Gilded Cage

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Handsome and brilliant, Pierre Boucheron is the darling of glamorous Parisian high society. Casually cruel, he leaves a score of lovelorn women behind, until he meets Madeleine, the young Countess de L'Orme, and discovers a love so pure it makes a mockery of his past affairs. Zélie du Chaumet, until that moment his mistress, is now cast aside like all the others. But she has the perfect instrument of revenge ? his past. Her thirst for vengeance haunts Pierre through the streets of Paris, from the height of luxury to the despair of poverty, dragging him further and further into the gutter. Shunned by polite society, rejected by the underworld he was once a part of, his future with Madeleine seems an impossible dream ? can he escape his nemesis before it destroys him completely??

Release date: December 5, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 176

Sample

Leaving behind the mean alleys, reeking slums and crowded taverns of Montmartre, passing through the commercial centre of the city of Paris, you will come to the Champs-Elysées – a great wide road that leads to a star – The Étoile. But it’s a hard thing for a man to hitch his waggon to a star, as this story sets out to tell.

The Bois on this calm summer’s day was the usual scene of activity. Long streams of cars passed each other; little cars, sombre cars, long, luxurious cars with bonnets that glittered in the sun. On the lake numbers of boats glided up and down, and against the blue of the water the bright frocks of the women, the gay scarlet or green of a parasol, the white flannels of the men, were like vivid splashes of colour from a painter’s brush.

The Pré Catalan Café was full of fashionable people at this hour of half-past twelve. Here and there sat a group of Americans, conspicuous by their loud voices and nasal twang. Here and there an English couple sat more quietly, watching the vivid, busy scene with interest.

The little tables outside the café, overlooking the drive, were not vacant for long. Cars drove up to the main door by the dozen; couples strolled in; waiters hurried hither and thither. The hum and buzz of voices, the gay laugh of a girl mingled with the clatter of plates; the popping of corks. Here and there a stout, bearded Frenchman spreads out his legs and regards the scene with contentment, noisily gulping a great glass of iced beer. Here and there a love-sick young man drinks to his lady’s eyes, with a goblet of frothing champagne.

From the interior of the café came the strains of music, and through the glass windows could be seen a few couples, dancing feverishly in spite of the hot weather.

At one table, overlooking the drive, a group of young men and two pretty girls, exquisitely dressed, were drinking champagne and listening to their host, who was holding their attention and causing a good deal of merriment by reading them his latest poem.

This young man, the perfect dude in his check suit, wide bow tie, and white spats, was René Duval – just one of those things that happen even in the best regulated family. Many long moments had Monsieur Duval spent in brushing, oiling, fixing that smooth and glossy head of hair; that upcurled moustache which did not conceal a weak, girlish mouth. With languorous grace he leaned his elbow on the table. One white, manicured hand supported his forehead, the other held up his manuscript.

‘My latest poem is entitled “Purple Passion”,’ he was lisping. And repeated, seriously: ‘“Purple Passion”.’

A burst of laughter greeted this. One of the other men slapped him on the back.

‘Bravo, Duval! But why not purple with pink spots?’

‘Oh, René, do tell us what purple passion is like? Is passion more alluring in purple than in any other colour?’ giggled one of the girls.

René looked at his audience with a hurt expression on his vapid face.

‘I assure you this is not a joke,’ he said. ‘It is very serious. I write only when I am inspired … Please do not laugh.’

Fresh laughter greeted this remark. René sighed and passed a silk handkerchief across his lips.

‘It is lamentable, this lack of recognition of my talents,’ he said. ‘You choose to be ribald, my friends, but let us not forget that many geniuses go at first unrecognised by the swinish public, and –’

‘Come on, René – cast your pearls before us,’ interrupted the young man who had slapped him.

The girl on Duval’s right took his arm and brought a pretty powdered face close to his.

‘Ah, chéri, what a shame,’ she murmured, ‘to mock your genius! Come – read us your poem.’

Instantly mollified, he spread out his manuscript and squeezed the pretty arm tenderly.

‘You are more beautiful than a spring morning, Camille,’ he said, raising his eyes heavenwards; ‘and more kind.’

Camille gave the rest of the party a wicked look from her laughing eyes, and continued to interest herself in the stupid young man. After all, he had money; gave extravagant presents. One can put up with stupidity for the sake of diamonds.

Duval began to read his poem.

‘I cry to thee from the sick aching of my wounded heart …’

‘“Sick aching”,’ interrupted Camille. ‘Mon Dieu! But how passionate.’

Such laughter now issued from the throats of the others that people at the neighbouring tables turned to stare at them curiously. Duval continued with the poem, however, waving his hand in the air, putting full dramatic force into his voice.

‘Oh, come to me, fly to me,

Press thy lips against my mouth

Until I swoon with ecstasy …’

He paused, gulping, looked up, and saw that Camille had turned her back to him. Nobody was listening. Indignantly he stuck his monocle into his eye and was about to demand attention when he saw what had distracted his audience.

Three horses, two white and one black, had pulled up outside the Pré Catalan, and their riders were dismounting, attracting much interest from the groups at the various tables. The rider of the black horse was a young man; the other two were girls; one a vivacious brunette, the other a charming blonde – both dressed in well-fitting habits and smart felt hats.

But it was the young man who was the cynosure of all eyes as he strolled along the terrace outside the café. The moment René Duval saw him he sprang from his chair and began to walk towards him, waving excitedly.

‘Boucheron! By gad! It’s Boucheron!’

The young man, who was tall and handsome, elegantly dressed in white breeches, black leather boots and a black coat, smiled and acknowledged greetings as he passed each table. It was obvious that he knew a great many people and that the whole world knew him. He walked with unconscious grace, swinging his riding-crop, his hat under his arm. The two girls with whom he had been riding had disappeared, and he was making his way to the café to secure a table.

He walked towards the main entrance and was at once surrounded by attendants, clamouring for his hat.

‘Monsieur!’

‘Bonjour, Monsieur!’

The young man disposed of his hat, said a few words to the maître d’hôtel, who fawned upon him, rubbing both hands together, then with an indifferent glance at the couples outside, dancing on the open dance-floor, he passed through the swinging doors into the café.

Duval made his way towards him.

‘Hi, Boucheron!’ he called. ‘Boucheron! Come and join us!’

Boucheron waved back, half-bored, half-amused, then moved towards the table by the window at which Duval’s party were sitting. On his way he paused by the side of a lovely woman, who was drinking iced coffee, with a younger girl opposite her.

‘Pierre!’ she said, her eyes devouring him.

‘Ah! How do, Yvonne?’ he said, took the hand she held out to him and very gracefully kissed it. Her companion, the younger girl, also held out her hand, with a pretty blush. Boucheron pressed a light kiss upon her fingers, then moved on.

A stout, rather weather-beaten female at an adjoining table, observing this, hunched her shoulders and leaned across the table to the old woman opposite her.

‘Pierre Boucheron,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve no use for that young man at all. He’s spoiled. The way the girls run after him is disgraceful. Did you see how that Yvonne Lelausseur made eyes?’

‘Who is he, my dear?’ demanded the older cat, following Boucheron’s graceful figure with a secret yearning she dared not express to her friend.

‘Under-secretary at the Foreign Office and the idol of Paris. But I’ve heard shocking scandals. They say he was nobody before Comte Henri Mercereau launched him … however Mercereau is very distinguished and important, so one accepts his protégé …’

The object of discussion, meanwhile, had reached Duval’s table. Room for him was at once made between the two women of the party. The pretty Camille hastily dived into her vanity bag for powder and lip-stick.

Pierre Boucheron chatted to them for a few moments, drank down a glass of champagne, then looked round the room, with dark, restless eyes.

Pierre Boucheron – under-secretary! Since he had captured the heart of the Smart Set, he had almost forgotten that he once was The Rat – an apache of ‘The White Coffin’ in Montmartre.

He had been called spoiled. Yes – he was spoiled and bored. Too many beautiful women sought for his favour; too many sweets had been poured into his lap, and he was sick of too much sweetness. It came naturally to him to flatter a pretty girl, to kiss a proffered hand; but he both kissed and flattered women mechanically. Every woman he met thrilled under his magnetic smile, and not one of them could thrill him. Pierre Boucheron was suffering from that very sad complaint – satiety.

René Duval, having rescued his manuscript from the party who were threatening to read it aloud in the café, dragged Boucheron a little away from the rest.

‘Boucheron, my dear fellow, come and talk to me. I need your advice.’

Immediately came a chorus from the girls.

‘René, you beast – you shan’t take him away from us.’

Duval stuck his monocle into his eye.

‘Now, now, you girls!’ he lisped. ‘Don’t be naughty. I want Pierre to myself for a moment.’

Boucheron felt suddenly sick of the whole crowd. He rose and followed the delighted Duval to a corner table.

‘What is it, Duval?’ he asked wearily. ‘Hurry up. I’m hungry and I want to order my lunch.’

‘Be kind to me, Pierre,’ said Duval in a dismal voice. ‘I’ve been watching you come into the café. All the ladies rush for your smiles and kisses. Pierre, be a good fellow and tell me the secret of your success with the fair sex! They only laugh at me.’

Pierre shrugged his shoulders. His beautiful, clean-cut mouth, with its rather cynical curve, relaxed into a smile. He knew René Duval well, and the utter idiocy of the man could not fail to amuse, even while it irritated him.

‘You run after ’em too much, my dear Duval,’ he said. ‘I’m fast coming to the conclusion that it’s a mistake to imagine that women like men to be hunters. I am of the belief that they are born huntresses. You never give them a chance to hunt. Have you still to learn that love is a game without rules? Often a cold shoulder will carry you farther than a warm embrace.’

‘What astonishing philosophy,’ said Duval. ‘But you must be right. They all fall for you, Pierre. I’ve tried everything – presents – pleading – threats to commit suicide – swoons – even a week in bed. But they only laugh at me.’

‘You poor fish,’ said Boucheron, smiling more broadly.

‘And look – now I’ve sunk to this,’ said Duval, thrusting his manuscript into Boucheron’s hands. ‘Tell me, oughtn’t that to melt any woman’s heart?’

Pierre began to read the poem ‘Purple Passion’.

‘Sick aching of my wounded heart,’ … he quoted. Then he thrust the manuscript away, shaking his head. ‘Mon Dieu! I shall be sick if I read any more. No wonder the girls laugh at you, Duval.’

René did not answer, but stuck his monocle forlornly into his eye. The expression on his face became so pathetically puzzled and disappointed that Boucheron stopped laughing and patted him on the back.

‘Cheer up, my dear fellow. Try the cold shoulder. The more I show it, the warmer they become. They’re queer creatures, women, but when you know how to treat ’em, they are very simple.’

‘You’re the first man I’ve ever met who has called a woman “simple”,’ groaned Duval. ‘To me they are more complex than a crossword puzzle.’

He turned to the interior of the café, then clutched Boucheron’s arm.

‘Hello, here comes a friend of yours, Pierre.’

Boucheron followed the direction he indicated, and gave a little start and frown.

‘Zélie!’ he muttered.

‘Adorable … beautiful!’ sighed Duval.

Zélie de Chaumet, who had just stepped out of a splendid Hispano, with a dapper man of some fifty years, dressed in grey, and carrying a grey top hat, swept through the Pré Catalan, conscious of the admiring glances thrown at her by men from all sides, and not quite so bored by them as Pierre Boucheron. For what woman ever ceases to extract pleasure from the world’s approval? It is for that she tries to preserve her beauty even when she approaches old age; for that she spends hours choosing her gowns and hats and shoes.

Boucheron watched her coming without a single thrill of pleasure. She was lovely. But he was used to her loveliness. It had belonged to him; was still his for the taking. He was tired of her. He was slightly contemptuous of her. To his mind, had Zélie been a man she might have been a Receiving Officer – as a woman she took all she could get and tried for more.

She was faultlessly dressed in a gown of pale rose pleated georgette; a silk coat of the same hue, with collar and cuffs of chinchilla – thrown back from her beautiful shoulders. A black lace hat, with a daring pink ostrich feather curling down to her neck, was pulled low over her golden head. Very bright, very proud, she walked down the centre of the room, her lips, pencilled with carmine, curved in a slight, disdainful smile.

‘She is superb,’ Duval whispered to Boucheron. ‘Look – Mercereau follows – are they going to join us, do you think?’

‘I hope not,’ said Pierre.

But at that moment Zélie’s blue eyes, glistening between lashes which were skilfully blackened, focussed upon him. Her whole face lit up.

‘Pierre – what an unexpected pleasure!’ she said, advancing and holding out her hand.

Boucheron rose politely; barely touched the white fingers with his lips.

‘As beautiful as ever, Zélie,’ he murmured.

But his voice was cold, his whole bearing indifferent and bored, and the light vanished from Zélie de Chaumet’s eyes.

Zélie de Chaumet loved Pierre Boucheron madly; had never ceased to love him from the day that little Odile, his sweetheart and saviour in the underworld, had died and she, Zélie, had comforted him. She had known the ecstasy of his passion even if she had never won his love. At least he had simulated love then, had been thrilled by her beauty and graces. He owed his present position to her. He had risen to the brilliant job at the Foreign Office through Comte Mercereau, whose jewels she wore and at whose expense she now lived.

‘These chairs are unoccupied?’ she said authoritatively, nodding towards the empty chairs by Pierre and Duval. Pierre bowed. A waiter hurried up to Zélie. She sat down at the table, and Pierre and Duval sat with her, Pierre at her side.

Comte Henri Mercereau joined the party, and with a swift, frowning glance at Boucheron sat down on the other side of Zélie. It was easy to see that he was not pleased to be done out of his tête-à-tête luncheon with Zélie. She turned to him instantly and laid a hand on his.

‘You do not mind, mon cher? The café is so full – and this is a quiet table.’

He shrugged his shoulders and gave her a cynical smile. He was a man of more cash than consequence, who kept his soul in his trouser pocket along with his other small change. He had spent half a fortune upon Zélie and was still anxious to spend. He knew the value of money with women like Zélie de Chaumet, and he also knew that their notorious ‘friendship’ was one of those give and take ‘affairs’ in which milady reserved the entire receiving rights. He did precisely what she wanted – always. He was enormously rich and important in Paris, and he could afford to satisfy her whims. He was satisfied to buy an extravagant jewel just for the pleasure of seeing it against the whiteness of her throat or her arms. But the one thing he refused to countenance was infidelity, and he had always been jealous of Pierre Boucheron.

The head-waiter thrust a menu into the Comte’s hand. He began to study it, ignoring Duval, who was trying to interest him in ‘Purple Passion’.

Zélie moved her golden head near Pierre’s.

‘Why haven’t you been to see me yet?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘You’ve neglected me shamefully.’

‘I’ve been busy,’ he said, with a look of disinterestedness which conveyed to her only too plainly his indifference.

‘Too busy – to visit me, Pierre?’ she asked, an angry little flush staining her cheeks.

‘My dear Zélie, I have a job at the Quai d’Orsay,’ he said.

‘That does not say you are occupied in the evenings,’ she said. ‘Oh, Pierre, Pierre, you are breaking my heart.’

‘Hearts do not break, my dearest Zélie,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

Her hand clenched and unclenched.

‘Brute … brute,’ she muttered.

‘Heaven be praised! Here is an exhibition of the cold shoulder,’ Duval muttered to himself, having overheard the little scene. ‘How he has the heart, I don’t know. I couldn’t bear to speak to a pretty woman like that.’

Pierre was not even looking at Zélie now. He was staring, for the first time with a suggestion of eagerness in his gaze, at a little group just entering the Pré Catalan.

Zélie studied his profile for a moment, bitter yearning in her eyes. He was incredibly handsome, with his pale skin, his perfect, chiselled features; straight dark brows over brown, brilliant eyes; fine head; smooth dark hair brushed straight back from the broad forehead. Nobody knew better than Zélie how charming, how utterly adorable Pierre could be when he chose to act the lover. She had seen those dark eyes melt, swim with ecstasy; had felt the passion of that beautiful, boyish mouth on hers. She was burnt up with her desire for him. Oh, the cruelty, the heart-breaking elusiveness of him!

She followed his gaze and suddenly she stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. She saw what was holding his attention. A girl! A girl surrounded by a crowd of admiring men. She was very simply dressed in white; a dainty white hat on her head. But her very simplicity singled her out from the other women in the café who indulged in more vivid and outré creations.

Boucheron regarded her intently for a moment, then turned to Duval.

‘Who is that?’ he asked.

‘That girl in white? Ah, that is the ravishing, exquisite Madeleine, Comtesse de l’Orme,’ said René in a soulful voice. ‘Pardon me, my dear fellow. I must go and say a word to her. An angel, I assure you – an angel!’

‘An angel,’ echoed Boucheron. ‘Yes, she might well be one. She has a face, an air that sets her apart from other women.’

Madeleine, Comtesse de l’Orme was very young, and not so tall, so superbly built as Zélie de Chaumet. She was of medium height, and slender; like an immature child in her white gown. But her throat and arms were exquisite, giving promise of lovely womanhood. She was very fair; not with th. . .