Tempting Fate (62 page)

You are doubtless aware that my brother lives here, in the gamekeeper’s cottage, and for that reason I would recommend that you not pass that way when you come. It is presumptuous of me to say this, but matters might be somewhat easier to arrange if you would come on foot, so that Maximillian will have nothing to complain of.

I will risk your ire and say that I have missed you, Saint-Germain, and sign this with anticipation,

Rudi

6

For once Tames arrived at the hotel ahead of Madelaine. The concierge had recognized him and showed him a calculated deference which James knew had more to do with Madelaine than himself. He tipped the man the proper amount and carried his own bags up to the room.

It was a large chamber at the southwest corner of the third floor, and one he and Madelaine had shared before. The walls were a sea-green, the upholstery and carpets predominantly champagne, with touches of Chinese red here and there. As the day was quite warm, the windows were open and the curtains billowed in the breeze off the lake. James set his bag down and took off his jacket. Two years before, he would also have loosened his tie, but he had observed that European men did not often do this, and in the last few months he had picked up the habit; instead, he began to roll up his sleeves.

He opened the closet door and found two fine, well-used leather bags—Madelaine’s—which surprised him. Usually she was waiting for him when he arrived, either in the lobby or in this room. A coldness rippled over him that had nothing to do with the balmy weather. Madelaine was here, in Lausanne, but she had not waited for him, had not met him. His first assumption was that something had gone wrong, that she had been asked to return to Paris, or Athens, or Cairo, wherever it was she had been. His second one was more mundane: she had gone shopping or for a walk. She had never done it before, but he had never arrived so early in the afternoon. Perhaps she always spent an hour in the shops or with friends. She had not mentioned she knew anyone in Lausanne, but he had never asked her if she did.

There was a small balcony outside the tall French windows, and often they sat there of an evening, looking off toward Lac Leman. It was a perfect name for it, he thought, at least in English, for a leman was a lover. Now he stepped out onto it, the heat of the afternoon hard on his arms. He looked up and down the street, hoping to see her coming toward the hotel, but although there was a fair number of people about, not one of them was Madelaine. After ten fruitless minutes, James went back into the room and tugged at the bell pull impatiently.

Thinking belatedly that she might have left him a note, James went to the dresser, which was untouched, and then to the walnut desk in the corner. As he approached, he saw a scrap of paper on it, and realized it was a visiting card. So she did have friends in Lausanne, at least on a visit.

Just then there was a knock at the door and James turned toward it. He crossed the room quickly and opened the door to the bellboy who stood respectfully outside.

“Is there anything wrong, sir?” the bellboy asked with that careful combination of deference and superiority James had learned to admire.

“What time did Professor de Montalia arrive, do you know?” he demanded rudely.

“I was not required to bring her bags up to the room, but as I recall, she arrived shortly after ten this morning.” The propriety of this reply made his boorishness all the more unacceptable.

“Do you know where she is now?” James was able to be more polite in tone, but he wanted to shake the man for the information.

“Madame left at noon,” the bellboy informed him stiffly.

“Was she alone?” He felt like a fool asking these questions, but he could not stop now that he had begun.

“I believe a gentleman called for her,” the bellboy said, stressing “gentleman.”

“I see. Thank you.” He remembered to tip the man before closing the door firmly. Then he stood by himself in the center of the room. It was ridiculous, he told himself, to be jealous. Her visitor, whoever he was, should not concern him. Madelaine knew other men. She had colleagues over most of Europe. There was nothing suspicious in her caller. It might be a treat for her, or professionally advantageous to see this man, this gentleman. It could be that he was a friend of hers or her family. Certainly it made more sense for her to attend to these courtesies now than to do so once she was with him. He gave her precious little time for anything but himself. There was no reason for her to sit around the hotel waiting for him, when she had the chance to meet with friends and associates. For all he knew, she did this every time they came to Lausanne. The explanations tumbled through his mind, each one possible, each one rational, and they only made him more distraught. On impulse he strode to the desk and picked up the calling card.

It was the old-fashioned kind, fairly large, with an heraldic device embossed in one corner. He studied it, not recognizing it. There was a black disk in the lower center part of the shield, with curved wings spread above it. Above it, in the center of the card, was a signature: the card had been signed, not printed. He turned the card toward the window in order to read that small, slightly archaic hand.

Saint-Germain

“Saint-Germain. Saint-Germain,” James repeated, tapping the card against the base of his thumb. Saint-Germain. Saint-Germain des Prés. Faubourg Saint-Germain. Those early days in Paris, with the Great War clamoring and battering at all of Europe. That was where he knew the name. That was what made it familiar, he insisted to himself. And all the while, he was trying to recall when Madelaine might have mentioned that name, and what she had said. He consoled himself as best he could with the thought that he could not know everyone she did. Saint-Germain sounded noble. The gentleman might be living in exile. Or he might be Swiss, the French-speaking variety. What was he afraid of? He could give no easy answer to that terrible question, but it haunted him as he crossed the room once, twice, the card still in his hand.

An hour later, his mood had fluctuated violently twice and he was considering leaving, with a note for Madelaine that would let her know that he was not to be trifled with. It was more than he could bring himself to do. He could not cut himself off from her. In frustration, he paced the room for what seemed the hundredth time, and then stepped out onto the balcony again.

There was a bit of a breeze now, and the first long shadows were sliding across the lake, fingering their way along the streets of Lausanne. Below on the street, a group of school children in severe uniforms chatted together, turning as one as an elegant silver-blue Isotta-Fraschini pulled up in front of the hotel.

James leaned forward on the balcony, staring down at the automobile, his breathing almost stilled.

The driver brought the automobile to a halt and stepped out of the door. He was dressed in a fine black suit. From what little James could see, situated as he was almost directly above them, the man was not old, or at least his dark, loosely-curling and beautifully-groomed hair showed only auburn highlights and not a trace of gray. He walked around the Isotta-Fraschini, to hold the door for his passenger, whom James recognized at once as Madelaine. As she got out of the automobile, the driver bent and kissed her hand. James would have cheerfully throttled him. Madelaine detained him a minute or so, her hand still resting in his. James knew from the way she stood, from the movement of her head as she spoke, that what passed between them was serious. The man nodded once, then relinquished her hand with a reluctance that made James grind his teeth. As Madelaine, waited, the man got into his Isotta-Fraschini and drove away. Only then did Madelaine start up the four low steps to the hotel’s entrance.

In the five minutes it took Madelaine to reach their room, James felt the Reine Marie become a prison, a torture chamber. Everything he had feared was true, and to a greater extent than he had imagined. Madelaine had another lover, a man who wore fine clothes and drove one of the most luxurious automobiles made. What defense did he have against such a rival? His youth was the only thing that might be in his favor, and that was quickly becoming a thing of the past.

The door opened and Madelaine stepped into the room. She was wearing a low-belted afternoon ensemble of cotton twill that exactly matched her violet eyes, and carried a light fox wrap over her arm. As she saw him, she opened her arms to him, smiling with delight. “James! You’re here already.”

At any other time, he would have rushed to embrace her, but this time he held back. “I’ve been here a couple hours,” he said evasively. “I thought the concierge would tell you that.”

She gave a puzzled frown, but did not chide him. She tossed her wrap and handbag onto the bed. “He didn’t mention it. There was a party of Spaniards taking his attention.”

James had seen the Spaniards arrive earlier and was almost prepared to believe her. “I thought you’d be waiting,” he said lamely.

“Is that what has you in the sulks?” she inquired with a smile. “I was afraid that you had a hangover or some other similar affliction.”

“Thanks for your high opinion,” he snapped, wishing he could stop himself from saying these hurtful things.

“But I assumed that it was almost required of American writers living in Europe. It has to do with your absurd Prohibition.” She seated herself on the edge of the bed and turned to look at him. “If it is not a hangover or influenza, something is bothering you. What is it?”

He was about to deny this, but before he could stop himself, he said, “I saw you drive up just now.”

“Oh? Were you on the balcony?” If she resented his watching for her, there was no hint of it in her voice or her demeanor.

“I was watching the lake,” he lied. “An auto like that one attracts a lot of attention.”

“So it seems,” she said, regarding him speculatively. “Are you angry because you think people stared at me in that automobile?”

“I’m not angry!” he shouted.

She checked whatever rejoinder she was about to give, sitting very still while James began once more to pace the room. “Something has put you out of humor. You have never behaved this way before.”

“That man kissed your hand!” James declared, knowing that had little to do with his feelings. His suspicions had been building from the moment he had found her bags in the room.

“Of course he did. He’s very courteous.” She was determined to calm him.

“And you went to him before you thought I had arrived. You wanted to be alone with him, didn’t you?” He was saying all the wrong things, and was horrified that he could be so irrational.

“Yes, I did want to be alone with him,” Madelaine admitted evenly. “I needed his advice.” She sat quite still on the bed, making no extraneous moves that would indicate nervousness or guilt.

“You talked to
him?
About what?” He stood still, leaning a bit forward, his cheeks showing higher color than usual.

“About you.”

Slowly James approached her, not certain what he intended to do. In a strained voice he asked her, “What did you say to him?”

Madelaine’s violet eyes met his cognac-colored ones. “I told him everything about you.”

“And about us, I suppose?” He wanted to shake her, to kiss her.

“Yes, that as well.” She reached out to touch his hand, then drew back.

He stared down at her in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I had to,” she said simply, and for the first time sounded less confident and calm.

“Had to? Why? What business is it of his?” The worst of his fury was over, and in its wake he felt a hollowness.

“I had to speak to someone I could trust.” This time when she reached for his hand she felt his fingers close around hers. The grip was rough, but she did not draw back from it.

“And you couldn’t trust me?” There was more pain in his face now, and a hopelessness.

“That was what I had to determine,” she answered quietly.

“So you went to that man.” He was trying to make sense out of what he was hearing. “Who is he?”

“A friend. A very old friend.” Something in her voice warned him, and he tried to pull away from her. “James.”

“An old friend, is it? I saw the way he kissed your hand. That was no old friend!” His eyes felt hot, as if he had a fever, and he pressed his free hand to them.

“All right,” she said wearily, “say what you must.”

James would have given anything to have kept silent, but he had gone too far to stop now. “I saw the way he touched you! God damn it!” He struck his open palm with his closed fist. “Am I boring you?”

“No. That was why I had to speak with him.” She had the look of a woman about to weep, although her eyes were dry.

“About us!” Outrage made him quiver, and his voice was not quite steady.

“Yes. I’ve told you that.” She laced her fingers together over her knees and stared down into her lap.

He saw her misery in the slump of her shoulders, the aversion of her face, but his own wretchedness arrested any sympathy he felt. He put his hands on his hips and stood back from her, not trusting himself to remain so near. “Am I supposed to be grateful?”

“You ought to be,” she whispered. “I’ve never spoken to him about anyone before.”

“Anyone before?” he mocked as the hurt went through him. “The rest of the parade has gone by on its merry way?”

Her eyes were defiant as she looked at him. “Yes! Oh, bon Dieu, why are you doing this to me, James? You have never been this way with me before.”

“Well, how would you feel? If you were in my place. I arrived here, set for being with you for six days, and then I find out that you have someone else on your schedule as well.” His words grew unsteady toward the end, and he looked away from her.

“There was a time when I would have felt as you do; when I was very young.” Her admission startled him, and he swung back to stare at her. “It is the truth, mon cher.” She covered her face with her hands.

“So you’re going to cry for me, are you?” The challenge was sharp, sarcastic, and anguished.