She had to keep
silent for Nanny's sake—and also for Madame de Brissot's, because Tante
would be deeply offended to discover that her own god-daughter had
actually blackmailed someone else into keeping her company, and hurt too.
And there was enough sadness in her face already.
She wouldn't want to learn either that the real Margot was a mercenary
self-seeking little bitch, in love with a married man, and that was the reason
for the imposture. Much better to let Tante keep her illusions, as far as
possible, she thought. Except where her own future with Jerome was
concerned. Those plans would have to be knocked on the head
without-delay. Unless she was just imagining it all— leaping to absurd
conclusions.
But somehow I don't think so, she told herself restively. She glanced at her
watch, and signalled for the bill. Before she set off for their rendezvous at
the cathedral, she had a phone call to make from the booth in the cafe. Tante
had asked her the previous evening with a hint of reproach whether she'd
managed to contact her home yet. She'd been directed to the phone in the
salon, tensely aware that Tante could hear every word of a potentially
awkward conversation, but to her relief the line had been engaged yet again.
As it was once more this morning, she found. How odd, she thought. Iris
disliked the phone, and was anyway too cost-conscious to make prolonged
use of it. She dialled again, this time to Nanny's number, and here there was
no reply, either.
Well, she'd tried, Meg thought with a mental shrug, as she hung up. She'd
have to make another attempt at the chateau, while Tante was resting,
maybe.
Probably because of its stormy past, the cathedral had more the look of an
armed fortress than a house of prayer. Jerome was already waiting for her
under the ornate white stone porch on the south side of the building.
'Am I late?' Meg asked with a touch of constraint as she joined him.
'Admirably punctual.' He glanced at the huge red-brick building behind
them. 'Do you wish to see the famous fresco of the Last Judgement, or would
you prefer Toulouse-Lautrec?'
Meg was taken aback. 'I thought we'd be going straight back to the chateau.'
'Why?' His brows lifted. 'This is a beautiful city.'
'I'm sure it is,' Meg said stiltedly. 'But this isn't how—either of us would
choose to spend the day.'
He was silent for a moment. 'Shall we declare another truce, Marguerite?
While I show you the city?'
He had not, she thought, denied what she'd said. She looked at him
uncertainly—saw the dark eyes alive and dancing, the smile that twisted his
mouth, and felt the excitement inside her uncurl into recklessness.
She said, 'Soit. So be it. But I'd rather skip the Last Judgement.'
'You don't think your sins would bear inspection?' There was a faint edge to
his voice.
She said lightly, 'Perhaps I'm more of a Cathar— one of the Perfect Ones.'
She saw his mouth compress in slight wryness. He said, 'Then I'll take you to
see another kind of perfection.'
The Toulouse-Lautrec collection was housed in the Palais de la Berbie, the
old bishops' palace.
'It's almost like meeting old friends,' Meg said as she gazed at the famous
Moulin Rouge posters of Jane Avril and La Gouloue.
'You like them?' he asked.
She nodded. 'Yes, maybe because they're so familiar. But if I'm honest I
prefer those we saw earlier—-the ones of his family and friends. They're so
much—quieter—and more affectionate, somehow.' She sighed. 'I wonder
what his life would have been like if he hadn't been crippled by brittle
bones?'
'He
would
probably
have
led
a
more
conventional
existence—married—looked after his estates. Some of the passion and
intensity of his work might have been diluted by domesticity.'
'It would be good to think of him being happy,' Meg said, rather wistfully.
'But happy endings are not always possible. Haven't you learned that yet?'
No, she thought, as they emerged once more
silent for Nanny's sake—and also for Madame de Brissot's, because Tante
would be deeply offended to discover that her own god-daughter had
actually blackmailed someone else into keeping her company, and hurt too.
And there was enough sadness in her face already.
She wouldn't want to learn either that the real Margot was a mercenary
self-seeking little bitch, in love with a married man, and that was the reason
for the imposture. Much better to let Tante keep her illusions, as far as
possible, she thought. Except where her own future with Jerome was
concerned. Those plans would have to be knocked on the head
without-delay. Unless she was just imagining it all— leaping to absurd
conclusions.
But somehow I don't think so, she told herself restively. She glanced at her
watch, and signalled for the bill. Before she set off for their rendezvous at
the cathedral, she had a phone call to make from the booth in the cafe. Tante
had asked her the previous evening with a hint of reproach whether she'd
managed to contact her home yet. She'd been directed to the phone in the
salon, tensely aware that Tante could hear every word of a potentially
awkward conversation, but to her relief the line had been engaged yet again.
As it was once more this morning, she found. How odd, she thought. Iris
disliked the phone, and was anyway too cost-conscious to make prolonged
use of it. She dialled again, this time to Nanny's number, and here there was
no reply, either.
Well, she'd tried, Meg thought with a mental shrug, as she hung up. She'd
have to make another attempt at the chateau, while Tante was resting,
maybe.
Probably because of its stormy past, the cathedral had more the look of an
armed fortress than a house of prayer. Jerome was already waiting for her
under the ornate white stone porch on the south side of the building.
'Am I late?' Meg asked with a touch of constraint as she joined him.
'Admirably punctual.' He glanced at the huge red-brick building behind
them. 'Do you wish to see the famous fresco of the Last Judgement, or would
you prefer Toulouse-Lautrec?'
Meg was taken aback. 'I thought we'd be going straight back to the chateau.'
'Why?' His brows lifted. 'This is a beautiful city.'
'I'm sure it is,' Meg said stiltedly. 'But this isn't how—either of us would
choose to spend the day.'
He was silent for a moment. 'Shall we declare another truce, Marguerite?
While I show you the city?'
He had not, she thought, denied what she'd said. She looked at him
uncertainly—saw the dark eyes alive and dancing, the smile that twisted his
mouth, and felt the excitement inside her uncurl into recklessness.
She said, 'Soit. So be it. But I'd rather skip the Last Judgement.'
'You don't think your sins would bear inspection?' There was a faint edge to
his voice.
She said lightly, 'Perhaps I'm more of a Cathar— one of the Perfect Ones.'
She saw his mouth compress in slight wryness. He said, 'Then I'll take you to
see another kind of perfection.'
The Toulouse-Lautrec collection was housed in the Palais de la Berbie, the
old bishops' palace.
'It's almost like meeting old friends,' Meg said as she gazed at the famous
Moulin Rouge posters of Jane Avril and La Gouloue.
'You like them?' he asked.
She nodded. 'Yes, maybe because they're so familiar. But if I'm honest I
prefer those we saw earlier—-the ones of his family and friends. They're so
much—quieter—and more affectionate, somehow.' She sighed. 'I wonder
what his life would have been like if he hadn't been crippled by brittle
bones?'
'He
would
probably
have
led
a
more
conventional
existence—married—looked after his estates. Some of the passion and
intensity of his work might have been diluted by domesticity.'
'It would be good to think of him being happy,' Meg said, rather wistfully.
'But happy endings are not always possible. Haven't you learned that yet?'
No, she thought, as they emerged once more
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