by Charles Todd
He hadn’t talked to me about the war. And he hadn’t touched my hand or even kissed me on the cheek—as he had done when I was no more than Madeleine’s Scots friend.
“One doesn’t have to marry straightaway. A long betrothal is not unexpected in wartime.”
Alain turned back to me. “You must understand, my dear.” He lifted his left hand to touch the sleeve of his missing arm. “I must learn how to live with it. Not to be morbid, but I wake at night, and I’ve dreamed the arm was still there. I was back in the Marne Valley, sending my men out of harm’s way, taking over that German machine gun and turning it around on the soldiers coming toward me. Or I’m being forced to march back behind the German lines, my arm bleeding but still there. I won’t bore you with the rest, but you will understand. And you as a Scot might understand this as well. Without an arm, I can’t go back and fight them again and take my revenge for the care given me that cost me my arm.”
I was shocked. I hadn’t understood. I’d been ready to go forward with our official engagement, it was one of the reasons I had hurried to France. I understood duty, I understood responsibility and honor and pride. But not what Alain had endured.
Or that it would become more important in his life than anything—or anyone—else.
“I’m glad you confided in me,” I told him with bald honesty.
He smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I love you, Elspeth. One of many.”
And he changed the subject.
As we talked about young Henri, I realized I hadn’t yet touched Alain, just as he had not touched me.
Was I afraid to? Afraid of his reaction to it? Or was it Peter, and my feelings for him?
Truth was, I didn’t know.
A second week passed. I persuaded Alain to walk with me as I pushed little Henri’s pram down the street, trailed by his anxious nurse. Alain was clearly unhappy to be in such a public place, where his pinned sleeve drew attention. He wasn’t the only veteran on the street. I saw men with crutches and empty sleeves, disfigured faces and bound eyes, missing ears, hands, feet. But Alain was still a very attractive man, and that drew attention too. We must have seemed like a very happy pair, taking our child for a stroll.
But it didn’t last long. He said tightly, “I must go back. I’m . . . tired.”
I didn’t argue. I turned the pram, and we walked quickly back to the Villard house. And Alain didn’t come down to dinner.
I tried to talk to Madeleine about Alain, but she was blind to what I saw. I wished Henri were here, or one of my cousins, someone I could confide in. I even considered going to see his doctor, but I knew I wouldn’t be told anything of importance—I wasn’t a wife, not even officially betrothed. And I was a woman, after all, to be spared “unpleasantness.”
Worried, I wrote to Bess Crawford in England, praying that she was there and not in France. I asked her to speak to her father. He had been a regimental Colonel, he had had experience in handling men who were in battle and had been wounded. I hoped he could guide me in what I could do to help Alain.
And at the same time I took hope from one thing. While Alain had done nothing to resume the closeness between us of that night before he left to join his regiment, he had not sent me away. Or asked me to return his mother’s ring.
It was a beginning.
I had to be satisfied with that. And Peter? That door must remain closed. Forever. It was cowardly of me not to tell Peter about Alain. I think he guessed when I never wore his Christmas ring that there was a reason. But he too had tried to pretend we had a future together. Two blind lovers under the spell of a walnut tree . . .
There was to be no happy ending for us.
The next week went surprisingly well, after the debacle of the walk with the pram. Alain was even affectionate. And the week after that, one night he kissed me on the cheek before I went up to my room to bed. It was a brotherly kiss, the sort he would give his sister, yet I thought it lingered a little longer than a brother’s kiss might have done.
On Thursday, he kissed me on the lips. But there was no passion in that kiss either. More longing, I thought, and sadness.
Friday morning Alain left in the motorcar, the Villard chauffeur driving—an elderly man who had been sent for from the family estates in the Loire Valley. I wished him well, for he was reporting to the surgeon who had seen to his care since his return to Paris. I willed the doctor to tell Alain that he was recovering remarkably well.
“There will be good news, I hope. I’ve seen such improvement, myself.” I smiled. “We’ll have something to celebrate.”
He held my hand for a moment, then said, “My love.”
Madeleine and I took young Henri for his daily walk, although it was very cold that morning and we were wearing our warmest coats. A small fur coverlet kept the baby warm. He was waving mittened fists in the air, and Madeleine was watching him with adoration in her eyes.
“He’s growing more like his father every day, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I answered, smiling.
“Wait until you have your own,” she told me happily. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. A part of you, a part of Alain, together in one little child.”
She had just received a brief letter from Henri, and her joy was contagious.
And I very much wanted to believe in her rosy prediction. It would surely be Alain’s salvation. And perhaps mine as well.
We returned to the house, and by the time we had changed out of our walking dresses, I had quite an appetite. Food was not plentiful, but the Villard cook was a genius at making whatever he could find into a tasty dish.
Walking into the chilly dining room, I found Madeleine already there. She nodded to the maid to begin serving. “Marie has just told me that Alain hasn’t returned from his appointment with Dr. Lorville. He’s the surgeon. I hope this doesn’t mean more surgery. I don’t think I could bear it.”
“The wound is healing. I can’t believe there is any need for more surgery. I expect it’s the growing number of patients. More wounded appear to be coming into Paris every day, many of them in dire need of further care.”
But she wasn’t convinced. Her concern for her brother was second only to her worry about Henri, and it was a constant anxiety, never far from her thoughts.
I finished my soup and the plate was taken away. Madeleine lingered over hers, listening for the sound of Alain’s uneven footsteps coming down the passage.
We were eating our cheese when Madeleine was called away. Alain’s driver had just pulled into the courtyard in front of the house. And Alain was not in the carriage.
“He’s been taken directly to hospital,” she exclaimed as she rose and flew down the passage, leaving Marie standing there. “It’s infection. They warned me of infection. How dangerous it could be.”
“What is it, Marie? Do you know?” I asked as I hurried after Madeleine.
“No, my lady—”
They were in the foyer, Madeleine and Arnaud, the driver.
She was bombarding him with questions, and he stood there, his eyes frightened, his mouth open, not knowing which to answer first.
When she burst into tears, I managed to ask, “Arnaud. Where is Monsieur? Is he in hospital?”
“No, my lady.” He bobbed his head in what passed for a bow, and then went on in rapid French, “We left the doctor’s after one hour, my lady, and Monsieur asked if I would drive him to the Bois, that he felt like a little fresh air after the stuffy surgery. It was a fine day, vous comprenez, even though a little cold. I thought nothing of it. We drove for a time, and then he asked me to stop and wait awhile for him. He said that you, my lady, and the doctor had encouraged him to walk, and he thought he would practice a little now. I did as I was told, my lady. But he did not return. I came here, not knowing what I must do. I fear he has met with—”
Madel
eine interrupted, her voice shrill with anger now. “He could have fallen, did you not think of that? If he fell, he couldn’t get up again.”
“If he fell, Madame, he would have called out to me. I listened, but I heard nothing.”
“Then you’re deaf,” she cried. Turning to me, she begged, “We must go back with him and look for Alain. If he’s hurt, I shall send this man back to Villard and find myself a driver who is capable of doing his duty. It’s so cold—Alain will have taken a chill, lying on the ground, and it will make him ill. We must take blankets, a hot water bottle—”
“That will take too long. Wait here, Madeleine, someone could have found him and is already bringing him to the house. Or if they carry him to hospital, someone will send word. I’ll go with Arnaud. If Alain has injured his shoulder, I’ll take him directly to the surgeon and send Arnaud back to tell you.” I turned and lifting my skirts, I flew up the stairs, ignoring her protests.
Collecting a hat, my coat and my gloves, I came down again to find Madeleine had followed the old man out to the carriage and was still berating him. He seemed to shrink into himself as she accused him of selfishness, of thinking only of his midday meal, of leaving her brother to die.
I said hastily, “You must go inside, Madeleine, or you will take a chill yourself. Marie—” Pushing Arnaud toward the box, I managed to open the door of the carriage and let down the step, wishing the old man could manage a motorcar. I thought for a moment that Madeleine was going to insist on coming with us, but then she turned away, letting Marie shut the door at last.
Arnaud said over his shoulder as he lifted the reins and signaled the horses to walk on, “I have done nothing wrong, my lady. I waited as he asked. But he was gone so long. I walked a little way myself, and I called his name, but there was no answer.”
I wondered if Arnaud was, in fact, a little deaf. Usually it was the higher ranges that older people lost first, but it was possible that Arnaud had reached a point where he could hear what was said to him directly but not at any distance.
Threading our way through the midday traffic, we finally reached the Bois on the outskirts of Paris. My own anxiety was growing with every mile as I considered all the possibilities. Finally Arnaud pulled up into a small clearing and said, “It was here I waited. You will see just there the cigarettes I smoked while waiting.”
Those strong, smelly French cigarettes. I could pick out half a dozen stubs.
He helped me down. Looking around, I said, “Which direction, Arnaud? There, through the trees, or over there, along the bridle path.”
“Toward the trees, my lady. He had forgot his cane, it was in the doctor’s surgery. He thought he might find a stick there.”
I began walking in that direction.
Twenty yards away, well within hearing distance, I called Arnaud’s name. He was checking the harness on the horses. I called again, and he didn’t turn.
I kept walking, but now I was calling Alain’s name. Madeleine was right, it wouldn’t do for him to be out in this cold for very long. I hadn’t thought to see if he had taken his powders with him to his appointment. If he had, then if he was in great pain, he could take one. But that would make him drowsy, not alert enough, perhaps, to hear me call.
I came out of the trees into another small clearing. And as soon as I did, I saw him lying there.
“Alain!” I cried, and rushed toward him, nearly tripping on an exposed root. Was that what he’d done? Had he fallen and injured that shoulder beyond bearing, losing consciousness?
I knelt beside him. He was lying on his good shoulder, his face turned away. Certain he had fainted, I gently pulled him over on his back, into my arms, saying as I did, “My dear, I’ve come, I’m here, we’ll have you home and in bed—”
And as I gathered him close, to warm him a little, his face turning toward me, I saw for the first time the small round hole in his temple, the dark trickle of blood down his cheek, soaking into the cloth of his coat.
And beneath him, half hidden by his left hand, lay his service revolver.
Chapter Thirteen
I remember crying out, too shocked to think, and then my training took over. Stripping off my gloves, I felt frantically for a pulse, hoping against impossible hope that I would feel the thread of his heartbeat.
But there was none, and his body was already cooling, the warmth that was Alain slipping away here on the half frozen ground.
And still I sat there, cradling him in my arms, unable to cry.
There was Madeleine, waiting anxiously.
I got to my feet, saw that I had his blood on my hands, and stared at them for what seemed like hours but was only a matter of seconds. All I could think of was that Alain’s blood was darker than the ruby on my finger.
I stumbled back the way I’d come, to see Arnaud standing patiently by his horses, just as he had done before while Alain brought the revolver up to his temple.
He hadn’t heard the shot. He hadn’t known, when he was waiting for Monsieur to return, that Alain Montigny was already dead.
What in God’s name am I to tell Madeleine? The thought was like a blow.
When I was close enough for the old man to hear me, I called to him. “You must turn the horses. We shall have to find another way through the trees to a small clearing. Monsieur is there.”
He helped me into the carriage and then did as I asked, but it took us a quarter of an hour to find our way through a tangle of undergrowth to where Alain lay.
By that time I’d told Arnaud that Monsieur was dead.
We collected his body and between us laid it gently in the carriage.
I picked up the service revolver, thrust it under the carriage robe that covered Alain, and told Arnaud to return to the Villard house.
Sitting there in the carriage beside his body, I tried to make sense of what Alain had done.
That was when I decided to carry Alain back to Dr. Lorville’s surgery, not to the house. For one thing it would be better for Madeleine. For another I wanted to know what the doctor had told him during his examination.
As the horses trotted along the hard packed earth of the forest track and finally reached the cobblestone streets of the city, turning toward the doctor’s surgery, my shock and horror gave way to a numbness that was a blessing. For I would have to be strong for Madeleine. There was no one else.
When Arnaud pulled up by the door, I got down, walked into the doctor’s crowded reception room, and said to the young woman sitting there, “I have Monsieur Montigny in the carriage outside. It’s urgent that I speak to the doctor at once.”
“He has just finished with a patient, Mademoiselle. Is there something I can do for you? Has Monsieur taken ill? Or hurt himself?”
“Please. I must see the doctor.”
She nodded, and after a five-minute wait that felt like an eternity I was shown into the inner officer where Dr. Lorville spoke to patients after his examinations.
“Mademoiselle?” He offered me a chair across from his desk. “Are you the sister of Monsieur Montigny? I understood that she was married?”
“I’m a close friend of the family. I am here on Madame Villard’s behalf. Today did you lead Monsieur Montigny to believe that more surgery was imminent?”
“On the contrary, I told him that his wound and the site of the amputation had healed well, and that I saw no reason why he could not live a fairly normal life. I released him to the care of his own physician. Has he not told you this?”
“There was no—no bad news?”
“Not at all, Mademoiselle. I was quite pleased that he was well enough to get on with his life,” he said again, a touch of impatience in his voice.
I said without softening the blow, “Monsieur Montigny left your surgery this morning and asked his driver to take him to the Bois, where he wished to walk a little. The driver is old and deaf. He did
n’t know where Monsieur went or why. But growing anxious, he searched a little and then came to the Villard house to tell us that he couldn’t find Monsieur. I went back to the Bois with him—and I did find him. He had taken his service revolver with him and at some distance from the main road, he had shot himself.”
As I recounted what had happened, I watched the growing alarm on the doctor’s face as he realized why I had come to him.
Rising from his chair, he said, “Where is he? Still in the Bois?”
“I couldn’t leave him there,” I said, rising as well. “I couldn’t take him to the Villard house. And so I brought him to you.”
“Yes, quite right. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. The undertakers . . .” He cleared his throat. “An accident with his revolver while practicing with his other hand. Yes, that will do.”
He ushered me out of the office, following me outside to where the carriage waited.
Arnaud was sitting in the box, a statue in a blue uniform, staring straight ahead, as if refusing to acknowledge what lay in the carriage just behind him.
He turned as we came out of the surgery and watched as the doctor confirmed what I had known from the moment I had knelt beside Alain and gathered him into my arms.
“Yes. Dead. I will have him carried into the surgery through the side door there. I’ll sign the death certificate. And I will summon the undertakers. Is there anything more that I can do? I would go to Madame Villard myself, but you can see, my surgery is full. But I advise you to send for her own physician.”
“Madame Villard shouldn’t be alone at such a time as this. Could you—would it be possible to arrange for compassionate leave for her husband, Major Villard?”
“I shall see to it. The Captain was quite a hero on the Marne. The Army will appreciate the need for a proper funeral.”
I waited in the cold while an orderly was summoned. Alain’s body, still covered by the carriage rug with the coat of arms of the Villard family in its center, was carried inside through the private entrance to the surgery.
