He shook his head. “Thirsty, though. And warm.” He moved to remove his jacket, again showing signs of discomfort.
“Seems to have been quite a fight,” Gagnon said, moving around to help him.
“More so than I thought at the time.” He took the water from Joseph, drank, and gave a sidelong look to Laurette. “Where did he come from?”
“Paris. And not another word.”
Marcel handed the cup back to the boy, thus exposing for the first time the dark stain on his vest.
“Mon Dieu!” Laurette came to his side. “You’re bleeding.”
“Blast,” Marcel said in good humor. “And I changed the bandage not two miles up the road.”
“Come,” Gagnon said, taking his arm and helping him to stand. “Lie down and let me look at it.”
“Not in our room,” Laurette cautioned, then mouthed their daughter’s name silently behind Marcel’s back.
“He is a guest. We have a guest room. Walk with me. Laurette, bring bandages and soap and water. Quickly.”
Joseph stood dumbly, holding the cup, his eyes round as saucers at the whole ordeal. Philippe and Nicolas, in obedience, remained seated until the two men disappeared; then Philippe leapt to his feet.
“Why are we harboring him here?”
“You can see,” Laurette said, bustling to fulfill her duty. She thrust a water bucket into Nicolas’s hands. “Go fetch some fresh. Philippe, pour some from the kettle into this basin, cool it with what Nicolas brings in. Joseph, go upstairs to the trunk and bring me a towel. All of you—go!”
They scrambled at once. Laurette eased open the door to her room and spied Aimée-Renée, as she suspected, sound asleep. It would mean a late night getting her to sleep again, but then it might be a late night for them all.
Minutes later, she rapped softly on the second room’s door and entered with the basin of warm water, soap, and bandages. Gagnon’s face looked grim. Approaching, she saw why. Marcel, stripped of his shirt, his flesh smooth and bare and familiar, save for the gaping wound under his rib. The flesh around it was swollen and red; the flesh within an unnatural color altogether.
Gagnon took the cloth and washed the wound. After, he helped Marcel sit up while Laurette wrapped a bandage clear around. No fresh blood came through. “That’s better, yes?” she said, tucking in the end.
The two men looked at each other, expressions somber.
“It’s still bleeding somewhere,” Marcel said. “Now, with your indulgence, I’d like to rest for just a bit. Le vieux here knows the rest. And why I’m here. And what you need to do to save her.”
His eyes closed, dark lashes fluttering before falling still. His breath shallow—had it been so while he told his tale?
Gagnon took her hand and led her out of the room to the table, inviting the boys to join them for the forgotten tea and bread. The first gray of evening darkened the window, and one of the boys brought a long stick to light the tallow candle on the table. “Can we hear the rest, Papa?”
“Yes, but withhold judgment.” And then he told them everything. With a voice deep and somber, befitting the truthfulness of the tale, he recounted a story of a late-night escape—royalty in disguise. He dropped to a whisper as he re-created a hushed conversation in a tavern corner, Renée’s opportunity to escape, and her refusal. Then his words matched the pace of a thundering carriage, overtaken by roadside rebels within miles of passing the border that would guarantee them safety. Interspersed with prayers for the dead, he shared the grisly deaths at la guillotine, the revenge-hungry crowds, the blood pooled inches on the ground, the baskets softened and sticky with gore. He described Renée’s prison cell and her final visit with Marcel, including the testimony that might grant her freedom.
“And she could come home?” Laurette asked, bread forgotten in her hand.
“He thinks so, yes.”
“What makes him think so?” Philippe’s question made no attempt to mask the disdain he felt for the man.
“Les Nationalistes would appear to have changed the heart of someone loyal to the monarchy.”
“But everyone would know that she is lying,” Philippe said.
“If it would bring her home,” Laurette said, “who cares if it’s a lie?”
“She cares,” Gagnon said. “Renée cares, very deeply. Not only does she feel an intense loyalty to the royal family, but to lie—even for this—is a sin.”
“As is putting to death an innocent girl.” Any attempt to control her emotions proved vain as Laurette’s throat burned too hot to speak.
“I know, my love. I know.” He reached for her hand, balled into a fist upon the table, and covered it with his own. “Marcel says she wants my counsel. After all these years, all this time, she wants to see me. And he says she’ll do what I say.”
Laurette looked at him through a veil of tears. “Will—will you go to her?”
“I’ll leave at first light.”
“I’ll go with you,” Nicolas said.
“No, my son. Paris is a dangerous place to be. Stay here, take care of Laurette and your brothers and sister. I have another errand for you boys tonight. Take Marcel’s horse and ride to Girard’s. Tell him Marcel has returned, and that he is gravely wounded. Stay the night—it will be too dark to walk back safely.”
“Can’t we take Belle and ride her back?” Philippe asked, referring to a horse they purchased after a good payout at last spring’s shearing.
Gagnon stood. “No, I’ll be gone with her before you’re even awake in the morning. You’re going to tell Girard to keep Marcel’s horse as payment of a debt I owe.”
He took himself to sit at Marcel’s side. Laurette cooked eggs to add to the boys’ supper, and as she fussed them out the front door, Aimée-Renée emerged from her nap, rubbing sleepy eyes.
“Is it morning, Maman?”
Laurette hugged her close. “No, sweet girl. It is evening. Come, have some supper. Stay at the table with Joseph until I return.”
She filled a plate and walked into the room to find Marcel still deep in sleep and Gagnon on his knees at the bedside, hands folded, deep in prayer. He’d built a small fire in the grate, making the room pleasantly warm. Laurette set his supper plate at the bedside and eased herself down next to him. Through her own darkness, she felt his hand clasp hers as his prayers filled the room.
“Grant him peace, Holy Father, in these last days and hours.”
After a few more minutes, Laurette ventured into the silence. “I’ve brought you supper.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat.”
He kissed her cheek. “I promise I’ll eat in the morning.”
Marcel uttered a small groan and appeared to be on the verge of waking, but merely shifted.
“He’s not going back with you, is he?”
“Non. I think he knew that. He told me everything. Where to go. Who to speak to. What to say.”
“What will you say? To her, I mean?”
He put his head down on the mattress edge and left it there for a full minute before responding. “I don’t know, my love. I’m praying that God will give me the right words, with the right intent.”
“He will.” She put her arm across his shoulder. “He always tells you just what to do.”
That night, Joseph and Aimée-Renée enjoyed the rare privilege of sleeping in the big bed with their father, while Laurette sat at Marcel’s bedside. His sleep was fitful, though with stretches lasting longer than wakefulness. When he slept, she sponged his fevered body and brow with cool water; when he was alert, they talked. He asked her to tell him about her life. The boys, the baby.
“What do you know about her?” she asked warily.
“Only that you have a little girl. My friend Le Rocher was here last spring and saw her with you at the market.”
“She’s sleeping. We also have puppies. Did Le Rocher tell you about those, too?”
Marcel laughed, despite the obvious pain. “No. That’s
what I get for having a spy who cannot speak.”
During one bout of waking he told her about the woman killed in the charge at Versailles, the same who killed the guard. “I think Renée thought she was you. She was wearing that green vest you left in the apartment.”
“How did she get it?”
“I gave it to her.”
Laurette was thankful for the darkness that hid her shame at the memory of that place. “You went back there? I watched for you. I waited for you.”
“You didn’t wait for long, love.”
No, she hadn’t. He drifted to sleep again, and when he woke she told him about Joseph, finding him in the chaos of the fall of the Bastille. Taking his hand and walking him here—home. About his clothes and his story about the gypsy and the lady. Renée and the queen. “He saw her.”
“He did.”
“Do you know anything about his mother? Who she might be?”
She heard him shake his head. “But in Paris, for the poor? Children aren’t always such a treasure to hold.”
In the dark of morning she heard Gagnon stirring in the kitchen and went out to him.
“See? A man of my word. Eating now, and taking more for the road.”
She pulled him down for a kiss and kept him there until she had her fill.
“I should go away more often,” he said, impressed with her display.
“After this, promise me you’ll never go away again. Not even for a day. Not to town, without me.”
“I promise. And when it’s time—send the boys to Girard. He’ll come take care of . . . everything.”
“You don’t think he’ll live to see you return? To see Renée?”
He shook his head.
“Then come. Say good-bye. I know the two of you didn’t always get along, but he did admire you. I think he was jealous.”
“Of me? He stole you away.”
“Of your heart. Because he knew, like I knew, that you’re a good man. A better man. That’s why Renée values your counsel above his.”
She followed him but watched from the door as Gagnon touched Marcel’s face with the gentleness of a father, whispering his name. Marcel stirred, woke, and clasped his hand.
“Why are you still here?”
“I’m just leaving. Saying good-bye, and thank you. And one more thing. Listen in your heart for the sound of God’s voice calling.”
“He won’t call to me, mon vieux.”
“He calls to all men who have an ear to hear. Listen. Tell him of your sins. He stands ready to forgive, mon ami. Believe that.”
“I believe in my country.”
“One of your country wounded you and sent you to die. Your country wants to execute the little lamb who once ate from your same spoon. Do you remember that, Marcel? When she was so hungry, and you yourself would feed her. And now this country that you so believe in wants her to die. But even that, even them, Jesus will forgive. They’ve killed the Church and sent away the priests, but they cannot banish Christ. You will believe all of this sometime. I will pray until your last breath that you believe before you take it.”
Gagnon bent and kissed each of Marcel’s cheeks, prayed a blessing upon him, touched the sign of the cross to his fevered body, and left.
Laurette followed, watching from the window as he saddled Belle and rode away, the first pink line of dawn still far on the horizon. She touched her head to the cool glass, hearing all of Gagnon’s words again. That Jesus would forgive even those who would wish to murder Renée. But it was she, Laurette, who put Renée in danger in the first place. Sent her away with lies, scheming to keep a man who would betray her over and over again. Would Christ forgive a sin so long hidden? One rooted too deep to put into words? She’d never spoken of it aloud—not to a priest, not in prayer. But this morning, kneeling on a pew rescued from a dying church, she did.
“It’s my fault.” The circle of steam from her breath clung as a witness to her confession. “I was jealous. I lied. I gave him my body as a price. I was glad when she left, happier each day she was gone until . . . I wanted him. I wanted him more than a holy life. More than a good man. More than anything you ever gave me. And yet . . .” She turned, sat, looked around at the cozy room. Two sturdy chairs by the fire, food to eat, firewood to feed the flames lovingly built by her husband before leaving. “And yet, you give me more. And—” she felt it, the first tiny flutter—“more.”
“Maman?” Aimée-Renée’s sweet face was looking at her from across the room. From the doorway, but not the door behind which she’d slept beside her papa. She’d taken her detested cap off during her sleep, as she often did, and her hair sprung like wisps of curling smoke around her head. “Maman, the man in the bed wants you to come to him. He says he has a gift for you.”
It was the first she’d noticed that she’d been crying, and she hastily wiped her tears away. Never had she imagined this moment, when her daughter would meet the man who fathered her, and if she had, she never could have imagined these circumstances.
“I’ll be right there,” she said, forcing normalcy to her voice. “Where is Joseph?”
“Still sleeping. Because he’s lazy.”
Laurette heard the faint masculine laughter coming from the room, knowing the pain it caused. She lit a candle and brought it in, thinking it all might be less frightening for Aimée-Renée in the light, but her brave little girl didn’t seem frightened in the least. She did, however, tug Laurette down to whisper in her ear, “Who is he, Maman?”
“He is our friend,” she whispered back, but loud enough for Marcel to hear.
Again, in her ear, “Is he very sick?”
To this, she only nodded.
“In my cloak.” Marcel’s voice sounded weaker than at any time throughout the night, and he seemed to lack the strength even to point to the hook by the door. “An inner pocket. There’s something. Very fancy and pretty. Made of gold. Can you find it?”
He was speaking to Aimée-Renée, each word increasing her excitement to please him and see the pretty gold thing. She went to the cloak and carefully ran her tiny hands over every bit of it, searching first for pockets, then fishing within. Nothing at first, and she frowned in frustration, but soon her face registered triumph. She lifted to her toes to reach down into the recess, and then stood, staring at the treasure in her palm.
“Bring it here,” Laurette said, and was soon holding a work of filigreed art in her hand. She turned the object over and over in the candlelight, unable to imagine what it could be. “What’s this?” For the moment, though, she was content to see Aimée-Renée’s reaction to the shadow the carvings cast on the wall. Then she remembered once, long ago, Renée had sketched such an object on a sheet of paper and begged Gagnon to carve it for her.
“It’s a knotting shuttle,” Marcel whispered. “Given to Renée by the queen herself.”
“Oh, my . . .” Laurette bent close to her daughter. “Of course. See? You wrap thread around it here and pull it through to make fancy designs. Our friend Elianne knows how. I’ll have her teach me.”
“May I play with it, Maman? May I wrap my knitting thread around it?”
“Yes, but be very careful.”
The little girl clutched the treasure to her and ran from the room.
Immediately after her final step over the threshold, as if sensing the shortness of time, Marcel asked, “What is your daughter’s name?”
“Aimée-Renée.”
“She is mine, isn’t she?”
There could be no denial. “I knew before you left—before I left. I knew but I didn’t tell you. I was afraid.”
“Afraid? I never imagined ma lionne afraid of anything.”
Lionne. “Because of what you said. Because we were so desperately poor and didn’t have a real home. But that day, when I saw—à la Bastille. I knew I didn’t want to raise a child in that world. And I don’t think you would have left it.”
“She is a beautiful girl, Laurette.”
She laughed,
sniffled. “She looks like her father. So much like her father. And I love Gagnon, you must believe that. I do. But sometimes I look at her, and I remember and—” A new surge of confession came upon her. “I miss you.”
“Gagnon knows?”
“He knew before we married. He wanted to give her his name. For there to be no question.”
“Look at her. Of course there are questions. She looks for all the world like a little sister I had.”
“You never told me you had a sister.”
“She died. There is only me, and I’ve thought for so long that my family would die with me, but now—”
“He loves her, Marcel. As if she were his very own.”
“She is. If I’ve done nothing else good in my life, I’ve given her to you.”
She heard Joseph stirring in the kitchen and excused herself to give him the list of chores he would have in his brothers’ absence, promising pain perdu if he worked without complaint. Aimée-Renée continued her fascination with the gold shuttle all the while Laurette brushed and plaited her hair, turning it loose only while her dress was dropped over her head.
“Perhaps I’ll have Mademoiselle Elianne teach you how to use it,” Laurette said. “You may have more of a knack for it than I.”
As Laurette fastened the tie at the back of her dress and wriggled her into stockings and soft leather shoes, she answered the usual litany of the girl’s questions. “Papa is on an errand and will be back in a few days.” “Big brothers are on an errand and should be back in time for dinner.” “The man, yes, is very sick and needs to rest, so we must play quietly today.” She prepared breakfast and issued the same instructions to Joseph, charging him not to fuss with his sister, a charge she repeated when Aimée-Renée would not relinquish her new treasure for even a moment.
“Give it to me,” Laurette finally said, dropping it into her apron pocket. “Go outside, both of you, and run the dogs through some simple commands. Maybe the pups will learn. But stay in view of the house.”
Both children were delighted and tore through their breakfast while Laurette prepared a weak broth and tea and thinly sliced bread for Marcel. She took her time arranging the dishes on the tray, waiting until the children were safely outside before entering the room.
The Seamstress Page 37
