Parisian Promises (13 page)

“I think the old lady gave you good advice. You're practically glowing in this faded salon. So why are you crying?”

“It's just that I thought love was going to be an all-encompassing uplifting feeling, not a whirlpool in the pit of my stomach.”

Lola shook her head. “First, sorry to be so blunt, but you're confusing hot sex with love. So let's isolate the feelings you have for one guy, and then we'll move on to the other, okay?”

“You mean that I can be in love with both men?”

“How should I know for sure? I'm not a shrink. But what I do know is that
you
don't know either guy well enough to say that you're in love.” Lola broke off long enough to retrieve her drink, and then settled herself in a sagging antique armchair. “Let's just say that you're in lust with both. Well, since one guy is here tonight, and I assume Jean-Michel is still in Paris, I say have a roll in the hay with the one you're with. It might help you decide which one you prefer.”

“I think that I might already be going through the process of crystallization over Jean-Michel.”

“What the hell is crystallization?” groaned Lola.

“Don't you remember the lectures?” Monica asked. “You know, the ones on Stendhal's process of crystallization where one lover imagines that the loved one has all these glowing, desirable traits. A shimmering perfection, right?”

“Nah, I'm sure I missed those lectures. Stendhal isn't my thing. But I'll tell you what I do know. You took our French literature classes too much to heart. There is no such thing as gallant love, where the knight stays faithful to his beloved forever. Lancelot was some serious bullshit. Ditto for Abélard and Héloïse. A nun and a priest with no balls, need I say more? Gross!”

Lola slipped the ivory letter opener in her jacket pocket, sure that Monica hadn't noticed.

“Let's fast forward to George Sand,” she continued, “and all her idealistic visions of romantic love. She ended up heartbroken and ugly, so we're not emulating her horse-faced behavior. Or her thoughts on love.”

Lola slid a silver candy dish into the other pocket.

“Who has a horse face?” It was Christophe, standing in the doorway. Lola almost fell out of her chair. “And why are you crying,
ma petite
?”

Christophe rushed over to Monica's prone form, kneeling next to her.

“She's crying about love,” said Lola. Christophe had seen nothing, she decided. He was blind to everything but Monica. “So, what are
your
thoughts on love?”

“That's an important question.” Christophe stroked Monica's hair. “Romantic love is the treasure chest we all hope to uncover.”

He glanced knowingly at Lola's bulging jacket pockets, and she looked away, pretending not to notice.

“It inspires us,” continued Christophe, inhaling Monica's hair. “It confuses us, and it heightens our senses.”

Lola had heard enough from this philosophical Frenchman, one who had obviously opened Monica's treasure trove.

“Sorry to break up this sappy moment,” she said, “but isn't your boss, the evil Vicomtesse, going to bust your balls if she finds you here? Doesn't she force you to stay in the barn or wherever the peons reside?”

“There are no peons here,” he responded curtly, clearly offended by Lola's brusque manner.

“Are you kidding me? You think Serge is
not
a peon? I just tossed him my overnight bag, and then I told him to serve the champagne in this enormous, ugly room. He followed my commands,
tout de suite
.”

“Please excuse Lola,” said Monica, sitting up. “She can be feisty, but she means well. Do you think it would be okay if she stayed in the pool house with me?”

“She is welcome to spend the night in the main house.”

“Nah, I'd rather stay in the pool house with you two,” Lola stared at Monica, and both girls laughed.

Christophe looked puzzled. “I'm afraid I missed the American humor, would you–”

“Ahem.” Serge had walked into the salon, his previously droopy ears now at attention. Unlike the other three, he had heard the distant car tires rolling on the gravel driveway. “Madame la Vicomtesse has arrived!”

He disappeared to open the front door for his autocratic aristocrat. Monica and Lola remained frozen in their positions, not knowing what to expect from a woman who clearly ruled with a heavy hand.

T
he Vicomtesse Agnès Challant de La Guerche stormed into the pool house in the same abrupt way she'd stampeded past the salon the night before. She had neither greeted nor even acknowledged the presence of Monica, Lola or Christophe. She'd simply proceeded to shut herself in the master suite of the
château
for the rest of the evening.

This morning she was a study in severity, dressed all in black. The tight riding clothes clung to her skinny, wiry body like a dark straitjacket, the perfect complement to her ebony helmet hair. Only her alabaster skin and a tuft of white hair in her fringe lent a degree of softness to her mien. This illusion of delicateness was, however, exactly that: an illusion.

“
Bonjour, les enfants
,” she chirped and yanked open all the Venetian blinds in the pool house. The sunlight blinded Lola and Monica, both harboring a bad hangover. “Aren't you the art students that Madame Caron de Pichet insisted must paint
en plein air
on my property? She couldn't wait for my return, I see. Well, now
I
can't wait to get started on critiquing your work.”

“Bonjour, Madame,” crowed Monica, clutching a sheet up to her chest and trying to sit up. Lola wriggled down under the covers to hide from the sun.

“That simply won't do, my little
Américaines
,” the Vicomtesse reprimanded. “It is customary to address me as
Madame la Vicomtesse
. Surely Serge instructed you in our ways, didn't he?”

“I apologi––”

“No need to apologize. I'll deal with Serge later.” She clapped forcefully to get Lola's attention. “Just rise and shine and meet me by the easels set up in the arbor in ten minutes. Let me evaluate your sketches. I am a judge of artistic talent––and, I should warn you, I am brutally honest.”

Madame la Vicomtesse positioned herself at the end of the bed and lifted the down duvet. “Only four female feet, how very odd,” she mumbled, frowning.

She cracked her small riding whip and looked under the bed. “Come out, you scoundrel!” she commanded, waiting with her hands on her hips. But when nothing emerged, she marched out of the pool house without another word.

“What the hell was that?” demanded Lola, emerging from under the covers.

“The owner of this
château.
She wants to look at our sketches right away.”

“Who was she looking for in our bed? Is she insane or what? It's too early.” Lola covered her head with a pillow.

“She's obviously very demanding,” Monica conceded, “but we did spend the night here and we ate her food and drank her champagne––lots of champagne. So let's at least be civil and go to the arbor. She might give us some good tips on how to improve our work.”

“Hell no, I won't go,” chanted Lola, as though this were an anti-Vietnam rally back in L.A.

“Please!” Monica pleaded. “Don't cause any problems for me or for Madame Caron de Pichet. She's a dear old friend of
Madame la Vicomtesse
. That's what we have to call her, by the way, in case you didn't hear.”

“Hmm, we'll see about that.” Lola sat up, looking annoyed. “I feel like just packing up and leaving. I'm in no mood to please that old witch. The last few days I've been a prisoner of some moody weird guy, a dull duke or whatever title Didier said it was, and now I'm expected to kowtow to a psycho madam vee-come-tess. Hell no, I won't go!”

Monica dressed quickly and nagged Lola until she reluctantly allowed herself to be dragged out of bed and out to talk to their fierce hostess.

When they reached the arbor, Madame la Vicomtesse seemed to have changed into an entirely different person.

“Please sit down and join me for a cup of coffee,” she said sweetly. “I'm trying to recover from my ordeal of the last two days.”

“What happened?” Lola asked, skipping the formality of saying the entire title of her host. She and Monica sat down around a garden table set with dainty china cups and a silver coffee pot.

“As Serge must have told you, I was at a wedding in Bordeaux. After the reception, I went with a friend”––she cleared her throat––“to
his
regal home in San Sebastian. But on our drive back to France, we were delayed at the border because those dreadful Basque terrorists had just bombed a car in a village near the crossing. Thankfully no French were harmed. They say that a Basque medical student and his accomplice, a plumber or something like that, were killed when they shot a Guardia Civil.” She raised her cup of coffee and almost slammed it back down on the saucer, splashing dark liquid onto the white cloth. “Why in the world would a young doctor and a plumber ever do such a crazy thing? Don't they realize that their professions are indispensable? Serge? Another cup, please.”

Serge flapped around, re-setting the table, bowing to his employer, and pouring her more coffee. Madame la Vicomtesse proceeded with her tale.

“We were delayed for hours on the road. All the while the simpleton I was with sympathized with these foolish rebels. Needless to say, I refused to travel any further with him, and I took a train home.” She clinked her spoon in the cup so fiercely that it seemed she wanted to break it. “And then, I was so baffled by the man who helped me load my valise onto the train. I recognized his face from Paris, but he did not acknowledge me, and of course, anyone who has met me always greets me formally. Why would he ignore me?”

Monica remained silent, but Lola was less polite. “Why didn't you ask him who he was?”

Madame la Vicomtesse dismissed her question with the wave of a thin white hand. “My nerves are frayed. That is all. These young restless revolutionaries everywhere are destroying civil society,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“What revolutionaries are you referring to,
Madame la vee-come-tess?
” Lola said, exaggerating her poor pronunciation.

“Surely you jest! You Americans remain so childlike well into your twenties, don't you?” Madame la Vicomtesse retorted.

“
Chère Madame la vee-come-tess
, I agree with your appraisal. We are naïve nincompoops.” Lola adopted a
faux
childlike expression. “But please do tell us about the revolutionaries that so distressed you.”

Madame la Vicomtesse did not seem to notice Lola's sarcasm. She picked a croissant from a silver dish and set it on her plate. “Well, my dear, shall I enumerate them for you? Just this February there was the Irish Republican Army bomb that killed twelve people in England. Then those Italian neo-fascists exploded another bomb on the train in Bologna.” Madame paused to select a buttery brioche, which she set on top of the croissant.

“Just those two?” Lola looked unimpressed.

“Let's not forget what the Basque ETA activists did in January, of this very year.. ETA: What a peculiar acronym, don't you think?” Madame popped another brioche onto her plate. “Those activists stole thousands of explosives in Spain. Not far from San Sebastian, in fact.”

“But there haven't been any terrorist attacks here, have there?” Monica asked anxiously.

“Here? In the Loire? Don't be silly. Although anything is possible,” Madame admitted. She placed the remaining two croissants on her overcrowded plate and squashed the teetering stack all together. “After all, those pesky Bretons and their liberation army are not too far away. So you see, we are besieged by
révolutionnaires
. Can you imagine how I feel? I'm all alone and my only adult child should be protecting me instead of running around partying in Paris, never following all the rules and responsibilities I have firmly established.”

“What has you all riled up this beautiful morning, Madame la Vicomtesse?” Christophe ambled towards the table. He greeted Monica and Lola with a kiss on their cheeks, then bowed very formally to Madame.

“You, for one,” she said, glaring at him. “You didn't come to greet me last night. Where is your sense of obligation to me? I went into your quarters and you were not there. Haven't I made myself clear to you that you are to follow all my orders?”

“I am here now. What has you up in arms?”

“I was recounting to your little girlfriends here that I had the most onerous ride back from Bordeaux––”

“Why didn't you come back with all the other couples who went to the wedding?” Christophe asked.

Madame stood up and jabbed a finger towards the house. “In case you haven't noticed, I am no longer part of a couple. It appears that my husband died of a heart attack while he was out gallivanting with his mistress.
Mes enfants
, aren't we French so decadent?” she asked Lola and Monica, but continued without waiting for an answer, “Oh, yes. We are licentious and pleasure-loving. Why, we are a living and breathing, lustful Fragonard painting, don't you think?”

“I … I loved the Fragonard painting hanging in your salon,” Monica replied.

“Yes, I'm sure you did. Perhaps the pale young woman on the swing who is showing off her underpants reminds you of … well, of you?

Christophe intervened. “We're not discussing the Fragonard now. Why didn't you have your friend drive you all the way home?”

“Unlike other ingrates present, I cherish my home and I would never bring my Spanish
amigo
and his Basque activists along so that they can bomb my
château.
We don't like
étrangers
in our neck of the woods, do we?” Madame stared down Christophe.

“Does that include present company?” demanded Lola, who didn't take the affront lightly.

“My dear, you two are but a passing fancy for Christophe. He is going to turn out just like his father. How do you Americans call it? A playboy, yes?” Madame straightened her tight riding coat. “Although it appears that my only son is a new type of playboy––one who wants to quit law school and go to Latin America and help starving children. Anything but spend time with his mother and his estate.”

Madame picked up her riding whip and rose from her chair.

“Did you say
son
?” Lola couldn't believe her ears.

“You naughty boy! Did you introduce yourself as a stable boy––again? He does love to play little games with his
catins
!”

“I don't know what
catins
means,” said Monica, watching Madame la Vicomtesse walk away.

Madame paused and turned around, a sardonic smile on her face. “Do ask your landlady for French lessons. She's had to resort to renters, after all, and I'm sure she could tutor you for a few additional francs. Please give her my regards.
Au revoir
.”

Christophe stood up abruptly, gazing after his mother.

“Please wait here for me,” he begged Monica, stroking her cheek. She nodded her assent and he sprinted off across the lawn, calling to his mother to stop.

“We are out of here! That crone just called us whores!” Lola tossed her curls like an enraged Medusa. “If I didn't have such a hangover, and if my French wasn't so bad, I would have given her a piece of my mind.”

“I promised Christophe I'd wait here for him.”

“Don't compound your mistake, Monica. You have another boyfriend waiting for you in Paris, right?”

“I suppose so, but I, I feel sorry for Christophe. I think we might be in love. But his mother is a––”

“A domineering, overbearing, psycho mother, that's what she is. And in case you haven't heard of Freud, you don't want to mess with a loony mother like her. She's messed up Christophe's mind for good, and you'll lose––for certain. Come on, let's head back to Paris.” Lola grabbed Monica's limp hand. “We'll go dancing at Le Sept. I met a bunch of fun party animals there. You'll love it!”

“Damn it, Lola. Didn't you just hear me admit that I'm in love with him?”

Lola rolled her eyes.

“And what about the passionate lover in Paris? The one you said was your ideal mate? Something to do with crystallization? I don't know what you were talking about, but you sounded pretty sure.”

“God, I'm so confused,” moaned Monica.

“Let me paint an accurate picture for you. Do you see Christophe over there, running after his momma?” Lola pointed to a distant path leading to the stables. Christophe had caught up with Madame and was standing with his arms wrapped around her.

Monica refused to look towards the stables.

“I'm sure that without his momma around he was a fun two-night stand,” Lola continued, “but that is
all
he is. You don't know enough about him to be in love.”

“But we shared some deep moments. We had to put his horse down and he was so distraught and he opened up to me––”

Lola shook her red curls in exasperation. “Did he open up to you about his controlling mother? No, he did not. Let me tell you why: Madame la Viper is a nut case who will never release her grip on her precious sonny boy.”