Tender the Storm (35 page)

Francoise jabbed Zoë with her elbow. "Will you look at that!" she exclaimed. "She's flanked on one side by her husband and on the other by her lover. I just don't understand it."

"What don't you understand?" asked Zoë.

"Germaine!
She never wants for lovers. And she's not exactly beautiful, not a patch on Juliette Recamier, for example. If it weren't for those fine eyes and that enormous bosom, Madame de Stael would be as plain as porridge. I suppose Charles has the right of it."

"What does Charles have to say on the subject?"

"Charles says that Germaine is lusty and that gentleman can sniff out a lusty wench a mile off."

"Francoise!" Zoë was truly shocked at the tone of her friend's conversation. "Germaine possesses a prodigious intelligence. She's a clever woman. What could be more natural than for like to be attracted to like? Benjamin Constant isn't her lover, if you want my opinion. They're simply friends."

There was a moment of silence before Francoise replied, "If that's all you know, you're more innocent than I thought you were. Have you heard the latest?"

"I don't think I want to."

Francoise pressed her lips together. Zoë affected an interest in the appointments of the room. The silence lengthened. It was Zoë who gave in.

"All right, what's the latest?"

"Oh, so you are human!"

"Francoise," warned Zoë.

Francoise's voice dropped to a little more than a whisper. "Benjamin Constant isn't the only arrow in

Germaine's quiver," she said. She paused to see the effect of her words. Not a flicker of understanding registered in Zoë's face. Sighing, Francoise went on, "She has another lover who resides right here at the embassy. The word is that she brought him back from Switzerland with her. He's passing himself off as a diplomat. He's around somewhere. And the oddest thing, Zoë
— "

Francoise stopped in mid-sentence as Madame de Stael's strident accents cut across all conversation, indicating that she was ready to begin. With varying degrees of eagerness, her guests idled their way to their places.

The small, restless sounds of the audience stilled as Madame de Stael made her opening remarks. It seemed that they were to be treated that evening to passages from two of her works,
Apologie
de Rousseau,
and her dramatic essay in defense of suicide,
The Influence of the Passions on Happiness.
There was a small burst of applause before her guests stoically set their features in various poses of intelligence.

As Madame de Stael's impassioned, singsong rendition progressed, Zoë's thoughts wandered. Her eyes brushed those of Madame Recamier. The two ladies gave each other
a
silent salute. At Madame Recamier's salon, there were concerts, and occasionally, as the
piece de resistance,
madame
would perform her famous shawl dance. Everyone went into ecstasies over it. So did Zoë. She really was a fortunate girl, she told herself, to move in such talented, exalted circles. Her friends and acquaintances included poets, actors, writers, not to mention the most influential men in French politics, and the most sought after women in Parisian society. Even she, Zoë Devereux, was credited as one of the brightest stars in her galaxy. And she would not have been human if she had not wished, fleetingly, that Rolfe could see her now and recognize how much he had carelessly forfeited.

Her gaze absently traversed the rows of
specta
- '
tors
, stopped, then suddenly retraced its path with the shock of recognition.

At her ear, Francoise intoned from behind her fan, "That's the gentleman I was telling you about, you know, Germaine's latest lover. Doesn't he remind you of you-know-who?"

The resemblance was uncanny. Zoë gave herself a mental shake. No. This gentleman could not possibly be her husband. This gentleman had brown hair tied in back in a queue. This gentleman looked older, much older. He was slumped in his chair. Rolfe was known to lounge. She had never seen him slump. On closer inspection, she noted the walking cane at the gentleman's knee. At that precise moment, he turned his head and caught her stare. Indifferent eyes brushed over her, and looked away. No. This gentleman could not possibly be her husband. Her breathing steadied. The small leap of her pulse regulated itself.

"What do you think?" asked Francoise in a stage whisper. "I only ever saw your husband a time or two, but the resemblance is remarkable."

"Remarkable," agreed Zoë. "But . . ."

Madame de Stael, perceiving that her audience was not quite with her, abruptly came to a halt. Her eagle eye pinned Zoë unerringly. All heads turned to stare. Zoë feigned absorption in Madame's regal figure, and, to her great relief, the recitation continued.

The most difficult part of the evening was yet to
come. At Germaine de Stael's salon, one made one's mark by the tone and cleverness of one's conversation in that interval after the formal program was concluded and before supper was announced. Intelligence, erudition, and argument for the sake of argument were de rigueur. A stupid or ignorant person, however elegant, was never invited to return.

Madame de Stael brought her recitation to a dramatic close. The applause was thunderous. Zoë girded herself for the coming ordeal.

She began by addressing the gentleman on her right, and recognized him as Monsieur
Bonawhat
- ever-it-was.

"Germaine is the cleverest woman of my acquaintance," observed Zoë with all the erudition of which she was capable.

In answer, the young man covered a huge yawn behind his hand. He gave
every evidence
of awakening from a deep sleep.

Zoë tried again, but this time she went on the offensive. "I should like to know Monsieur Bona . . . ?*

"Bonaparte," supplied the young man helpfully.

"I should like to know, Monsieur Bonaparte, whom you consider to be the cleverest woman of your acquaintance?"

He gave Zoë a very direct look and said baldly, "The one who has borne the most children."

Mentally, Zoë gasped. Her eyebrows lifted. The clod was serious. She searched her mind for a crushing set-down.

Before she could think of one, he stated argumentatively, "There isn't a man here who wouldn't be happier if all you women would stick to your knit
ting."

This time Zoë did gasp. "What an antiquated notion!" she burst out. "Let me tell you Monsieur
Bonapadre
— "

"Bonaparte!" corrected the young man testily. "No, Mademoiselle Devereux, let me tell you . . ." and he launched into a scathing diatribe on every liberty that French women had won for themselves with the advent of the Revolution.

The bile rose in Zoë's throat. Her eye fell upon Josephine de Beauharnais, who was not known for the quality of her knitting, and her lip curled. She hoped, then, quite uncharitably, that the worldly widow would lead young
Bonawhatever
-it-was on the dance of his life.

Monsieur Bonaparte's eye had also fallen on the alluring Josephine. With a great deal of alacrity, and a demonstrable want of courtesy, he decamped for greener pastures.

" '
Pon
my word!" exclaimed Zoë, turning to Francoise. "We women can thank our lucky stars that Monsieur Bona . . ." — she had to think before she got it right — "Monsieur
Bonaparler
has no influence in France's affairs.
Boor!"

"What, dear?"

But Zoë's attention had wandered as her eyes chanced upon the gentleman who so forcibly reminded her of her husband. He was standing in the center of a group of very pretty ladies, holding forth on some topic which had them all convulsed in laughter.

"Old goat," said Zoë under her breath, and could not understand why the sight of him annoyed her.

For the next hour, she had her hands full as hordes of young men descended upon her and vied
with each other for her favors. She was more than a little partial to the
muscadins,
the young fops,
members
of the
jeunesse doree,
who swaggered about as if they were at the court of Versailles. For the most part, they were little more than adolescents. They put her in mind of her own brother. And if the thought saddened her, few would have known it, for she smiled a little brighter, laughed a little harder. Even so, her unwary glance was continually drawn to her husband's look-alike. He was limping rather badly, Zoë noted, and from time to time, pain tightened his features. Madame de Stael was all solicitation, one arm supporting him like a crutch. The gentleman, nothing loathe, frequently leaned into the warm curve of her ample bosom as if to pillow his weight. The
spectacle,
thought Zoë, frowning, was quite amusing.

For some reason she did not examine too closely, she chose to avoid Madame de Stael and the gentleman who, to all appearances, was the guest of honor. As they approached the group to which Zoë had attached herself, she promptly detached herself and moved on.

Over the rim of his wine glass, Paul Varlet's eyes followed Zoë's path through the crush of people. "Someone has warned her off me," he observed conversationally.

At his side, Tresier straightened. He set his glass on a table. Forcing a smile, he quizzed, "I thought perhaps you had quarreled."

"No," murmured Varlet, "there was no quarrel.
Which leads me to wonder why Zoë is keeping her distance.
There is a reserve in her manner, a some
thing I cannot quite name. Oh, she is civil to me. Don't mistake me. But she is wary."

"Perhaps some of the ladies have put her wise to your reputation."

"Perhaps."
Varlet brushed the rim of his glass against his full lower lip, then tipped it up and imbibed slowly. There was
a certain
sensuality in the gesture. When he turned his gaze on his companion, he smiled easily. "But in my experience," he drawled, "an offer of marriage covers a multitude of transgressions."

"Marriage!"
Tresier's jaw went slack. "You are thinking of offering for the girl?"

"Certainly.
Don't you think it's time and enough that I was wed?"