"Can you believe, ma chere, that I can understand and sympathize with you?" Rafael Girarde said in gentle tones. "They say there is no bond stronger in this world than mother-love… but then, being a mother is more than just giving birth, is it not…?"
"Please," Madeleine interrupted. "I-I realize I have no right coming to you like this, M'sieu'… but… but my God… she is my baby, don't you see…?"
At that moment, she broke down completely and Girarde made no motion toward consoling her. The interlude gave him time to think as well as an opportunity to ogle her sensuously inspiring curvaceous body, while simultaneously he sensed a carnal stirring at his loins. He smiled to himself, a barely perceptible little gesture, while she wiped at her nose in an effort to regain her composure. Finally, he stood and went to a small cabinet to bring out glasses and a half-filled bottle of cognac. He poured lightly and approached her, a glass in either hand.
"Drink this, ma chere, I believe it will help."
Hesitantly Madeleine accepted it and sipped.
God knows, she needed some sort of bracer at the moment. She'd been a fool for coming here this way… completely stripping herself of pride… and worst of all, now she had exposed herself… to say nothing of what it might do to Antoine if he were to find out of her past through someone else… Dear God, she'd had to do something… anything rather than keep her tentative clandestine meeting with Uncle Gaston… And then, the thought of him pawing her with his fat, sweaty hands as he had the night before, his wicked fingers inserted right up inside her vaginal passage between her legs, almost nauseated her. Today, it would be worse… today, it would be everything, all the way; he'd have no mercy…
"Of course, Madame Poirier, you must understand that we… Madame Girarde and myself, regard Igat as our very own," he said, never losing his gentleness of voice. "I'm certain you do appreciate this…?"
"Yes… yes, I do appreciate it, M'sieu' and I know all that you've done for her," Madeleine acknowledged. "Oh… I know I have no right to even hope… but she's my baby… if… if I could just see her once in awhile, perhaps for a very little time each week…?"
Girarde pursed his lips, his brow furrowing, as if he were not too pleased with the idea. He said. "I'm not certain that Madame Girarde would approve of you seeing her at all, ma chere…"
"Could she be that cruel?" Madeleine put to him sharply.
"Ah oui, she could and undoubtedly would," replied Girarde, finishing his cognac. "My wife is not what you would call a considerate woman, however…" He sat his glass on his desk and approached her with outstretched hands.
Madeleine sensed a quickening of her pulse at the expressive movement and as she fixed her eyes on his still beckoning hands, she set down her glass and slowly arose, feeling that he was bringing the interview to an end. He caught her hands in his and held to them warmly as she raised her eyes to lock with his own, both surprise and mild trepidation rippling over her.
"You… you said, however…?" Madeleine repeated.
Girarde nodded, smiling handsomely. "I was going to say that something might be arranged… between you and me… excluding Madame Girarde… perhaps some private little tete-a-tetes once a week… quiet and ah… shall we say, intimate, ma chere?"
Madeleine stared up into his face, her eyes widening in shocked disbelief as the full impact of his meaning struck her immediately. "M'sieu', my God… what are you saying…?"
"Ah, come now, Cheri," he said softly, continuing to smile as he moved closer to her, his hands gently slipping to her narrow waist. "Certainly nothing wrong with us enjoying a… say, a dinner one evening, eh? Where we might discuss arrangements more in detail…?"
"A-Arrangements…?" Madeleine repeated, her face flushing as the rage began to mount inside her. "M'sieu'… you will please remove your hands from me at once. Wh-What do you take me for, anyway?"
Rafael Girarde chuckled lewdly and Madeleine detected the lascivious gleam in his eyes. "Let's not play cat and mouse, ma chere, I believe you've already established the answer to what you are… my only concern is the extent of your price, eh?"
The brunt of his words was like a blow across her cheek; she actually staggered backward from it, even as he clutched at her waist.
"Damn you!" she hissed. "Goddamn you! You dare speak to me this way? Put your hands on me…? My husband will kill you for this insult! I swear…!"
Girarde continued to chuckle, as if she hadn't spoken a word. Finally, and calmly, he said: "Madame, I have a strange feeling that your husband would be more apt to kill you… if he knew the truth… if he knew the truth… eh? Now, isn't that just a little bit closer to the facts? The so-called nephew of our country's infamous crime czar has no idea that his pretty little wife is the mother of an illegitimate child… or wouldn't you care to answer that?"
Madeleine could do nothing, it seemed, but stare blankly at him. She had totally misjudged him, and by so doing, had compromised herself dangerously. For one brief moment, her legs nearly wilted beneath her… and then came the resurgence of anger and rage that caused her to flail out at him wildly with clawing hands as the tears gushed down her cheeks.
"You bastard!" she screamed, "You dirty rotten bastard!"
The sudden ferocity of her attack sent the handsome Ministre floundering backward and sputtering obscenities of his own, his retreat giving Madeleine the necessary time to break for the door, and before he could stop her, she was beyond it, racing through his office in a state of sobbing, emotional frenzy, to which M. Girarde's matronly secretary leaped to her feet to stare after her, then slowly turned to her employer with gaping, questioning eyes.
"Mon Dieu, M'sieu'! What is wrong with her… she was almost hysterical…?"
"Ohhh… shut up and… get back to work, eh?" M. Girarde spat at her, going back into his office and slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shortly, it began to rain and Madeleine walked aimlessly in it. She had taken a cab to M. Girarde's office rather than to drive and have to search out a parking place in downtown traffic, and now in the aftermath of the degrading incident the Ministre Of Gouvernment had subjected her to, she found herself wandering erratically along hardly familiar streets, the summer downpour nearly soaking her.
Dear God, in all of her young life she had never felt so despondent… so all alone as she did at that very moment. Where could she turn? She had no one… absolutely no one. There was no way she could approach Antoine, or unburden her soul to him, and subconsciously she had been aware of this all along, which was undoubtedly the reason she had not done so already; he would never understand… never forgive her. She realized this to be a certainty, now, for the first time. And M. Girarde, whom she had misjudged entirely, he, too, was a vile beast, without the slightest touch of compassion in his heart, God, she was destitute for sympathy or a helping hand, and she must see her baby… she must, or lose her mind altogether!
So… there remained but one course… Uncle Gaston. Dear God! Could she do it? She remembered the little ogre's words: "You be 'nice' to me and I'll get your kid back for you… make Antoine accept it… Girarde is a nothing… a Ministre Of Gouvernment, but a nothing. I'll get the child. I swear it… if you're 'nice' to me…"
Oh God… have mercy on me, she thought as she felt the warmth of her tears even in the midst of the rain drops brushing down her cheeks, and then, she raised her arm at the oncoming cab and signaled it over to the curb.