Julie remained aloof, our conversation in the garden having done nothing to bring us closer, as I’d hoped it might. Rosine made up for it with her ceaseless fussing over me, ladling soup and cheese and thick brown bread down my throat until I regained most of the weight I’d lost during my illness.
I returned to the convent fattened, and with just a nagging trace of my cough. Resuming my education, I also reclaimed Marie’s friendship with much coaxing and gifts of chocolate, and we both made a new friend in lively, blond Sophie Crossier, whose family lived nearby and welcomed the three of us into their home on Sundays. With the onset of my menses, the nuns moved me into the older girls’ dormitory, and my deportment and diction lessons took precedence. By the time I turned fourteen, I spoke like a Parisian, all trace of my Breton accent erased, and I could perform all the meaningless accomplishments expected of a bourgeois girl, such as straining tea into the pot, reciting poetry, playing the pianoforte, and conducting silly conversation about trivialities.
Yet I lived every day under the shadow of dread. On my fifteenth birthday, I’d be considered an adult per the convent rule, and my stay at Grandchamp must come to an end. Though I’d not given up hope of becoming a nun, I knew it would never come to pass. Mère Sophie had made it clear I wasn’t suited to a religious life—another burden to bear, as all too quickly my fifteenth year loomed before me, in all its uncertainty.
A few days before my scheduled departure in August, Mère Sophie summoned me.
“You must remember everything we have taught you. You must accept God’s will and obey His commandments. Your will is formidable, Sarah, but you mustn’t allow it to lead you astray. I fear temptation will be your constant adversary.” She didn’t elaborate, but her intent was unmistakable: she knew what my mother and aunt did to support themselves, and while the nuns had prepared me to the best of their abilities, my choices were limited. Indeed, I could count those choices on one hand.
“I’m so afraid.” My voice broke as I regarded her, this woman I’d come to love so much that I thought of her as more of a mother than the one who gave birth to me. “What will I do?”
“Let God show you the way,” she said. “God and your heart. You will know. Quand même, Sarah. No one can force you into a life you do not desire.”
The trouble was, I didn’t know what I desired. Packing my suitcase with my linens and clothes, my worn Bible and well-thumbed rosary, I found myself in near despair. Julie had sent a landau to take me to Paris, but neither she nor Rosine came to accompany me.
As I hugged Marie goodbye, she burst into tears. “We must write to each other every day,” she bawled, until I reminded her that she had to write to me first with her address, as she would be in Flanders. At this, she scowled; much like me, she had no choice. Her mother had accepted a proposal of marriage from one of her suitors, a “fat Flemish merchant who stinks of cheese,” as Marie described him, and she’d only been granted an extra six months at the convent while her mother arranged their move. But she, too, would soon depart Grandchamp, while our friend Sophie, being younger than us, had just a year left. Sophie made me promise to visit her, which I knew I wouldn’t do, though I assured her I would, trying to smile as my tears rose up to choke me when I proceeded into the courtyard to find the nuns assembled to bid me farewell.
They couldn’t say anything to ease my desolation. I felt as if I were being evicted from the only home I’d ever known. Mère Sophie took me by the hand. “Remember to choose the life you want,” she whispered as she walked me to the landau.
From the landau window, I watched her standing back as the contraption jolted forward, as I felt myself carried down the lane, out the gates, past the old oak trees shading the walls, taking me away from this holy world I’d become such a part of toward a world I feared would devour me whole.
Old César let out a mournful howl.
Seated alone on the red-cushioned carriage bench, I clutched a handkerchief that smelled of the lavender in the garden to my face and I wept.
* * *
Paris was still loud and crowded. It still stank, especially in mid-August, when everyone with the means to do so fled the city for the countryside. Regardless, as the scythed harvest fields of Versailles faded away and the bulwarks of the city loomed into view, my sorrow over leaving Grandchamp began to lift. An exciting city, bursting with opportunities; surely I could discover a path ahead here.
The coachman brought me down brand-new boulevards unfamiliar to me after six years of absence. I shouted at him—I had to, to be heard over the din—that he was taking me to the wrong district, but he ignored me, his cap pulled low over his brow as he steered past a riot of carriages and hordes of pedestrians.
We came to a halt before a white building on the rue Saint-Honoré in the 1st arrondissement, a fashionable area that I remembered from my excursions with Rosine. After I descended from the carriage and he handed me my suitcase, the landau took off, leaving me gazing up at the plaster façade and wrought-iron balconies painted in gleaming black, not peeling or rusted. He had made a mistake and left me stranded.
A woman bustled out from the building in a simple black dress, her mousy brown hair drawn into a net at her nape, accentuating her homely face. She reminded me with a start of Mère Sophie, though she was much shorter, with lively small brown eyes and the energetic air of an industrious sparrow.
A tiny bird of a lady, I thought, une petite dame, as she smiled, revealing tea-stained teeth. “You must be Sarah! I’ve been expecting you. I am Madame Guérard. I live above your mother’s flat. Come, child. You must be exhausted from your journey. I’ve some lemonade and fresh croissants. Are you hungry? You must be. Did the good sisters of Grandchamp not give you anything to eat for your trip? How odd. Nuns should be more sensible. What were they thinking, to send a girl off to Paris without so much as a slice of cheese?”
She didn’t await my response, babbling away as she hustled me into the building with its fancy gas lamps mounted on the lobby walls and up the winding staircase to the fourth floor, where she pointed to a door—“Your mother’s flat”—then upward to the sixth, where she threw open a less impressive door and declared, “Voilà!”
I stepped into a cozy, if overfurnished, garret apartment, full of potted plants and—
“A cat!” I exclaimed.
“Ah, yes. My dear Froufrou,” said Madame Guérard fondly, as the gray and white creature hissed at me and darted under one of the sofas. “She’s old and cantankerous, I’m afraid. Like me. But she’ll get used to you in time.”
She—Madame Guérard, that is—didn’t seem so old to me. As I unfastened my cape and searched for an empty spot to place it—every surface was cluttered with books or newspapers or random bric-a-brac—she went into the kitchen, returning moments later with a tray.
“Please, sit. Your mother told me you’d been ill. You must tell me all about it.”
Easing onto the sofa with the least number of tattered cushions, I heard Froufrou hiss again. Madame Guérard set the tray on the table and proceeded to pour the lemonade. Once she’d seen me sip—it was deliciously bitter—and nibble on one of the croissants, she sat on a sagging chair that was evidently her preferred spot. To my delight, Froufrou vacated her hiding place to spring onto Madame’s lap.
“You were saying,” she began, as the cat purred under her caress, “you’d been ill?”
“It was several years ago,” I replied between mouthfuls. I was famished. I could have eaten another four croissants. Would it be too forward if I—
“Go on,” she said. “Take all you like. I bought them for you. I cannot possibly eat so many. Why, I’d burst out of my weeds!” She gave a jovial laugh, easing my timidity. Who was this woman? “Not like you,” she added. “Why, you’re no bigger than a sliver of soap. Ah, youth. Such a fleeting gift. Look at me. I’m a widow now. I lost my husband six years past. I was once
as slim as you, though not nearly as pretty.”
I studied her discreetly as I ate her croissants. She didn’t look very old to me. She had no visible lines on her face except for the creases by her eyes when she smiled, and she smiled often. Her hair wasn’t white. Her hands were chafed, but not spotted. No, not old at all, yet she was already a widow. It must be why she wore black.
“I’ll put some flesh on those cheeks,” she said, as I wiped crumbs from my chin. “You’ll be plump and rosy in no time, with me to watch over you.”
Clearly, my mother must have hired her.
“Are you to be my governess?” I asked, imagining that all the books strewn about indicated this was how she earned her living: educating courtesans’ daughters.
“Me? A governess?” She let out another laugh. “Oh, no, ma chérie. Your mother has hired quite the impressive governess already. One Mademoiselle Branbender.” She inclined to me, nearly toppling Froufrou from her lap. “She claims she once tutored a Romanov grand duchess. She is very learned. But not very happy, I’m afraid. She’s come down in the world, through no fault of her own. Or so I’ve gathered. She’ll take charge of your sisters’ education, and I presume yours, as well. I’m merely the upstairs neighbor, whom Mademoiselle Bernhardt relies upon. I don’t mind. I like to stay busy, and my poor Henri and I never had any children of our own. I like children very much.” She paused, with childish eagerness herself. “I do hope you’ll agree. I want us to be friends.”
I did, too. I liked her. I enjoyed her garrulous conversation, spiced with bits of gossip and exuberance. My anxiety over my return started to ease. Nothing could go too badly if Madame Guérard was upstairs.
“You can visit me anytime. Consider my home yours.” She paused. I heard unwitting trepidation in her voice when she said, “Your mother is very engaging, but also…very engaged. You need never feel alone whilst I am here.”
I lowered my eyes. Apparently, nothing had changed as far as Julie was concerned. She wasn’t even here to receive me, off with Rosine and their suitors of the moment.
And yet something had changed.
I was in Paris again, and I had made a new friend.
* * *
It was several weeks later, during which I slept in Madame G.’s flat in a spare room and tried to win over recalcitrant Froufrou, before Julie and Rosine arrived, laden with luggage, along with Régine and Jeanne, the former wailing and the latter pale with fatigue. I didn’t fail to notice that my mother had taken them with her to wherever she’d gone, resentment curdling inside me even as Régine threw herself at me with an ebullient “Ma sœur!” When Rosine tried to pry her away, my sister spat at her, “Putain. Leave me alone.”
“Quelle horreur,” murmured Madame G. “Such language and not yet four years old.”
Unpinning her bonnet, Julie sighed. “She repeats everything like a parrot. She doesn’t understand a thing of what she says.”
Madame Guérard’s sidelong look at me conveyed that she believed my little sister knew exactly what she said. “Come see me later,” she whispered, and she retreated upstairs, leaving me in the elegant salon of my mother’s new apartment. Régine’s sweet-sticky fingers adhered to mine as Rosine gave an apologetic smile. “We were supposed to be home last week,” she said, “but there was a tedious delay with the trains. A strike of some sort. Have you been spending time with Madame Guérard?”
No, I almost retorted. I’ve been drifting about your locked flat like a ghost.
Julie was motioning her maid to the luggage heaped in the foyer; she hadn’t yet spared me a glance. “See that you draw a hot bath,” she ordered. “The girls must wash before they’re put to bed. Régine.” She turned to my sister, who glared at her. “Go with your sister Jeanne this instant. You can pester Sarah later.”
Their maid looked about to drop dead on her feet. Taking my sisters in tow, along with armfuls of discarded detritus, she trudged down the length of the apartment hallway, Régine baying protest at the top of her lungs.
My mother finally lifted her eyes to me. “So. You are here.”
I didn’t dignify her remark with an answer.
“I have a bedchamber prepared for you,” Julie went on, as Rosine took the opportunity to slip away. “I trust you’ll find it adequate. But of course, you will. After years of sleeping in a dormitory, I imagine your own chambre will be welcome.”
“I can share a room,” I said. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“Doesn’t it?” She floated to her settee, newly upholstered in expensive-looking green silk, discarding her fichu and gloves. I recognized other items from our old flat, those morose oil paintings of mountains and valleys, the assortment of urns, statues, and lamps with tasseled shades. But the rest was new, ornate, and overtly feminine—little gilded chairs that could barely accommodate a bustle, and tiny inlaid tables that looked as if they would collapse under the weight of anything heavier than a vase.
“No,” I said. “I’d prefer to share a room with Régine.”
“I can assure you that you do not. Jeanne will share with your sister.” She gave me a terse look. “You are fifteen. A woman must have her own bed.”
My hands clenched into fists at my sides as she went on. “I’ve employed a governess. Mademoiselle Branbender will instruct Jeanne and Régine, as I’ll not see another daughter of mine put in a convent. You can take part in their lessons. You’ll need something to occupy yourself while I decide what’s to be done.”
“Done?” My heart sank to my feet.
“Yes. I have certain arrangements in mind. You needn’t ask for details, as nothing is settled. You will be informed when the time comes.”
My entire body went taut.
“Yes?” said Julie. “Is there something you wish to say?”
“No.” I kept my voice as cold as hers. “May I be excused?”
She nodded, with a moue of surprise. “It seems you’ve reaped some benefit from that costly stay at Grandchamp. Your unfortunate illness and baptism aside, you appear to have learned manners. Your bedroom is down the hall, the second door to the left.”
I did not say another word. I hated her so much in that instant, I could feel it thrumming like poison in my veins. I wished she were dead.
But as I marched away, I wished I were dead even more.
IX
“She wants me to marry!” I burst into the flat upstairs like a windstorm, bringing Madame G. racing from the kitchen, where she was forever cooking or baking something to satisfy my appetite.
At the sight of her, I went still, panting. “She told me today. She wants me to meet with her and a notary to discuss the terms. This afternoon!”
With a dismayed cluck of her tongue, Madame G., whom I’d dubbed ma petite dame to my mother’s irritation, steered me into her chaotic living room. Pushing Froufrou off her chair, she pushed me into it. “Some hot chocolate, I think,” she said, her solution to all of life’s vicissitudes. “Yes, that would be perfect. Wait a moment and—”
I shot out my hand to seize her wrist. “She told me he’s a Dutch merchant, a Jewish man with a thriving cloth business in Lyons. He has agreed, though I’m Catholic and he’s never so much as set eyes on me.”
“Oh dear.” She’d heard so many of my fears in the past months, when I’d repeatedly barreled up the stairs with some perceived affront—everything from the way I thought Mademoiselle Branbender regarded me through her pince-nez with regret when I took up watercolor painting, to Julie’s increasingly terse remarks about my eccentricities—that her tone indicated she thought I exaggerated this latest upset, as well.
“Are you quite sure, Sarah? Julie told you this herself?”
I nodded, desperate. “Today over breakfast. She got up from her chair, in front of Rosine and my sisters, looked at me, and said, ‘I believe it is time you wed. Clearly, you are ill-suited t
o gainful employment, so I see no other alternative.’ ” I shuddered as I recalled the impassive way in which my mother had delivered her indictment. “She said all I do is paint and mope about the house, and as Mademoiselle Branbender can’t teach me anything else and I show no inclination to be of any use, marriage is my only option.”
I expected Madame G. to utter her ubiquitous “Quelle horreur,” followed by a determined plot to thwart this terrifying proposition. Instead, she sat on the footstool before me and said, “Did you tell her you have no wish to marry?”
“Of course! I’ve never met the man. I surely don’t care for him.”
“But you might care for him in time. He could be a good man, and clearly he’s an enterprising one, if he has a cloth business in Lyons. Perhaps you should consider it.”
I sprang to my feet. “Ma petite dame, I thought you loved me!”
“Oh, I do, my child. As if you were my own.” She wrung the kitchen towel in her hands. “I love you so very much, but you are so unhappy. Miserable. Your mother and aunt go out and leave you behind for hours on end; you have your sisters to see to, but you’re not made to be a nursemaid, and they, too, will grow up in time, and…”
“And?” I was breathless with panic.
“You’re nearly sixteen, Sarah. Girls like you must indeed do something.”
I knew what she meant. She didn’t say it out of spite or to hurt me; she did love me, like a mother, like Mère Sophie, but she only gave voice to what we’d both avoided until now. Girls like me, like my mother and her sisters—either we wed, as my aunt Henriette had done, took a job in the sewing trade, or we became courtesans.
“I don’t want to do their something,” I said, as I felt an invisible noose tightening around my throat. “I don’t want strange men pawing at me.”
Madame G. said, “I think no girl wants that. Yet for many, it is their only choice. That, or go begging in the street. Even an arranged marriage isn’t so easy to find these days. That is why I think you must consider it, if the alternative isn’t to your liking.”
The First Actress Page 6
