Days of Winter by Cynthia Freeman Read Free Book Online Page B

important, isn’t it, Rubin?” she asked.
    “Of course. But it has to be used in the right way.”
    “And what’s the right way?”
    “So it doesn’t become an obsession—or a god.”
    “It can certainly help a lot.”
    “It can also corrupt.”
    “It can also buy respectability …Money seems to have such power.”
    “It does, Magda. It can do a lot of good .”
    Like a kaleidoscope, images of mannikins, stained glass windows and petite maisons swirled in her head. Then she thought of the Countess. Softly, she said, “It can also buy loneliness … don’t you agree, Rubin?”
    Full of the thought of what his life would be without her, he said, “Yes, Magda, endless loneliness.”
    She reached for his hand, held it tightly. “When will I meet the Countess?”
    “She’ll be here today at six.”
    “What should I do? I mean, how should I act?”
    “Just be yourself.”
    “And if she doesn’t like what I am, then what?”
    “She can’t help liking you. You don’t have to pretend—”
    “But, Rubin, I’m so … so—”
    “So beautiful,” he interrupted.
    “To you, maybe … but I’m so uneducated, so common. I’m nothing but a singer in a—”
    “That’s enough, Magda. As of this moment, you’re going to say, ‘I’m beautiful. I’m worthy.’ Don’t demean yourself. An uneducated person is simply one who doesn’t learn. And life is the best school. The Magda I see is a gracious, remarkable woman. That’s what’s important, the person you are. It’s simple to become a lady—”
    “Even with my temper?”
    “Yes, even with your temper. That’s part of your charm. Now get dressed. We’ve got a lot to do before six.”
    She looked at him, kissed him, tenderly at first, not so tenderly as she felt him respond.
    Mignon was in her glory. She took out the Limoges china, polished the silver tea service and arranged the pastries on the Minton épergne. She had not been so excited since Monsieur Jonet left. Life had become dreary in Monsieur’s absence. Folding the serviettes, she wondered if this maîtresse of Rubin Hack’s would be able to handle the service at tea time. Mignon had her doubts. Men! There was simply no accounting for their tastes in women. This Mademoiselle Charascu was nothing but a common souillon . At least Monsieur Jonet’s ladies had the breeding and training of courtesans, but this one! Oo-la-la. She had been shocked when Monsieur had summoned her earlier from the kitchen to meet his paramour, dressed in a black skirt and sweater so tight and revealing that nothing was left to the imagination. Mignon wondered where he had picked her up. Probably on the streets. Place Pigalle, undoubtedly. Ah, such a waste! But who could figure men out?
    In the salon, standing at the window, Rubin looked at Paris, drinking in her beauty as he waited for Magda to finish dressing. Four times she’d changed, observing herself each time in the mirror. He could hear her exclamations of disgust. She hated every outfit.
    Frustrated, she sat down heavily on the bed. She’d had her share of problems in life, but which dress to wear had never been one of them. Wasn’t it stupid, she thought, looking at the boxes filled with lingerie, shoes, hats, scarves, even a French umbrella Rubin had insisted on, and it wasn’t even raining. Tissue paper was strewn about the room. When she and Rubin had taken the dresses, suits, skirts and sweaters out, placing them on the enormous bed, she was so excited she hadn’t realized the terrible responsibilities of decision-making …Wearing her new satin and lace slip, she quickly walked across the foyer to the salon.
    “Rubin,” she said, breathing hard.
    He turned from the window, and looking at her expression of exasperation he smiled, then laughed.
    Tapping her foot she said, “Stop laughing …” and then almost in tears, said, “Rubin, please … help. I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what goes with what …”
    Rubin took her by the