Girl in the Afternoon (27 page)

Tears sprang to Leonie's eyes, and she pressed a hand to her chest, shaking her head in embarrassment. “My apologies.”

“What did you think? That I was here to reclaim those unruly children?” Madame Savaray slapped at the front of her dress as if they were climbing all over her. “Stones in the drawing room,” she muttered.

Truthfully, seeing this messy bit of youth reminded her of the joy that could be found in a stone, and she was overcome by the same longing she'd felt watching the children on the church steps. It was a longing to be a part of something delightfully young again, even if just for a moment.

“Colette is terribly ill,” Madame Savaray said. “She believes she's going to her grave, and her last, unequivocal request is to see Jacques. I, for one, think it's senseless. But, there you have it.”

Leonie was silent as she wiped the tears from under her eyes. After a minute she asked, “Is Colette to be trusted?”

“I couldn't say.”

Leonie shook her head. “I don't think it's a good idea.”

Madame Savaray took hold of her walking stick and gave it a thump. “I told Auguste, if he was going to be so fainthearted as to send me on this errand, that I would not insist, or even make a good argument. Besides, the doctor says Colette will make a full recovery. I'd be surprised if something as incidental as a fever did her in. I'm not convinced she hasn't brought the illness on for a bit of excitement.”

“But there's a chance she's dying?”

“We're all dying; it's just a matter of when.”

A worrisome thought had crept into Leonie's mind. “If I said
yes,
how would we manage it? What would we tell Jacques?”

Madame Savaray gave a throaty scoff. “He's a child. Tell him anything you like. Tell him a distant relative wants to see him. It won't mean anything to a child.”

“Do the Savarays know nothing of Jeanne?”

“Nothing.”

“What if Jacques says something about his sister?”

“They'll think she's yours. They have no reason not to.”

“You want to take him today?”

“I'll bring him back tomorrow on the earliest train.”

Leonie looked out the window. She couldn't see the children. They'd probably gone down to the river. Jeanne had never spent a night without her brother. She'd be beside herself.

“All right.” Leonie was reluctant, and yet she felt fairly certain that refusing a dying mother's request to see her only son was not something easily forgiven by God. And if not God, Leonie didn't see how she could forgive herself. “You must promise to look after Jacques yourself, and stay in the room the entire time he's with Colette.”

Holding tight to her walking stick, Madame Savaray heaved herself from the chair. “He'll be fine,” she said. Then, with cold authority, “Best not to disillusion yourself that you're his maman. Jacques will find out the truth one day, whether you want him to or not. They always do.”

Leonie stood up with a flash of anger. “Well, today is not that day.”

“Of course not. You needn't look so alarmed. I'm only saying it for your own good. Things hurt, that's all, mostly the truth, and it comes to light eventually, as much as we don't want it to. I'm only suggesting you prepare yourself in advance, so you're not entirely undone by it.”

Leonie had spent a lot of time warding off this very thought, and she was not prepared to face it now, when she was about to say good-bye to her son.

“I'll call in the children,” she said. Then she gave Madame Savaray a steely look. “I'm trusting you.”

Madame Savaray nodded. “As you should,” she said, even though they both knew it was not really up to her.

 

Chapter 31

Auguste sat at a café staring at his dinner, unshaven, pale, and thin. He'd hardly slept or eaten since Colette had fallen ill.

He stared into his stew, pushing around bits of fish and floating leeks. Jacques would have arrived at the house already. Colette would have seen him. He would have eaten his dinner. He might even be in bed.

Auguste lifted his head. The oil lamps on the tables were as bright as torches, and they made his eyes ache. The yellow tiles on the walls swam under the glare as he waved the tavern maid over.

He told the girl to take the food away and bring another absinthe.

By the time he left, Auguste was thoroughly drunk. A clock chimed as he climbed the steps to his house, but he didn't count the tolls, and he'd forgotten to wind his watch, so he had no idea what time he finally made it through the front door. He propped himself against the wall, breathing heavily. When no one came he tossed his hat onto the floor and groped his way up the stairs.

Opening the door to Aimée's old bedroom, he crept stealthily, stumbling into the bedside table. An object went flying, making a soft thud as it hit the rug. Jacques stirred.

Moonlight fell in a wide strip across the bed. Normally, the curtains were pulled shut, and as Auguste eased himself down on the edge of the mattress, he thought perhaps they had been left open because Jacques was afraid of the dark.

He gently touched the boy's hand, realizing this was all he would ever have, this image of Jacques's soft hair splayed across the pillow, his parted lips, one arm flung over his head as his eyelids fluttered, darting around his dreams.

The loneliness of the last four years hit Auguste, and he wanted to take Jacques in his arms and hold on to him. He couldn't imagine reliving those years. But he couldn't see a way out. He'd lost so much. He wished he could blame Henri, but it wasn't Henri's fault. A small crack in his life began the moment he lost his first child, one that had only widened and spread with time. Henri was just a chink along the way, the loss of Jacques the final shattering.

Perhaps, Auguste thought, it wasn't too late to take Jacques back. Maybe, with the return of his boy, the fissures of his cracked life would recede and he'd be whole again. He would offer Henri money. Pay him off. What struggling artist would choose a troublesome child over money? The boy must be a burden. He would be relieved to be rid of him. Auguste stood up. Colette would have something to live for if she had her boy back. She'd fight harder. She'd stay alive.

Just then Jacques's eyes flew open. Auguste jumped back from the bed, stumbled to the door, and rushed from the room.

Back in his own room, he slammed the door and dropped onto the bed. Clutching his throbbing head he fell into a swirling, drunken slumber.

By the time he rose, stiff and achy, fully dressed with boots still laced and drool crusted on the side of his cheek, it was nearly ten o'clock and Jacques and Madame Savaray were already on the train back to Thoméry.

Auguste changed his clothes, splashed cold water on his face, and rubbed his wet hands through hair that still reeked of stale cigar smoke.
What a mad fool
.

He entered Colette's room, with its sour smell of sickness and curtains pulled shut against the bright morning. But when he looked at his wife, he saw that she was sitting up, her back pressed against the carved headboard and her hair brushed neatly over the shoulders of her white dressing gown. Her face was no longer blotchy, but smooth and even toned, her eyes bright and clear.

“My dear.” She smiled as she untangled a weak hand from the crumpled bedclothes and reached out to him.

A thin rod of sunlight escaped through a crack in the curtain. It looked like a gold scepter lying across the wooden floorboards. Auguste stepped across and took her hand, her fingers thin and delicate under his grip.

“I saw Jacques,” she said, her voice light and natural, the pitch of hysteria she'd carried for weeks swept away. “I saw our boy. He is beautiful. He spoke to me. He was very polite.” She smiled, as proud as any maman could be.

Auguste sank to his knees at the edge of the bed. She had said
our boy
. It didn't matter that it wasn't true. It left him feeling that he could finally forgive her.

“Yes,” he said. “I saw him too.”

“I'm glad,” she said. “I'm glad you had the strength to see him.” And she pulled Auguste's hand to her lips and kissed it.

 

Chapter 32

By the time Aimée stepped off the train, the sun had already sunk behind the shadows of the buildings. A heavy fog crept over the city, and when the carriage stopped at the front door on the rue l'Ampère, the street was completely dark. Not a glimmer of light came from a single window as she made her way to the carriage entrance around back. She'd sent no notice of her arrival, so she hoped a kitchen maid might still be up, or Marie, whose bedroom overlooked the courtyard.

The last letter from her
grand-mère
had been at the post office for over a month before she received it, along with an earlier letter postmarked in May, and another from June. Apparently, Lady Arrington had not thought it necessary to have the post forwarded to Brighton, where they had spent the summer.

Her
grand-mère
had written of Colette's illness, but no letter followed, which meant her health had most likely improved and there was no need for Aimée's sudden return. Yet when she'd read her
grand-mère
's letters she had felt a tremendous longing for home. It wasn't her family she longed for, or the house, or the familiar streets of Paris; it was simply a desire to step back into a life she recognized.

Aimée moved along the dark courtyard, with a hand out in front of her, bumping into the arm of a shadowy figure.

“Gracious!” she cried, and a girl stepped forward.

“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled.

“It was entirely my fault,” Aimée said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, mademoiselle.”

“Are you employed here?”

“Yes,” the girl answered.

“If you'd be so kind as to let me in, it's Mademoiselle Savaray.”

The girl peered at Aimée for a moment. “Right away, mademoiselle.”

They went in the back door, and the girl took a candle from the table, leading Aimée down the hall and up the ground floor stairs to the parlor.

“Should I wake someone for you?” the girl asked, lowering her candle to the wick of a lamp.

“No, thank you,” Aimée said. “I would be grateful in the morning if you would send someone to fetch my trunks at the station.”

The girl curtsied. “Yes, mademoiselle.”

“That will be all.”

The girl backed out of the room, quick footsteps echoing behind her. Realizing she hadn't asked after her maman, Aimée stepped after her, but the girl was gone.

The stairs loomed on Aimée's right, and she reached up and smoothed her hand along the banister, remembering how Jacques used to hold on when he jumped from step to step. He went so fast she was sure one day he'd go crashing down. But he never did. He had always been so quick and sure of himself.

Aimée walked back into the parlor, wondering how big Jacques was now. She sat on the sofa, rubbing her forehead with one hand, trying to wipe out any thoughts of Jeanne before they crept in. She would not picture Jeanne. How could she? She didn't even know the color of her daughter's hair, or if it was curly or straight. She didn't know if she was a wispy, delicate child, or plump and round. No, Aimée would not think of her. It would be no use. And whatever happened, she vowed not to go out to Thoméry to have a look.

The familiarity of this house was what she had missed, and Aimée tried to absorb everything around her. Things taken for granted, like the musty smell of the rug and the faded, blue tint of the fabric on the arm of the sofa. It was strange to have everything exactly where she'd left it; the sofa enduring the passage of time with nothing lost other than a slight fade of color.

Aimée closed her eyes and rested her head on the cushion, smoothing her hand over the firm velvet seat. She realized all of her memories were now separated into the time before Jeanne, and the time after. Home was the time before, and she found this surprisingly comforting.

The house was deathly silent as Madame Savaray made her way slowly down the stairs and into the parlor. She hadn't been able to sleep, so she'd come down to retrieve a book she'd left on the console.

Aimée's figure—her dark dress flared to the ground, her tilted head, her pale throat exposed and skeletal—frightened Madame Savaray. For the split second before Aimée's hand moved, Madame Savaray thought she was having a vision of her
petite-fille
's death.

“Aimée,” she whispered. The flame of her candle quivered, small flickers of light leaping over her spare, lined face.

Aimée's eyes flew open. “
Grand-mère,
” she said, standing quickly.

They stared at each other. Aimée felt as if decades had passed. Her
grand-mère
was almost unrecognizable. Solid gray patches of hair brushed upward from her temples and ran into the thick braid down her back. Her robust chest was caved in and shapeless, her cheeks sunken, her robe tied tight around her withered middle. In her right hand she gripped a walking stick, leaning into it exactly as Aimée remembered her papa doing when he'd wounded his foot in the war—tentative, reluctant, as if the need for support were a failure, a weakness they hated to admit.

Tears flooded Madame Savaray's eyes, and she blinked them away. Setting her candle on the console, she hobbled over to Aimée and grasped her hand.

“You look miserable,” she said, patting her
petite-fille
's hand over and over. “Simply miserable. Was it a tremendous mistake sending you away? I've worried every day over that.”

A lump swelled in Aimée's throat. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her. “Of course not. Why would you waste a moment's worry? I wrote you that everything was all right.”