18

CATHERINE WAS now Madame Pinchon.

Or, as she sardonically referred to herself, Madame J.C.

Pinchon’s marriage proposal, in the form of a serious suggestion, couldn’t have been more timely. Not that Catherine’s ego needed such extreme repair. Actually, as a result of being rejected by Hazard, her self-confidence suffered only a slight abrasion, which healed itself almost overnight. Yes, she was amazingly resilient when it came to that.

What did persist, however, was a resentment that she’d been horribly cheated at her own game. It was as though her partner (opponent?) had suddenly abandoned the match, walked off before a winner could be decided, and there she was, left with no one to test.

Feelings of unlovableness were already starting to take advantage of her. Next would come awful deep depression and total ennui. Unless she did something about it.

She could, of course, resort to a new, half-hearted relationship, as she’d frequently done in the past under similar circumstances. But this time she didn’t feel that would suffice, wouldn’t supply nearly enough proof. Neither was she in the mood to expend the patience and effort needed to set up another protracted involvement. Especially not after having wasted so much restraint and good behavior on Hazard.

Conveniently, there was Pinchon. She accepted him as a secondary target.

His idea was to fix a future date for their wedding, say a Sunday in a month or six weeks. He figured by then his scheme would be a fait accompli.

Catherine, in a now-or-never tone, insisted the marriage take place at once.

Pinchon misinterpreted her eagerness in his favor. He arranged for a civil ceremony at the local marie. Ordinarily a three-day waiting period was required by law.

Catherine did not want to wait.

Pinchon exerted his influence—money—to get the waiting period waived. They could go to the marie and be married immediately.

Catherine did not want to go to the marie. She preferred to be married there at the villa, outside on the lawn.

Pinchon tried to reason with her.

Catherine wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pinchon gave in.

Catherine chose a pleasant, shady spot on the lawn and had a white, double-seated glider swing placed there. She and Pinchon sat opposite the over-starched little town clerk and a fat stranger the clerk had brought along to serve as witness. While the official words were droned, Catherine used one of her bare feet to get the glider going back and forth. Ignoring Pinchon’s reproachful glances, she blithely maintained the momentum.

The moment being so crucial, Pinchon decided against ordering her to stop. He thought perhaps she was merely too happy to contain herself.

When the town clerk came to the part of the ceremony that asked Catherine would she take this man, etc., her apathetic response was: “Why not?” The clerk’s pause requested a more conventional reply. She curtly told him to get on with it.

And when the moment called for Pinchon to contribute the family ring, a forty-two carat, oval-cut emerald, Catherine extended only the second finger of her right hand. To offset what seemed a most impertinent gesture, Pinchon quickly slipped the ring on. After the solemn pronouncement he kissed both corners of Catherine’s mouth, presumably to seal it from all others forever. The clerk and the witness departed, complaining of motion sickness.

Catherine had agreed to forego an immediate wedding trip. She was cooperative when Pinchon explained that he had an important business matter pending, one that required his personal attention. There was no reason, however, why their marriage should go uncelebrated.

Catherine said she would enjoy having a few of her friends in.

Pinchon approved. He imaged a brief, informal soirée, with himself the principal attraction. It was only natural, he thought, that Catherine should want to show off.

Her friends began arriving within an hour after the ceremony. Nearly a hundred came down from London.

Pinchon reminded Catherine that she’d said a few.

She told him not to worry, she’d pay for everything.

It wasn’t a matter of money, he told her.

“Oh?” she said, and made a remark about the French—a nation of string-savers was her description.

Pinchon flared but placed his hand on hers and calmly assured her it really didn’t matter how many people she invited.

She smiled contritely, reached up with both hands and brought his face down to her, tenderly, as though it were a precious, fragile bowl. She sipped a long kiss and called him love.

He disliked having his face handled by anyone, so it was not entirely pleasant for him.

Had she known that, it might have been her reason for doing it, but her affection was even more contrived. To effectively mistreat a man one also had to treat him well.

As it turned out the hundred from London were merely the nucleus. At least double that number were there by nightfall and double that many again by midnight. They arrived on flights chartered for them by her or via private jets dispatched by her to fetch them.

How insolent and presumptuous they were, thought Pinchon. Taking for granted they would stay, they had literally appropriated the entire villa. Mon Dieu! Their amplified guitars were threatening his Baccarat crystal, their heels were torturing his Aubusson carpets, the stench of hemp and hashish was permeating his silk-damask hangings. How dare they shove furnishings aside to make space for their dancing. He never allowed anything to be out of place, not a single thing, never.

“Arrêtez!” he shouted. “Arrêtez!”

But the music was louder and those near enough to hear him only laughed and nodded. From their induced high points of view he was merely expressing exuberance.

What recourse did he have? Calling the gendarmes was out of the question. There’d be no way of explaining all the drugs that would be found. Trouble, disparaging publicity had to be avoided, especially now. Besides, if he disclaimed these people, used the excuse that they were not his but his wife’s guests, he would be bringing down the worst sort of ridicule on himself.

Pinchon wandered from room to room, despising such atrocities as cigarettes stubbed out in huge bowls of caviar, a shattered Lalique figurine, a puddle of Dom Perignon eating the finish from a Vernis Martin table, eight people occupying one chaise longue, aboard it as though it were a boat, buckling its delicate legs.

Mass derangement—they were everywhere. In the kitchen, helping themselves to delicacies (the servants had already deserted). Down in the wine cellar, helping themselves to the better vintages. Upstairs in the bedrooms and baths, helping themselves to one another or more than one another.

Additionally unbearable for Pinchon was that except for a few lighthearted swishes who wanted to kiss the groom, no one seemed to realize or care who he was. Conversely, Catherine was basking in constant homage. As she moved about they competed to be near her, as though her mouth, eyes and hands were distributing blessings.

At various times over the evening she made it a point to seek out Pinchon. To sustain him with an embrace or more intimate show of affection. She realized his exasperation but concealed how much it amused her. Several times she cajoled him into a smile and then quickly rejoined the confusion.

At 4:30 A.M. Pinchon still saw no sign of a let-up. Actually, everyone seemed more stimulated than ever. In nervous reaction he himself had drunk too much cognac. He was in the foyer then, trying to make his way through the jostling and milling, when Catherine again came to him. She kissed him a moist lingering one near his right ear and inserted her hand in under the back of his jacket. Feeling through the silkiness of his shirt, her hand glided and performed possessive little grabs.

“I’m going to lie down for a while,” she told him.

He was also in favor of that.

“No,” she said. and left him abruptly.

He watched her go up the wide marble stairway. She was flanked by two handsome young woman dressed in St. Laurent smoking. With arms around, sides locked to sides, up they went together. Pinchon noticed the flash of the oval-cut family emerald. It was on the finger of the extremely short-haired, dark-haired one on Catherine’s left.

Not to be obvious, Pinchon waited a moment before following them up. On reaching the upper landing he hesitated and then chose to go to his private quarters. It was the only area of the villa they hadn’t been able to violate, thanks to his elaborate precautions.

He closed the door behind him. The multiple electric locks shot back into place.

A sigh expressed how relieved he was to be alone. Under no condition would he let anyone in, perhaps not even her.

He undressed quickly.

Merde. Their interminable music invaded even here. He got two small cubes of malleable pink wax from a bedstand drawer, worked them into proper shape with his fingers and inserted them into his ears. Then he could hear only his inner self. It was a bit alarming.

He went into his dressing room. Standing at its center he observed his nudity in the opposing mirrored surfaces.

As for her, Madame Pinchon, a slapping around or two would straighten her out.