The Blood of Lorraine (21 page)

The Widow Hémonet clasped her apron to her mouth to shut off her moan, while her daughter knelt on the floor and tried to help her brother up. These were the scenes that Martin hated most. The pain of the bystanders, the wailing, the recriminations, the accusations that the justice to which he had dedicated his life was harsh and cold. His stomach was tied in painful knots of disgust for the man and pity for the women. They were the ones who were stuck.

Before Martin turned to leave and call in the men to help Jacquette, he decided to perform an act of mercy, whether Hémonet and the women recognized it or not. He told Jacquette to make sure that the priest changed out of his cassock. Martin knew that if Hémonet entered jail as a defrocked priest he would be subject to the endless ridicule and taunting of prisoners and guards alike. For Martin republican justice meant that everyone should be granted the dignity of being treated as a man like any other. This was, of course, more than Hémonet granted the Israelites. Whether his acts of indecency had become crimes was what Martin would determine in his chambers.

Wednesday, December 5

O
N
W
EDNESDAYS AS ON
S
ATURDAYS
, school ended at noon. No meal was served. Everyone was on her own. Well, Madeleine Froment thought she as stood inside the school entrance staring out the window, in truth only she was on her own. The students had their families to go to, and so did the other teachers. Indecision swirled in her mind as turbulently as the wind outside, which was coughing up papers and dust in the street. Should she return to her cold empty room? Or visit a bright, warm café, which she could ill afford? Or go to the Martins’? Madeleine blinked to hold back a tear. Wednesdays used to be her favorite time with Clarie. They could linger over a modest lunch without fear of being interrupted by the judge. Even then, although Clarie invited her, Madeleine sometimes felt she was imposing. And now, no one invited her, because Clarie didn’t really talk any more.

Madeleine clutched her heavy school bag to her chest, going over everything that had happened in the last few days. And then she knew. She must go to Clarie. In a few hours it would be exactly a week since they had laid her baby to rest. Clarie needed distraction. She needed someone who could help her back to life. She needed her, Madeleine.

With that resolve, Madeleine set out, lowering her head against the elements and thrusting herself forward through the few blocks that separated the Lycée Jeanne d’Arc from the Martin apartment. By the time she reached the entrance beside the Steins’ drygoods store and struggled up to the third floor, she was sweating and panting. She took a moment to catch her breath and straighten her hat. Then she tapped lightly on the door. Madeleine never announced herself with a clamor.

The Martins’ day woman arrived almost at once to greet her. Madeleine noted with satisfaction the relief on Rose’s face as the maid bent her knee ever so slightly in an awkward version of a curtsy. At least she understood how necessary Madeleine had become to the household.

“How is Mme Martin today?” Madeleine asked as she put her bag down and handed over her gloves and scarf.

Rose shrugged and shook her head sadly. She was an unattractive, thin-haired little creature, wearing a threadbare cotton floral dress ill suited to the winter weather. She was, Madeleine knew, all the Martins could afford. The kind of help Madeleine, in straitened circumstances since her father’s death, barely managed to keep herself. With a sigh she let Rose take her coat. In her youth, Madeleine never dreamed that her closest friend would be the daughter of a blacksmith. Or that she would be devoting herself to someone who was neither her own husband nor her child. At least there would be some kind of beef stew—Madeleine could smell it already—and warmth.

She hurried into the living room, where she found Clarie wrapped in an old maroon woolen shawl, huddling in the big, soft chair by the fire. This was the same chair Clarie used to offer to her almost every afternoon at teatime. For just an instant after Madeleine glanced at the chillier spot to which she would be consigned, she thought of retrieving her scarf. But she shunted this desire aside. She did not want to appear to be criticizing her friend during her travail.

“Darling,” Madeleine said, as she reached down to take hold of Clarie’s hand, “are we feeling any better today?”

“No. How could I?” Clarie, who had always been so cheerful, had become relentlessly mournful. Her large, brown almond-shaped eyes, always her best feature, were now rimmed with red and circled in the gray of her fatigue. Her nose, a bit long even though it tipped up at the end, seemed even longer now. As did her oval face. She hadn’t even bothered to put her hair up. Instead it hung in one thick dark braid, lying dormant on her shoulder. Clarie could not go on like this.

“My poor sweet, try to take solace in the fact that you can always have other children.” Madeleine crossed both hands over her heart as she sat down. “I have every faith that you will.”

“It won’t be Henri-Joseph, my baby. And why do you keep saying that, you and Bernard’s mother? How do you know?”

Clarie sounded genuinely angry. This was so unlike her.

“Because, my dear,” Madeleine said gently, “we both have faith in you, as does your doctor. You are young. You are strong.” Madeleine caught her breath before going on, for she could not help thinking,
You are married to a man who loves you. A judge who is making his way up the ladder, who will some day provide you with all the comforts.
Sometimes Madeleine felt a little impatient in spite of herself. Didn’t Clarie understand that she had so much more than Madeleine could ever hope to have? At least Martin’s mother, an impoverished widow with a son who had never taken her wishes into account, understood this.

“Why did this happen to me and my son? Why?” Clarie blurted out, and then drew the shawl around herself more tightly as she folded in on herself and turned her head away.

Madeleine sloped forward, grasping the arms of her chair and staring at her friend as she tried to think of what to say. She was not so fanatical as to believe that Clarie was being
punished
. She could have repeated what everyone else was saying, “These things do happen. No one knows why.” But deep in her heart Madeleine believed there was more to it. That everything happens for a reason. That maybe this was the way God intended to purify and save Clarie’s soul. And maybe Madeleine was the humble instrument of His Divine Plan. She bowed her head. How could she have forgotten, even for an instant, that she had the one thing that Clarie did not have: faith. A truly generous person would want to give this gift to those who needed it most.

“Did I do something wrong? Was I a bad person? Did I not do everything I should? Didn’t I love him enough?” Clarie began to weep.

“No, no, dear. You did nothing wrong. But—”

“But, what?”

Was this the moment? Madeleine clasped her hands together and pressed her eyes closed.
May I have the wisdom and courage to find a way to fulfill Your Wishes
. “There are ways for you to find solace,” she began carefully. “In faith and in prayer. We baptized your little Henri-Joseph. He is happy now. He is an angel. You know that, don’t you?”

“That’s what Bernard’s mother kept telling me,” Clarie whispered as she turned away again, as if dismissing Madeleine’s words.

“He is an angel,” Madeleine insisted. “Pure and happy. He’ll be waiting for you in heaven.”

Tears streamed down Clarie’s cheeks. “All I can think of is that he was never well. He was always sick. He was always suffering. I tried so hard to feed him and hold him and comfort him. He suffered so. He didn’t deserve to suffer.”

“Oh, my dear, my poor dear.” Madeleine searched frantically inside the pocket of her skirt for a handkerchief. Retrieving it, she went to Clarie. “Here take this.” She watched as Clarie dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “You are right, his life was too short. But eternity is forever. He will never suffer there. He’s probably looking down at you right now, wanting to touch you with his tiny hand and comfort you. Wanting you to smile again. And he is not the only one. Remember how the Blessed Mother suffered for Her Son. She understands what you are going through. She can help you.”

Clarie rolled the handkerchief into a tight fist. “Can you really believe that?” Her shawl fell open, revealing the crumpled white flannel nightgown she had been wearing for days. She was so angry, so aggressive, so unlike herself.

“Yes, I do,” Madeleine said quietly, inspired enough by her own words to hold her ground. “The love of Jesus and Mary is there for us, offering comfort and grace, if only we allow them to come into our hearts.”

If only she could get Clarie to look at her, to see her faith, then she might believe, she might get better. Madeleine scanned her surroundings for some aid, some support. Nothing. Windows looking out upon a street where Jewish and profane goods were bought and sold. The lamps, the end chairs, the shelf of books, undoubtedly secular books. Not one sacred object in sight. It was as godless as the Republic Bernard Martin represented. She needed to get Clarie out of here. If not today, then tomorrow.

Rose’s sudden appearance interrupted Madeleine’s thoughts.

“The stew’s ready, ma’am,” she said, with eyes so wide they seemed to be pleading, inviting Madeleine. Had she found an ally? In silent agreement Madeleine and Rose entered the dining room.

As soon as they got there, Rose whispered, “See if you can get her to take a bite. This is from last night. She didn’t eat a thing.”

“Of course,” Madeleine said, before pressing her hand against her own rudely rumbling stomach. She could see the tiny kitchen and the steaming pot on the stove. And smell it. “Do you think we should eat in here or by the fire?” she asked, treating Rose almost as an equal in their struggle to help Clarie.

“Makes no difference to me, ma’am,” Rose said as she reached for an envelope lying on the dining-room table. She gave it to Madeleine. “Maybe before lunch you can get her to read this. Maybe it will cheer her up.”

Madeleine stared at the letter. It was from the head of their normal school at Sèvres. The itch of curiosity made Madeleine almost forget the growling in her stomach. Unlike Clarie, she had never been a favorite. Mme Favre only deemed to write her to answer her pleas for a placement. Madeleine ran her finger over the return address. She was dying to know if the letter mentioned her. “Mme Martin hasn’t opened it yet? When did it arrive?” Madeleine asked, trying to keep her voice down despite her excitement.

“This morning. She’s afraid…. She said her headmistress did not know….”

“I’ll read it first,” Madeleine assured the maid. “I’ll make sure it won’t upset her. You set up the table in here.” She wanted nothing to disturb her examination of the letter.

She walked back into the living room. “My dear, I see you’ve gotten a letter from Mme Favre.”

Clarie hadn’t moved. She stared at the floral pattern on the dark carpet that covered the center of the living room. “Yes,” Clarie answered. “I thought Bernard should read it first. He says that I shouldn’t do anything that will upset me.”

“You never know. It could just be a bit of gossip about our old comrades. Why don’t you let me have a look?” The letter trembled in her hand as she perched on the edge of her chair.

Clarie shrugged. “I don’t want to hear anything about the baby,” she murmured.

“Then you won’t,” Madeleine said, as she unsealed the letter, trying hard despite her eagerness not to tear the envelope. She lifted the first page up to the light. It was all about the baby, wishing Clarie continued good health and an easy and safe delivery. Then Mme Favre, in her self-appointed role as the adviser to her favorites, counseled Clarie that whether she decided to be a “Rousseauist” who breast-fed her child, or hired a wet nurse, or used the modern glass bottles, she would make the decision that was right for her and her child. It was love that made children thrive.

Madeleine let out a humph.

“What?” Clarie looked up.

“Nothing new, dear, not yet,” Madeleine said, protecting Clarie from Mme Favre’s pieties. She made a show of going on to the second page. First, she skimmed through it looking for her name, which was not there. Then she saw what may have been the real purpose of the letter, and gasped.

“What? Tell me!”

If Clarie hadn’t been so insistent, Madeleine might not have revealed the letter’s astonishing proposal. She might have kept it to herself, at least for a little while, until she figured out what it meant to
her
.

Madeleine set the letter on her lap, still clutching it in her right hand.

“She says, my dear, that there is a post in literature and history opening in Paris next year, and she wants to recommend you for it.”

“Oh.” Clarie turned away, indifferent.

“Is that all you have to say? She’s asking you if you want to apply to teach in the best school for girls in all of France!” Had Madeleine had time to collect herself, she would have suppressed the disbelief and envy that raised her voice above its usual well-bred, calm timbre. But her mind was astir. What
did
this mean for her? If Clarie left, could Madeleine claim her post in Nancy? And why, why, when she had been the eldest student in her class at Sèvres, one of the most experienced, one who had taught for many years in private boarding schools, why hadn’t she been asked?

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“But Paris!”

“And Bernard?” Clarie sighed, as if she were bored with the whole discussion and wanted to put an end to it.

Madeleine scoured the letter again. “She says to wish him well for her, and that perhaps he, too, could find a post in the capital.”

Clarie shook her head. They both knew this was virtually impossible. Getting on the list for the Palais de Justice in Paris took years. And connections.

“Well,” said Madeleine, somewhat recovered, “it must be nice to know that Mme Favre thinks so highly of you.” She willed her hands to refold the letter exactly as it had come out of the envelope, and she slipped it back into its cover.

Before the birth, before Henri-Joseph, such an unexpected boon for Clarie would have served as a reason to commiserate with Madeleine about how unfair life had been to her. There was none of that now. Only that blank stare, the sighs, the withdrawal. This could not go on.

“Ma’am, the dinner’s ready.”

Madeleine heard Rose’s irritatingly timid voice behind her. She got out of her seat and offered her hand to Clarie. “Come, dear, let’s get some food inside of you.”

She looped her arm into her friend’s as they moved slowly toward the kitchen. “Would you like me to write Mme Favre and tell her about Henri-Joseph?” Madeleine reminded herself why she had come, to help.

Clarie shook her head. “Bernard is going to do it. He promised.” She sat down at the table and watched as Rose set a steaming bowl of beef, potatoes and carrots in front of her and Madeleine. She gave a weak smile to her guest as she picked up the spoon. “Like old times,” she said.

Clarie was remembering her manners. There was hope.

Madeleine put down her spoon, forsaking the first mouthful. She reached over and placed her hand over Clarie’s.