Le Temps des Cerises (31 page)

Bernadine smiled grimly.

‘I can even see,' Monsieur Lafayette went on, ‘why you fell for him. Power is a strong aphrodisiac at any age. The Bishop with his mighty staff… but what I cannot understand…' he stopped to wipe the little chocolate-stained mouth, ‘is how you could continue to live a holy life after committing such a terrible – oh let us call a spade a spade – sin.' He almost hissed the word out. He lingered on it, revelled in it, luxuriated in it, lavished every nuance of feeling on it as if it were a pet.

Sin. The word reverberated round Bernadine's head, knocking into other words like shame, love, duty, despair. She felt as if he were holding her heart in the palpitating mid air to see if she could cope without it. She couldn't. He had won. He had defeated her. If that is what he had wanted he had succeeded for she had no answer to that simple question. With great difficulty, she could have said or, in the hope that the Lord is a merciful one. For that was how she continued to live, day after day. In the hope that the Lord was a forgiving Lord. In the hope that the Lord was a merciful one. She bowed her head, mumbled a prayer, clutching on to Aggie with trembling fingers. ‘If you could just tell me her name,' she pleaded, her eyes wet with tears. ‘That would be something, if I just knew her name.'

Monsieur Lafayette got up, his joints clicking, and helped himself to another apple brandy. ‘Funny thing, the memory,' he mused, adding a spoonful of sugar to the glass. ‘A most temperamental organ, I must say. I swear it likes a little game of hide and seek or after dinner-charades. For the life of me I cannot recall my mother's face and yet the voice of my first wife is clear as a bell or should I say a seagull. Shriek shriek shriek. Peck peck peck. I can hear it now at this very moment but the face of my mother is quite gone from me. What do you make of that, Sister Bernadine?' He put up his hand. ‘No, no, don't answer. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking it is simply a matter of chronology but that is not it at all. My wife ran away many moons ago with a wolf whereas my poor mother passed away only last spring. The only conclusion I have come to is that the memory is a most temperamental organ. I'd like to take it out and give it a good shake sometimes – like a baby's rattle.' He smiled in the direction of little Aggie. ‘I have one or two tricks up my sleeve, however. Wine sometimes can lure it out of its hiding place. A little music, an unexpected smell. The scent of lilac for example and I get a glimpse of my mother's eyes – no more mind, just her eyes. A whiff of old cabbage and I see the whole of my wife's – well, yes never mind…. In the arms of a good woman I believe the organ could reassert itself, function perfectly. In a moment of passion I am convinced I could recall every detail of a person from their name right down to the colour of their teeth.'

Bernadine, suddenly understanding what he meant, gasped in horror. ‘Even then,' she almost spat at him, ‘you would not tell me.'

Monsieur Lafayette drained his glass in one fell swoop, even the un­dissolved sugar at the bottom. ‘The question is,' he teased, towering over her in his long silk dressing gown, his ugly toes peeping through the fringe at the bottom, ‘could you live with the possibility that I might have done?'

Bernadine strove to gather her thoughts, not knowing what to do or where to look. Could she live with the possibility that he might have told her everything? Of course she couldn't! He had won. He had beaten her. If that is what he wanted then he had succeeded. Three cheers for Monsieur Lafayette! In a bid for time she placed little Aggie in the cotton papoose and slung her safely to the back of a chair; then she got up and nervously smoothed her skirts, realising for the first time that her legs were freezing cold. Surrender to the moment, sang a voice in her head, and the truth will be revealed. She stamped her feet to encourage the blood flow then sat abruptly down again, closing her eyes in despair. She could hear the confectioner crunching on a boiled sweet and it burst upon her with the awful clarity of some startling new dawn that this was to be her final punishment, her final degradation. The Lord it seemed was not a merciful one. The Lord was not even – far from it – a gentleman.

‘Very well, monsieur,' she said in a barely audible whisper, her eyes still closed. ‘As long as you promise to keep your side of the bargain.'

‘I'm a fair man,' Monsieur Lafayette assured her though she didn't see the look in his pin black eyes, didn't see him scuttling about freshening his breath with a peppermint drop, pushing aside the fabled curtain that separated one half of the room from the other and revealed a dirty mattress and oddly placed stool. Didn't see him wet his moustache in the fly-spotted mirror with a bit of saliva and yellow-stained thumb – generally making himself a little more palatable. She didn't see any of these things as she sat in her silent shifting darkness. Only when she felt his hand on her arm and the heat of his breath against her cheek did her eyes open wide in alarm.

When it was over Bernadine dressed as quickly as she could, her limbs trembling so violently that she ripped a hole in her thick black stockings. Her clothes felt stiff and heavy on her flesh and she hobbled over to Aggie, hardly able to bare the weight of them. With an enormous sense of relief she saw that the baby was sleeping soundly, innocently, quite undisturbed by the night's goings on, her red mouth still a little chocolate-stained at the edges where Monsieur Lafayette had smeared his thick yellow thumb. It had been a small sacrifice to make, she decided, gazing intently at the rosy cheeks and thick black eyelashes. A small sacrifice to make in exchange for the truth. The truth, after all, was meant to set you free.

‘Will you tell me now?' she demanded as Monsieur Lafayette reappeared from behind the curtain, readjusting the cord on his long silk dressing gown. There was a note of desperation in her voice. ‘Will you keep your side of the bargain?'

The confectioner nodded, smiling. ‘Modeste Ignatius Napoleon Abëlard Lafayette is nothing if not a man of his word… and after that…' he smiled lasciviously, taking a long cigar out of the wig box on the counter, ‘how could I refuse? I can tell you straightaway she is as beautiful as her mother. A plump, ripe strawberry, ready to be plucked. On the way to going a little rotten around the edges and all the better for it in my opinion. They're no good to you hard and greenish, no good to you at all. You want 'em red and juicy – perfect with a sprinkling of sugar and a dash of thin cream.'

It will not have been in vain
, Bernadine told herself valiantly, her stomach lurching and shuddering like a ship being wrecked upon the rocks.
It will not have been in vain
.

‘She's broken one or two hearts already – even at her tender age. She does not know her own power as yet. A man only has to look at her and he practically falls simpering at her feet.'

‘Oh,' was all Bernadine could think to say and as the questions flooded into her mind she asked eagerly and almost without pausing for breath: ‘Does she know who she is, I mean the circumstances of her birth? Did she stay in the city or was she sent away? And her parents? Were they good to her? Did they treat her well?' There were so many questions she wanted to ask, they tumbled over each other like a horde of merry children, shrieking in their shrill insistent little voices.
Does she like the colour pink? Are there freckles on her nose? Does she wear her hair curled or straight? Does she sew or cook, pass the time with walks and books? What does she eat for Sunday dinner? Does she have a favourite flower?

Monsieur Lafayette puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. ‘No, she does not know the circumstances of her birth for I do not believe Ernest would have wanted it. He would not have wanted her to have ideas above her station. He was, despite everything, a humble man, was he not?' He paused and Bernadine nodded impatiently. ‘She is a veritable rose upon a dungheap however. She does not fit in. Being the daughter of a nun and a Bishop she has an otherworldly quality about her. People notice… her parents on the other hand know exactly who she is. They were only too keen to accept the progeny of a Bishop in exchange for one or two shiny boys.' He rubbed his forefinger against his thumb to indicate the financial nature of the contract. ‘I am sure they loved her. Her mother passed away a little while ago I'm afraid. She was that most lethal combination in a woman – a strong will coupled with fragile emotions – I do not think she ever came to terms with having a nun's daughter in the household, being a… these dratted metaphors… fallen woman herself. Her father, the old fool, loves her more than life itself.'

This was all good news as far as Bernadine was concerned. Better even perhaps than she could have hoped for.

‘He is scared stiff of losing her. He believes that if she found out the truth… I have told him many times that her secret is safe with me. I shall not breathe a word of it to any living soul, present company excepted. My lips are sealed as the tomb.'

Bernadine shivered ever so slightly as if the most delicate of winds had fanned over her grave. She did not want to cause trouble between the girl and her father. She had simply come in search of the truth. ‘I do not intend to say anything,' she began and was immediately interrupted by Monsieur Lafayette.

‘Quite so, quite so, I should not have told you otherwise. No point digging about like dogs with a bone. The girl is fine as she is though as I have told her father many times she needs the steadying guide of an older hand to keep an eye on her, keep her secret safe; keep her on the straight and narrow. The thing is, my dear,' he sucked long and hard on his cigar much to Bernadine's irritation for she was beginning to feel quite faint with all the smoke in the air, ‘to use a metaphor you might like to ponder, I have nurtured her since she was a tender shoot, fed and watered her, seen her flower, potted her on so to speak. There is no one more qualified than I am to keep her safe, keep an eye on her; keep her from following in her mother's footsteps.'

‘Which mother?' Bernadine asked a little sarcastically for her and the confectioner chuckled good humouredly, his black eyes narrowing, if that were possible, in appreciation of the joke. ‘Which mother you say? Ah, that is one I shall have to ponder. Which mother indeed! A sister of the Boulevard des Italiens and a Sister of St Joseph's? Never the twain shall meet, eh?'

She had asked for that. She had walked right into it with her arms out­stretched. Not that it mattered of course for what he alluded to was the truth. There was no difference between herself and a girl from the Boulevard des Italiens. No difference at all except for one important point. A girl from the Boulevard des Italiens was probably a good deal more honest.

‘Come to think of it,' he winked, ‘on that particular score either mother will do. Her late mother might have had one or two more tricks in the seduction stakes but I am a man of simple pleasures at heart am I not, my dear. Hee hee! Nothing unusual in that department! No, I can honestly say that if she inherits one or two… er… qualities of her natural mother she will do just fine for me.'

‘What in God's name do you mean?
She will do just fine for me?
'

‘She will keep me young, keep me spry; keep me on my toes. A lively girl like that will keep my pecker up so to speak. What do you think, Sister Bernadine – will the daughter of a nun and a Bishop do for a Modeste? I see you are a little perturbed by the notion. Don't be. Don't be. I have convinced her father of the rightness of the match. He was a little dubious at first, naturally. But the thing is you see,' he whispered, bending forward, his bald head gleaming in the lamplight like the golden dome of the Invalides, ‘the closer she is to me the easier it is to keep her secret.'

Bernadine felt suddenly as if she were drowning. ‘You are blackmailing him,' she gasped weakly, hardly able to breathe in her heavy, sodden clothes and the thickness of the smoke in the air. ‘You are blackmailing him!'

‘Oh you nuns!' Monsieur Lafayette smiled, jumping up and pacing the room. ‘What a dramatic little lot you are! If it's not blackmail it's rape and abortion. When I come to think of how many of you I have served over there …' he indicated the curtain behind which lay the dirty mattress and stool. ‘Why I should be made an honorary saint myself. Saint Modeste Ignatius Napoleon Abëlard Lafayette. It has a certain ring to it does it not?'

‘She cannot love you,' Bernadine insisted, shaking her head like a beaten dog. ‘I do not care what you say, Monsieur Lafayette, she cannot possibly love you. You are deluded or mad or both. You are so old and…'

‘Oh my dear, but you are forgetting the attractions of an older man – you were taken in by them once upon a time yourself were you not? The experience, the… er… technique… Besides which, in case you haven't noticed, we are in the middle of a civil war. The young men are dying like flies. When they have all deserted her or come a cropper – and mark my words that is exactly what will happen – who will be there to pick up the pieces? Who will be there to mend her broken heart? Why, her dear old friend Monsieur Lafayette of course! She will look upon him kindly then I am sure of it. It may take a little time, I grant you, but in the end, one way or another, I will make her the next Madame Lafayette.'

Bernadine staggered to her feet, clutching on to little Aggie. St John, chapter eight:
And the truth shall set you free
, mocked a voice in her head.
And the truth shall set you free. And the truth shall set you free
. She caught sight of herself in the fly-spotted mirror – a small white cloud next to a jar of colourful sweets; and she deduced that the white cloud must be her own face.