“She will die if you do not help,” he said. “Please try. I have sent a letter to the Blausens, yet have not heard from them.”
The child was propped up between two cushions. Her two-tone eyes framed a wrinkled face that begged me to nurse her.
March 11, 1785
Robert let the village doctor into my bedchamber even though I told him that I didn’t want anyone examining me. I think it was early in the day when he came. I was sleeping day and night, drawing the curtains when the sun tried to force its way into my room. His business was to prescribe a diet of guinea fowl and apricots, to provoke vomits, and apply several empiric courses of herbal balms and ointments to the place where he said my heart bled. He held out a stinking concoction and asked me to remove my bedgown. I flatly refused, yet listened to his nonsense because I had no energy to fight off the revelations of his quackery.
“You will die of a broken heart if you don’t follow my counsel,” he said. “I have seen it all before. The heart pains more when it’s a child.”
He had a strange skin condition that made it appear as though he was peeling away bit by bit like a delicate fruit. When he finally left me alone, my mind wandered to the picture of my child on the kitchen floor. A neighbour said the pig belonging to a farmer down the road jumped a broken fence and was missing for days. It burst through the door of another neighbour’s barn, trampled chickens and ate young chicks and rabbits. A boy tried to stop it by hitting it with a rock, which struck the animal’s head. In any case, I didn’t care to hear any of it because it wouldn’t bring back my darling girl.
Later that morning I rose from bed and pulled the curtains back. The sky was pure blue, snow almost blinding, crisp and still like a Dutch winter scene. The beauty of the frozen landscape made me weep uncontrollably. I was beside myself with sorrow and longing for my child, and to think of how she must have suffered. Then to add to my grief, my husband shares with me his true sentiments. Standing at my bedside and weeping, his voice is a whisper.
“How could you be so careless?” His face is streaked with tears, his eyes red and swollen.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t attend to her,” he responds.
“How can you say such a thing? It was you who left the kitchen door open for the pig to enter.”
The two of us break down, he sitting down beside me, the bed shaking as he howls from grief. I reach out to him and clasp his hand before he goes away. From an another room, the Blausen’s child cried producing an awful pain in my heart that threatened to overtake me. Rose-Marie was dead, my breasts were full of milk, and the other one wanted me to nurse her. I started to eat again, yet couldn’t see the shape of things beyond that.
“Fetch me some lettuce in broth with poppy seeds,” I called out to whoever was within earshot.
Robert came into the room with a pot of soup in one hand and the child in the other. My first thought was to ask him to take her away, yet then I looked on her and sensed her sorrow merging with my own. Her eyes of light and darkness seemed to say, “Nurse me. Only you can fill me up.” After helping myself to a small bowl of the soup, I guided the little one to my nipple and held it there until she latched on. I could almost hear her sigh as she ingested my warm milk. This little show of being soothed as she nursed made me sob. I didn’t hold back but kept on crying for my Rose-Marie as the child who wasn’t mine drank and drank.
It is very late as I write this. Monsieur and Madame Blausen arrived in the afternoon to console me over my dead child, or so I thought. Gabrielle, the wet nurse who originally brought me their infant in October accompanied them. Her son stood at her side looking around the room. She wore a violet robe with a bit of blue at the collar. Shortly after they arrived, Madame Blausen’s questions shed a different light on their visit. I walked into the drawing room with their now-contented daughter in my arms. As soon as he saw me, Monsieur Blausen stood up. He removed his coat and hat, proceeding to straighten his vest and breeches. His hair was light brown with distinguished flecks of grey.
“Hello, Madame Vivant,” said his wife. She reached out her arms and took my hand. Her fingers were icy. “Such a frightful thing to have happened.”
The room itself was very cold, as Robert had not lit the fire since that fateful day. The windows were frosted, logs and piles of branches strewn before the hearth as though he intended to start a fire and gave way to sorrow. Madame Blausen stood there looking at me inquisitively, clearing her throat and swaying back and forth.
“Can we be certain which baby is dead?” She eyed her child suspiciously. “We pay you a healthy sum to care for our infant and need to know for certain.” Her voice was soft, yet insistent.
“Your child is right here.” My voice trembled and my temper threatened to erupt.
“Madame Vivant,” she said. “Do you not suppose that I know my own child?”
“There, there,” added Monsieur Blausen. “The doctor said that part of the child’s head was preserved. We shall examine it to clear up the mystery.”
“Mademoiselle, tell me that this is the child you brought to me to nurse in October,” I said presenting the squirming baby to Gabrielle, the wet nurse.
She stepped forward and gazed longingly at the child. “It is, Madame Blausen,” she said looking at her shyly. “Madame Vivant took over her feeding in January when it was plain I had no more milk.”
Gabrielle looked at me through the long fringe that fell over her brow and into her eyes.“She has done the best job that ever a wet nurse could do.” Tears rolled down one cheek as she hugged her son to her.
“You see Madame, no mystery exists.” I was trying to keep my composure. “Do you not recall the colour of your daughter’s eyes? Or, colours, I should say.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course, I know the colour of my own child’s eyes. How can a mother forget such a thing?”
“Apparently you did forget because her eyes have always been both blue and black.”
“Positively absurd,” she replied batting her arms at me.
“You’ve not seen your child since last autumn. It seems there are many things you’ve forgotten,” Robert said.
It warmed my heart that he spoke up in my favour. I realized that when he blamed me earlier it was because he was overcome by grief.
“Look, this child does not even know me. Wouldn’t she know me a little if I were her true mother?”
I could not believe the woman didn’t even know her own child, and here was I with my Rose-Marie dead. The thought occurred to me that she didn’t deserve her infant. How could such a woman adequately attend to the complicated needs of a delicate being?
“When did you last visit the child?” I asked.
“I have no idea and don’t appreciate such accusing questions.”
“It was eight months ago,” Gabrielle piped up. “You brought me some gowns for the infant and a couple of wooden toys, a goat and a pig.” Then she shot a look at me and said, “I am so very sorry Madame Vivant,” and promptly burst into tears.
I too felt myself on the verge of tears, yet could not give Madame Blausen the satisfaction of seeing me break down. The harsh look on her face refused to soften.
“When you came home, I recall you saying that the infant was a strange colour, a greeny white,” said Monsieur Blausen. “You considered hiring another wet nurse.”
“Then a few months later an acquaintance of mine was passing through here with her husband and daughter,” said Madame Blausen. “I asked her to pay Gabrielle a visit. She reported that my infant was rosy cheeked and as happy as could be so I assumed the woman I hired was taking good care of her and that perhaps my baby was merely sick and had recovered. I didn’t know until later that the wet nurse had little milk all along and had hired another woman, Madame Vivant, to care for my infant.” The woman’s lips stiffened.
“If I may sa
y so, you are not at all how I pictured you.” She cleared her throat, emitting a low cough, and then her tone changed as if trying to repair the damage she had done. “I was told that you were educated unlike other wet nurses, yet having met you in person, I must confess that you are far too much a gentlewoman to be given the humble title of wet nurse.”
The village doctor entered and began pacing back and forth. “There is no way of knowing what caused the creature such distress,” he said. “The swine hadn’t eaten for days and, even when it was safely locked in its pen, grain supply was low in the family household so it wasn’t getting its share.”
The doctor rubbed his eyes and looked at Monsieur and Madame Blausen. “Perhaps it was the hit on its head by the rock that caused it to become wild and lose all control. Typically pigs are obedient creatures, even as they are about to be slaughtered.”
He stopped for a moment, looked at the cold hearth, rubbed his upper arms to warm himself up, and then continued pacing. “Mothers should be more careful,” he said disapprovingly. “Accidents happen all the time with children because of such neglect.”
My grief took all my energy and left me with nothing to defend myself. Robert was also at a loss for words. He just sat on the dormeuse staring out the window, a mournful and vacant look in his eyes.
“In all my years I have not encountered a thing like this before. I heard about a hog that burst into a house during a storm last winter, knocking over a child and killing it, but nothing of the kind that happened in this house,” Monsieur Blausen said. “I understand you have kept the child’s head.”
“Kept it, yes to be examined by myself and a fellow physick for tooth marks, saliva,” said the doctor. “We were hoping to determine whether the creature had some sort of disease, but alas, we’ve uncovered nothing at all.”
I hadn’t seen Rose-Marie’s broken body since that dreadful day.
“I would never have let such a thing occur,” said Madame Blausen. “I pay women to watch my children at all times. Never do they let them out of their sight.”
I ran from the drawing room and upstairs to my room, the soup I had for lunch churning in my stomach. Without warning, a thin, bitter liquid came flowing from my mouth onto my clothes and the rug by the bed. Minutes later Robert came in and saw me sitting on the bed naked, using my jupe as a rag to wipe my mouth.
“I am sorry Armande,” he said. His shirttail was outside his trousers, which were soiled. His blue eyes showed sadness and regret.
“Tell them to take their child from this house.” I wept unable to stop myself. “I want nothing to do with them or their offspring.” He nodded and left the room.
Robert sent Gabrielle in to help me clean myself, and change into fresh undergarments. After taking a short rest, I got dressed and returned to the drawing room to fetch my diary from the little drawer of my desk. Writing was the only activity that kept my grief at bay. I was surprised to see Madame Blausen sitting on the sofa. She was holding her throat, emitting dull moans; her body slumped to the side. I expected that by that time they would both be gone.
“Madame Vivant.” Her husband stood by the now-roaring fire. “We don’t wish to cause you more distress. From what Gabrielle tells me, you have cared for our child in a loving manner, taking her in when she was no longer able, showering much attention upon her. Though I fail to recall her appearance fully, I am certain that you do indeed speak the truth.”
His wife nodded in agreement. “Better to leave wet nursing to simple folk, don’t you think, Madame Vivant.”
She did not mean this as a question, but as an assertion.
I looked at her curiously and was about to reply when Monsieur Blausen smiled and said, “My wife has not been well, Madame Vivant.” He told me she was recently bedridden with quinsy and her throat was inflamed with an abscess that would not subside.
I vowed not to engage with her so they would soon leave. After they quit our home with their child, Gabrielle and her boy, I retreated to my bedchamber. I went to bed early that night, my heart thudding against my ribcage and my head full of all manner of images that revealed to me my inner torment.
In the early morning, the room in partial darkness, I am imagining the sun lighting wisps of hair on top of her head: a sea creature with a halo. It was as though she came from the deep waters of the sea as even her skin glistened. I consider the dream I had before she was even born. Pieces of a child’s body scattered upon the earth; an arm like a tree branch snapped off in a storm, a leg as small as a stick of bread. Where has my Rose-Marie gone now? How can I possibly put her back together?
March 28, 1785
Since our little nut died, Robert has become distanced from me. Everything before her birth is as if it had never even happened. He adored Rose-Marie, yet instead of joining me in my grief he carries on as though he is the only one in pain. I carried her inside me for nine months, listened for her whisperings, felt her tugs at my loins. I brought her into the world and nursed her for hours every day. He knows I hurt as much as he does and yet pushes me away.
Snow covers the ground outside. Garden, path, stone gate, and field have all combined to make a sweeping canvas of white. The only things my eyes can see of green are the tufts of sickly carrots poking out of the soil. Winter has put to rest the scents of rose, lavender and clover and stifled the sounds of women at market or children playing horse-and-cart. Lately the cold tries to have its way with me. I bundle up and spend hours at the fire warming my feet, hands, legs and face. I consider reciting a prayer, not a scandalous one to poke fun at the clergy, but one to console me.
Today Robert told me he was leaving for Paris to take up his study of botany. I know he can no longer witness my anguish, probably because it mirrors his. Last evening while walking past my father’s bedroom where Robert now sleeps, I heard him call out Rose-Marie’s name in his sleep, not the names of precious alpine flowers.
“When will you go?” I asked.
“Early April.”
“And how do you expect me to manage here on my own.”
“You always do,” he said unfeelingly.
“Do you still blame me?” He didn’t answer my question. “You no longer want to make a life with me,” I said, searching his face for a sign that he was still my lover. “That is what you are saying, isn’t it? This hasn’t a thing to do with the need to go to Paris.”
I understood his silence to mean that I wouldn’t see him again. He’s wrong to think that things will be better elsewhere. When you leave a place that doesn’t erase the pain of loss but simply hides it away more deeply. My father was no longer with me, my child dead, and now Robert was leaving me.
Since my father quit our village almost two years ago, I received a handful of diverting letters wherein he recounted details about his adventures as a bouquiniste journeying through England. He said the English were hungry for French books especially those of the piquant variety and had little care whether our King banned certain ones or not. My father wrote that the English were too busy with their steam-powered mills and coal gas experiments for lighting to worry about such trifles. One afternoon while journeying outside of London, a cotton factory owner sat him down in a tavern on the banks of the River Great Ouse and said with a most serious comportment, “If the Americans could overthrow Britain and form their own republic, then why couldn’t France overthrow its King?”
I sent a letter to Monsieur Taranne to give to my father when he sees him. In it, I told him about Rose-Marie’s death. Even though he didn’t want me to be a mother, I knew he would have accepted his granddaughter into his heart, maybe even loved her as much as I. How could he have done any different?
Visitor
A FIGURE MOVED ACROSS A FIELD and then disappeared into the woods. Nose pressed to the bedroom window, my eyes studied the frozen landscape. The sun tried to break through clouds and a raven’s broken song filled the morning s
ky. Rose-Marie. What a pretty name. Armande’s fondness for roses must be why she called her that. My head hurt from crying and tapping it with my knuckles. Even the prettiest roses in the world could not make up for the loss of a baby, a little nut. Mine was not a baby at all but rather a tangle of blood and filth, a stinking awful mess, dark like blood pudding sausage. Armande’s was alive. Wisps of hair caught the sun as she played in the garden. She was a sea creature with a halo.
I took out my blue gown and laid it on the bed. Wearing it on a wintry day would be foolish, yet something prodded me to try it on. She had it sewn for me by a woman who kept a fancy shop in Grenoble. It was made of Chinese silk and very costly. When she gave it to me, I said I did not deserve such a fine garment. She told me that was nonsense and made me wear it, yet I only wore it twice since. After putting on my stockings, I tied the pocket around my waist, placing the diary inside so it was close at hand. The weight of it nudged against my hip. Some might have thought I had a thimble, a pincushion, or a pair of scissors in my pocket. Little did they know it was a book full of words protecting me, keeping me safe. Even though the last pages I read were filled with sorrow, the fact they were Armande’s comforted me. I pulled on my under petticoat and put on the gown. Fetching my handkerchief, I tucked it into my chemise. Though it was clearly too light for winter, wearing the gown lifted my spirits. Then, two booming knocks came at the front door. I stuck my nose outside to see who it was.
“Forgive me for troubling you, Mademoiselle.”
It was the man I saw walking across the field only moments ago. He held a cane and his open frock coat framed a blue waistcoat and breeches, a cravat tied at his neck. I cautiously stepped out and closed the door behind me. He had raven-dark hair flowing in a single stream over one shoulder. His face was perfectly drawn like a painting one might see in a gallery. Armande told me about some she visited while in Paris. He fixed his gaze on my gown. His eyes shone as though an angel peered from each one. Was I dreaming? My knees knocked together under my skirt. The skin beneath my lace collar grew hot. Then I warned myself to be careful as devils sometimes took pleasing disguises.
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