Girl in the Afternoon (26 page)

Madame Savaray told her she was being foolish. “I'm not going to let you sit around bemoaning not being invited to some garish party.” She slapped her hands together. “We're going to see the exhibits. It's the event of the year.” She turned to Auguste, who happened, on this occasion, to be in the room. “And you are coming with us. We will step out together. We're still a family, after all, and if I am willing to throw myself into the crowds with my bad knees, the two of you can stand a little snubbing from people you never cared for anyway.”

So they went, Auguste taking Colette's arm and leading her through the swollen streets, past musicians and dancers and acrobats, flags flying from windows by the thousands, bodies pressing and knocking into them on all sides. The thunderous commotion was overwhelming and thrilling at the same time.

Swept up, Auguste and Colette allowed themselves to fall back into a time when they'd been a part of the social community, when this was what had been important. They stood a little straighter, smiled a little wider, and nodded to everyone they passed, the long feathers on Colette's hat bobbing forward, Auguste tipping the edge of his hat with his fingers.

Seeing the art exhibit brought back particular memories. Colette remembered the dress she'd worn the year Aimée was in the Salon de Paris, the tight bodice and all that trim. She'd felt grand that day, spectacularly important.

Auguste also thought of Aimée, but with a good deal of remorse, which he worked through by reminding himself—standing in front of a painting of a quiet sea—that sending her abroad had been the right thing to do.

Taking in a vivid Japanese painting, Madame Savaray imagined how their lives would be different if Aimée had never seen Henri's painting at the Salon de Paris all those years ago. What if Aimée had simply passed it by? Walked out into the garden and never looked back? Henri might never have been found. He might have stayed lost to them forever, and in this way they wouldn't have lost Aimée. They most certainly wouldn't have lost Jacques.

Looking at her son, tall, thinner than he used to be, but still strong and self-possessed, Madame Savaray felt proud. She watched him take Colette's arm and whisper something in her ear. Despite his fickle nature, he was loyal.

She turned back to the painting, thinking how much she liked these Japanese artists. Their work was clean, simple, and delicate, with meticulous lines and clear, vibrant colors. She wished life were that clean and simple, that radiant without the frills. She shook her head. The Savarays had never had a chance at a life like that. It wouldn't have mattered if Henri had stayed lost, or if her son had married a simpler woman, chaos would have found its way in.

*   *   *

Things
shifted between Auguste and Colette after the Exposition
.
There was no weeping or forgiving, just a subtle warming and acceptance on both sides.

For Auguste, it was something about being out together, having the weight of Colette on his arm, her gloved hand resting on top of his. It made him feel as if she still belonged to him. He held on to her all day, guiding her through the crowds. When they stopped in a café he ordered for her, and she looked at him gratefully, as if his care and protection was exactly what she wanted.

It was true that Colette missed the attention of a man. Not the physical attention—she had no desire for that anymore—but she did miss being held on to, supported.

So they slipped into a quiet affection that was different from anything they'd had before. There was no fighting, no passionate tossing about in bed, just a walk in the park, a light discussion in the parlor after dinner, a smile or two of coquetry, as if they were coming into something for the first time that made them both a bit shy.

Colette still slept in her own room, and neither spoke of changing this arrangement. Once, Auguste kissed her before going up to bed, a deep, longing kiss, but it led to nothing more.

One morning, in the parlor, a square of early sunlight slanting across the shiny wood floor, Auguste folded down the edge of his newspaper and looked at Colette over the top of it.

“I met an American man last week, a Robert Cassatt.”

“Oh?” Colette looked up from her book.

“Retired stockbroker and real estate man. Very prominent. They have an apartment on L'avenue Trudaine,” he said, the fashionable side of Pigalle an indication of the family's propriety and prosperity.

“How nice.” Colette went back to her reading, uninterested in new acquaintances.

Auguste snapped his newspaper straight and cast his eyes over it. After a minute he said, “They have a daughter. A fine painter, I hear. Her papa told me she had a small piece in the Exposition.”

Colette shut her book and placed it in her lap. “This is about Aimée then? Your regret?”

From behind his newspaper, Auguste said, “I was merely thinking it might be time for Aimée to come home.”

“Come home to paint, you mean?”

Auguste turned a page, looked it over. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Auguste,” Colette said gently. “Put down the paper.”

Auguste folded the paper in two and set it on the table beside him. Sunlight had crept over the floor and pooled in Colette's lap, covering her smooth, white hands.

“This daughter of his has her own studio,” Auguste said, “outside the home. She is allowed to keep it as long as it supports itself.”

Colette nodded. “A fine idea.”

“Precisely what I was thinking, a fine idea.”

“Then you'll write to Aimée? Ask her to come home?”

Auguste rubbed the underside of his chin. “I'd say it's high time, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, yes, I would.”

 

Chapter 30

Auguste fully intended to write that letter, but in early July Colette fell ill. The doctor said it was only a nasty cold, and that she should keep to her bed. In her feverish state, Colette was convinced she was dying. Every limb ached, her head throbbed, and it hurt to swallow. Once, she didn't make it to her chamber pot, and a humiliating mess had to be cleaned from the floor. A persistent cough developed, along with a few nosebleeds, and the doctor was called again. And again, he insisted there was nothing to worry about; the fever would go down, and her symptoms would pass.

Aimée was forgotten for the time being by everyone other than Madame Savaray, who had not received a letter from England in three months. She'd written several, all of which had gone unanswered.

She wrote again, telling Aimée that Colette was dying, and that she must return home immediately. Of course, Madame Savaray did not believe for one minute that this was true, but she would have said anything to bring Aimée home, and the illness was as good an excuse as any.

There was no doubt Colette was seriously ill, and that she was taking full advantage, acting up as usual and vying for attention, especially from Auguste, who was beside himself. He wouldn't leave her side. He screamed at the doctor. Called him an imbecile. Insisted he wasn't doing enough.

The doctor, used to hysterical husbands, took it graciously. “Well,” he said, snapping his bag shut and picking up his hat, anxious to be done with his now daily exams of Colette. “Her fever is down from yesterday, just as I predicted. As I said before, it is my professional opinion—and, mind you, I have been in this profession for thirty-five years—that your wife will make a full recovery.”

At that moment Colette moaned, rolled her flushed face over the edge of the bed, and vomited into a large ceramic basin.

Auguste dashed over and pulled her hair out of her face. “Does this look like a woman who is recovering?”

At the door, the doctor said, “These things take time,” and left.

Colette's forehead burned against Auguste's palm, and she looked at him with wild eyes. “I must see my son!” she cried. “If I am dying, I must see him. Please. It's all I ask of you. Please, let me see Jacques one last time.” She collapsed over Auguste's arm in a fit of coughing. Auguste patted her thin, frail back, her spine a brittle, bumpy line under her dressing gown.

“I'll send for the boy,” he said, propping her against the pillow, smoothing the hair away from her hot, moist cheeks.

Colette began to cry.

Auguste pressed a hand to her chest. “Stop, my love, you mustn't. You'll make yourself worse. Please stop.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You're going to be well again,” he said. “It's nonsense, all this talk of dying. I will not permit it. You'll be fit in no time, the doctor said so.”

“I cannot help myself,” Colette sobbed. “I must see my son.”

“I know, my love, I know. I'll send for the boy. But no more talk of dying. Do you hear me?”

Colette's sobs were overtaken by another gruesome coughing fit. When she had control of her breathing, she sank down in bed, exhausted. “I'm terribly cold,” she said.

Pulling back the covers, Auguste climbed in next to her. Colette lifted her head from the pillow and rested it on his chest, a button on his shirt making a small, circular indent on her cheek. He wrapped his arm around her, feeling the feverish warmth of her body against his.

*   *   *

There
was no walking from the train station this time. Madame Savaray had the carriage pull right up to the door of the little cottage in Thoméry.

Leonie greeted her with an uncomfortable smile and led her into the house, apologizing for the children's mess; rocks dropped like crumbs down the hall and into the parlor where an elaborate stone house had been built in the middle of the braided rug.

Madame Savaray cocked an eyebrow with a look of asperity that Leonie chose to ignore. As far as Leonie was concerned, she'd let the children do as she saw fit. She was alone here, and no one was going to come in and tell her how to raise her children now.

Wordlessly, she watched Madame Savaray scan the sparse room, her eyes narrow and accusing as they roamed over the faded sofa, the single end table, and the two cane chairs—one with a small hole in the seat.

Stepping deliberately around the children's stonework, Madame Savaray sat down in the chair nearest the cold hearth and propped her walking stick against the curved armrest.

Leonie hovered in the doorway, nervous, shifting her arms first down at her sides, then across her chest. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? Chocolate?”

“Cognac if you have it, or wine will do.” Madame Savaray glanced out the open window, the brown muslin curtains shifting in the breeze. She could smell drying wheat, and hear the faint rush of the river.

“I'll only be a moment,” Leonie said, and went down the hall to the kitchen.

She had been in the bedroom tucking in the sheets—still warm and stiff from the sun—when she'd heard the clomping of horses' hooves and the crunch of carriage wheels. She'd dropped the sheet and flown down the stairs, certain it was Henri.

Seeing Madame Savaray hobbling over the stones, Leonie was hit with stunning disappointment. Until that moment she hadn't let herself feel how much she missed Henri, how painful it was that he hadn't written, or how frightening the thought that he might not return. It was no comfort that he had promised to marry her. He'd promised this many times over the years.
It's best for the children
was what he had said. England was for “the children” too. He was going to reclaim his rightful name so he could give it to them. None of it was for her.

Leonie arranged the glasses on the tray, a thin streak of flour appearing across her middle as she leaned into the counter. A quick, cold fear ran through her, and she bowed her head. Over the years she had tried, very hard, not to imagine the day a Savaray came to claim Jeanne, but she'd feared it all the same.

Carrying the tray back to the parlor, Leonie set it on the end table and handed Madame Savaray a glass. She did not take a glass for herself, but sat across from her with purpose, prepared to meet this head-on, fight with all her might if need be.

It was obvious how uncomfortable Leonie was, but for some reason Madame Savaray didn't make the slightest effort to put her at ease. Instead, she asked after Henri, and learned, much to her shock, that he was in England.

“Has he seen Aimée?” she demanded, Aimée's silence suddenly becoming clearer to her. Of course Henri was behind it. Always Henri.

“I don't know. I've not heard a word from him.”

Madame Savaray gave her a measured look of accusation. “Why did he go?”

“To find his father.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Almost three months.”

That was exactly when Aimée stopped writing. Madame Savaray tapped the edge of her glass with her fingernail. A small chiming sound rang out. “Do you expect his return?”

Leonie's face darkened. “Of course I expect his return.”

“Why, then, would he not write to you?”

“Madame,” Leonie pulled herself to the edge of the sofa, perched, Madame Savaray thought, like a flighty bird. “Why have you come? Clearly, it has nothing to do with Henri's being in England.”

Madame Savaray snapped her head to the left and looked at a poorly rendered painting of Jacques with baby Jeanne on his lap. “One ought not tilt on the edge of her seat. Sit or stand. It's unbecoming to hover in between. It makes you appear agitated.”

“I am agitated,” Leonie responded, and Madame Savaray couldn't help thinking how much she admired this reasonable, straightforward woman.

“Where are the children?”

“Out in the field.”

“Running wild? Unsupervised?”

It wasn't Madame Savaray's intention to be hard on Leonie; she was just tense, and fighting off the despondency she'd felt the moment she'd stepped into this house.

She set down her wineglass. She had not taken a single sip. “I've only come to make an outrageous request that you can, by all means, refuse.”