Three Weeks in Paris (34 page)

He brought her into his arms, held her close, and said against her hair, “You’re going to be all right, Jessica. I’m going to make damned sure of that.”

TOM AND ALAIN SAT IN THE FRONT OF THE MERCEDES;
Alexa and Jessica took the backseat. No one spoke on the way to Montcresse, but at one moment Alexa reached out, grabbed Jessica’s hand, and held it tightly in hers, wanting to comfort and reassure her.

Jessica sat very still on the backseat, holding her breath, eager to get to the château. Already she was wishing the confrontation were over, and that they were on their way back to Paris. Confrontation, she said to herself. Who knew if there would even be one? Jean Beauvais-Cresse was more than likely a very nice man leading a quiet life with his family, who simply happened to bear a resemblance to Lucien Girard. An innocent bystander, in other words.

Tom broke the silence in the car when he said, “That’s Montcresse straight ahead of us.”

Jessica and Alexa strained to get a better glimpse.

What they saw was a truly grand château, standing proudly on a rise not far from the river Indre, another tributary of the Loire. Its white stone walls gleamed in the bright morning sunlight, while the black, bell-shaped
roofs atop the numerous circular towers gave the massive edifice a fanciful air.

As Tom drove up the rise, Jessica noticed the well-kept grassy lawns edging the sand-colored gravel driveway, and behind the château there was a dense wood of tall, dark trees. Two more circular towers with bell-shaped roofs and thin spires flanked the drawbridge leading into the interior courtyard.

Tom slowed down as he rolled over the drawbridge, went under the arch and into the yard, heading toward the front door.

Jessica felt her stomach lurch, and for a second she thought she could not go through with this encounter. She almost told Tom to turn around and leave; she looked at Alexa, opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

At once, Alexa saw the expression of anxiety mingled with fear on Jessica’s pale face, and she tightened her grip on Jessica’s hand, murmured, “It’ll be fine.”

Still unable to say anything, Jessica merely nodded.

Tom parked close to the château’s walls, a short distance away from the huge front door. Half turning in his seat, he said to the two women, “One of the staff might answer the door, and in that case I’d be invited inside. Should that happen, wait five minutes and then come looking for me. You’ll be allowed inside if you say you’re with me.”

Now glancing at Alain, Tom went on. “You should take charge if I go inside, it’ll be quicker and easier for you to deal with any staff member.”

“Of course, Tom, don’t worry,” Alain answered.

Alexa asked, “But what if Jean answers the door?”

“I’ll engage him in conversation for a few minutes, then I’ll glance at the car, wave to you. At that moment you should come and join me … join us. Everything clear?”

“Yes,” Alexa said, and Jessica nodded.

Tom alighted and walked down the cobbled courtyard, heading for the huge front door made of nail-embellished wood. When he came to a stop, he saw that it stood ajar. Nonetheless, he knocked and waited. When no one came, he pushed the door slightly, peered inside, and shouted, “Hello!”

A moment later an elderly gray-haired man wearing a striped apron over his pants, shirt, and waistcoat suddenly appeared in the entrance hall. He was carrying a silver tray, and he stepped forward when he saw Tom. He inclined his head. “
Bonjour, monsieur.
”

“
Bonjour. J’aimerais voir Monsieur le Marquis.
”

“
Oui, oui, attendez une minute, s’il vous plaît.
”

These words had hardly left the man’s mouth when Tom heard footsteps on the cobblestones, and he glanced down toward the stables.

Jean Beauvais-Cresse was walking toward him. He wore black riding boots, white jodhpurs, and a black turtleneck sweater. He raised a hand in recognition, and a split second later the two men were greeting each other and shaking hands.

Tom then went on. “I apologize for intruding like this, without telephoning first, but as we passed the château my clients asked me to stop the car. They were intrigued by Montcresse. You see, they’re making a movie about Mary Queen of Scots and plan to shoot in the Loire. I’ve been showing them this area, since they’re seeking possible locations for the upcoming film—”

“
C’est pas possible,
” Jean cut in with a small, regretful smile. “Many people have wanted to film here in the past. But it doesn’t work. The château’s not the best place to shoot a film, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Tom responded, and wanting to find a way to keep him talking, he improvised. “But what about outside?

There are quite a lot of exterior scenes, and perhaps you would consider allowing them access to the property.”

Unexpectedly, Jean Beauvais-Cresse seemed to hesitate all of a sudden, appeared to be considering this idea. At the same time, he moved forward, stepped inside the château, stood regarding Tom from the entrance hall. “Perhaps there might be a way to film on the estate,” he said finally.

Tom was listening attentively, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Alexa, Alain, and Jessica alighting and walking toward him. Wishing to keep the other man totally engaged as they approached, Tom leaned forward slightly, and continued. “There would be a very good fee involved, and the crew would have instructions to be extremely careful on your land. Also, the production company is insured anyway.”

“I understand. But I must think about it—” Jean broke off abruptly. Shock was registering on his narrow face, and he had paled. As if undone, he staggered slightly, leaned against the doorjamb, his light eyes wide with surprise and panic.

Jessica, who stood just behind Tom, now stepped forward, staring at Jean. Immediately, she recognized him, just as he had recognized her. It
was
him. A grayer, older version of Lucien Girard. There was no doubt in her mind.

Shaking inside, and just as undone as Jean was, she swallowed hard. “I often thought you must be alive somewhere out there in the world.… ” Her eyes welled with tears.

Jean stared at her, then his gaze settled on Alain and finally Alexa. His eyes acknowledged them but he said nothing.

He shook his head slowly and directed his attention on Tom. “Your talk about filming intrigued me,” he murmured.

Sighing heavily, he opened the door wider. “You’d better come inside,” he said.

————

JESSICA WAS STILL SHAKING
inside and her legs felt weak, but she managed to hold herself together as the four of them followed Jean across the huge stone hall. It was baronial, hung with dark tapestries and stags’ heads; a huge chandelier dropped down from the high ceiling. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

He led the way down three steps into a long, spacious room with French windows opening onto a terrace. Jessica did not pay much attention, only vaguely noticed the dark wood pieces, the faded fabrics, the worn antique Aubusson underfoot. There was an air of shabby elegance about it.

Jean paused in the center of the room and waved his hand at a grouping of chairs and sofas. “Please,” he murmured. He did not sit himself, but moved away, went and stood near the stone fireplace.

Once the others were seated, he glanced at Tom and asked, “Did we know each other in Paris years ago?”

“No.”

“How did you … make the connection?”

“My friend Alexa has a photograph of Jessica with you. When I mentioned your name, she said the man in the picture was someone called Lucien Girard. Then she told me the story … of your disappearance.”

“I see.” He shifted on his feet, blinked several times.

No longer able to contain herself, Jessica leaned forward slightly, and asked in a tight voice, “
Why?
Why did you do it? Vanish the way you did, without a trace?”

He did not respond.

No one else spoke. The room was very quiet.

Outside, a light wind rustled through the trees, and in
the distance a bird trilled. Through the open French windows the scent of roses and other flowers floated inside, filling the air with sweetness. There was a sense of tranquillity in this long, narrow library, an air of timelessness, of gentleness.

But emotions were high.

Jessica exclaimed, “I think you owe me an explanation. And Alain. We tried so hard to find you, and when we couldn’t, we thought you were dead. We grieved for you!” She shook her head, and tears gathered in her eyes. “I think I’ve been grieving for you right until this very moment.” Her voice broke and she could not continue.

“I think you should tell Jessica why you disappeared, Lucien. You owe that to Jessica, if not to me,” Alain interjected.

“Yes, it is true. I do owe you both an explanation.” He sat down on a chair near the fireplace and took a deep breath. After a moment, he looked over at Jessica, and slowly began to speak.

“I said I was going to Monte Carlo to work because I couldn’t tell you the truth, Jessica.”

“And what was the truth?” she asked, still tearful.

“That I was not really Lucien Girard. This name was my stage name … I was, I am, Jean de Beauvais-Cresse. But twelve years ago I left this house and went to live and work in Paris, after a bad quarrel with my father. He disapproved of my desire to be an actor, and washed his hands of me. In any case, my older brother, Philippe, was his favorite, and, of course, he was the heir to the title and the lands. Seven years ago, just before you graduated, Philippe was tragically killed in an accident. He was flying on a private plane to Corsica, to join his fiancée and her family, when the plane went down in a bad thunderstorm. Everyone on board was killed.

“When he received the terrible news of Philippe’s
death, my father had a stroke. My mother, who was an invalid, summoned me to return to Montcresse. I was needed here. I had a funeral to arrange, and other matters to attend to, as well as my mother and father to care for.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” Jessica demanded. “I could have come with you, helped you.”

“It was far too complicated. I did not have time for long explanations. I was suddenly needed immediately. Urgently. Anyway, I believed I would be here in the Loire for only a week at the most.” Jean paused, leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath.

Scrutinizing him intently, Jessica thought he looked older than thirty-five. His narrow face was lined and his fair hair was meager. He had always been slender, but now he was really thin. To her, he seemed undernourished, and it struck her that he had lost his looks. And, not unnaturally, he was very nervous. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip and his forehead. It was not overly warm in this room, and she suddenly understood the extent of his unease with them, with her in particular.

For his part, Jean de Beauvais-Cresse was fully aware of her fixed scrutiny, and he flinched under it. His discomfort was profound. Seeing her again had sent shock waves through him. She had never looked more beautiful, and her allure for him was as potent as ever. He still loved her deeply. He had never stopped loving her. He would love her until the day he died. She had been, still was, the love of his life. But it was not meant to be, could not be. Not anymore.

Jean filled with regret. A deep sense of loss overwhelmed him, and his emotions ran high. And he had to steady himself, take hold of his swimming senses. For one awful moment he thought he was going to weep. Breathing deeply, taking hold of himself with steely
determination, not wishing to break down in front of them, he rose, moved to the fireplace once more, took up a stance there.

Clearing his throat, he said, “As I was saying a moment ago, I did not think I would be staying here for very long. Perhaps a week. I truly did intend to tell you everything when I returned to Paris, Jessica. Please believe that.”

“And then what?” Jessica asked, her voice still shaking.

“I hoped we could continue as we were, make a life together. Somehow. But then something else occurred, just after the funeral of my brother.”

Alain, frowning intently, asked quickly, “What happened?”

“I became ill. Extremely ill. I had been fighting what I thought was flu. A scratchy throat, aches and pains, night sweats, fever, were the symptoms. I mentioned this to my father’s doctor the day after the funeral, when he came to Montcresse to see my parents. At once he insisted I go to his office for an examination—” Jean stopped, cleared his throat, seemed for a moment hesitant to continue.

Jessica’s eyes were riveted on Jean, and she held her breath. Even before he spoke she knew he was about to tell them something quite terrible.

Jean continued. “Dr. Bitoun did not like what he found. He sent me immediately to Orléans, to see a cancer specialist, an oncologist. I had X rays, a CAT scan, and an MRI. The doctor also took a biopsy of a node under my arm. Everyone’s worst fears were confirmed when the results of the tests came back. I had Hodgkin’s disease.”

“But you were so young, only in your mid-twenties!” Jessica cried, her eyes wide with shock.

“That is true. It usually does strike young men in their twenties, sometimes even in their teen years,” Jean answered, and went on to explain. “Hodgkin’s disease is cancer of the lymphatic system, and once I was diagnosed,
the oncologist at the clinic in Orléans hospitalized me at once, and started radiation treatment. Aside from—”

“But why didn’t you call me?” Jessica interrupted heatedly. “I would have come to you at once. I loved you.”

“I know, and I love—” He coughed behind his hand before saying, “I loved you too, Jessica. And because I loved you I decided it was better to … just disappear.”

“But why?” she demanded. Her eyes filled again, and the tears trickled down her cheeks. “I loved you so much … with all my heart.”

“I know,” he said in a low, faltering voice. “However, I suddenly realized I had nothing to offer you. I believed I was going to die. I truly did not believe the treatments would work. Then again, I had an invalid mother, a stricken father, and the responsibility of running the estate … if I lived. It seemed … all too much to burden you with at the time. You were so young. And, as I just said, I did not think I would live for very long.”