Parisian Promises (12 page)

Charles couldn't relax. He knew all about Jean-Michel's far-reaching evil hand, and he didn't want to dance with Lola in the face of doom. Whether Charles hid in a fortress or on a yacht near Split, Jean-Michel would find him and force him to do his bidding. Charles had gone along with Jean-Michel's revolutionary zeal because he thought they were all simply armchair insurgents––blowhard revolutionaries, rich brats with new, cool personas who attracted left-leaning coeds like moths to a flame. But now Bertrand's lonely leg sat on the morgue's slab, being scrutinized for minute details that would lead police footsteps to Charles' door, no matter where he hid.

Didier and Lola laughed and drank, unaffected by Charles' nerves. Under the dour faces of Didier's ancestors, staring down at them in the portrait gallery, they played loud music and danced to a wild variation of rock and roll that was all the rage among the college-age French snobs. By the morning of the second day, Charles had left without any explanation, but Lola had made the most of the awkward situation.

Initially, Didier's
hauteur
intrigued her, but before too long she was tired of hearing his long-winded stories of family lore and legend. He either bragged about his ancestors' feats from centuries ago, or rambled on about all the additions and repairs to his
château
. Didier explained how these expenses would be the end of the cultured country life of the French
noblesse
. The high costs of looking after their huge properties had burdened them to the point of financial ruin. On and on and on he talked, while Lola stifled a yawn.

She tried to get him off the subject by asking about the history of the famous
châteaux
nearby: there were so many mysterious murders and illicit affairs throughout French history in the Loire. But Didier's storytelling abilities lacked imagination, and Lola felt that he limited his historical summaries to accounting ledgers and not the real-life titillating tales of lust and death.

“Didn't the widow of King Henry III, back in 1589, grieve his assassination so deeply that she replaced the colorful tapestries with black ones woven with skulls and crossbones?” Lola made an attempt to jump-start Didier's story with some intrigue.

“That was at
Château de Chenonceau
, and the woman in question was Louise de Lorraine-Vaudémont,” Didier droned on. “I don't recall the cost of the new tapestries, but I'm sure it was astronomical.”

“But didn't the widow, dressed in flowing a black gown, roam
Chenonceau
, going from room to room, calling out her beloved's name?” persisted Lola.

“I doubt it. Most of the rooms would have been locked.”

Didier even neglected to spice-up the tale of Chenonceau with the fact that Catherine de Medici forced her husband's mistress, Diane de Poitiers, out of the house, or that when her husband died in 1560, Catherine spent a fortune on a stupendous fireworks display to celebrate her son's ascension as king.

Didier's colorless recounting of events bored Lola, but she didn't know how to react to him. After all, she was still a guest in his manse. Lola knew that her heroine and role model, La Belle Otero, would have made mincemeat of this pompous windbag, and that she would have extracted a hefty sum of money––or at least some of Didier's mother's jewels––in exchange for the time wasted on him. Lola recalled that on one occasion, La Belle Otero's gambling compulsion resulted in the total demise of her lover, the Vicomte de Chênedollé. Rather than weep over his financial ruin and his suicide, she immediately moved on to a millionaire banker, the Baron Ollstreder, who showered her with gifts of precious jewels and magnificent furs, and paid her endless gambling bets.

But Lola hadn't yet developed the killer instinct of La Belle Otero. She didn't want to leave the Loire Valley on a depressing low note of being abandoned by Charles and of wasting her time with dull Didier. These aristocrats were nothing but a passing fancy, but Lola wanted to continue with her Loire escapade, and get more of a taste of their lifestyle. When she was good and ready, she could move on to greener pastures. After all, whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. This was still her motto, despite recent setbacks.

Lola decided to chit-chat with the valet-chauffer to see where the conversation would lead.

“Didier said that other American students were staying nearby.” She tried speaking with her best French pronunciation. “I wonder if it could be students from my art class. Do you know where they are staying?”

“We don't trust
étrangers
,” he said gruffly.

“I agree with you completely.” Lola smiled and tossed her red curls. “If I were French I wouldn't trust foreigners, either, but I'm going back to California in a couple of months. I'm starring in a movie.” This was stretching the truth to the limits. “You don't think that I'm a dangerous stranger, do you?”

“Absolutely not. You're just a girl.”

Lola smiled sweetly, and told another lie. “You kind of remind me of my dad. He has strong opinions, too. I also miss my classmates. You wouldn't want me to get a bad grade in my art class, would you?”

The valet slowed his driving and seemed to be thinking. “One of the American girls is staying at Les Charmilles,” he finally revealed.

“Is that a village nearby?”

“No, it's another
château
that belongs to the Vicomtesse Challant de la Guerche. Your fellow American girl is there.”

Lola tossed her red curls and smiled sweetly. “Could we possibly stop by so I can verify if my friend is there? You wouldn't want me to stay all alone in a hotel, would you?”

Since he didn't answer, Lola changed tactics. “OK. Please drive me to the train station. I'll have to go back to Paris tonight.”

“But the last train left an hour ago. You will have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Well, I'll just wait all by myself at the train station. I don't have a choice.” Lola fought back crocodile tears.

The valet stepped on the accelerator and headed toward Les Charmilles with all the determination of a knight helping a damsel in distress. His people had always been the servants, the hired help, the peons for the nobles of the Loire, but for this instant he became the swashbuckling hero, saving the day for this movie-star California girl.

A
fter the removal of Magnifique's carcass from the estate, the heartbroken mood at Les Charmilles flowed out like a requiem, a chorus formed by the whinnies of the horses, the low moans of an inconsolable Serge, and Christophe's whimpers.

Christophe sat crestfallen, observing Monica while she sketched the main house. His low spirits were contagious. Monica's charcoal lines and somber shading created an image of a haunted mansion, not the glistening house of the day before. In this atmosphere of gloom, Christophe revealed many private wounds to Monica––the passing of his father three years ago, the frayed relationship with his overbearing mother, and his doubts about his own future.

Monica tried to concentrate on the drawing, but as Christophe's melancholy entered her head like a poisonous miasma, she erased more and more of the dark areas of her drawing in lame attempt to lighten both her artistic composition and Christophe's mood. In just a few weeks of living in France, Monica had experienced her own share of dark and light moments. In fact, she'd had the most incredibly lustful encounters––and the most lurid days of her life. The volatility of her own emotional gradient, soaring so quickly from light to dark, shocked her. She erased large portions of her sketch in an effort to dismiss the gnawing feelings of fear and folly incited by the memory of Jean-Michel.

Up until this dismal moment, Monica had thought that Madame was right to advise her to get a second or third boyfriend, one or two other men who would cancel out the intensity of Jean-Michel. But while the Christophe of the day before had sparkled with good humor and light conversation, the man now at her side groaned bleakly. She began to contemplate leaving this
château
before more of Christophe's ghosts arrived, as uninvited as the rolling fog that currently hid much of the estate.

The gravel driveway of Les Charmilles crunched with the sound of rolling tires, followed by mismatched footsteps. Serge's booming voice loomed from somewhere nearby.

“Christophe, there's another pretty American to see you––
une jolie rousse
.”

Monica jumped up from her seat. “Did Serge just say there's a pretty American redhead here to see you?”

“I don't know any American redheads,” shouted Christophe. “Tell her to go away.”

Monica beamed. “No, don't be silly. It might be my friend Lola.” She pulled him up, so excited that she almost dragged him towards the driveway.

“Lola, is that you?” Monica called, unable to see through the misty fog.

Lola whistled in the raunchy Echo Park style, and both women ran towards each other's voices.

Serge invited the women to the kitchen for some refreshments, but Christophe excused himself saying, “I have to go check on Magnif…on the horses.” He walked, feet dragging, in the direction of the stables.

Lola slung her arm around Monica. “You're a sly vixen, aren't you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Lola blew a dramatic Hollywood kiss at Didier's valet, backing down the driveway. She handed Serge her overnight bag in a nonchalant style––as if to the manor born.

“Here's why you're a sly vixen,” she whispered, strolling arm-in-arm with Monica. “Four days ago I saw you flirting with a mysterious, handsome French man at the café. That same night, we waited for you at Le Sept, but you and the mystery man never showed up. And the more I asked Charles–– you know, your mystery man's buddy––the more he pretended not to know.”

Monica pulled back on the reins of the conversation. “Whoa, go back three steps. Who's Charles, and why wouldn't he tell you about Jean-Michel and me?”

By now they were inside the house, Lola making herself at home in the enormous kitchen. She poked around the blue enameled stove and attempted to lift a cast-iron pot. She fixed her gaze on Serge, and spoke to him in accented but flawless French.

“You are such a gentleman to offer us an
apéritif
. Could you serve us a Kir Royale? Perhaps you can find some crisp champagne in the cellar?”

Serge had never met an American upper-class woman. In fact, he hadn't thought there
were
any well-bred ones. But this redhead was as bossy and demanding as any of the French nobles. He had misjudged her by her crass whistle, and now he was embarrassed to have brought her to the kitchen. But he soon understood that the women wanted to talk freely, so he left them alone, and stepped down into the cellar.

Lola refused to sit down and continued her inspection of the kitchen and its many pantries.

“As I was saying, we all went dancing at the most bitchin' nightclub.” She opened various drawers and shut them again. “I wonder where they keep the heirloom silver.”

Everything Lola was saying and doing made Monica feel flustered. “Lola, please sit down! Christophe works in this
château
and he's already on the verge of getting fired. Please don't get any ideas about petty theft.”

“Oh, so lover boy is
not
the lord of this castle? Let's get the hell out of here, then.”

“Honestly, Lola. Tell me how you found me and why you're here. Please.”

“Cool your jets. I'll sit down in a minute.” Lola opened another two drawers. “This is all shit. My grandma has better dishes and cutlery.”

She shut the drawer and sat down, grinning at the grim-faced Monica.

“I'm not gonna give you the blow-by-blow account of my last four days––pardon the pun!” Lola got up again, wandering into the next room. Monica had no choice but to follow.

“So how did you find me and why are you looking for me?” Monica's voice quivered at the thought of Jean-Michel tracking her down. He might want to punish her for not staying in Paris until he contacted her. Or perhaps he desperately needed her, and had sent Lola to find her, to beg her to return to his apartment immediately––if only she remembered its exact location.

Lola roamed freely from room to room, admiring an ivory-handled letter opener that sat on an end table in the salon, and yanking a tapestry or two hanging in the dimly lit hallway.

“This stuff may be antique and valuable, but it looks threadbare and moth-eaten,” she said breezily. “These French aristos are on their last franc, I swear.”

Monica stood firm, her heart pounding.

“Lola, cut the cat-burglar routine. It's not working, and you and I are going to leave this place in five minutes if you don't stop your antics. Plus, I've had enough of this forlorn place.” She tweaked one of Lola's red locks, although more in play than in anger. “I'm really glad to see you, but how the hell did you find me––and why?”

“If you don't let go of my hair I'm going to kick you on your ass.”

“We're not in junior high,” Monica replied, still gripping the long curl, “and you're not the only one who knows how to throw a punch. Remember, I grew up on a ranch in Riverside County.”

Lola burst out laughing at Monica's bluster and hugged her friend.

“Yeah, ok. You're a real fighting bitch.” Lola pinched Monica's flushed cheeks. “I'll tell you the whole story of how I ended up here in a few sentences. At Le Sept, I met up with Charles, but he was jittery and sweating bullets. He said it was because his best friend had to return to South America for a funeral. I could tell that something else was going on, but I didn't want to probe. So instead of staying in Paris, I let Charles bring me to his buddy's
château
just a few miles from here. It was cool with me, since we have that art class in this area anyway. I asked Madame to let you know I'd be in the Loire––didn't she tell you?”

Lola fluffed the long strand of hair that Monica had stretched out, and Monica nodded.

“Then,” Lola continued, “the day after Charles and I have a somewhat romantic time at the
château
, he leaves me there without an explanation. I had no idea what was going on. After a day or so at that
château
, I had a little hanky-panky with Didier, the lord of the manor. But he was thoroughly boring and treated his valet like crap. So the valet told me that another pretty American girl was at
this
place, and I figured that it might be someone from our art class since we were all supposed to meet here, and––
voilà
! He drove me here. That's the whole story.”

“You mean Jean-Michel didn't send you to bring me back to Paris?”

“Is Jean-Michel the guy from the café?”

Monica nodded.

“No, I never saw him again. But he must be one bad son-of-a-bitch because Charles and the other guys jumped at the mention of his name. Anyway, who cares? The stable guy is sexy, don't you think?”

Monica blushed and looked away. Lola raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, did you screw the stable boy?”

“His name is Christophe, and he's captivating.”

Heavy footsteps announced Serge's approach, climbing the cellar stairs and emerging from a paneled doorway.

“Serge,” said Lola, in her bossiest voice. “We'll take our drinks in the salon. And please light a fire for us––it's rather chilly in here.”

“Right away, Mademoiselle.” Serge bowed. He set a tray of drinks on a small table and made his way to the fireplace at the other end of the deep salon.

“So can I spend the night here with you? Or is Stable Boy going to expect something kinky? Perhaps a little
ménage â trois
?” Lola chortled, and Serge looked back at her, aghast.

“I'll pass on the threesome,” Monica replied. “I suppose you can spend the night here, but let's not push our luck. I think the Vicomtesse is returning soon.”

“Did she go the wedding in Bordeaux as well? Dull Didier said his mother and lots of snobs from the Loire were all away at the same wedding.”

Monica shrugged, so Lola turned to Serge. “Is Madame la Vicomtesse expected back from Bordeaux this evening?”

Serge never divulged his employer's whereabouts, not so much out of duty but simply because she was so impetuous he never knew what she was planning.

“I am not certain,” he replied, “but perhaps Mademoiselle can telephone her.”

“Perhaps a bit later,” said Lola. “I'm surprised that she didn't tell you to expect me and to prepare a bedroom for me.”

Serge looked back and forth from Lola to Monica. “Madame just told me to expect Mademoiselle Monica, but I suppose that you can both stay in the pool house…same as last night.” Serge blushed at his own indecent thoughts, and he bent over the fire. Once it was crackling, he left the salon, still red-faced.

Lola slurped her Kir Royale and poured herself another coupe of champagne. “Okay, so now that we got rid of old Serge with my slutty comment, what is the stable boy like? I hope he was a better lover than Charles and Didier.”

Lola walked around the room, assessing its shabby yet no doubt valuable furniture and ornaments. Monica covered her face with both hands and started to cry.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Monica!” Lola put down her glass and hurried over. “I have such a big, brash mouth. What happened with Christophe?”

“He's been amazing,” sobbed Monica. “He's a very tender lover, but I can't get Jean-Michel out of my mind.”

“And what kind of lover was Jean-Michel?” asked Lola, half in jest, sure that Monica would never be audacious enough to have two lovers in one week.

“I'm too embarrassed to say.” Monica put her head down on a sofa cushion. “He … he mesmerized me with passion. And pain.”

Her voice was barely audible, but Lola hung on every word.

“Wow! You're a trip! You're blowing my mind! You've had amazing sex with two hot French guys and I've been dicking around with two duds. How did you do it?”

“It's all Madame's fault,” moaned Monica. “She told me to get two or three boyfriends, and to play one against the other. But instead of feeling good, I feel like a traitor to both guys.”