Lies Told In Silence Read online

  A woman of his wife’s upbringing would consider the word cuckold too crude for polite conversation, so Henri knew she had chosen it to emphasize her contempt for his behaviour.

  It was true, though he was not ready to admit it. Vivienne D’Aubigne had flirted with him since the night they were introduced at the opera. Bold and provocative, she wore dresses promising barely hidden delights while beguiling him with red lips and curving hips. Everything about her was different from Lise, and he had allowed himself to be enticed into an arrangement that had only recently lost its appeal.

  No wonder Lise has been so remote and sharp-tongued, he thought. During his weekly visits to her bedroom, she had submitted to his love making which, he now realized, was merely a charade to avoid confrontation. And she had withdrawn from him, offering a cheek to be kissed rather than her lips when he returned each evening, failing to smile when he teased the children, conversing without engaging, her countenance subdued rather than animated.

  Henri’s back stiffened as he went on the offensive. “Are you suggesting that I don’t have the welfare of my family uppermost in my mind?”

  “It’s only your children you care about. You stopped caring about me years ago. And don’t think I’m fooled when you say you’re working late. I can smell her on you. Such cheap perfume.” She pressed a handkerchief against her nose.

  “You’re hysterical and don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Lise raised a hand to slap his face, but he grabbed her wrist before she could reach him and held it in the air.

  “Enough. You and the children will do whatever I decide.”

  Henri dropped his wife’s arm. Never in twenty years of marriage had Lise attempted to strike him. She glared at him but remained silent, blotches marking her face, breath unsteady. Now would be the time to apologize, he thought. Admit the affair and face the consequences. He wondered where such a conversation would lead and whether it would be best to ask her forgiveness when emotions were calmer.

  God she looks beautiful when she’s angry. Whatever possessed me to start up with another woman?

  Henri stepped closer. His wife stepped back and turned away.

  Chapter 3

  May 1914

  Helene and her family lived in a spacious apartment in the sixteenth arrondissement, a section of the city that encompassed the ancient village of Chaillot but was now filled with wide boulevards, prestigious schools and numerous parks, including the Bois de Boulogne. Less than a hundred years ago, the private mansions of Parisian nobility and high society graced the area housing well known figures such as Victor Hugo, Prince Bonaparte and Baron de Rothschild. Slowly these mansions had been turned into highly desirable apartments.

  By the second week of May, the green canopy of Paris shimmered in humid, lazy air as the family assembled in the morning room, a room with none of the formality of the salon, where heavy drapes and richly coloured fabrics made visitors aware of the family’s position in society, or the dining room, where mahogany and silver spoke of deep ancestral roots. Instead, the morning room spread like a country canvas of tranquil colours and soft contours to create an aura of calm.

  Papa had summoned the family for ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. Curious and a bit worried at the unusual nature of her father’s request, Helene arrived a few minutes early. No one was speaking when she entered the room, and she had the odd feeling that her parents and grandmother were posing for a portrait and the painter had told them not to move.

  Maman, her back rigid, sat with a saucer in one hand and a coffee cup halfway to her lips as though uncertain whether to take a sip. Her face was blotchy, and Helene thought her mother might have been crying. She glanced immediately at Papa for reassurance, expecting his usual warm smile, but instead he frowned at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. Grandmere was over by the window fingering her rosary and dressed in black since the year of mourning for her husband was not quite over. Grandmere did not smile either.

  Deciding that conversation would not be welcome, Helene walked silently to the sofa where she waited, with correct posture and carefully arranged skirt, for her brothers to appear. At five minutes after ten, Guy arrived with Jean trailing behind.

  Guy’s jacket was more formal than a Saturday morning called for, Helene thought, admiring the set of his tie. At the age of fourteen, her older brother had learned many intricate ways to knot his tie and she had watched him practice for hours in front of the mirror in his bedroom. That was several years ago, a time when she was still allowed into his bedroom. Last year, Guy declared his room off limits to her. Maman had tried to explain, but Helene still felt rejected.

  For many years, she and Guy had been very close, sharing secrets, banding together when their parents were overly strict, spending hours outdoors in the days when Helene wished she were a boy with the freedom that went along with being a member of that sex. When their little brother, Marc, had died of scarlet fever, they had comforted one another, longing for the time when Maman would no longer spend her days in tears. After Guy turned fifteen, their easy relationship had changed.

  “Sorry, Father. Jean was out with Tout Tout. It took me awhile to find him.”

  “Jean, you’re thirteen, old enough to dress properly and arrive on time. I’m not pleased with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.” Jean took a seat on the padded bench in front of the fireplace, his light brown hair tousled, freckles marking the bridge of his nose. He was much shorter than Helene, with a thin, wiry frame, and had yet to experience any growth spurts.

  Guy stood a few steps away from Papa, emulating his upright bearing, and Helene thought again of the portrait painter as the family tableau arranged itself to accommodate more people. She almost chuckled but caught herself in time; clearly no one was in the mood for frivolity.

  “Maman and I have something important to discuss with you.”

  Papa’s gruff, measured voice reminded Helene of the eulogy he had given at his father’s funeral. Her mother’s mouth tightened as if she had just swallowed some nasty medicine.

  “France is facing a troubling situation right now,” Papa continued. “Germany has become very aggressive and the Balkans are still festering. Many feel that we may soon be at war.”

  As her father spoke, Helene realized he was describing the same concerns she had overheard in the library, omitting some of the more alarming aspects. She glanced at Guy, who was nodding at his father’s words. Papa has already told him, she thought, anger pinching her cheeks.

  “Why does Germany hate us?” asked Jean.

  “It’s more complicated than that, Jean. Countries like Germany seek advantages by forming alliances with other countries. Those excluded from such alliances often counter with their own arrangements. Sometimes these relationships are based on trade. Sometimes they are for military purposes. When arrangements become unbalanced, disagreements can follow.” Helene found her father’s calm tone reassuring.

  “Oh,” said Jean. “So Germany is in a different alliance than France.”

  “That’s right,” her father said.

  “What will we do, Papa?” Helene spoke for the first time.

  “As I said, Maman and I are very concerned. We think you’ll be safer away from Paris, so I’ve arranged for Tante Camille’s house in Beaufort to be prepared. In a few months, the situation will no doubt calm down and you will return home.”

  Helene wondered whether her mother really agreed with her father. Maman seemed to dislike their holidays in Beaufort, and they had not been for many years. She looked at the three adults in the room. Since her father was the only one speaking and Grandmere never interfered, she appealed to her mother.

  “Maman, we can’t leave Paris for a tiny village in the country with no fashion houses, museums or art galleries.” Helene listed activities she thought were of great interest to her mother. “What about my friends?” Her mother did not respond, so Helene looked at her father. “And my schooling. They won’t t
each English there, Papa. Guy, tell Papa we have to stay in Paris.”

  “Umm … I’m going to remain in Paris with Papa. It’s already decided. I’ve secured a spot at the Ecole Militaire in Fontainebleau for a special training program. And if war is declared, I will enlist and defend my country.” Guy puffed out his chest.

  Helene’s mother set her coffee cup down with a clatter as colour drained from her face. “Guy, you can’t enlist. You’re far too young.”

  “But Maman, in two months I’ll be nineteen. If France needs me, I will heed the call. It’s my duty.”

  “I could not persuade him otherwise, Lise. I tried. You must believe me.” Papa looked apologetic, although he made no move to comfort Maman.

  Helene’s grandmother rose from her chair. “Henri, I do not like to interfere, however, I’m the only one in this room who has lived through war. It’s a despicable venture. Nothing grand or glorious about it. Yes, you’ve served in the military, but France was at peace during that time. So what do you really know of war?” She wagged her finger in his direction. “Think carefully before you put your son at risk.” Without another word, she proceeded towards the door.

  “Maman, please understand …”

  Grandmere did not even pause to acknowledge her son. She left the room with deliberate steps and a stiff mouth. Words slipped from Helene’s lips before she could stop them.

  “Will Monsieur Ribot’s and Monsieur Sembat’s families leave Paris?”

  Papa tipped his head to one side. “What do they have to do with this?”

  “I … I heard your conversation with them in the library.”

  “What? You were in the library? Listening to our private conversation? You deliberately hid from us?” Her father’s face changed from incredulous to furious, his eyebrows drawn into a solid line.

  Helene braced her shoulders and kept her head high. “Tell me, Papa, will they be leaving Paris? Because if they’re not, why should we?”

  “You were not meant to hear that conversation. Disgraceful behaviour. Leave the room, Helene. At once.”

  “No, Papa. I’m very sorry that I listened, but I’m sixteen and deserve to be treated as an adult. You exclude me from serious matters, but you tell Guy. It’s your own fault that I wanted to listen when Monsieur Ribot started talking about Germany. You said a lot more then than what you’ve said this morning.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “Papa, perhaps Helene deserves to know more,” said Guy.

  “And now you’re supporting her?”

  “You’ve brought this on yourself, Henri, with your autocratic approach. They aren’t little children anymore.” Maman’s eyes flashed.

  “Well, I want to go to Beaufort,” Jean said. “And perhaps we can stay long enough for me to go to school there. I hate my school, and at Tante Camille’s I can go fishing and learn to hunt.”

  The dog began to bark. Helene and her mother spoke at the same time. Guy told Tout Tout to be quiet. The conversation tumbled into disorder.

  “Jean, please take Tout Tout out to the kitchen,” Papa said. “We’ll talk about fishing and hunting later. This conversation is giving me a headache. I believe Beaufort is the best course of action. I hope you will all trust that I’m trying to do what’s right for my family.”

  “But …” Helene tried again.

  “No more, Helene. I’ll revisit my decision in a few months time.”

  Chapter 4

  May 1914

  Henri swirled his glass, sniffed appreciatively and took another sip of brandy, its fiery heat and smooth aftertaste eliciting a brief moment of relaxation. On his desk were three piles of papers: one contained an analysis of the Balkan situation, a second detailed ongoing discussions between France and Great Britain and the third pile, a smaller pile, included a report of actions by various German military leaders. Despite their ominous topics, Henri was not reviewing any of these papers.

  Instead, he had General Bernhardi’s book Germany and the Next War open to chapter two, chillingly titled “The Duty to Make War”, where Henri had bookmarked a particular sentence: “The lessons of history thus confirm the view that wars which have been deliberately provoked by far-seeing statesmen have had the happiest results”.

  The words war and happy should never be in the same sentence, he thought.

  Given Bernhardi’s vast political and military influence, there was only one conclusion: Germany would soon provoke war and reap the benefit of picking the most advantageous timing. Then her alliances with Austria-Hungary and Italy would bring those countries into the conflict.

  He flipped forward to chapter seven, where he had also marked passages calling for universal service to augment the total fighting strength of Germany and describing the factors necessary for German success. Bernhardi concluded that offensive warfare combined with tactical striking power and efficiency would outweigh the combined numbers of France, Britain and Russia.

  Henri was seriously alarmed. As he tried to imagine what options were left for France, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

  A discreet cough drew his attention away from his papers to the library door where Helene waited for permission to enter. Still caught in grim ruminations, Henri beckoned absently. Under other circumstances, he might have told her that he was busy, but their estrangement pained him.

  He knew she did not want to go to Beaufort and had observed her moping about the house, snapping at her younger brother or at little Tout Tout, both actions out of character for his sweet-natured daughter. He had also noted whispered conversations between Helene and Guy that ceased as soon as he appeared. Henri wished he could pull her onto his lap as he used to when she was little and, with easy promises, bring a smile back to her face.

  “Helene—”

  “Papa, please let me speak. I know you’re very concerned about Germany and Austria-Hungary. Guy has explained more of the situation, and I have been reading the newspapers every day. I can see that it’s a great worry. However, you have always said that education is important for both girls and boys, and you must see that I cannot be properly educated in such a small village. I will help Maman and Grandmere get settled, but I would ask you to agree that I can return in September when school begins. I can be useful here in Paris, Papa. You and Guy will need a woman in the house.”

  Henri was amused at Helene’s calm logic. He kept his face solemn.

  “You’re right to say that education is important. I have always wanted that for you and the boys. But your safety is much more important. No, no. Wait.” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “Guy and the newspapers don’t know the full story. Sadly, I am privy to much more.”

  Henri’s eyes went black as he imagined a Paris overrun with soldiers and the havoc they would create.

  “Your duty is with Maman.” Henri leaned forward and took his daughter’s hand. “She will need your strength and determination, and your company. We may be facing difficult times. Very difficult times.” Henri nodded more to himself than to Helene.

  “But Papa …”

  “No buts, Helene. Please do as I ask.”

  Helene’s eyes filled and her cheeks took on a blotchy pink stain. She disengaged her hand from his but otherwise did not move.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “I need you to act like an adult. Can you do that for me? Maman is very unhappy about this; Grandmere is getting older and will need your help; Jean is still young. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Beaufort is a happy place, you’ll see.”

  Henri remembered the curve in the road from which the first glimpse of Beaufort appeared, a small traditional village set amongst fields of wheat, potatoes and beets. When he was young, they had usually travelled by train for their summer visit, excitement building as August approached and they prepared to leave Paris. Tante Camille always sent last-minute shopping requests to Henri’s mother: special jams from Hediard, linens from Noel, fabric from Poiret or Worth, medicines and creams from the pharma
cist. One year he remembered bringing a woman’s dress form so his aunt could create her own styles, having declared in a letter to his mother that the village seamstress was hopeless.

  When they finally left Paris, their carriage would be overflowing with suitcases, boxes, presents, food and other paraphernalia that his mother deemed necessary for summer in Beaufort. Henri’s father never protested, knowing the wisdom of allowing his wife to have her way in such matters. And each year they would leave items for the following summer—rubber boots, a large pot for making soup, a soccer ball, swimming trunks, a lace shawl that his mother only ever wore on holiday. Tante Camille would protest that her house was already full but took secret pleasure in the implication of next year’s visit.

  “Beaufort is where I learned to swim and fish,” he said to Helene. “Grandpere would take us to the river with a small tub of worms and our fishing rods. My brothers and I would stand on the riverbanks with him for hours. He was a different man in Beaufort.” Henri chewed his lower lip. “We had few restrictions at Tante Camille’s, free to do as we pleased most days. So different from Paris.”

  “When did you stop going?”

  “When you were little. Life took a new direction, I suppose.” He paused. “Your mother didn’t like it. Said I was different there.” He shrugged. “You’ll be fine.”

  “I will do my best, Papa.”

  “I promise I’ll revisit the decision in a few months. Guy and I will write many letters, and the days will pass quickly.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Helene ran a finger back and forth along the polished surface of Henri’s desk. “Papa?”

  “Mm hmm,” he said, already beginning to think about Bernhardi again.