Dangerous Obsession Page 14

  I pulled away from Seth and rubbed my arm. “I will not stay here!” I said. “I would rather beg for my bread in the street than spend one more minute under your roof!”

  He laughed harshly and righted his chair. “You’d get a lot more than bread, my fine lady.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “It’s a big bad world out there. They’d make mincemeat out of you.”

  “I am not afraid! I can look after myself!”

  “What are you getting so excited about? I’m offering you a place under my roof. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Run along. Jules will show you your room.” He picked up his newspaper again, made a face when he saw its condition, and threw it down.

  “You don’t want me,” I said in a low voice. “You don’t love me! I won’t stay here, I tell you! I won’t!”

  “Yes, you will.” He slid down in his chair and closed his eyes. "You have nowhere else to go, remember?”

  I picked up my skirts and ran out of that room. Through the drawing room. Across the black and white marble floor of the foyer. Away. I had to get away from him!

  The butler, Jules, suddenly appeared in front of me, out of nowhere, like a forest spirit in Russian folk tales. “Your room is ready. Mademoiselle. If you—”

  I brushed past him without a word and threw open the front doors. Down the path, up the street, racing until my heart was bursting inside my chest, until I felt limp and weak and exhausted. I stopped to catch my breath and looked around. I didn’t know where I was, how far I had come. It was afternoon already. The sky was leaden and a light rain started to fall. A chilly wind swept through the streets. I had no wrap, not even my light shawl—which I think I had left in Boucher’s carriage—and I shivered.

  I started to walk east. The steady drizzle soon soaked the lace on my sleeves, pasting it to my arms. My gown was becoming sodden, too, and heavy, and my hair was plastered to my face. Carriages rolled past, splashing me with dirty water from the cobbles. I felt very hungry and light-headed. I remembered that I had had nothing to eat since the cold pheasant the night before, and nothing to drink but champagne—

  I had been such a fool, such a gullible idiot! Living like a gorgio had made me soft and stupid. To have believed his lies, to have let him seduce me—. It had been so easy for him, so easy. I was like a ripe fruit, ready for picking.

  Enough. A Gypsy has no regrets, no sorrow about the past, only joy and acceptance of what life has given him today, now. Don’t think about him any more, I told myself sternly. Forget him. Forget.

  I walked for hours, aimlessly, hardly seeing where I was going. Occasionally men would speak to me. They would stop me and inquire in leering voices if I needed help. I shook them off and pushed on. I went into a bakery to ask for a scrap of bread. The proprietress took one look at me and my soiled gown and began to rant.

  “Get out of here before I call the police! What kind of business do you think I’m running? This isn’t a charity kitchen for whores!"

  I swirled away into the rain. True, if I had looked like a Gypsy, or even a normal gorgio, I would have had better luck. Darkness was closing in. I still had no money, no place to sleep. I took shelter from the rain and wind in a doorway. A man coming out of the building stared at me, and then he said.

  “Would you like to come up and get warm, little lady? I have some very nice wine—”

  I shook my head and left my shelter. Perhaps I could find some Gypsies, I thought. Every city has Gypsies. I would go to them and say, I am Rom, I am one of you. They would take me in because I spoke their language. But what then? I was tainted, defiled, shamed. No self-respecting Gypsy would marry me. Being raped by a man when you’re a child is one thing, but giving yourself to a man who is not your husband—oh, what a fool I had been! I would never have a husband, Gypsy or gorgio No husband. No babies. What kind of life was that?

  An old woman approached me. She was dressed in black, from head to two. A bad omen, I thought. But then I had noticed that many older women in France wore black all the time.

  “What’s the matter, dearie?” she said kindly. “You’ll freeze if you don’t come out of this rain.” She looked kind and her tone was solicitous. “I have a little place, very near here. We’ll soon get some hot soup into you. Come along.”

  I permitted myself to be led. The inducement of warmth and food was very powerful. And the old woman looked sincere and honest, if I was any judge. We went up three flights of stairs in a grey, gloomy building that stank of too many people living too close together. She pushed open a door and motioned me inside. A man was warming his hands at a small, black pot-bellied stove. He turned around and scowled at us.

  “This is my son, Gaston,” the woman said. “Look, Gaston, I found this poor creature out in the street. What happened, dearie? Running away from home? They don’t understand you, is that it?” She cackled.

  I was too tired to explain. “Something like that,” I said. Gaston heaved himself out of his chair near the stove and beckoned to me to take it. I sat down gratefully and stretched my hands out in front of me. The woman pressed a cup into my stiff fingers. I sipped. It was tea, scalding and strong, the way I liked it.

  “Why don’t you take off those wet things?” the woman suggested. “I have something you can wear, I think.”

  “What?” I looked up. “Oh, no, thank you. I’m just fine, the way I am.”

  Gaston spoke for the first time. “You take this coat, then.” He draped something heavy around my shoulders. “Better than nothing.”

  I gave him a weak smile. He was large and coarse and stupid-looking with small brown eyes and a protruding lower lip and a heavy jaw. His hair was thick and dirty and a greasy forelock hung over his eyes. His coat smelled of sweat and rancid oil and sour wine.

  The tea warmed my insides, and the fire dried my hair and clothes. I think I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew Gaston was on his knees in front of me. He was clawing at my bosom and kissing me wetly.

  I tried to push him away, but he gave a peculiar gurgling laugh and put his arms around my waist. I wriggled and squirmed.

  “Let me go! Take your dirty hands off me, gorgio pig! Let me go!”

  He lurched to his feet, pulling me up with him. I saw that his trousers were unbuttoned and starting to slide down around his hips.

  The old woman screeched, “Oh, isn’t my Gaston a fine lover! Such a good lad! Don’t forget, Gaston, you owe me five francs for this one. It’s not easy to get them to come up.”

  Gaston made moaning noises and dragged at my skirts with one hand while he held on to my waist with the other. I jerked my knee up suddenly. He gave an agonized yelp and doubled over. I darted for the door, but the old woman got there first.

  “And just where do you think you’re going?” she demanded fiercely. “You’ll pay for hurting my boy! I didn’t bring you up here so that you could cripple my son!”

  “If you are his mother then he is the Devil himself!” I said angrily. “Get out of my way!”

  “You ungrateful little slut!” The hag raised her hand. “I’ll teach you to abuse a stranger’s hospitality! Gaston, get over here! Hurry up!”

  Gaston groaned. “Oh, she killed me! I’m dying!”

  The old woman gripped my arms and yelled, “Hurry up! I’m holding her! You can punish her! Hurry!”

  The man snarled and came towards us. I took a deep breath and shouted, “Police! Police!” At once the woman released me and skipped out of my way. I raced down the stairs and out of the house, straight into the arms of a man who was passing. We rocked together and almost fell, but he put his arms around me to steady me.

  “Whoa, hold on there! Where are you going in such a hurry, young lady?”

  “Let me go!” I puffed. “Take your hands off me!”

  “Wait, wait, I won’t hurt you,” he laughed pleasantly. “Just calm yourself, child. What’s the matter? Are you in trouble? Perhaps I can help.”

  I looked at him. He was elderly, about fifty-five
or sixty, with white hair and a white mustache. He wore evening dress and an opera cape with a red lining. His smile was kind and solicitous.

  “You look all in, you poor child,” he said sympathetically. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, yes, very hungry. If you could just let me have a few francs, Monsieur, I would be so grateful.” My brain worked fast. “I am running away from my father. He is a terrible man, terrible. He beats me every day! I couldn’t take it any more and I just ran and ran and now I’m lost and cold and hungry. Please, Monsieur, just a few francs? I won’t trouble you—”

  “No trouble, no trouble,” he said heartily. “Of course you shall have your francs. But where are you going? You have a place to sleep tonight?”

  I shook my head. “No, Monsieur. I am going—to my fiancé. He will care for me until we are married. My father hates him and won’t let him come to the house, but we meet sometimes, in church.”

  He smiled. “In church? Your father must think you very devout.”

  “Oh, yes, very,” . said quickly. “But he doesn’t suspect anything because I always go with my grandmother who is very old and deaf. She sits with her eyes down, so she doesn’t even know that Gaston and I meet there.”

  “Gaston, eh? And what does he do, your Gaston?”

  I cast a furtive glance upwards, in the direction of the room from which I had fled. “He—he is a saddle-maker,” I said. “Please, Monsieur, just a few francs! I wouldn’t want any friends of my father’s to see me. He has very many friends. He would kill me if he caught me. Please?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

  “It’s a terrible thing to quarrel with one’s family. I have a daughter myself, no older than you. I would be most upset if she ran away—not that she would have any reason to want to leave me! I am very good to her. I’m afraid I even spoil her. But if such a thing should ever happen, it would please me to think that she had turned to a gentleman in her time of need. I am not from Paris myself. I live in Lyon. I own a bank there. Listen, child, why don’t you come back to my hotel and have dinner with me? Then we can see about finding you a place to stay until this business is settled.” I regarded him with suspicion. “And what would I have to do for my dinner. Monsieur?”

  The white-haired gentleman looked momentarily confused, then shocked. “My dear child! I would never take advantage of one so young and so innocent! And in this time of distress! It would be like—well, like taking advantage of my own child. What an appalling, disgusting thought! I am sad that you should mistrust me, my dear. It is a commentary on the times we live in that an offer of charity immediately provokes suspicion.”

  He looked very kind and grandfatherly. I felt a little sorry for what I had said.

  “You must be chilled through,” he said worriedly. “Here, take my cloak.” He threw his cape around my shoulders. It felt slick and cold rather than warm. “It really was very silly of you to run off without making better preparations. Ah, the young are so impulsive, so headstrong! Listen to me,” he laughed, “I’m scolding you just like a father. Only I hope I am a better father than yours! Imagine, beating a young woman of your age. It’s a disgrace! The man should be jailed.”

  He hailed a passing carriage.

  “Thank you. Monsieur,” I said when we were seated and he had given the driver the address of his hotel. “I met some very evil people—I just barely escaped! Thank you for helping me.”

  “There, there,” he patted my hand in fatherly fashion. “I am just glad that I happened to come along at the right time. Mademoiselle. You are fortunate that some less honorable person didn’t find you first!”

  His hotel was on a quiet street. It was small and less elegant than one might have expected from his dress and manners. He nodded familiarly to the clerk at the desk and escorted me up the stairs to the second floor. His room was large and comfortable with a large bed in the corner, a dresser and another low table that held a tray with a bottle and some glasses, and a couple of soft chairs in front of a gas fire. He went at once to the liquor tray.

  “You must have a little brandy,” he said. I sat in one of the chairs and he brought me a glass.

  “I don’t think I want anything to drink,” I told him.

  “No? It’s only a small glass. And you need something to take the chill off. Go on, take just a sip or two. You don’t have to finish it. Now tell me, where does this Gaston of yours live?”

  “What? Oh, Gaston! He lives—in another part of the country. In—in Lyon!”

  “Lyon!” The old man smiled. “That’s quite a coincidence. Perhaps I have even used one of his saddles.”

  I felt lost for a second before I remembered that Gaston was supposed to be a saddle-maker. “Oh, yes, saddles! They are very fine saddles, very beautiful!”

  “I’m sure they are. Now where does he live in Lyon?”

  “I do not know,” I confessed, taking a sip of the brandy. It tasted terrible and it burned like fire, but it warmed my insides nicely. “I have never visited him there.”

  “And yet he comes all the way to Paris to meet you in church,” the old gentleman marvelled. “What remarkable devotion! And I don’t mean devotion to God!" He laughed heartily at his little joke. I smiled weakly. “Are you warmer, my dear? Here, drink some more of your brandy, just a little. Does wonders for a chill. My own daughter takes some every night before she goes to bed. For her constitution. Well, I suppose you want to go to Lyon as soon as possible? I would take you, but I cannot leave Paris just yet. Business, you know. Perhaps there is a room in this hotel you can have. You can stay here, away from everyone, including your father. You’d be quite safe, and when I was ready to go we could travel to Lyon together.”

  “Yes,” I said distractedly, “that sounds like a wonderful plan.” My stomach complained noisily, “Oh, I am so hungry. You said we could have dinner here?”

  “Yes, indeed! How inconsiderate of me! I’ll go down and order. We’ll dine here, shall we? So much cozier than downstairs. They serve very nicely here, very nicely.

  What would you like? How about a nice filet and some Bordeaux?”

  “No wine, just tea, if you please,” I said, forcing myself to smile sweetly. I felt very tired and hungry and I wished he’d get on with it. “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Splendid. I’ll be right back.”

  He went out. I wandered around the room. It had a bare, unlived-in look. I peaked in the top drawer of the dresser. It was empty. So were all the other drawers. I looked under the bed. No suitcase or valise.

  “Looking for something. Mademoiselle?”

  I stood up quickly. My host came into the room and closed the door. He turned the key and dropped it into his pocket.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” I said. “I wanted a pair of dry socks. I thought you might have something I could borrow. But all your drawers are empty. I find that very strange. Are we in the wrong room?”

  I inched slowly around the perimeter of the room, towards the door. He grinned and came towards me.

  “What’s the matter, child? Don’t you trust me? After all, I have a daughter—”

  “I think the only daughter you have is in your head,”I said sharply. “Please get out of my way or I’ll call the police.” He came closer. “Police! Police!” I shouted.

  But the ploy that had frightened the old woman only made this man chuckle. “You don’t think anyone is going to pay attention to that nonsense, do you? We’re not in Pigalle now, my dear.”

  “The hotel—the guests! They’ll hear me!”

  “Not they! I’m a very good customer of theirs. Very well known to the management. I come, I go, I pay my bills on time, I tip well. Now be a good girl and come sit on my lap.”

  I dodged past him but he grabbed my loose hair and dragged me towards the bed. I flailed at him and tried to pry his fingers loose, but even though he was old he was strong. Or else he had had experience in handling angry women.

  "Let me go!” I scratched at his wrists and plucked at hi
s fingers. He was tearing my hair out by the roots and it hurt.

  “Now, now, calm yourself, child! I’m not going to hurt you. I want to talk to you. Business. You could make yourself a lot of money, you know. And I can help you.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded angrily. “You mean you would pay me if I slept with you?”

  “Something like that,” he chuckled. “You’re obviously new at this game. But I can teach you a lot, my dear. Everything you need to know.” He pulled me into an embrace and tickled my chin. “Now why don’t you get out of that silly wet dress and we’ll get started.” He leaned forward to kiss me.

  I boxed his ears and sprang away from him. I reached the door in a single bound and rattled the knob, then beat on it with my fists.

  “It’s locked, remember?” he laughed. His good humor was as horrible as Gaston’s idiotic slobbering. “I have the key in my pocket. Why don’t you come and get it?” “You evil son of a louse-infested dog!” I said furiously. “You can’t keep me here against my will! Unlock this door and let me go!”

  “When I’m ready. I think you ought to listen to me, my dear. I have a proposition to make.”

  “I know what kind of proposition you are making and I’m not interested,” I snapped. “When my father hears about this—and Gaston!—”

  “You don’t even know who your father is,” he said with a broad grin. “And as for Gaston—he’s about as real as that daughter of mine. Everything you told me was a lie. That doesn’t matter. Everything I told you was a lie, too. We’re even. You’re not running away from home; as I said, you would have made better preparations. I think you’re just a poor, green little whore who’s running away from her procurer or an angry customer. You really shouldn’t try to work for yourself, my dear. A woman is such a soft, weak creature. So defenceless. You need a man to stand up for you, to protect you.”

  He came towards me again. I darted and dodged, but the room was small and I could not escape him. He backed me up against the door and put his arms around me. I tried the knee trick that had worked so well on Gaston, but he anticipated it and chopped viciously at my upraised thigh with his fist.