Dare to Love (49 page)

“We've been reading about you!” Hans exclaimed. “I told these two we should look you up, find out where you were staying and pop in for a visit, but Eric here, he said you wouldn't remember us.”

“Shame on you, Eric,” I scolded. “You all know Phillipe Du Gard, don't you?”

“We've been reading about him, too,” Wilhelm said gruffly, as they acknowledged Phillipe.

“We saw you in the box,” Hans continued. “I nudged these two and told 'em, ‘the one with the long dark hair, it's her!' Eric said no, but then we were so high
up
, right under the rafters, and he's half blind anyway.”

“It's marvelous to see you three again. Did you find your garret?”

“We found it,” Eric said. “It's freezing cold in winter and warm as Hades in summer, and sharing it with this pair isn't a joy, believe me. If I'm not tripping over Wilhelm's barbells I'm stumbling over Hans' piles of newspapers. Every time one of his articles appears he buys five copies of the papers.”

“You've given up poetry?” I asked Hans.

He grinned. “I'm writing for the newspapers now, short, gossipy articles about theatrical folk, longer articles about local sights and scenes—‘human interest' stories, they call 'em. It helps pay the rent while I toil away on my novel.”

“Damned novel,” Wilhelm grumbled. “He reads each chapter aloud to us as soon as it's finished. I thought his epics were bad, but this novel—six hundred pages—and he hasn't even introduced all the main characters. Chap thinks he's a genius.”

“
He
works in a gymnasium,” Hans informed me, “pushing and prodding flabby aristocrats into shape and teaching 'em to wrestle. Makes a fortune in tips. The patrons are afraid if they don't tip him he'll tear off an arm next time he has 'em on the mat.”

“And you, Eric?” I inquired.

“I discovered quite soon that I'd never be another Rembrandt,” he explained. “I'm doing illustrations for the journals, pen and ink drawings, pastels in chalk. It doesn't pay much, but they like what I do, and I enjoy it immensely.”

We chatted for a few minutes in the crowded lobby, attracting considerable attention. Despite their long, flowing locks and Bohemian affectations, the three of them were the same exuberant youths I had known in Barivna, bright, merry, delighted with life and living it with gusto. I gave them my address, insisted they call on me and hugged each one before they charged on out of the theater arm-in-arm, three jolly musketeers who found Paris an enchanting playground.

In front of the theater, the street was jammed with private carriages and cabs. Since the restaurant was only a few streets away, we decided to walk. Although his manner was amiable, Phillipe was silent and withdrawn, still immersed in thought. The usual stares greeted us as we entered the restaurant and the headwaiter showed us to our table. Throughout the meal, Phillipe made an effort to keep conversation alive. He smiled frequently, but his clear blue eyes retained their sad, wistful look.

It was after one o'clock when the carriage pulled up in front of the house on the Champs-Élysées again. Phillipe walked me to the front door. Moonlight polished the steps, and the trees cast soft black shadows that brushed the walls. A thread of music drifted through the night from a distant cafe, and the horse moved restlessly on. the cobblestones, hooves making a quiet clatter. Phillipe stood on the steps with his hands thrust into the pockets of his breeches, his head tilted slightly to one side. A tender smile played on his lips.

“I haven't been very good company tonight,” he remarked.

“You've been delightful, as always.”

“Polite, undemanding—”

“Don't start that again, Phillipe. You mustn't deprecate yourself that way. You're everything a woman could hope for.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” I said.

He looked so very young, so beautiful, so vulnerable. I was touched. Tender feelings stirred inside me. I was reminded of the gentle squire who pined silently for his lady fair during the Middle Ages. Smiling at him I brushed the wave back from his forehead, and then I rested my fingers on his cheek. Phillipe took my hand and held it tightly, nervous now, an uncustomary frown creasing his brow.

“Do you mean that, Elena?”

“Of course I mean it. These past two weeks have been wonderful. I'm very fond of you, Phillipe.”

“I only wish you had used a stronger word.”

“I—”

“I love you, Elena,” he said. “I've loved you ever since that first day in Germany when I came to abduct you. I fell in love with you immediately. I'll never be able to love anyone else.”

“You—you don't mean that.”

“I do. I know. I haven't declared myself before because—well, I suppose I was afraid. I was afraid that any kind of declaration would drive you away, and being near you meant too much for me to risk that. I know you don't love me, not the way I love you, but—”

He paused, groping for words. The frown deepened. I was silent, sad inside, dreading what would come next.

“I hope you might come to love me,” he continued. His voice was low, filled with emotion. “I want to marry you, Elena. I guess I—it probably seems unthinkable to you at the moment, but I want you to consider it.”

Moonlight shimmered at our feet, and shadows brushed the walls. When I did not reply Phillipe let go of my hand. He had been squeezing it so tightly that my fingers felt numb.

“My father has already turned the management of the estate over to me and I will inherit everything someday. I'll be a wealthy man, Elena. We could live in Touraine for part of the year and take a house here in Paris for the rest of the time. We could travel. We could do anything you wanted to do. If you wanted to, you could continue with your dancing. I wouldn't stand in your way.”

“Phillipe, I—I don't know what to say.”

“I don't want you to say anything now. I want you to consider it. I have to return to Touraine tomorrow. I'll be there a week. When I return to Paris perhaps—perhaps you'll give me an answer.”

I nodded. Phillipe smiled, the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. It went straight to my heart, and I had to fight the tears.

“I—I know I'm not like the other men you've known,” he said, “but I could make you happy, Elena. I'd like to have the opportunity. I want to devote the rest of my life to you.”

He leaned forward to brush my lips with his, gently, so gently, and then he stepped back and smiled again, young, beautiful, a suitor any woman in her right mind would hold fast. Shaken, I watched him move back down the walk and through the gate. As his carriage drove away, I stood in front of the door with the cool night air stroking my shoulders, feeling touched, torn, hoping with all my heart I would have the strength to make the right decision.

XXXV

Although we had kept in touch through letters, it had been over two years since I had seen George Sand. I didn't know she was back in Paris, and her invitation came as a surprise. After her break with Chopin, she went through a period of zealous political involvement, but recently she had begun to spend more and more time at Nohant, her lovely country estate. The flamboyant, outrageous George of earlier days had become something of a recluse, seeing few of her friends and completely avoiding the limelight to spend more of her time writing.

As the carriage drove over the bright, sun-splattered streets, I wondered how I would find her. She was, I knew, still grieving over Chopin. His death in October had affected her deeply. He had been the great love of her life, and many claimed that their final separation had broken her spirit as well as her heart. Would I find a sad, pitiful creature who was a shadow of her former self? I doubted it. The fires of old might have burned themselves out, but the George I knew glowed with a serene flame of compassion eternally bright.

The carriage shook as we crossed over one of the great stone bridges that spanned the Seine. The river was gray-green, sparkling with shimmering sunbursts, small boats bobbing along briskly, a great barge slowly making its way downstream. In the distance I could see Notre Dame looming majestically above the feathery green treetops. We passed book stalls and lively cafes and eventually turned down the street lined with plane trees. I remembered walking down that street in the moonlight, Franz' heavy brown velvet cape wrapped around my shoulders. That seemed a lifetime ago.

As I paid the driver, I gave him a winning smile and asked if it would be possible for him to return for me in two hours. The smile worked beautifully. He agreed and, pocketing his fare, drove on off. I stood in front of the house for a moment. I had stood on this identical spot after leaving the party with Franz. I'd had a very difficult decision to make that night. I had an even more difficult one to make now.

Phillipe was returning to Paris this afternoon. I would see him tonight. I had weighed his proposal carefully, hardly thinking of anything else, and I still hadn't reached a decision.

Sighing, I moved on up the steps and rang the bell. George opened the door herself, a gentle smile on her lips, her large, luminous eyes full of warmth. She wore a lovely wine-colored afternoon gown, and her raven hair was in a long pageboy, several soft gray strands among the dark. She took my hands in hers and squeezed them. She had indeed aged during these past two-and-a-half years and was slightly plumper than before, more matronly looking, but the glow was still there, suffusing her with a beauty that had nothing to do with physical appearance.

“Elena, my dear,” she said. “It's been much too long.”

“Far too long,” I agreed.

We hugged briefly, and then she led me into the drawing room. It was as snug and welcoming as I remembered it with its aura of rubbed, slightly shabby elegance. The plush blue sofa was still draped with the fringed purple and black shawl, and the desk was cluttered with books and papers, the floor around it littered with wadded balls of discarded pages. The only new touch were the plants, a profusion of them in varying shades of green, some with delicate blossoms, growing in pots all over the room. A brass sprinkler sat on the desk atop a stack of books.

“I'm afraid the place is a bit dusty,” she apologized. “I keep it closed while I'm at Nohant, and I didn't give Mathilde much advance warning.”

“What lovely plants.”

“I was just watering them as you rang. You don't mind if I continue? They're quite demanding. I brought them up with me from Nohant. They would have perished otherwise. One can't depend on servants to care for them properly.”

“I didn't know you loved plants so much.”

“Plants, flowers, all things green and growing—the gardens at Nohant are splendid. I like nothing better than puttering around in an old dress and a pair of heavy gloves as I dig in the flower beds.”

George smiled and took up the sprinkler. I sat down on the sofa to watch as she watered a delicate fern. The smile lingered on her lips, soft, tender, and I saw at once that the things I'd heard about her weren't at all true. George Sand was not a broken woman. There was sadness in her eyes, but her manner was wonderfully serene. She had clearly found peace, inside herself, and that was something the gossips would never be able to understand.

“It's been months since I've been in Paris,” she said. “The noise, the odors, the pace—I ask myself how I was ever able to live here. After the fresh air and open spaces and heavenly smells of the country the city seems uninhabitable.”

“Will you be here long?”

“For another week at least. My play
Claudie
is to be produced, and I must discuss arrangements. It's tiresome, but it's absolutely necessary if I'm not to be robbed blind. Contracts! And theatrical producers aren't the most trustworthy breed around.”

“How well I know.”

George touched the fern lightly and then moved on to water a frail African violet.

“I've brought my work with me, as you can see. That's my one consolation. After I've haggled for hours in a stuffy, smoke-filled office and yelled myself hoarse over unethical clauses, I can retreat to my desk and the book in progress. I prefer to work on the lawn at Nohant,” she added, “curled up on a chaise longue with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders, writing pad on my knees, a bird singing on a nearby limb.”

“You love the place, don't you?”

“I've always loved it,” she replied. “It was never my intention to leave. I could have spent my whole life in that house but my husband made that impossible. When I was living there with him, Nohant was a prison. I had to leave for self-preservation. Now it's become a haven.”

“You seem—very content, George.”

“Content?” She examined the word thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. Contentment—in the long run it's much nicer than happiness. Happiness makes far too many demands on us, depends all too frequently on—on other people, but contentment—” She paused, idly sprinkling the violet. “It's something altogether different.”

George set the sprinkler down and brushed a soft raven lock from her temple.

“It's ironic, isn't it? After so many years spent in frantic pursuit of happiness I've found something far more satisfying, something no one will ever be able to wrest away from me.”

There was a moment of silence. George gazed across the room, eyes seeing only the memories that haunted her.

“George,” I said. “I—I was sorry to hear about Frederic.”

She didn't reply at first. She stepped over to the window to peer out at the patch of pale Parisian sky visible above the tangle of rooves and chimney pots. When finally she turned to smile at me, her dark eyes reflected the sadness inside.

“He didn't ask for me,” she said quietly. “At the end, he—he made no mention of my name, but my love for him was still there. I know he felt that. Pride alone kept him from sending for me. Frederic was always so very proud—”