The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,60

moving but Hector felt as though it were going nowhere. He saw flashes of green, trees and rocks and mountains, pass by. They blurred together and he turned the glass he was drinking from between his fingers, examining its facets.

He knew, sitting there in the dining car while others ate and smoked and chatted, that Valérie was correct. It was all over. Not merely his courtship of Nina, but his eternal pursuit of Valérie herself. He had been able to love her, hopelessly, for years and years. She was married, she was far from him, and when he saw her again she was cold. Yet his love did not diminish, his adoration of this woman did not cease. He was chained to her, to this brilliant ideal of a perfect love.

Because he had always known that if he could have Valérie in his arms again, all would be well. It would be as though the decade that separated them had never happened and they would return to the happy days of their youth when everything was possible. It was as if he could unwind the clock with her aid. And once this happened, there would be nothing but joy.

But then she had spoken and revealed the true reason why she had cast him aside, and Hector realized with horror that this perfect love he’d built in his heart was ugly and grim. Had he known Valérie was difficult? Yes. Had they fought before? Yes. He had, nevertheless, failed to understand her cruelty.

It was his fault alone. Other men were happy enough, living with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Hector had wanted more. He wanted the thrill of passion, the feelings people sang about in operas. Theatrics, but then hadn’t he made a career for himself on a stage?

The glass Hector was holding in his hands caught the rays of the sun, sparkling. He set it down against the table and frowned, watching the countryside.

He tried to recall what Valérie had been like when they met. He had vivid images of her, of the exact details that made her. The dimples in her cheeks and the white ribbon in her hair. She had been elegant, proud, exact in manners and words, quarrelsome at times and harsh far too often, spiteful and beautiful, passionate in her affections. But in the end, she had given nothing true to him. Despite her lovely words and her kisses, she had remained veiled and sealed off.

He’d been a heedless boy who had turned into a man full of rancor and discontent, sensing that life had betrayed him, stolen from him what he ought to have possessed. He had thought the missing piece was Valérie—and he had been right, but not in the manner he expected.

He crossed his arms and pressed his forehead against the window.

And then he saw the river flowing not far off and he thought of Nina Beaulieu, who had not wronged him in any way and whom he’d hurt nonetheless.

At that moment, Luc Lémy rose and excused himself, loudly proclaiming he was heading back to their compartment since everyone was terribly glum.

Once they were alone, Étienne folded the newspaper he had picked up at the station. “Now that he is gone, shall we talk or do you intend to travel to Bosegnan in absolute silence?” Étienne asked.

“Silence would be good.”

“Silence when you are drunk is fine, but sober it chips at your mind. You had a row. How bad was it, truly?”

“Terrible. She saw me and Valérie kiss.”

“Dear God, Hector.”

“Hush,” Hector said, raising a hand, palm open. “I realize how idiotic I was.”

Étienne refilled his glass of wine and he grabbed Hector’s glass and refilled that one, too. Hector needed stronger liquor, a drink that would burn his throat and blot his thoughts. It had been years and years since he’d been roaring drunk, not since the days when he would visit taverns with Étienne, but he dearly wished he could attempt this sport again for a single day.

“Does anyone else know about this? Aside from Valérie, Nina, and you.”

“No. I imagine she would have told her mother already if she cared to tell—she had plenty of time to speak her mind to her before we left. Not that it matters.”

“Perhaps you are right and she’s decided to be magnanimous. But, Hector, what a fine mess this is. And Valérie, you and she—”

“Nothing,” Hector said. “There is no ‘Valérie and I.’”

He had been riddled with the disease of love, but Valérie