The Eleventh Year (36 page)

She nodded, looking at the floor. He felt a surge of uncomprehending fury, tamped it down. Edith de Beaumont was patting her on the shoulder, moving away. Almost immediately Chanel was beside them. “The color combinations on stage are wonderful,” she said. “Congratulations.”

Alex took her hand, raised it to his lips. Odd how some people, born in humble circumstances, could suddenly be elevated to positions of social standing. Everyone now received this woman, who had risen from the poorest of backgrounds to own the most innovative fashion house in Paris. She remarked: “Well, Marquis, your wife has been hiding from us. Whatever have you been doing to her?”

Another one to use the dry, stabbing wit. “I've done nothing,” he replied, trying to smile. “What do you mean?”

“It's obvious,” Chanel enlightened him. “Ever since Lesley began to work on this project, she's been neglecting us on rue Cambon. Not once has she shown up for a fitting!” She inspected his wife, touched her gown of aqua crêpe. “Lesley comes to every one of my collection presentations,” she continued, addressing Alex. “But she hasn't been following through with any orders. I can see why. Have you been designing your own clothes, darling?”

Lesley didn't answer. “I like this well enough,” the pencil-thin
couturière
remarked with asperity. “But it doesn't really have the ‘snap' that you need, with your red hair. Why don't you leave yourself to me, the way you used to? Ballet decor is one thing, but day-to-day fashion is another. I've worked in the field for too many years not to understand it better than any one of my customers—even the most talented ones, like you.”

“I've ordered three new suits just recently,” Lesley said. Her voice shook. Coco Chanel raised her fine-lined eyebrows, cocked her head to one side. Then she shrugged.

“Very well,” she stated. “It's as you wish, anyhow.”

When she had left their side, her erect form mingling into groups of other elegant spectators, Alex turned to Lesley. She was still staring at a minute point on the floor. He said: “Chanel's very strange, isn't she?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because last week I saw your invoice for the purchase of seven items, besides the suits you spoke of. Yet she doesn't sound like the sort who forgets what anyone has ordered from her house.”

His eyes were on her, his tone questioning. Lesley turned to face him, saw the doubt. She felt filled with dread. It dragged her down and glued her in place. “Maybe she's just human,” she replied quietly, her green eyes meeting his. He held the stare in silence.

Just then Sara Murphy reached them, laughing. She spoke to Alex, and at once he turned to her, as if with relief. Lesley saw his jaw muscle, tight, outlined in his profile. The deadness was still there, and she could almost visualize herself enveloped in a cloud of distrust. She seemed to be carrying an odor of dishonesty that others could breathe in, that made them recoil.

No, she thought. Not all other people—just Alex. He is the only one who doesn't trust me.

Suddenly she didn't want to watch the end of Massine's performance and never wanted to work on another ballet production. The atmosphere around her seemed synthetic, unreal—unpleasant. Nauseated, Lesley thought: I'd rather never work again than to work for these people.

Charles de Beaumont was murmuring to Alex: “Really,
mon cher,
it was the first time a society woman accepted payment for her work. You should untie the purse strings, dear fellow. A woman needs her little luxuries, you know….”

Alex wheeled about, cutting off his host, and his face was ashen. Lesley noted that his pupils had gone down to tiny pinpoints. She smiled, like a mechanical doll, and took a tiny step backward. Her husband's eyes were slate gray, unforgiving. She offered limply: “Charles doesn't understand about the New Woman of the twenties. We don't want to be supported in our every whim.”

“Well, then,” Alex murmured, “if that's the case, I shall let you take care of Mademoiselle Chanel and her forgotten outfits.”

Lesley saw tiny red dots on her field of vision. She groped for something to hold onto, found an arm. She felt herself being lifted away, and all at once everything was going blank. Thankful, she let herself collapse into the darkness, blotting out Alex's eyes.

E
verything happened at once
. Jamie's pavilion was pronounced ready. She moved out. No sooner had she installed herself in Louveciennes than Lesley received word that she was in labor. It was morning, and Alexandre had already left for the office. Lesley packed a small bag and drove to the American Hospital in Neuilly, where she was made to wait, like a husband, for seven hours. Strong, stalwart Jamie was having a most difficult time. At the last moment a doctor came to tell Lesley that they were going to have to perform a cesarean section. “But they'll be all right? Jamie and the child?”

“We think so. Miss Stewart has lost a lot of blood. The breeched position of the child—and the fact that it's so large, that it was past due—”

Lesley felt her throat go dry, wished for a drink. Her hands were trembling. Never am I going to suffer this way, she thought. Nothing, no man is worth this agony….

Finally a nurse announced to her that everything was fine, that the baby girl was in good condition, that Jamie was exhausted but well. They've cut into her, Lesley thought. They've cut her open to extract the child—and now she's going to be scarred for life. Every lover she takes will know.

Jamie was lying on the white pillow, pale against it. Her great eyes lay closed. Lesley took her hand. At this moment she hated all men, but her mountain of detestation and revulsion centered itself on Paul, the cause for all this, and the one who should have been beside Jamie and wasn't. Did he even know? Certainly he must have known he was the father. The pregnancy had been a known fact. Why hadn't he had the decency to come forward—and at least offer his support? Why hadn't he wanted to recognize the child, give it a name?

“But my daughter
has
a name,” Jamie whispered. “I don't need Paul's. Her name is Cassandra Lesley Stewart: Cassandra, like the blind prophetess of ancient Troy, because that's what you all used to call me—and Lesley, for you. Cassie will be just fine.”

Lesley nodded, moved. “Will you be Cassie's godmother?” Jamie asked. Lesley nodded again. “And if something were ever to happen to me—you would bring her up? To be free?”

Lesley squeezed Jamie's hand. Then she quickly departed. Outside the nurse was arriving with the baby and stopped her. “Don't you want to see her?”

A small face was protruding from the pink blanket, begging to be examined. Against her will, in order to avoid the disapproval of the nurse, Lesley stopped, fingered the tiny cheek. So small. So grotesquely vulnerable. Jamie might have died for you, she wanted to say. Jamie has a row of ugly stitches because of you. Jamie won't be able to walk for weeks because of you. Are you worth all this?

The world is too corrupt to bring children into it, she rationalized. And then, quickly, she ran down the hallway out of the hospital.

A
lexandre waited
in the living room, his back aching from the tension. Around him were clustered the absurdities of a daily, feminine existence: colored velvet pillows, knickknacks, photographs. He didn't want to sit back and feel the voluptuous softness. It was incongruous with the circumstances. Now that he was here, he wished he hadn't come.

He heard the rustle of silk and turned his head. Elena was dressed in an Oriental lounging outfit of gold, green, and orange cotton, and two long gold leaves hung from her white earlobes. Her hair was loosely piled on top of her head, held in place by two gold combs. Gold bangles cinched both her wrists. He rose and formally took her hand. He brought it almost but not quite to his lips.

“Marcelle is bringing tea,” Elena stated. “Unless you'd rather have a brandy or a glass of whiskey.”

“Tea is fine, thank you. I won't be staying long.”

She sat down, kicking off her Greek sandals, and tucked her feet beneath her on the opposite end of the sofa. Her proximity came as a surprise to him. He could smell her, not only her heavy perfume, but also the female odor of her flesh; and he could almost feel her presence. He crossed his legs and leaned forward, away from her. “My brother isn't here?” he asked.

“He's gone to sell a painting. I can relay any message you have for him tonight.” Her tone was aloof, matching his. He thought: I hate her.

Aloud he replied: “I wanted to do it in person. But since I'm here, I'll tell you why I came. Jamie Stewart gave birth to her baby.”

He looked at her then levelly. She possessed the most extraordinary face he'd ever seen: Its planes were so pure, the eyes so deep, so dark, the nose so smooth and linear. It was a face that controlled its emotions. She blinked only once, and he thought that the edges of her cheekbones colored slightly. But she replied evenly: “Oh? You wish for me to tell this to Paul?”

“Of course,” Alex said. “It's his daughter.” He could feel the blood trying to burst out of his veins. He wanted to get up and shake her. He wanted to make her cry.

“It's Miss Stewart's daughter,” Elena commented. Her voice was calm, but he could detect an underside of defensiveness in its tone. “She wanted to have her. Paul never wished to have anything to do with this child.”

“Then he shouldn't have lived with Jamie,” Alex said roughly. He thought: I have never so taunted another person's feelings. Except that this woman has none, so no matter what I say, it won't touch her. “No man can ever disclaim such responsibility.”

“Nor can a woman. This is 1925,” Elena countered. She reached for a heavy silver lighter, flicked the light, watched the flame as if fascinated. Then she set it down on the coffee table again. At this point the maid entered with a tray of cakes and tea and set it down before her mistress. Elena busied herself with cups and saucers.” How do you wish your tea, Marquis?” she asked.

“With lemon, please, and one sugar.”

Her dexterous hands poured tea, added a slice of fresh lemon, dropped in a colored sugar cube. She held the cup and saucer out for Alex, who took it quickly and sipped from it before setting it down. Then he continued: “No method is foolproof. The only one is abstinence.”

Elena laughed. “Perhaps you are one remarkable man,” she commented. “And that might explain why you don't yet have children. Most human beings aren't so ascetic.”

Now it was she whose eyes were on him, and he felt the blow. He sipped his tea, absolutely numb.

Lightly she said: “You hate me, don't you? I'm everything you most abhor in a woman. Are you afraid of me?”

He glanced at the overwhelming beauty of her and recoiled. It was too much. “I'm not the least afraid, Princess,” he answered. “Evil doesn't scare me. I've simply learned to leave it alone.”

Again she emitted the short, ironic laughter that was like a shield against any attack. “You're a most compelling man,” she commented. “No wonder you were once a deputy. You speak in such strong, unequivocal terms. ‘Evil.' Which one of us is so pure of soul that he can judge another human being? You hardly even know me.”

“You're responsible for the pain of a very nice woman,” he answered, his anger rising. His voice rose slightly. He controlled it, drank some tea, reached for a small éclair.

“It was Paul's choice. No one can say who is at fault within a relationship, because only the two parties involved have lived inside its parameters. Paul is happy with me. He wasn't fully happy with Jamie Stewart, or he'd have married her, wouldn't he?”

“Is he going to marry
you
?”

Elena's eyes hardened. “That's up to him, isn't it? Not up to you?”