arie-Ange felt so guilty when she went back to Marmouton, after her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp, that she was doubly kind to Bernard when she discovered that he was further in debt. He hadn’t said anything to her, but it turned out that he had forgotten to pay for the rental of their summer house and the yacht that went with it, and she had to pay the bill herself. But at this point, it seemed like a small sin to her.

The house on the rue de Varenne was almost finished, and although there were a stack of bills still waiting to be paid, she had finally decided to borrow some money against her trust to pay them off. His investments that had been promising to “mature” for two years so he could sell them off had never materialized, and she had long since stopped asking him about them. There was no point. She was no longer even entirely sure that they were there. Perhaps he had lost the money, or had less than he said. It didn’t matter to her anymore. She didn’t want to embarrass him. And they had her trust to live on. They had two beautiful houses, and two healthy children. And although she thought of her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp from time to time, she pushed it out of her head and said nothing to him about meeting Louise. She was sure that the woman had maligned him, and accused him unfairly. It was just too terrible to believe that she actually thought he had killed her child. But Marie-Ange forgave her for what she’d said about her husband, because she was sure that if she had lost one of her children, she would have gone quite mad herself. Bernard and her babies were all she lived for now. And it was obvious to her that Louise de Beauchamp was deranged by grief.

And when Bernard talked about buying a palazzo in Venice, or a house in London, she scolded him now like a little boy who wanted more candy, and told him they had enough houses. He had even talked about going to Italy, to look at a yacht. He had an insatiable appetite for luxurious items and houses, but Marie-Ange was determined to keep an eye on him, and keep his extravagances in check. And by the time Robert was three months old, Bernard was already talking about their having another child. The idea appealed to Marie-Ange too, but this time she wanted to wait a few months longer, although she had already regained her figure and was prettier than ever, but she wanted to have a few months to spend more time with Bernard. They were talking about taking a trip to Africa that winter, and Marie-Ange thought it would be fun. And as Christmas approached, they were planning a big party at Marmouton, and another even bigger one after the first of the year, when they occupied the house on the rue de Varenne.

Marie-Ange was busy with her babies, and she called Billy a few weeks before Christmas to ask about his wedding plans. She wanted to go back to Iowa to visit him, but it seemed so far away, and there was never time. He teased her and asked if she was already pregnant again. But in a quiet moment at the end of the conversation, he asked if she was all right.

“I’m fine. Why did you ask that?” He always had a sixth sense about her, but she insisted she was fine. She didn’t say anything about her meeting with Louise de Beauchamp, out of loyalty to Bernard. And she knew it would have been hard to explain, especially to Billy, who was somewhat suspicious of him.

“I just worry about you, that’s all. Don’t forget I’ve never met your husband. How do I know if he’s really such a great guy?”

“Trust me,” Marie-Ange smiled at the red-haired, freckled memory of him, “he really is a great guy.” It made her sad to think that she hadn’t seen Billy in such a long time. But he was happy for her that she was at Marmouton with her own family. It seemed like poetic justice to him.

“Do you ever hear from your aunt?” Carole was in her eighties by then, and Marie-Ange knew she hadn’t been well for a long time. She had just sent her a Christmas card with a photograph of Heloise and Robert, but she didn’t think it would mean much to her. She always wrote to Marie-Ange at Christmastime, a terse little note, once a year. And all she ever said was that she hoped that she and her husband were well. She never said much more than that. “Are you still coming to my wedding in June?” Billy asked.

“I’m going to try.”

“My mom says you should bring your kids.” But it was a long way to take them, and if Bernard had his way, she’d be pregnant again by then, although she could travel anyway. But Iowa seemed like part of another world.

They chatted for a little while, and then Bernard came home, and she got off the phone, and went to kiss him hello.

“Who were you talking to?” He was always curious about what she did, who she saw, who she talked to, he enjoyed being part of her life, although he was sometimes more private about his own.

“Billy, in Iowa. He still wants us to come to his wedding in June.”

“That’s a long way off,” Bernard smiled. To him the States meant Los Angeles or New York. He had been to Palm Beach a couple of times, but a farm in Iowa was definitely not his style. He had just bought himself a set of matched brown alligator luggage, and Marie-Ange could just imagine him arriving at the Parker farm with his alligator bags in the back of a pickup truck. But she would have liked to go back, and was still promising herself she would someday. She had tried to talk Billy into coming to Marmouton for his honeymoon, and then going to Paris, and had even offered to let him stay at their new house, but he had only laughed at the suggestion. He and Debbi had decided a week at the Grand Canyon was too expensive, and even a weekend in Chicago would be tight for them. France was a whole other life, and only a dream for them. They put every penny they had into the farm.

“What did you do today, my love?” Bernard asked her that night over dinner. They had just hired a cook from town, and it was nice having the extra time with her children, but she missed making dinner for him.

“Nothing much. I was doing some things for our Christmas party, and some shopping. I played with the children.” Heloise had a cold again. “What about you?”

He smiled mysteriously at her. “Actually,” he said, as though waiting for a drum roll to accompany his announcement, “I bought an oil well,” he said, looking pleased, as Marie-Ange frowned at him.

“You did what?” She hoped he was teasing her, but he looked frighteningly sincere.

“I bought an oil well. In Texas, actually. I’ve been talking to the people selling shares in it for quite a while. It’s going to make a fortune when it comes in. They’ve had some tremendous luck before in Oklahoma.” He beamed at her.

“How did you buy it?” She felt panic rise in her throat as she asked.

“With a promissory note. I know these people very well.”

“How much was it?” She sounded nervous and he looked amused. “How much was your share?”

“It was a bargain. They let me pay for half a share now, with the note, of course, for eight hundred thousand dollars. I don’t have to pay the other half till next year.” And she knew by now that he never would. She would be responsible for it, and they would have to borrow more against her trust. Two years before, ten million dollars had seemed like a vast fortune, now she was constantly terrified that they would go broke. In Bernard’s hands, ten million dollars disappeared like dust.

“Bernard, we can’t afford it. We just finished paying for the house.”

“Darling,” he laughed at her naivete, as he leaned over to kiss her, “you are a very, very rich woman. You have enough money to last forever, and we are going to make a fortune on this. Trust me. I know these men. They’ve done it before.”

“When do you have to cover the note?”

“By the end of the year,” he said blithely.

“That’s in two weeks.” She nearly choked at what he said.

“Believe me, if I could, I’d cover it myself. Your advisers at the bank are going to thank me for doing you a favor,” he said, without batting an eye, and Marie-Ange lay in bed awake, thinking about it, all that night.

In the morning, when she called the bank and told them, her advisers were in no mood to thank Bernard, and for her sake they refused to let her borrow the money against her trust to cover the note. They flatly wouldn’t allow it, and at lunch the next day she had no choice but to tell Bernard, and he was enraged.

“My God, how can they be so stupid! And now what do you expect me to do? My word is my honor. They’ll think I’m some kind of liar, they might even sue me. I signed the documents two days ago. You knew that, Marie-Ange. You have to tell the bank that they have to pay.”

“I did,” she said grimly, “maybe we should have asked the bank before you signed.”

“You’re not a pauper, for God’s sake. I’ll call them myself tomorrow,” he said, implying that she had handled it badly. But when he called the trust department, they were even more direct with him, and told him in no uncertain terms that her trustees would not allow her to borrow against the trust again. “The doors are closed,” they said. And when he talked to Marie-Ange about it, he was furious with her.

“Did you tell them to do that?” he asked suspiciously, accusing her of double-crossing him.

“Of course not. But we’ve spent a fortune on both houses,” and he had spent another million dollars or more on art and bad debts from other deals. Her trustees had told her that they were protecting her, and what was left of her fortune, for her own good. She had to think of her future, and her children. And if she couldn’t restrain her husband, they were more than willing to do it for her. But Bernard was like a caged animal over it for the next several days. He ranted and raved at her, and behaved like an angry, spoiled child, but there was nothing she could do. They sat through meals in stony silence, and by the weekend, when Bernard came back from a brief trip to Paris, he finally sat down with Marie-Ange in his study, and told her that in view of her obvious distrust of him, and her bank treating him like a gigolo, obviously at her direction, he was thinking of leaving her. He was not going to tolerate being treated this way, or living in a marriage where he wasn’t trusted, and was treated like a child.

“I have had your best interests at heart since we met, Marie-Ange,” he said, looking wounded. “My God, I let you stay here when I didn’t even know you, because I knew how much it meant to you. I spent a fortune restoring the château because it’s a relic of your lost childhood. I bought the house in Paris because I thought you deserved a more exciting life than being hidden away here. I have done nothing but work for you, and for our children, since the day we met. And now I discover that you don’t trust me. I cannot live this way anymore.” She was horrified by what she was hearing, and even more so at the thought of losing him. She had two small children, and she might be pregnant again. The idea of his leaving her, and leaving her alone in the world again, with her children, filled her with terror, and made her want to give him everything she had. It also never occurred to her that the expensive restoration he was claiming, she had actually paid for herself, or that the “fortune he had spent” was hers. She had paid for the house in Paris, after he had bought it without even asking her before he made the commitment, just as he had committed to the promissory note for a million six hundred thousand dollars now, without ever asking her.

“I’m sorry, Bernard … I’m sorry …” she said miserably, “it’s not my fault. The bank won’t lend me the money.”

“I don’t believe you even tried. And it is most certainly your fault,” he said harshly. “These people work for you, Marie-Ange. Tell them what you want. Unless of course you want to humiliate me publicly, and refuse to cover a debt I entered into for you. You’re the one who would benefit from this investment, as would Robert and Heloise.” He was everything self-sacrificing and noble as he accused her, and she felt as though she had shot him in the heart. And in return, he was breaking hers.

“They’re not my employees, Bernard. They’re my trustees, you know that. They make the decisions. I don’t.” Her eyes implored him to forgive her for what she couldn’t give.

“I also know that you can take them to court, to get what you want, if you want to.” He was the image of injured virtue as he explained it to her.

“Is that what you want me to do?” She looked shocked.

“If you loved me, you would.” He had put it all on the line, but the next day, after Marie-Ange spoke to the bank again, they still refused, and when she threatened them with court, they told her in no uncertain terms that she would lose. They could point out easily how quickly and how recklessly her money had been spent, and they told her that no responsible judge in the world would overturn the trust under those circumstances, for a girl her age. She was only twenty-three, and they knew how grasping Bernard would look in those circumstances, and how suspicious to the court, but they did not say that to her.

And when she reported the conversation to Bernard, he said coldly that he would let her know what he decided to do. But she had been warned. He had already threatened to leave her if she did not cover the debt. And it was a matter of less than two weeks before he had to pay.

She was still beside herself over it the night of their Christmas party, and Bernard hadn’t spoken to her in days. He felt humiliated and mistrusted and abused, and he was making her pay for it in spades. And she looked very nervous as she greeted their guests. He looked, as always, elegant, dignified, and cool. He was wearing a new dinner jacket he had had made in London, and a pair of custom-made patent leather shoes. He was always exquisitely dressed, and she was wearing a red satin gown he had bought her at Dior. But she felt anything but festive, and she was worried sick that he would leave her by the end of the year, when she couldn’t cover his debt. He acted hurt that she didn’t feel he was doing everything for her.

He said not a word to her as they led their guests into the dining room for dinner, and later on when the music struck up, he danced with every woman in the room, save his wife. It was a painful evening for Marie-Ange, in every way.

And all but the last guests had left, when someone in the kitchen commented that they smelled smoke in the house. Alain Fournier, their caretaker, was washing dishes in the kitchen, and helping the caterers clean up, and he said he’d take a look around to see what it was. At first the caterers insisted it was the oven they were cleaning, and someone thought it might be the candles lit throughout the house, or the cigars the guests had smoked. But just to be on the safe side, Alain wandered upstairs to look around. And on the second floor, he found a candle that had leaned too far toward the heavy new damask curtains. The tassels on the curtains had caught fire quickly, and one whole side of the curtains was on fire when he came upstairs.

Alain tore it off the rod, threw it on the floor, and stamped it out, but only then did he notice that the row of fringe at the top of the curtains had carried the flames to the other side, and now they were blazing too as he began to shout, but no one heard. He tried desperately to put the fire out before it spread any further, but because of the music downstairs, his cries for help were drowned out, and like a nightmare, the flames danced from one curtain to another, and within what seemed like instants, the entire second-floor hallway was on fire, and the flames were darting toward the stairs.

And without knowing what else to do, he rushed back downstairs to the kitchen, and told them to bring buckets and water and come upstairs to help, as one of the caterers ran to call the fire department, and then into the living room to warn the remaining guests. And the moment Marie-Ange heard it, she ran upstairs, heading for the second floor hall, where Alain was throwing water at the flames. By the time they got there, the fabric on the walls leading from the second floor to the third had created a tunnel of flame, but she knew she had to go through it, since both her children were asleep upstairs. But as she attempted to pass through the flames, powerful arms held her back. The men who had come up from the kitchen to fight the fire knew she would turn into a human torch in her billowing red dress, as the walls blazed.

“Let go of me!” she said, screaming at them, and trying to fight her way past them. But before she could wrench herself free of them, she saw Bernard run past her, and he was already at the top of the stairs as she pushed free of the men and ran up the stairs as quickly as she could behind him. She could see the door to the nursery just ahead of them, and the hallway was already full of smoke, as she saw him pick the baby up and then run into the room where Heloise was sleeping in her own crib. Heloise woke the moment she heard her parents, and Marie-Ange reached down and grabbed her. They could hear the roar of the fire by then, and downstairs she could hear people shouting. And as Marie-Ange looked behind her, she saw the stairs to the third floor alight with flame, and she knew that the windows on the third floor were tiny. Unless they could get back downstairs through the flames, there would be no escaping, and she looked at Bernard in desperation.

“I’ll get help,” he said, looking panicked, “you stay with the children. The firemen are coming, Marie-Ange. If you have to, go to the roof and wait there!” And then, he set Robert down in Heloise’s crib and made a dash down the stairs, as Marie-Ange watched him in terror. He stopped for only an instant on his way down, at the door to the roof, and as she watched him, she saw him slip the key to the door into his pocket, and she screamed after him to throw the key back to her, but he only turned once at the foot of the stairs, and vanished, gone to get help, she was sure, but he had left her alone on the third floor with her babies, in a sea of flames.

Bernard had told her he didn’t want her to try to get through the flames on the stairs, she was safer waiting upstairs, he’d said. But as she watched the flames drawing closer to them, she knew he was wrong, and it was small consolation as she heard sirens in the distance. Both her children were crying by then, and the baby was gasping in the thick smoke that had begun to choke them. She was expecting to see firemen, or Bernard with a bucket brigade, coming up the stairs to save them at any moment. She couldn’t hear the voices downstairs anymore, the roar of the fire was too loud, and a moment later she heard an enormous crash, and when she looked, she saw that a beam had fallen and was blocking the stairway. And there was still no sign of Bernard coming back to them, as she sobbed, and held both her babies.

She put them in Heloise’s crib for a moment, and ran to check the door to the roof, but it was locked, and Bernard had taken the key with him. And suddenly she remembered a voice in her head, and a scarred face, and everything Louise de Beauchamp had said to her. It was all true, she realized instantly. He had tried to lock them in her son’s room. And now he had left her here, with no access to the roof, and no way to escape the fire and save her children.

“It’s all right, babies. It’s all right,” she said murmuring frantically to them, running from one small round window to another, and then as she looked out one of them, she saw him standing there, down below in the courtyard, sobbing hysterically and waving his arms in their direction. He was describing something to the people below, and shaking his head, and she could just imagine now what he was saying, perhaps that he had seen them dead, or that there was no way for him to get to them, which was true now, but it hadn’t been when he left them, and slipped the key to the roof into his pocket.

She opened all the windows she could, so they could breathe fresh air, and then rushed from room to room as embers fell and pieces of flaming wood flew all around them. And suddenly, she remembered a tiny bathroom they never used. It was the only room on the third floor with a slightly bigger window, and when she got to it, she saw that it could open. She rushed back to Heloise’s room and grabbed both of them, and then rushed back to the bathroom and began screaming from the open window.

“Up here! I’m up here! … I have the children!” She screamed above the din, waving one arm out the window, and at first no one saw her, and then suddenly a fireman looked up and noticed her, and ran quickly for their ladder. But as she watched the men below, she saw Bernard look up at her with a look she had never seen on his face before. It was a look of pure jealousy and hatred, and she had no doubt at that moment that he’d done this. He had set the fire probably, on the second floor, where no one would notice, close enough to the stairs to the third floor so that it would devour his children. And he had known what Marie-Ange would do, she would go to them, and be trapped with them. It was no accident of hysteria that the door to the roof was locked, he had taken the key with him. He had wanted to kill them. And from what she could see, there was a good likelihood that he would succeed. The firemen had put their ladders to the walls of the château, and found they would not reach up far enough for them to reach her. And as Bernard watched, he began to sob hysterically, just as Louise had described the night her son died. Marie-Ange felt a chill of terror rush over her, she could not see how she was going to save her children. And if they all died, Bernard would inherit everything, if they lived and Marie-Ange didn’t, he would have to share the estate with his children. His motive for killing all of them was a thought so disgusting and unbearable that Marie-Ange felt as though her chest had been torn open and her heart ripped out. He had tried to murder not only her, but their children.

And as she looked below and watched him cry, she held the children as close to the window as she dared, to keep them breathing. The door to the tiny bathroom was closed behind them, and the roaring sound from beyond it was deafening. She couldn’t hear what anyone was shouting to her from below, but three of the firemen were holding a net for her, and at first it was not clear what they were saying. She watched their mouths as intently as she could, to read their lips, and finally one of the men held up a single finger. One, he was saying to her. One. One at a time. She sat Heloise down on the floor at her feet, as the child clung to her dress, and sobbing hysterically, she kissed Robert’s tiny face, and held him out as far as she could, as the firemen rushed beneath her and held the net firm. It was an unbearable moment as she let go, and watched him fall and bounce into the net like a little rubber ball, and then finally she watched one of them as they held him. But he was still moving. He waved his arms and legs as Bernard rushed to him, and took him in his arms, as Marie-Ange looked down at him with hatred.

And then she did the same with Heloise, while the child kicked and screamed and fought her and Marie-Ange shouted at her to stop, and then kissed her and threw her. And like her brother, she fell into the net like a doll, and was grabbed by the firemen, and then kissed by her father. But they were all looking up at Marie-Ange now, as she stared out the window. It had been one thing to throw them, another to leap from the window herself. It looked like an agonizingly long way down, and the window was so small, she knew it would not be easy for her to climb through. But as she looked at Bernard in the courtyard below, she knew that if she didn’t, he would have her children, and God only knew what he would do to them, to steal their share of the inheritance. She knew from that day forward, they would never be safe with him. She climbed to the windowsill, and sat poised, as she heard an explosion downstairs and all the second-floor windows blew out into the night, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the floor beneath her gave way, and collapsed, taking her with it.

“Jump!” the firemen shouted at her, “Jump!!” But she felt frozen as she sat there, and they were powerless to help her. There was nothing they could do for her, except encourage her to do what she had done for her children. And as she sat, clutching the window frame, she could see Louise de Beauchamp’s face in her mind’s eye and knew what she had felt that night, when she had lost her son, and had known that Bernard had killed him, as surely as if he had taken a gun and shot him. If nothing else, Marie-Ange had to leap to save her own children from him, and to stop him. But it was so terrifying she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed with terror as they watched her.

She could see Bernard screaming to her, her babies were in other arms than his by then, and all eyes were turned toward her. And knowing that no one was watching him then, Bernard looked up as he hung back in the crowd and smiled at her. He knew she was too frightened to do it. He would gain the lion’s share of her estate when she died, and he could do anything he wanted with it once he had it. He had failed in his mission to kill his last wife, and killed only her son, but this time he would be more successful. And the next time, Marie-Ange wondered as she looked at him, who would he kill then? Heloise? Or Robert? Or both of them? How many people would he destroy before someone stopped him? And as though she were next to her, Marie-Ange could hear Louise speaking of Charles the night he died in her arms in their country house, and it was as though Louise spoke to her now, loudly and clearly.

“Jump, Marie-Ange! Now!” And as she heard the words in her head, she leaped finally from the window, and flew down, her big red skirt billowing like a parachute, and it knocked the wind out of her when she landed in the net they held for her. The first face she saw looking down at her was Bernard’s, crying and holding his arms out to her, as she shrank from him. She had seen it all in his eyes before that, she had understood everything. He was truly the monster Louise had said he was. He was a man who had been willing to kill her child, and his own, and two women. And as Marie-Ange looked at him, she spoke clearly.

“He tried to kill us,” she said calmly, stunned by the sound of her own voice, and the words she was saying. “He took the key to the roof with him, after he locked it, so we could not get out. He left us there to die,” she said, as he stepped backward as though she’d hit him. “He’s done it before,” Marie-Ange said for all to hear, but he had tried to destroy all that she held dear, and she would never forgive him for it. “He set a fire that killed his last wife’s son,” she said, as rampant hatred leaped from his eyes toward her. “He locked them in a room as well, and nearly killed her, but he didn’t. You tried to kill us,” she said directly at him, as he reached out as though to slap her and then stopped himself, fighting for composure.

“She’s lying. She’s insane. She’s always been unbalanced,” and then he tried to sound calm, as he spoke to the fire chief standing next to him, listening, and watching Marie-Ange’s face. She didn’t look unbalanced to him. “She’s come unglued from the shock of seeing her children in danger.”

“You set the fire, Bernard,” she said to him in an icy tone. “You left us there. You took the key. You wanted us to die, so you could take all the money, not just mine, but theirs too. You should have died in the fire, and perhaps next time you will,” she said as the rage she felt began to boil over, and the local constable moved toward Bernard discreetly. One of the firemen had said something to him, and he was suggesting to Bernard that he come with them and answer some questions. And Bernard refused to go with him, and expressed his outrage.

“How dare you! How dare you listen to her! She’s a lunatic! She has no idea what she’s saying.”

“And Louise? Was she a lunatic too? And what about Charles? He was a four-year-old child when you killed him.” Marie-Ange was sobbing by then, as she stood in the freezing night and one of the firemen put a blanket over her shoulders. They had nearly stopped the fire by then, but the destruction inside the house was almost total.

“Monsieur le Comte,” the constable said clearly to him then, “if you do not come with us willingly, sir, which I hope you will, we will be obliged to put you in handcuffs.”

“I’ll see that you’re fired for this. It’s an outrage!” he objected, but went with them. Their friends had long since departed, and Marie-Ange was left with the caretaker, the men who had come up from the farm, the firemen, and her babies.

They had given oxygen to Robert, and he was shivering, but calm by then, and Heloise was fast asleep in the arms of a fireman, as though nothing had happened. Alain offered to let them stay with him that night, and as she watched the last of the fire burn, Marie-Ange realized that once again she was starting from nothing. But she was alive, and she had her children. That was all she cared about now.

She stood outside for a long time, as the firemen continued to put out the last of the fire, and they stayed all night to watch the embers. She took the children into the caretaker’s cottage with Alain, and in the morning two policemen came to the door and wanted to see her. Alain’s mother had come up from the farm shortly before that, to help her with her children.

“May we speak to you, Comtesse?” they asked discreetly, and she stepped outside with them. She didn’t want Alain to hear what she had to say about her husband. They questioned her extensively, and told her that the firemen had found traces of kerosene in the second-floor hall, and on the stairs leading to her children. There would be a full investigation made, and as things stood now, they were prepared to bring charges against Bernard. She told them then about Louise de Beauchamp, and they thanked her.

She took a room for herself in a hotel in town that night, and they set up two cribs for her children, and Madame Fournier came with her. She was there for a week, to answer questions for the police and firemen, and after the fire cooled, she went back into the house to see what could be saved. Some silverware, some statues, some tools. Everything else had been destroyed or ruined, but the insurance people had already been there to see it. There was some question as to how much or if they would pay her anything, if it could be proven that Bernard had set the fire himself.

And she called Louise de Beauchamp after the first few days. It took Marie-Ange that long to calm down. The aftermath of the shock was worse than what she had felt the night it happened. She had lost not only her home, and nearly her children, but her hopes, her dreams, her husband, and her faith in him. He was being held in the local jail for further questioning, and Marie-Ange hadn’t been to see him. All she wanted was to ask him why he had done it, how he could have hated her so much, and wanted to destroy their babies. It was something she knew she would never understand, but his motives were clear. He had done it for money.

And when they spoke on the phone, Marie-Ange thanked Louise for her warning. Had she not known, perhaps she would have been foolish enough to believe he was coming back for her, and never tried to find her way out through the bathroom window. And certainly, she would have believed his histrionics. But she would never forget seeing him that night, and the look of hatred in his eyes, as he watched her poised on the windowsill, praying she wouldn’t dare leap to safety.

“I thought I heard your voice that night, telling me to jump,” Marie-Ange said sadly. “I was so afraid to, I almost didn’t. But I kept thinking of what he would do to them if I died … and then I heard your voice in my head, saying ‘jump,’ and I did.”

“I’m glad,” Louise said quietly, and reminded Marie-Ange that she would gladly testify to what had happened to her, and Marie-Ange told her the police were going to call her. “You’ll be all right now,” Louise reassured her, “better than I. Poor Charles was sacrificed to that bastard’s greed. What a terrible thing to die for.”

“I’m so sorry,” Marie-Ange said again, and they talked for a long time, comforting each other. And in a way, Marie-Ange knew, Louise’s warning had saved her, as much as the firemen and the net they had held, and the leap of faith she had taken.

They spent Christmas in the hotel, and the day after, Marie-Ange drove the children to Paris. She had already decided to sell the house on the rue de Varenne, and everything in it. She hated to stay in the apartment, but all their things were there, all that they had left, and Bernard could no longer hurt her. He had tried to call her once at the hotel, and she had refused his call. She never wanted to see him again, except in court, and she hoped he would go to prison forever for what he had done to Charles, and tried to do to her children. But the real tragedy for Marie-Ange was that she had not only trusted and believed in him, she had loved him.

It was New Year’s Eve when she finally called Billy. She was at home with her babies, and thinking about him. She had so much to think of, values and ideals, and dreams that had been destroyed, integrity that had never existed. Like Louise, she realized now that she had been nothing more than a target for him from the first, a source of funds that he would have bled till it ran dry. She was just thankful that her trustees had been more cautious than she was. But at least the sale of the house in Paris would restore some of her financial balance.

“What are you doing at home tonight?” Billy asked when she called. “Why aren’t you out celebrating? It must be midnight in Paris.”

“Pretty close.” It was shortly after, and it was five in the afternoon for him. He had been planning to spend a quiet night at home, with his family and his fiancée.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at a grand party somewhere, Countess?” he teased her, but she didn’t smile. She hadn’t smiled in almost two weeks.

She told him about the fire, and what Bernard had done, or tried to do. She told him about Louise, and Charles, and the money Bernard had bilked from her. But more than anything, she told him what it had felt like, in the bathroom during the fire, and throwing her children out the window, and as he listened to her, she could hear him crying.

“My God, Marie-Ange, I hope they send the son of a bitch to prison forever.” He had never trusted him. It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly. And Marie-Ange had always insisted that everything was so perfect, and for a while she thought it was. But now that she looked back, she realized it never had been. She even wondered if the children he wanted so desperately had only been a way to distract her and tie her to him. She was just grateful now that she hadn’t gotten pregnant a third time, but since the fire, she had been reassured that she hadn’t. “What are you going to do now?” Billy asked her, sounding more worried about her than ever.

“I don’t know. The hearing is in a month, and Louise and I are both going to be there.” She had described her face to him, and the tragedy she’d been through. Marie-Ange had been a great deal luckier in being able to save her children. “I’ll be in Paris until I figure out what to do. There’s nothing left at Marmouton. I suppose I should sell it,” she said sadly.

“You can rebuild if you want to.” He encouraged her, still trying to absorb the horror she had told him, and wishing he could put his arms around her. His mother had seen him crying on the phone, and had shooed everyone out of the kitchen, including his fiancée.

“I’m not even sure I do want to,” Marie-Ange said honestly about the home she had loved as a child, but so many tragedies had happened there that she was no longer sure she wanted to keep it. “So many awful things happened there, Billy.”

“Good things too. Maybe you need to take some time to think about it. What about coming here to kind of catch your breath for a while?” The idea appealed to her immensely, although she didn’t want to stay at a hotel, and she couldn’t impose two small children on his mother. Everyone on their farm was busy and had their hands full.

“Maybe. And I can’t come in June for your wedding. I have to be here for the lawyers, and they said he might go to trial then. I’ll know later.”

“So will I,” he said, smiling, and looking more boyish than ever, although she couldn’t see him. Marie-Ange was twenty-three, and he was twenty-four now.

“What does that mean?” Marie-Ange questioned his cryptic comment.

“I don’t know. We’ve been talking about putting the wedding off for another year. We like each other a lot, but sometimes I wonder. Forever is a hell of a long time. My mom says not to rush it. And I think Debbi’s kind of nervous. She keeps saying she wants to live in Chicago. You know what it’s like here. You’re not talking big-city excitement.”

“You should bring her to Paris,” Marie-Ange said, still hopeful it would work out for them. He deserved happiness. She had had her turn, and it had literally turned to ashes. Now all she wanted was peace and some quiet times with her children. It was hard to imagine ever trusting anyone again, after Bernard. But at least she knew Billy, and loved him as her brother. She needed a friend now. And then she had an idea, and proposed it to him. “Why don’t you come to Paris? You can stay at my apartment. I’d love to see you,” she said, sounding homesick. He was the only person in the world she could trust now.

“I’d love to see your kids,” he said, thinking about it.

“How’s your French these days?”

“I’m losing it. I have no one to talk to.”

“I should call more often.” She didn’t want to ask him if he could afford the trip, or insult him by offering to pay for it, but she would have loved to see him.

“Things are pretty quiet here right now. I’ll talk to my dad. He could probably get by without me for a week or two. We’ll see. I’ll think about it, and see what I can work out.”

“Thank you for being there for me,” Marie-Ange said with the smile he remembered so well from their childhood.

“That’s what friends are for, Marie-Ange. I’m always here for you, I hope you know that. I wish you hadn’t lied to me about him. Sometimes I thought something was wrong, and other times you convinced me you were happy.”

“I was, most of the time, a lot of the time, really. And my kids are so sweet. But he scared the hell out of me the way he spent money.”

“You’ll be okay now,” he reassured her, “the main thing is that you and the kids are fine.”

“I know. What if I lend you the money for a ticket?” she asked, worried he didn’t have the money and afraid to embarrass him, but she was dying to see him. She suddenly felt so scared and so alone, and so lonely, and it felt like a hundred years since she’d seen him. It had been just over two, but it felt like decades. And so much had happened. She’d gotten married, had two kids, and nearly been destroyed by the man she’d married.

“If I let you lend me the money for the ticket, how would you be able to tell me from your husband?” He was serious. He didn’t want to do the same thing to her as Bernard, but he couldn’t even conceive of the scale on which he’d done it.

“Easy,” she laughed in answer to his question, “just don’t buy an oil well with the money.”

“Now there’s an idea,” he said, laughing at her. He thought she was kidding. “I’ll figure out what I’m going to do, and I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be here,” she said with a smile, and then remembered. “And by the way, Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, and do me a favor, will you, kid?”

“What’s that?” It felt like their old school days just talking to him.

“Try to stay out of trouble till I get there.”

“Does that mean you’re coming?”

“That means I’ll see. Just take care of yourself and the kids in the meantime. And if they let him out of jail, I want you to fly out here.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen. Not for a long time,” but it was a sensible suggestion, and she was grateful for his concern.

After they hung up, Marie-Ange got into bed. Heloise was sleeping next to her in her bed, and Robert was in his crib in the next room. And she smiled to herself as she thought of Billy.

At that exact moment, he was talking to his father. Tom Parker had been more than a little startled by the question, but he said that he figured maybe he could spare it, as long as Billy eventually repaid it, and Billy promised to do that. He had been saving for their honeymoon and already had four hundred dollars put aside.

But when he walked back into the living room, his sisters thought he looked distracted. One of them spoke to him and at first he didn’t even hear.

“What’s with you?” his oldest sister said, as she handed her baby to her husband.

“Nothing much.” And then he told them all what had happened to Marie-Ange, and they were horrified. His fiancée, Debbi, was listening with interest, but said nothing. “I’m going to Paris,” he said finally, “she’s had a hell of a time, and it’s the least I can do, for old times’ sake.” It was impossible for any of them to forget that she had given him his Porsche.

“I’m moving to Chicago,” Debbi spoke up suddenly and silenced the room as they all stared at her.

“Where did that come from?” Billy asked her, and she looked embarrassed.

“I’ve been waiting all week to tell you. I found a job, and I’m moving.”

“And then what?” he asked, feeling a strange flutter in his stomach. He wasn’t sure yet if he was glad or sorry, mostly confused, but he had been for a while, when he thought about their wedding.

“I don’t know yet,” Debbi answered honestly, as his entire family listened. “I don’t think we should get married,” and then she added in a whisper, “I don’t want to live on a farm for the rest of my life. I hate it.”

“That’s what I do,” he said quietly, “it’s who I am.”

“You could do something else if you wanted,” she whined at him, and he looked unhappy.

“Let’s talk about this outside,” he said calmly, and handed her her coat, and they walked out onto the porch, as the rest of the family began to chatter. They still couldn’t believe what he’d told them about Marie-Ange, and his mother was worried about her.

“Think they’ll ever get married?” his older sister asked her about Debbi.

“God knows,” their mother said with a shrug, “damned if I know what people do, or why they do it. The ones that should get married, don’t. The ones that shouldn’t can’t wait to run off with each other. Most people make a mess of it, if you give ‘em half a chance. Most of them anyway. A few don’t, like your dad and I,” she said, grinning over at her husband, who was still intrigued by what was going on around him.

And when Debbi left, Billy went straight to his room, without explaining anything to his parents or sisters or brothers, or their respective spouses. He said nothing at all, and softly closed the door.