Parisian Promises (15 page)

At the completion of Madame's expert fellatio performance, once described by her compatriots as her
pièce de Résistance
, she felt disoriented and lost in the darkened salon. She could barely see the end of her chair, much less where Jean-Michel now stood. For once, she was speechless.

With stealth moves, Jean-Michel had moved behind her. He stood massaging her shoulders and speaking to her in hushed, intimate tones. Carefully he adjusted her chignon, giving her enough time to compose herself, but not too much time to ask him to leave. He skillfully brought their conversation to a more mundane level, so Madame could temporarily convince herself that what had just taken place was simply a figment of her imagination. In her mind, she had divulged the final tactics of the German officers to a dashing
Résistance
fighter named Jean-Michel.

He walked around her salon and found the light switch. Without turning around to see Madame's disheveled appearance, he asked, “When will your American boarders return?”

The clinking of glass told him Madame was at the bar pouring herself another Armagnac. “I don't really have boarders, you know––they're my guests. One American student has already returned back to the States. Another one, the only true academic among them, has shacked up with her professor, I'm afraid to say. And my other two American girls are in the Loire with their art class.” Madame glanced at Jean-Michel, and saw him tense up. “Surely you're not thinking of leaving right now? I haven't told you of my entire heroic life. Did I mention that I––”

Jean-Michel refused to turn around and look at Madame's pleading eyes.

“It sounds so lovely to take a tour of the Loire,” he said, his tone casual. “When were you last there?”

“Why it was a couple years ago for the funeral of my dear friend's husband. She's the Vicomtesse Challant de la Guerche, and her
château
is Les Charmilles. Do you know it?”

“I've heard of it, of course. I have a school friend, Didier, whose family also owns a
château
in the Loire. Would you like to accompany me there one day soon? I would love to meet your dear friend.”

Madame panicked at the thought of leaving her apartment and her two-block world of Paris. She wasn't agoraphobic: she simply could not bear to be away from her tiny Parisian universe where everyone knew who she once had been, and still admired her for her titillating war stories. People here still treated her as if she mattered––even though the residents and merchants had seen her wear the same three Chanel suits and resoled shoes for decades. The more she thought about the prospects of going to the Loire with this impressive young man, the more she huddled in her chair, her long legs tucked underneath her. She'd become the hermit crab of the rue de Condé, and although she could be full of bluster, at the end of the day, all Madame craved was to retract into the secure shell of her now-shabby grand apartment.

Jean-Michel walked over and sat down opposite Madame. The old lady made herself as small as possible in her chair. She had let the last of her animal instinct out of its cage, and now she sat confused and silent, drinking her Armagnac. In her foggy mind, she was certain that the events that had just transpired with Jean-Michel were imaginary, a byproduct of vividly recalling her youth for this brilliant young author.

“Well, Marcelle, shall we go visit the Vicomtesse?”

“No, my darling Jean-Michel, I have to entertain one of my guests. Lola,
ma belle rousse
, should be returning in a couple of days.” What Madame didn't say was that the thought of spending time with her former nemesis would not be in any way relaxing. She had a long and complicated history with the Vicomtesse's late husband, and she also had many dealings with Serge, once a ferocious
Résistance
fighter and now the Vicomtesse's valet. Les Charmilles would bring back too many deep wounds to the surface, and she preferred to soothe them with Armagnac in the safety of her beloved apartment.

“What about the other American,” Jean-Michel asked. “What did you say her name was?”

“Ah, my little
équestrienne!
Her name is Monica. When Lola rang me, she said that Monica would be staying on at Les Charmilles. It seems that she has fallen head over heels for the young lord of the manor. How sweet! Doesn't that sound like a storybook romance?”

 

O
h, my gosh, this
château
looks exactly like the
Sleeping Beauty
castle!” Monica jumped up and down with excitement, and pulled Christophe into an enthusiastic hug.

“
Mais, oui
,” he replied with Gallic pride. “Charles Perrault, who wrote
La Belle au bois dormant
in 1697, based the castle in his fairy tale on this very
château
.”

He pointed up at the numerous gray turrets of the Château d'Ussé, located just a few kilometers from Les Charmilles. They'd ridden bicycles from his estate to escape his mother's ongoing wrath about everything and everyone. Christophe understood that the root of his mother's discontent was his late father's all-encompassing treachery, and that if he let her cool down, she would grow to appreciate Monica's genuine charm. He had big plans that included both the women getting along.

“So did Sleeping Beauty really live here?” Monica asked. “Was that room way up high the one where she slept for one hundred years?”

“I suppose. But it is a fairy tale,
non?

“I love fairy tales,” said Monica, not picking up on his subtle admonishment. “When Prince Charming kissed Sleeping Beauty, she woke up from her sleep, and they lived happily ever after.” As she spoke the words aloud, Monica blushed at her own gullibility, suddenly aware that she was acting like a babe in the woods. “Never mind. I sound like a fool! Tell me about the architecture or the … the formal gardens, please.”

Christophe lifted her chin, and kissed her nose. “But why are you embarrassed to be an optimist and a romantic? You are pure and warm-hearted, and that's why I have fallen deeply in love with you.”

Monica blushed again, astounded by his declaration of love, and instinctively leaned into his warm embrace. She nuzzled up to him in the same manner that Rocky showed his love for her, exhaling a deep, soulful sigh. Around Christophe she could reveal her true nature. In turn, he found himself totally captivated by her authenticity. Even though they'd known each other just a short time, Christophe knew that Monica brought out the best in him.

“We've been struck by Cupid's arrows,” he whispered in her ear, “so we will create our own fairy tale.”

“I'd rather you crossed the forest and cut through the thick brambles and thorns, like Prince Charming, to rescue me,” Monica teased Christophe. She closed her eyes in fake sleep, and he kissed her enthusiastically.

She'd arrived by surprise at Les Charmilles, but the instant he saw her painting the lake in his property, Christophe knew that she belonged in his
château
, and that she should be a part of its landscape––forever. His legal training and his logical mind meant he couldn't admit to believing in fate, but––enveloped by the aura of the fairy tale castle and the surrounding dense forest––he was convinced that there was a “happily ever after” for him with Monica. They embraced, murmuring words of love and commitment that filled each other's hearts with hope.

“I could stay here with you in my arms forever, but I want to show you some of the Aubusson tapestries,” he told her, guiding her through the doors into the main floor of Château d'Ussé. All along the galleries, with their black-and-white tiled floors, hung tapestries of eighteenth-century Flemish rural scenes. Christophe pointed to a spaniel dog in a woven tavern scene.

“Next spring I plan to breed our Welsh Springer Spaniel, and I will keep the sweetest pup as a gift for you.”

“But I won't be able to take her back to California!” Monica pouted with disappointment.

He picked her up and swung her round and round, the length of the long gallery. “Then you will have to stay at Les Charmilles.”

“Until I housebreak her?”

“No, silly, until you housebreak her great-great-great offspring.”

They both laughed giddily at the thought of housebreaking dozens and dozens of peeing spaniels, and continued their leisurely walk through the storybook property.

Serge's ears perked up at the sound of tires rolling on the winding gravel driveway of Les Charmilles. He and the Vicomtesse did not like unannounced visitors; even long-time friends did not just drop by. Madame la Vicomtesse maintained a certain formality that kept everyone at bay––and she cherished this intimidating tactic.

By nature Serge was an easygoing fellow, but when an intruder came onto Les Charmilles he reacted like a seasoned
Résistance
fighter, one who knew better than to trust
anyone
. The one and only time Serge had let his guard down and opened up his heart, Victoire had taken advantage of this weakness and broken him––completely. Old Serge now waited until the end of each day to commiserate at the village café. Instead of climbing into bed with Victoire, the only thing he could look forward to were the understanding nods from his fellow villagers as they shared stiff drinks. Serge left no room for strangers to trample his heart, not even the sweet American woman who'd obviously set Christophe's heart on fire. Serge loved Christophe like a grandson, and his instincts told him to keep an eye on his budding romance with Monica. He didn't like being a skeptic, but Monica's wide-eyed unworldliness unsettled him.

Serge had worked for Madame la Vicomtesse for decades, and some of her haughtiness had rubbed off on him. He'd always pictured Christophe falling in love with a proper French woman of his social circle, not this dainty cowgirl from some insignificant ranch in California. Serge could not put his finger on Monica's fatal flaw, but he resolved to ingratiate himself with her. By playing the country hick, he could be Christophe's eyes and ears––old and defective as his own faculties might be. He wouldn't let Monica pull the wool over his eyes. He would do anything to stop any Victoire-like, two-timing ways from destroying Christophe. He could feel female treachery in his bones the way he felt an incoming storm.

Serge picked up his long and sharp garden shears and headed towards the front of the estate, ready to intimidate the intruder, but a voice from behind him alarmed him.

“I am so sorry to startle you, my good man. I called out to you from a few meters away,” said a young man. It was Jean-Michel, pointing back towards the pool house.

Serge puffed his chest and stood as erect as possible, brandishing his shears. “What are you doing here unauthorized?” he demanded.

“I do apologize, but I did not see a guard house. My classmate, Didier Tremblay de Lambert, drove me here and is waiting in the car. Shall I call him to make the proper introductions?”

“It is not necessary to bother the young Marquis Tremblay de Lambert. I, I apologi––”

“Nonsense, my good man.” Jean-Michel extended a firm handshake. “You are obviously a vigilant property manager. I'm Jean-Michel Martin de Betancourt.”

“I'm just Serge, the groundskeeper and valet. Been here since the war ended,” mumbled Serge, clearly intimidated by the mention of the well-known young marquis and equally impressed with Jean-Michel's elegant manner.

He was simply Serge Guinvar; there had never been a “
de
” preceding his last name and no familial estate in his rural pedigree, either. Serge knew his place in the world, and although he had never seen the elegant young man standing in front of him, he knew from his quick assessment of the man's expensive cashmere sweater, antique gold watch, custom-made shoes, and impeccable French that he belonged to Christophe's set.

“How fascinating and how admirable! Where were you deployed in the war?”

“I never talk about it anymore, sir. It is better forgotten.”

“Nonsense, you are much too modest, but I admire a man who doesn't puff his own chest. And I'm sure that you were a fearless fighter, even during the Occupation,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“That was long ago––”

“Precisely why I'm here. My dear friend Madame Caron de Pichet recommended that I stop by to interview you for a book I am writing about the dauntless French
Résistance
.”

“Ah, so that is why you've stopped by. How is Marce…that is, Madame Caron de Pichet?”

“Frisky and talented as ever…I suppose you know what I mean? Did you know her quite well?”

Serge blushed the color of the red roses spiraling up the arbor. He looked down; he did not want the glimmer in his eye to give him away.

“Please give her my regards,” he mumbled.

Perhaps, Jean-Michel thought, old Serge had also been a beneficiary of Madame's flawless fellatio. He allowed the erotic memory to wind its way through the craggy memory paths in Serge's ancient brain, then asked, “May we sit down and have a chat?”

Serge had never been the subject of any special attention, so he was at a loss. “Er, perhaps you can ask me a few questions now. But…I regret that I am forbidden from inviting you into the residence. Ever since the passing of the late Vicomte, we are a closed estate. I was reprimanded a couple of days ago for allowing two young American art students into the salon. They were here for a couple of nights––I mean to say, one is still here, but Madame la Vicomtesse is distraught since she is missing one of her Hermès scarves and an ivory letter opener…I've spoken out of turn. Forgive me.”

“Not at all, my good man. Not at all. Shall we have a drink?” Jean-Michel pulled out a silver hip flask from his back pocket. “Perhaps a shot of Cognac to fire up the memory?”

“But isn't the young marquis still waiting for you in the car?”

“Oh! Didier left a couple of minutes ago. No need to worry about my transportation, my good man.”

“In that case, sir, please sit down by the arbor bench.” Old Serge was beaming. “I'll go get us some glasses.”

Jean-Michel was disappointed with himself. He should never have told Serge that he wanted to interview him for the purported book on the
Résistance.
Soon the old man would return with drinking glasses and commence a long, meandering walk down memory lane, and Jean-Michel had no intention whatsoever of strolling down that lane with him. His initial plan had been to show Serge his sketch of Monica's face, pretend to be her art professor, and ask if she was still at Les Charmilles. But he'd been thrown off-guard by the old man's aggressive posture with the garden shears, and that meant he now had to follow through with this war-memoir interview and lose minutes, if not hours––precious time he needed to head back to Paris and carry through with his next assignment.

Jean-Michel felt his charisma waning like the sun now setting beyond the turrets of Les Charmilles, and he envied the courageous action of other rival militant groups whose attacks were taking place across Europe, from Ireland to Greece. The bile of envy rose into his throat and he suppressed it with a swig of Cognac. Recently a lone anarchist, Gianfranco Bertoli, had attacked the police headquarters in Milan with a hand grenade. It was this type of lone-wolf surprise attack that Jean-Michel wanted to emulate––except in his case he would be the invisible leader of the pack and command his lone wolves to do his bidding.

Thus far, Jean-Michel's solitary accomplishment had been the loss of valuable Bordeaux in the wine cellar where Bertrand's long leg had left a giant size-thirteen clue for investigators. He didn't dare to publicly claim his role in the squad's fiasco. In fact, he had to drop his previous idea of claiming that his planned devious deeds were executed by
Le Poing
–– The Fist––since the press had already dubbed their ham-handed attack as the
Premier Abruti
(“First Moron”), as a play on the words
Premier Cru
, the finest quality of Bordeaux wines that had been destroyed.

After their bungled attack, Jean-Michel's elite-school squad had scampered like cellar rats to hide who knows where. But what truly rubbed salt in Jean-Michel's emotional wounds was that his assault on Monica's self-esteem had not broken her down sufficiently––his “California Girl” mind-control method appeared to have failed miserably. If Madame Caron de Pichet's giddy gossip was accurate, Monica had already betrayed him with the scion of this grand estate. He'd been outfoxed by a titled French lover, and he would never tolerate such a humiliation. He would outmaneuver his competition and hurt him very deeply, retaliating with the cunning strategy of a true revolutionary.