chin on her hand and

watched him as he sat once more immersed in the privacy of

his thoughts.

It was two years since he had come into her life, and

almost as long since she had fallen so desperately in love

with him that, when he asked it, she had abandoned every

one of her other rich and titled lovers and kept herself for

him alone. From that time on, he had become her whole life.

Only once had she made the mistake of telling him how she

felt about him. In return he had made it plain that he did not

love her, and did not now - nor ever would - entertain the

slightest intention of marrying a whore from the gutters of

Toulouse.

It wasn’t the first time he had called her that, but it was the

first time she had allowed her fury and pain to get the better

of her. The clock she hurled at him had missed, but the

bone china pot she threw after it found its mark, and blood

began to flow from the barely healed scar on his face as he

moved purposefully towards her. Terror kept her fighting,

beating her hands against his chest and insulting him with

all the foul language she knew, until he threw her across the

sofa and began to make love to her. But it was hate, not love,

for at the end he had left her begging and screaming for the

total satisfaction he sadistically denied her.

‘Love me if you must,’ he told her when he had had his fill

of her, ‘but I don’t want to hear it. All I want from you is what

I have just taken.’

After that she hadn’t seen him for a month, during which

time she had heard the rumours about Hortense de

Bourchain. Immediately she had resolved never to see him

again; but when at last he came again, when he stood

looking at her with those mesmeric black eyes, she had felt

herself drawn to him as a moth to a candle. She had run

towards him, ready to embrace him - but he put out a hand

and held her at a distance, looking at her. Then, with a smile

that twisted through her heart like a knife, he had lifted his

hand to her cheek, saying, ‘I shall never repeat this, but

perhaps you should know that I desire you as I’ve never

desired another woman in my life. I will give you all that I am

able to give, and it will be to you, and you alone, that I shall

turn for fulfilment. However, your declarations of love

revolt me - which is why I spoke as I did. And I warn you,

that is the only response you will ever get from me should

you be so unwise as to mention your feelings again.’

And then he had pulled her into his arms, and kissed her

with a tenderness he had never shown her before. That was

when, looking up into those curiously compelling eyes, she

first began to recognize the extent of his power.