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As the maid cleared the dishes, Sarveux leaned over and kissed her softly on one hand.
"Must you go?"
"I'm afraid so," she said, pouring him a brandy. "My new fall wardrobe is ready at Vivonnes, and I made an early appointment for tomorrow morning to have my final fittings."
"Why must you always fly to Quebec? Why can't you find a dressmaker in Ottawa?" Danielle gave a little laugh and stroked his hair.
"Because I prefer the fashion designers in Quebec to the dressmakers of Ottawa."
"We never seem to have a moment alone."
"You're always busy running the country."
"I can't argue the point. However, when I do make time for you, you're always committed elsewhere."
"I'm the wife of the Prime Minister," she smiled. "I can't close my eyes and turn my back on the duties expected of me."
"Don't go," he said tonelessly.
"Surely you want me to look nice for our social engagements," she pouted.
"Where will you be staying?"
"Where I always stay when I spend the night in Quebec City at Nanci Soult's townhouse."
"I'd feel better if you returned home in the evening."
"Nothing will happen, Charles." She bent down and kissed him lukewarmly on the cheek. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk then."
"I love you, Danielle," he said quietly. "My dearest wish is to grow old with you by my side. I want you to know that." Her only reply was the sound of a door shutting.
The townhouse was in Nanci Soult's name, a fact that was unknown to Nanci herself.
A best-selling novelist and a native Canadian, she lived in Ireland to beat the staggering taxes brought on by inflation. Her visits to family and friends in Vancouver were infrequent, and she had not set foot in Quebec in over twenty years.
The routine never varied.
As soon as the official car dropped Danielle at the townhouse and a Mountie was stationed outside the entrance gate, she went from room to room slamming doors, flushing the toilet and setting the FM radio dial on a station that broadcast soothing music.
When her presence was secure, she walked into a closet and parted the clothes, revealing a door that led into a seldom used stairwell in the adjoining building.
She hurried down the steps to a single-car, interior garage that opened on a back alley. Henri Villon waited punctually in his Mercedes-Benz. He reached over and embraced her as she leaned across the front seat.
Danielle relaxed for the automatic response of his kiss. But the show of affection was fleeting. He pushed her back and his expression turned businesslike.
"I hope this is important," he said. "It's becoming more difficult to break away."
"Can this be the same man who recklessly made love to me in the Prime Minister's mansion?"
"I wasn't about to be elected President of Quebec then."
She withdrew to her side of the car and sighed. She could sense that the excitement and passion of their clandestine meetings was fading. There was no illusion to be shattered. She had never kidded herself into believing their special relationship could go on forever. All that was left now was to bury the hurt and remain cordial, if not intimate friends. "Shall we go somewhere?" he saidlbreaking her reverie. "No, just drive around."
He pressed the button to the electric garage door opener and backed into the alley. The traffic was light as he drove down to the riverfront and joined a short line of cars waiting to board the ferry to the east shore.
Nothing more was said between them until Villon steered the Mercedes up the ramp and parked near the bow, where they had a view of the lights dancing on the St. Lawrence. "We have a crisis on our hands," she said finally. "Does it concern you and me or Quebec?"
"All three." "You sound grim."
