Amandine (24 page)

Yes, Doctor, of course help will be sent to St.-Hilaire, just as soon as possible, sir. The waiting list, however, you understand. Priorities, sir. If it’s drugs you need, however, those can be sent.… I see. Well, all right then, Doctor. We’ll advise you of the first staff availability
.

It had been for Amandine that Jean-Baptiste had requested nursing care from the public health offices. It was she who most troubled him. An attack of scarlet fever would be far more threatening to her than to a person without her congenital weaknesses, even weaknesses restored to a tenuous equilibrium. She would be safest if isolated from both the infirmary patients and those in secondary isolation.

Jean-Baptiste consulted Mater Paul about where Amandine might be kept, telling her that physical distance from the infirmary and the adjunct ward would be necessary to keep her from exposure to those who would be caretaking the others.

“Philippe’s old rooms,” said Paul. “They’re in the extreme opposite wing of the building, so we could assign one person to see to her needs and there would be no reason for anyone else to even pass nearby.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the right place for her. But who is to care for her? If it weren’t for her accident, she could do for herself and would only need someone to check her temperature and pulse several times a day
and throughout the night, bring her meals. Give her a hand with bathing, perhaps. Essentially just keep vigilant, but with—”

“Ah, yes. Her injury. Graceless little fool that she is. Trying to pirouette in someone else’s ballet shoes.”

“You forgive her nothing, do you, Mater? Soon you’ll be saying it was she who brought down the fever upon your house.”

Paul pulls her eternal handkerchief from beneath her sleeve, pats her upper lip. Chooses to keep silent.

“The ankle was far less swollen last evening, but the ligaments are badly torn. She must rest, keep the leg elevated, and the ankle compression must be removed every three or four hours for twenty minutes or so and then rebandaged. We’ll need someone who—”

“Josette. She is strong, can lift the child with ease, and, once shown a procedure, she will perform it with precision. Yes, Josette. I can personally attest to her competence. I’ll call her in right away.”

“Actually, I’d prefer to meet with her.”

“But you’ve been exposed and will therefore expose Josette. If you’re not concerned about that, why, I’ll take on the duty of caring for Amandine myself.”

“You’ve quite enough to do I would think—”

“Baptiste, don’t you trust me to care properly for the child?”

Baptiste’s smile is brief. Perhaps insincere. He says, “Why not someone from the farms, someone who’s come up to help from the hamlet?”

“But how do we know who among them has or has not been exposed? At least Josette keeps herself in a kind of isolation most of the time anyway.”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll write instructions. Josette can read, can’t she?”

“Some. But I shall review it all with her. Here, sit down and I shall go along to alert Josette.”

Paul is indeed diligent in clarifying the instructions for Josette. In a larger, clearer hand, she rewrites Jean-Baptiste’s notes in a leather-bound book, which she knows will please Josette, help her to feel the distinction of her role as nurse.

“Though Cook will be given a list of appropriate meals for Amandine, Josette, you must be certain that the food sent to her concurs with your list. Look here now. She must be fed small, frequent meals composed of

    white rice

potato puree

stewed fruits

poached eggs

raw egg beaten with a touch of sugar and a few drops of coffee

blancmange

petit gervais

poached marrow on lightly buttered toast

the juice of an orange diluted with mineral water

    “It is important that she take in a minimum of eight large glasses of cool water each day in addition to unlimited quantities of weak tea. Do you understand, Josette?”

In the leather-bound book, Paul has drawn columns for days of the week, hours of the day, categories of information to note. She instructs Josette to enter into the book, no matter how primitively, everything that the child eats and drinks as well as her pulse and temperature.

“And here are the warning signs you must watch for, Josette.

    a flushing of the face, even a mild one

a rash on any part of her body

chills

fever

headache

vomiting

rapid pulse

a whitened tongue

    “Do you understand each of these? Amandine is very verbal, to say the least, and she will certainly alert you should she feel discomfort.”

Josette is peevish under Paul’s fastidious delivery.

Has Paul forgotten how I, Josette, cared for her all those years ago? How I kept many a vigil with the child Annick in my arms when she was burning with fever or blue with cough? While her doctor father roved about the village, it was I who treated little Annick with herbal remedies, rubbing her chest with the poultices my mother would make of olive oil and white willow or slippery elm for my brothers and sisters. I would cover her thin, wheezing breast with a rag warmed by the fire. The most important part of the cure was my rocking her in my arms then, and the lullabies. And here, now, all this fuss over what to do for Amandine
.

“And remember, Josette, no one, absolutely no one must be admitted to those rooms. Trays will be prepared and left for you by Cook or one of her helpers near the entrance to that wing. And you will leave the empty trays in the same place. Likewise with linens and towels and changes of clothing for both you and Amandine. Whatever else you might order. Write what you want and leave the note on the tray. Also, tear out the day’s page of entries and leave it on the last tray in the evening. We’ll see that Jean-Baptiste receives it. Do you understand? And I’m certain I don’t have to remind you to keep the rooms in pristine fashion. You may sleep in the room adjoining hers or on the sofa in the parlor but, wherever you are, leave the door ajar so you will hear should she call you. And use this to wake yourself every two hours during the night.” Like an Olympic torch, Paul slaps the metal clock with the two large bells on either side into Josette’s open palm, watches as the old woman, leather-bound book under her arm, starts haughtily on her way.

“But why can’t I take care of her, Baptiste? I don’t have the fever, I’m perfectly well—”

“Lie down, Solange, lie down and I’ll be happy to explain things to you once again. It’s true that you don’t have a fever, but you were exposed to nearly all, if not all, of the students and sisters who do. Three of whom, I might add, are gravely ill and must be moved to hospital later today. As for you, your throat is speckled in white, your tongue
is yellowish, your pulse rate is elevated, and you’ve a mild rash on your neck and shoulders. It’s likely that you will be fully symptomatic by this evening, when I shall have you moved to the infirmary and begin dosing you with penicillin just as I have the others. Now do you understand why it can’t be you who cares for Amandine?”

“Yes, yes. But of all people, why is it to be Josette who—”

“At first I too was uncomfortable when Paul suggested Josette but, under these conditions, she’s actually the best choice. She keeps so much to herself, works quite alone at her scrubbing and cleaning, and prefers to take her meals in her room rather than in the refectory. A strange old duck, I know, but we’ve all witnessed her hawkish approach to her work, to whatever assignment she is given. And that’s what Amandine needs right now. I must tell you that Paul was wonderfully solicitous in setting things up. Explaining the tasks to Josette, the caveats. These days will pass by quickly and, besides, I expect the provincial offices to send help at any time. As soon as they do, I’ll relieve Josette. Rest, now. Save your strength.”

“W
HAT DEVIL INHABITS HER, JOSETTE? WHAT KEEPS THE BREATH IN THAT
child? I wish her dead and gone and never having been. May God forgive me.”

These words, spoken by Paul to Josette months before—soon after what became known as the refectory event had occurred—have remained an almost constant reprise in Josette’s disheveled mind, goading, spurring, obsessing her. Now this windfall of chance to act. How long has she sought retribution, some small justice for all that her beloved Annick has endured? All those years ago she’d wanted to murder Annick’s father. Wandering through the woods and over the meadows when she was eight or nine and had just taken on the care of the doctor’s infant daughter, Josette’s favored pastime was to rhapsodize ways and means of his demise. She would stab him in his sleep or poison his tea with the yellow powder meant for rats or, better, she would take Monsieur Dufy by the hand some afternoon, lead him through the elm wood and down to the river when the doctor and
Monsieur’s red-haired, white-breasted wife were in dishabille on the damp blue rug in the fishermen’s cottage. Let Monsieur Dufy shoot him, that would suit her fine. But Josette never did a thing to hurt Annick’s father except to store up her bitterness for him. By the time Annick had become Soeur Paul and she, Josette, had joined her at the convent, she’d dug a deeper and wider place for that bitterness what with all she’d accumulated of it by then for the bishop Fabrice. Yes, the bishop’s fancy for Paul so fleeting, Josette still sometimes hears the great liquorish cackles he’d send up into the unholy night while she waited outside the chapel doors for her Annick. Annick would have killed or died for him and—then and now—Josette well understands that sentiment. But what could she have done to harm a bishop? There were others, too, over the years, postulants who scoffed at Paul, lay sisters who guffawed when her back was turned, convent sisters who conspired to her discomfort. But what could she do to any of them really, they whose lives were already so full of misery? At last, this child.

Metaires
from the hamlet—both men and women—have come to help at St.-Hilaire. They take over kitchen duties, scrub floors and walls and stairs with a vile-smelling disinfectant, see to the laundry and the gardens. One of them carries a small, white-wrapped bundle down the stairs from the convent girls’ dormitory. Her splinted, bandaged ankle held up stiff as a rudder, Amandine giggles, asks her young porter to walk faster, faster so she can feel a breeze, then bids him stop in the garden to let her stay for a while in the hot June sun.

“But Mademoiselle Amandine, they’re waiting for you now. I promised. In a few days all this business of the fever will be over and your ankle will be good as new and the sun will be warmer yet, you’ll see.”

Under the loggia then, into the convent, down the far west wing to Père Philippe’s old rooms, where Josette is folding down the linen sheets of the freshly made bed.

“There we are. Carefully now. Thank you, Monsieur Luc.”

“Yes, thank you, Monsieur Luc. Will you come to visit me soon?”

“I would be happy to. In fact, my mother has offered to stay with Mademoiselle during the nights, Sister, should she be needed. She asked me specifically to speak to Mater Paul, but I was unable to find her and—”

“Thank you, Monsieur Luc, but all the arrangements are quite in order. Please do thank your mother, though.”

“Can Monsieur Luc come to visit me, Josette?”

“No visitors for you, my dear. Surely that was explained to you. No visitors. Not until this siege is over. Now Monsieur Luc has many things to do …”

Josette guides the young man to the threshold, nods her farewells, closes the door. Locks it. Removes the key and puts it in her pocket. Pats the pocket. Smiles at Amandine.

At last
.

“Josette, did someone bring over my books, my drawing pads? I put everything in my satchel and—”

“It’s all here. But first let me explain Jean-Baptiste’s orders for you. The most important thing to do is to sleep. You must sleep as much as possible, lie still and be very, very quiet—”

“But, Josette, I’m not sick. It’s only my ankle, but even it is much better, see? And I know how to undo the bandage without disturbing the splints and then I have to let it rest for twenty minutes and then I’ll need help in putting the bandage back on though I do know how to do it, it’s a little hard for me to get it even and tight but—”

“You mustn’t worry about a thing. I know what to do. And even though you’re not sick, as you say, we will follow exactly what Jean-Baptiste has asked of us, won’t we?”

Josette walks to the large oak dresser across the room and, from the same pocket where she has put the key, she takes out a small brown glass vial. Her back to Amandine, she shakes a liquid from the vial into a glass, pours in less than an inch of water from the pitcher on the dresser, turns and, smiling, walks to the bed.

“What’s that?”

“Why, your medicine, of course.”

“What medicine? I haven’t been taking any medicine. What’s it for?”

“I am sure I don’t know, dear. It’s what Baptiste has prescribed. Likely it’s just a vitamin potion or some such thing. Now drink this all in a single swallow. Go ahead.”