Madeleine had never been close to Ginny Novak, but it was nearly impossible for her to think of the lovely blonde girl as being a suicide. When she had first disappeared right after Antoine's arrest, Madeleine felt certain she had run away, back to the States perhaps, but then, all those weeks later when they fished her horribly bloated body from the river, the shock, on top of Antoine's pending situation, was almost too much to bear. Only Uncle Gaston seemed to have the strength and perseverance necessary to keep them all going.
"Antoine will be all right, ma chere," the little emperor would insist. "You mustn't worry. So… he has to do a little time; it won't hurt him, eh? He gambled for big stakes and lost. He's lucky he's got the syndicate behind him… otherwise, he could end up with twenty years." Then, he would take her hands inside his own little fat ones and hold them possessively. "But don't you worry about a thing, Cheri. I'll see that you're taken care of. You'll come to live with Uncle Gaston, eh? One big happy family…" He'd wink then and the blood would chill in her veins.
Madeleine remained in her and Antoine's apartment until the end. On that last rainy morning when the judge passed sentence, she thought she would lose her mind. She had screamed out in the courtroom, then fainted. Later, in an adjoining chamber, she had awakened with only Uncle Gaston beside her. He sat on the edge of the leather chesterfield where she lay, and she could hardly believe it when she felt his hot hand caressing her thigh beneath her mini-dress, his wet, rubbery mouth stretched in a warm, if, lecherous smile.
"There, there, my pet," he cooed down at her. "Everything's going to be fine. You'll come home with me and I'll take care of you… just you and me now, eh? We'll have some wonderful times together. We'll travel… see the world… whatever your little heart desires, ma chere…"
She stared up at him, her eyes widening in horrified disbelief, the meaning of his words registering fully in her sickened, heart-broken brain.
"First, we'll get the kid for you, eh? How's that?" he said, grinning, convinced that this of all things would influence her.
"Oh… Oh God…! Y-You filthy… filthy, vile beast!" Madeleine hissed at him, shoving his hand from beneath her dress with such force that he nearly fell off the edge of the couch. Suddenly, she swung bodily around, pivoting on her buttocks, and was on her feet before the squat Larreau could regain his balance. "Damn you!" she half screamed at him. "You're the cause of Antoine's going to prison! You used him… and he's going there in your place… just as you probably had Ginny Novak murdered! All so that you could have me… is that it? Y-You despicable pig! Filthy swine!" She backed toward the door, her beautiful face drawn in vicious hatred. "Well… you'll never have me again, damn you! Never, you hear? Never!"
Abruptly, Larreau's expression changed, the blood draining from his round face, the scar on his right cheek suddenly becoming a livid purple in his mounting rage. He moved toward her then, but she was not there by the time he'd crossed the room; she had jerked open the door and was running down the corridor, her sobs and the pounding of her heels echoing back to him as he called after her.
Goddamn her! She was getting away from him after all!
Madeleine had no idea of how long she ran the wet streets of Montreal. She only knew that the rain dampening her face was all that was keeping her from fainting again, and when the pain in her aching chest became so severe from running, she stumbled into an unfamiliar little bar and found herself a secluded, darkened corner to collapse in. Fortunately, at this time of morning, the place was deserted except for the young bartender and a male patron at the far end of the bar.
Slowly, Madeleine composed herself as the young man approached and she ordered a vermouth.
He smiled down at her; he was clean-cut and had a pleasant smile. He said: "Are you looking for someone, Ma'm'selle?"
"N-No. Why do you ask?"
The young man shrugged. He wiped at the table in front of her with a dry little towel he carried. "Most of the girls who come here this time of day are looking for… shall we say… a companion?"
Madeleine could barely see his face in the shadows, but the gleam of his white teeth was very distinct. She understood then. "I-I'm not one of those girls, M'sieu'," she replied sharply, the ache in her chest gradually leaving her. "Do you have coffee?"
"No."
"Just the vermouth then, thank you."
He nodded, smiled, and went away. She watched him and saw that the patron at the bar was trying to study her. She couldn't see his face, but he seemed tall, well dressed, and perhaps middle aged. The young bartender exchanged a few words with him and the older one continued to watch her.
Abruptly, her situation came back to her like an overwhelming shroud, and momentarily she felt nauseous. Dear God, what was she going to do? Her Antoine was lost to her; she had failed him miserably as a wife, and now there would be no chance to make it up to him. He was gone… out of her life, perhaps, forever. Oh God… dear, dear God… She never wanted to see Gaston Larreau again… never, never! But what was she going to do? She had no money, no friends, no ready means of livelihood… unless she went back to waiting table, but that was not as simple as it sounded… finding a job, a place to live… It all took money… God… she wished she were dead… just like Ginny Novak… at least, her miseries were behind her now… And her Igat… her sweet little darling, Igat… what of her? She couldn't contain her tears any longer. Her head dropped onto her arm and she wept.
Shortly, a familiar but unidentifiable male voice said softly: "Why are you crying, Ma'm'selle?"
Madeleine jerked her head erect. She wiped at her eyes with long fingers, looking up at him; she could hardly see his face, but recognized him as the patron from the end of the bar. He was carrying her vermouth on a small tray. He seemed to be tilting his head and squinting as if attempting to place her. She said coldly: "It's Madame, M'sieu'… and I don't believe we've met…"
He smiled. "Ah… but I think we have, Madame Poirier," he replied, setting her drink before her, moving close enough now so that she could see him well.
For a long moment she stared at him, sensing a certain warmth flow through her. Yes… yes, they had met all right… It was Rafael Girarde, her own little Igat's adopted father. A tight little smile crept onto her face.
"Well," he said, "that's better. Now, may I… ah… sit down?"
Madeleine hesitated, then: "Yes… why not? Please, sit down M'sieu' Girarde."
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was a nice little apartment, clean and unpretentious. Rafael had helped her find it, move her things unbeknownst to anyone, then made her a cocktail waitress in one of his night clubs. He came to sleep with her on Tuesday and Friday nights, leaving her the remainder of her time to use in whatever way she liked. Thank God, he wasn't a jealous man.
Madeleine had soon fallen into the routine; it was a way of life and she was not unhappy. He was good to her, she thought, as she lay beside his naked, muscular body in the gray hours of dawn. She left certain that he cared for her in his own way, but of course she was only his mistress and never could expect more. Nevertheless, he took her nice places to dine and once they had gone on holiday together; yes, there was a certain feeling she had for him, never love per se, but a sense of admiration and loyalty, as well as obligation… and he was a fine lover.
She rolled toward him, pressing her soft, warm, naked body against his and let her hand trail lightly down his hairy chest, over his flat hard belly to the pubic hair of his loins. There, she found his long, limp member in repose… sticky from their last night's love-making as she encircled it. He moaned in his sleep, his closed eyes flicking distractedly. She smiled and moved down his body, pushing the covers back off them as she went. In the faint light she studied the foreskin and the thickness of his still limp shaft fascinatedly. Slowly, she began to massage it with one hand while her other went beneath to cup and cradle his balls. It was strange how her own desire seemed to peak at this time of night-morning. He had inspired and taught her this because of their odd working hours, never getting home until nearly dawn, but last night had been hers off, and he had taken her to dinner and the theatre. After, they had been too tired for love, but now… Again, she examined and saw the tiny droplets seeping from its split tip. Tenderly, she stroked the uncircumcised foreskin down its now stiffening full length, then helped it return to cover the ever growing glans of its head.