The Diamond Waterfall (13 page)

But Lionel had taken her side, insisting, “Why not? This is Paris—not Flaxthorpe.”

The conversation was partly in French, isolating Robert and, some of the time, Lily. She found that though she could not speak up herself, she understood snatches. An effort was made to speak English most of the time. But what English! The other friends were all Parisian except for a young couple, Romanians living in Paris, distant relations of Teodor.

They discovered Lily was on the stage—had just left it. That she was a “name” in London. Sophie clapped her hands to show delight, to applaud. “And that we shouldn't know! Just now this evening the manager here he has told us. And that you are only two weeks espoused.”

Robert was pleased. It was as if, Lily thought, someone had praised, wondered at, a costly purchase. (A bargain perhaps?)

“You have seen Réjane here? Gabrielle Réjane, you know her?
La Belle Hélène, FrouFrou
… you meet her?”

Lily had not. She knew only of her fame. Later when Sophie remarked to
no one in particular, “Imagine, it is already five years since we was sitting here in Paris,” Lily said:

“And I—it is my very first visit …”

“Comme vous avez de la chance, tout voir pour la première fois,”
someone said.

“Like Eiffel Tour,” said Teodor, and roared with laughter.

Sophie looked hurt. “But no—it is great monument. Truly.” She turned to Lily, then back to the company. “And you know it is a Romanian who has a
médaille d'or
because he climb it? Yes, alone
by himself
he do it. Such courage.” She said very seriously, “He was engraver of wood, very precise, he can write on one postcard three hundred thousand words—”

“My dear,” said Lionel, stifling a yawn, “who would
want
to write three hundred thousand words on a postcard? As to
reading
them …”

They went out to drink champagne as promised. Lily was enjoying herself, although she thought, I am easily pleased. Anything was better than being in the hotel bedroom. Robert, too, did not seem to be unhappy. When Sophie praised a necklet of rubies that she was wearing, it appeared to give him great pleasure. Then Sophie had added, “It is
she
makes it beautiful, no?” begging Teodor to agree at once.

They did not mention children, and Lily did not ask. They spoke easily, happily, of their life at home. They had a house in the capital, Bucharest, and another in Sinaia, in the Carpathian Mountains, where they spent their summers. Teodor spoke of shooting (“quite the favorite of his,” Sophie explained). There were scurries to translate. Dumb shows, laughter. Bears, it appeared, were hunted. Lynx, chamois, wild boar. Robert was led to speak of, to compare, his shoot in Yorkshire.

Also in Sinaia each summer were the royal family. Their castle, built by the present king twenty years ago, was a mixture of styles, German Gothic predominating. Peleş castle, pronounced “Pelesh”—Lionel remarked that The Towers (which he described rather cruelly, Lily thought) was like “Pelesh,” a mishmash. He, all of them, delighted in the sounds the words made.

Sophie spoke now of the royals: “… Carol, our King, he works you know always standing up. It is the army has made that. And she, the Queen, she write—oh, so romantic. And now there is young English crown princess, this Marie of Edimbourg, as you will know. For her it is not being easy. She was used to live warmer, not so stiff life. For us, we go to court or not, as we please. We are true Romanian…. But because my mother—twenty years ago, she is part of court…. And then I, young married …”

Lily listening, wondered, Where am I?, realizing she was pleasantly drunk. Robert, seen through a champagne haze, looked distinguished, kindly. So delightfully muzzy was she that it seemed to her the night in Nice had never happened.

But that very evening, back in their suite at the Grand, holding her arm roughly, he ordered her to undress. The drink wearing off had left her tired, happily so, ready for sleep. Taken aback, fearful—this second time she was more afraid—she hesitated. Then made as if to leave the room.

He pleaded with her then. “Oh, if you would. Dear, I don't ask very much. I must see you, so that I can … Lily,
adorned.”
His face, close to hers, was taut, anxious; his eyes hard. It is he—another person, she told herself, I must think of him as
another person.

Again, she was festooned with the contents of the treasure chest—the terrible red leather box. But this time he took longer to arrange everything— sometimes changing for better effect. Twice he asked—no, ordered—her to kneel. She was shivering now, could not stop, even though a fire burned in the hearth. She tried to control an urge to pull at the ropes of jewels, coils of bracelet, the heavy tiara pressing into her scalp. (Somewhere, back at The Towers, the Diamond Waterfall lay in waiting.
That,
too, must be worn. Whether in or out of the bedroom had ceased to matter.)

She saw herself once again in the cheval glass. She thought wildly of dashing to the windows, out on to the balcony. There in the moonlight tearing them all off, throwing them to the street below. Down, down. Crowds appearing to amass them. Lily Greene the actress—she has gone quite mad….

“Wait there,” he said. His handiwork was finished. “Do not, I implore you, move—or alter
anything.”

She did not. She did not dare. It was hateful.
Hateful

The door opened and Lionel came in. Robert was just behind.

“What—” she cried. “What?” She reached angrily for her wrap.

“No, my dear,
no.”
He pulled it from her. “Let him see. Let my little brother see.”

“Now,” he said, turning to Lionel. “Look. You wanted—see what I have…”

She could not bear to look at Lionel's face. At either of them. She was more naked than if she were wearing nothing. I would prefer he saw me naked. They have made me a slave girl. Fettered.

She trembled with fear. Were they to be three in that huge bed? If Lionel is to touch me too … If,
if.
But Lionel yawned. In the silence later, in the darkness, she thought she would never forget that.

“Oh dear.” And he yawned again. “Very nice,” he said. “Such a white skin. Just like a lily. So
apt.
Yes, yes, I
do
approve.”

It seemed an hour, was perhaps only five minutes—and he left, saying only “I must to the arms of Morpheus. It's late. Good night—
-frère
Robert. And the fair Lily.
Amusez vous bien.”

It was worse, far worse this time, because she was expecting the pain, the discomfort, the sharp jabbing of the stones. And of him. After, she did not get
into bed but took her volume of Tennyson through into the sitting room and sat before the dying fire. The room seemed strangely without air.

She browsed among the
Idylls,
trying to still her heart, her shaking, used body—looking to be soothed by the rhythm, the romance. She read:

                      “Advance and take your prize

                      The diamond; but he answer'd, ‘diamond me

                      No diamonds! For God's love, a little air.' ”

She closed the book and wept.

Why Lionel? She had asked herself that already several times on this trip. If it were not for the
shame
of it all she could and would ask Robert directly.
Why Lionel?

Once he said, speaking of something else, “Lionel and I—we have always been close. Tom—my brother Thomas—quite a different sort of person. But Lionel and I—a bond. We do not need always to be together. Although in childhood … our mother, we both …” He went no further.

Remembering that he had said of the massed bracelets, running the length of both her arms, that first terrible night, “These—they belonged to our mother,” she wondered if there was some need, for both of them, to see the jewelry their mother had worn. And to see it on a naked woman. Some rivalry too, almost. (“You wanted … See what I have.”)

How horrible it all was! Lionel and little girls. Evie, my dresser, told me that. I wish I didn't know. It takes place of course in another world. An
underworld,
where innocents are bought and sold. It is better not to know of such things. And imperative not to think of them. Over the months she had managed to separate Lionel from all this, so that he seemed almost two people. It must continue that way. With Robert and his habits, she did not expect to be so successful.

She thought afterward, and was to think for a long time, that it was Sophie and Teodor who saved her. From that first evening together began a series of shared outings: days that were so nearly enchanted—evenings too, when she could forget what might await her return. When she could just be Lily Greene, on holiday in
Paris.

The opera, invitations to their suite, a cinematograph show at the Grand Café, drives by the Seine in sunshine.

It had almost ceased to matter that she was in Paris, and not in love. For she was almost in love, with the city, and this couple, Sophie and Teodor.

They sat next to each other and talked, she and Sophie, at every gathering. Alone together, they talked. Lily hoped and hoped they would not lose touch later. Back in Flaxthorpe, would she not need just such friends? And indeed Sophie, Teodor too, said again and again that this meeting in Paris
must not be the last. That they would come to England,
surely,
and Lily and Robert in their turn must visit Romania.

“I am your
friend, “
Sophie said, pressing Lily's hand. Sophie: warm, affectionate, easy, a mother almost. What my mother should have been, she thought. If she could have told anyone of what had happened, what might happen again any night, it would be her. When Sophie admired her jewelry, as she did often, she wanted to tell her—but could not. Yet she felt certain that the blend of sophistication and coziness that was Sophie would be able, if not to help (how could she?), to understand a little.
And how I need that

She supposed they had no children, since none were mentioned. She did not like to ask. All their talk was of their nephews, the sons of Teodor's brother. Valentin, Ion, Nicu—their names were often invoked:

“When Valentin hears of this naughty dog—
pom
you call it?—and how he is comporting self in Paris, he shall be not pleased. By the way, all have English governess once. The count's sister, she is Anglophile. Valentin most especially, he has such English. It runs and runs. He is in your university of Oxford, but only one year. How he
plays!
Nothing is
au sérieux.
Ion too much—he have philosophic thought. And politic one. Too many. That can be danger,
chez nous. “

One afternoon in the last week of their stay she went to a reception in the Rue de Varenne given by yet more of their friends. Robert had a headache and stayed behind; he wanted to be well enough for the opera that evening.

Lily, feeling unusually calm and peaceful, enjoyed the gathering. One elderly man, eager to speak English, talked to her about her new friends.

“It is so sad they lose a daughter. Yes, they lost one. She died of inflamed brain, I think. She was a dear little thing, not pretty,
jolie laide.
It is a big loss they have.”

So that was
their
secret sorrow. She thought yet again, I make a great fuss of nothing, and have not suffered at all. She said nothing to Sophie. It is for her to mention it, she thought.

Today Sophie was the center of a circle of admirers. She threw up her hands in mock horror as the little Pomeranian ran yapping among the guests. Teodor, with good-humored exasperation, picked him up and handed him to a footman. Lily, half listening to the woman talking to her, watched Lionel. He was deep in conversation with the daughter of the house, a little girl of about twelve. He had stopped her as she was walking solemnly around the small onyx coffee tables, among the guests. She giggled and pouted as he chatted to her. His arms encircled her waist. She giggled again. “My little butterfly,” Lily heard him say.

It was Bizet's
Carmen
they went to hear at the Opéra. Halfway through the second act, she began to feel ill. Leaving the box, she went to the ladies' room, where she was violently sick. She thought at first it was something she had
eaten, and indeed for the rest of the evening she felt a little better. But she awoke next morning to acute nausea. Her sickness came and went throughout the day. She said nothing to anyone. That evening at dinner, seeing the dish of swordfish cutlets in a rich wine and herb sauce, she knew that she would be ill.

Ten minutes later, as she sat in the ladies' room, smelling salts to her nose, Sophie joined her. Her expression was concerned. She said in English, while the attendant, impassive, continued with her crocheting:

“Dear little one, I see certainly what is wrong.” She took Lily's arm. “I have order you some bitters drink. We go upstairs. We speak alone there.”

Lily, without protesting, let herself be led. Up in Sophie and Teodor's suite, she said faintly, “I don't know—I've drunk none of the water. It can't be that. And I have no fever. The
wine,
perhaps? The white, acid …” She thought of the swordfish and nausea returned. Her throat filled.

Sophie's arm was about her. “Oh my dear. You are just married. One month? So you forgive me because I am your friend when I tell you it is perhaps—baby.”

At first she could not answer, for the shock. For the nausea too. How could I have been so simple, so naïve? Her ignorance embarrassed her. But of course,
of course!
What she had been used to see every month, postponed she had thought by the excitement, the travel. Often, on theatrical tours, had not the same thing happened, and nothing thought of it?