Moonlight Over Paris

by Jennifer Robson

  As they neared the transept, Helena bent her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the worn marble floor. She passed the first row of chairs and walked a yard or two farther, until she was at the center of the crossing. Only then did she turn to the right and raise her face to the jeweled radiance of the south rose window.

  She had first visited Notre-Dame as a child, and she had overheard someone, possibly a guide, advising a fellow visitor to do the same. The beauty of the cathedral had moved her beyond words, and the light from the window sustained and nourished her even now. She would likely never achieve perfection in her own work, but someone else had, and the simple thought of this, of its possibility, comforted her beyond words or sense.

  “Do you wish to stay here, or come with me to the chapel of St. Geneviève? I won’t be long,” Mathilde whispered.

  “You go. I’ll sit here for a while.”

  The choir had gathered, it seemed for a practice, and rather than linger before the altar Helena found a seat on the southern aisle of the nave. Sitting in the shadow of a looming pillar so high she could scarcely discern its terminus, she listened to the gathered voices, rising and falling, singing the same words in exquisite counterpoint: Dona Nobis Pacem. Give us peace.

  She sat and listened, and presently she noticed a large plaque that had been affixed to a nearby pillar.

  TO THE GLORY OF GOD

  AND TO THE MEMORY OF

  ONE MILLION DEAD

  OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE

  WHO FELL

  IN THE GREAT WAR

  1914–1918

  AND OF WHOM THE

  GREATER PART REST

  IN FRANCE

  A million dead across the empire, and millions more in Europe and beyond. How was she, or anyone else, to make sense of such numbers? Of such suffering?

  Of those dead, how many had been artists? It wasn’t the sort of thing that was summarized in war diaries and official histories, but many hundreds, even thousands, must have been artists like herself. They, too, had struggled and doubted themselves and wondered if they might be better suited to some other occupation. And now they were gone.

  A year or so after the Armistice, she’d bought a book of poems by Wilfred Owen, who, she later learned, had been killed just before the end of the war. The poems had been difficult and troubling, raw in their beauty, and she’d read them over and over, using them to make sense of her own, pathetically insignificant sorrows.

  “Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were,” he had written. Millions were dead, though they ought to have lived—ought to be working and loving and standing in the nave of Notre-Dame as the spangled light of the south rose window fell across their faces. Millions more, men like Mathilde’s husband, had been left disfigured, maimed, and tormented.

  What were her troubles, compared to that?

  She would not despair. She would make the most of this chance to study, to learn, and she would remember to look up and see the beauty that surrounded her.

  Presently she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mathilde, her eyes aglow with sympathy and understanding.

  “Shall we go?” Helena whispered, and her friend nodded in reply.

  Outside again, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun.

  “I didn’t—” Helena began.

  “I’m sorry,” Mathilde said.

  “I didn’t lose anyone. I don’t want you to . . . that is, I was engaged, and he was wounded, but we broke things off. He did, that is. He was in love with someone else.”

  At this, Mathilde shrugged ruefully. “So you are sad for him, but not because of him.”

  “I suppose so. Him, and other men I knew. I wanted to say . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I am very glad to have you as my friend. Thank you for coming along with me today.”

  “It is nothing. I was glad of a chance to talk with you. All the same, I must be on my way. My family will be waiting.”

  “Shall I see you at the studio tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course.” Mathilde kissed Helena on both cheeks, her face a little flushed, and disappeared into the crowds milling about the cathedral forecourt.

  And then, for it was late in the day, and Hamish would be wanting his walk, Helena, too, went home.

  Chapter 15

  Helena’s life had settled into a comfortable, and comforting, rhythm. On Monday mornings she woke at seven, had a hasty breakfast of café au lait and toasted tartine with marmalade, took Hamish on a walk around the perimeter of the island, turning up her collar against the late November chill, and set off for school.

  Lunch was shared with her friends in their studio. Mathilde had brought in an old percolator, which produced murky but sustaining cups of coffee, and Madame Benoît had kindly lent them a mismatched set of cups, plates, and cutlery. Daisy and Helena contributed cheese, dried sausage, and ham from their kitchens at home—Agnes’s cook was invariably generous—and they all took turns paying for a fresh baguette at the boulangerie at the corner.

  Daisy always offered Louisette something, but the woman refused to accept even a glass of water. It must have been incredibly boring for the woman, sitting there hour after hour as she did, but Helena found it hard to muster even a scrap of sympathy for someone so uncongenial in spirit.

  After lunch, it was back to the studio for another hour or so, then home. Helena preferred to walk, but on cold or rainy days she would take the tram up the boulevard St.-Michel. As soon as she was home, she took Hamish out for a second time, since the extra exercise was good for both of them, and then dined with her aunt.

  The exception to her routine was Sam, for she could never be sure when she might see him. Not only did he work odd hours, but he also was prone to disappearing for days on end, she assumed because of some story or another he was writing. Despite this, she’d managed to meet up with him half a dozen times, though they hadn’t again bared their souls as they’d done that rainy evening in his garret room.

  His first petit bleu had arrived the morning after their dinner at Rosalie’s.

  Dear Ellie—Woke up sneezing. Hope you’re all right after our run through the rain. Menzies down the hall lent me his kettle and gave me a packet of tea. Said it will cure whatever ails me. Is he a liar? If not, how do I make a decent cup of tea? I know you have strong feelings on the subject. Sam

  Dear Sam—A proper cup of tea can cure even the worst case of the sniffles. As I don’t recall seeing a teapot in your room, you may brew your tea one cup at a time. Measure one teaspoonful of tea leaves into the bottom of your mug, fill the mug with freshly boiled water, let the tea steep for five minutes (a few minutes more if you like it very dark), and add a drop or two of milk and some sugar if you must have it sweet, though honey is better if you have a cold. The tea leaves should settle to the bottom of the mug, but if they are bothersome you can decant the tea into a fresh mug. I do hope you feel better soon. Regards, Helena

  Dear Ellie—The tea experiment was successful. I added honey and a slug of bourbon. Slept like a baby afterwards. Thanks for the instructions. Sam

  Dear Sam—You added spirits to tea? Where I come from that is very nearly sacrilege. I’ve heard that some Americans drink their tea cold—in my opinion a perversion of an otherwise perfect beverage—but your approach is nearly as bad. Shame on you! (Though I am very glad to know you are feeling better.) Regards, Helena

  This coming Saturday they were planning to meet for dinner at Chez Rosalie with Étienne, and possibly Mathilde, too, if she could be spared from work at her family’s bar.

  Sam’s petit bleu arrived on Friday morning, not long after dawn.

  Ellie—Have been called away on assignment. Not back until Sunday P.M. Promise me you’ll take a taxi home on Saturday, or have Étienne walk you. Sorry for short notice. Sam.

  It was kind of him to worry, but she wasn’t so silly as to walk home alone, especially since it was getting dark by seven o’clock. She scribbled out a reply and posted it on the way to school.
>
  Dear Sam—Not to worry. Will be prudent. I forgot that it was your Thanksgiving yesterday. Do I wish you Happy or Merry? We shall dine on roast chicken when I next see you and pretend it is turkey. Regards, Helena

  She and her friends spent Saturday morning and afternoon in the studio, though Daisy had to leave before lunchtime. Her father was feeling poorly again, and though Helena admired her friend’s devotion to her parent she now suspected that Dr. Fields was in the habit of exaggerating his ailments as yet another way of keeping Daisy under his thumb.

  Mathilde, who was needed at the bar after all, departed at five, leaving Helena and Étienne to continue on to the restaurant alone. Dinner at Chez Rosalie was never a drawn-out affair, for no money was to be made from diners who had eaten their fill, no matter how much the signora adored them. In less than an hour they had finished, paid, and were strolling north on the boulevard St.-Michel. Helena would have been content to simply walk and wander, but Étienne wanted wine and coffee, in that order, and of a better quality than Rosalie served.

  “Her food is delightful, but the wine . . .” He shuddered in his oh-so-French way.

  They found a table in one of the nameless cafés of the boul’ Mich’, as Étienne called the street, and settled in with a five-franc bottle of Burgundy and a café express for Étienne. A single coffee in the morning kept Helena feeling energized for most of the day; how her friend was able to consume the stuff at such a late hour, and in such a strong form, never ceased to amaze her.

  “You’ll never sleep, you know.”

  “I will. And the wine is a soporific. I’ll sleep like the dead.”

  “It’s very bad for you.”

  “I am fine. There is no need to fuss over me.”

  “That’s what friends do. And you never talk of your family—who takes care of you?”

  A flash of pain twisted across his face, and she wished she could snatch back her words. “You do, and Mathilde,” he said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “You are all I need.”

  “Is your family in Paris?”

  “No.”

  “But you—”

  “You, Hélène—you never talk of your family. Only your aunt Agnes, and from time to time your sister. You never speak of your life in England, or your family there. Are you estranged from them?”

  “Not at all. I’m very fond of my parents and siblings. I’ve three sisters and one brother, and nearly a dozen nephews and nieces between them. I write to Amalia every week, and my mother nearly as often.”

  “So why am I convinced the scarlet fever is not all that brought you here? There is something in your manner, you know, when you speak of home. And you are very adept at changing the subject when it comes to speaking of the war.” He swallowed a gulp of wine, his eyes never leaving her face. “I wonder . . . did you lose someone, perhaps?”

  She could have lied, told him he had an overactive imagination, but what would that serve? She knew she could trust him.

  “In a manner of speaking . . .”

  “I knew it.” He really did have the look of a cat that had learned how to open a birdcage.

  “It’s hard to hide anything from you.”

  “I am very observant. That is why I am a great artist.”

  “And such a humble man,” she teased. He made a face, refilled both their glasses, and waited for her to tell him everything.

  “I don’t like to talk of it. It happened so long ago. I was . . . I was engaged. I cared for Edward, but I wasn’t in love with him. I didn’t know him well enough.”

  “What happened to him?” Étienne asked softly, carefully.

  “He was taken prisoner. For months, we thought he was dead. And then he came home, and he’d lost a leg, and he was different. We all knew it, but no one said anything, not at first.”

  “Did you break it off?”

  “No, of course not. I’d never have done that to him. He was struggling, and so unhappy, but I didn’t know how to help. I don’t think he wanted me to help him. It went on for months, and then he came to see me one day and broke the engagement, just like that. He told me that I was too good for him and that we would make one another unhappy.”

  “Was he right? Would you have been unhappy with him?”

  “I think so. He married someone else not long after. I think he was in love with her all along.”

  “Ma pauvre Hélène.”

  “It didn’t hurt me. It didn’t. They are happy together, from what I’ve heard. And she was nice to me, the one time we met. I don’t blame either of them.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But the gossip was awful. No one would believe that our parting was amicable. They assumed it was my fault. That I’d broken things off because of his missing leg. That I had done something to deserve being set aside.”

  She took a sip of her wine, embarrassed at how her hand trembled. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think of that dark time, and still it upset her. “It has been so lovely to make friends here and not have to worry about any of it. I so dreaded it, that look in a person’s eye—”

  “I know what you mean. You are introduced to someone, and before you have even opened your mouth they have weighed you on some invisible scale, and found you wanting.”

  “That’s happened to you?” she asked incredulously. “How could anyone not like you? You’re kind, and generous, and you are very handsome, though I shouldn’t say so.”

  “Darling girl.”

  “And you’ve always been so nice to me. Since the moment we met, just before our first class, you’ve been so kind.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?” he asked, and though he smiled his eyes were sad. “You smiled at me, you were civil to me. Why would I not do the same in return?”

  “Of course I was civil to you. Anyone would have been.”

  He smiled again, his eyes even sadder, and kissed her cheek. “Do you remember last month, when I had a black eye?”

  “You’d slipped on some wet leaves.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma belle. I was set upon. I was walking with a friend; we’d been at Chez Graff, in Pigalle—”

  Understanding dawned. “I’ve heard of it. My aunt said that’s where the . . . well, where the homosexuals go . . .”

  “Yes. And sometimes thugs who hate men like me. They call us pédés and they consider it a kind of sport to attack us.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wishing to embarrass him. How could anyone wish to hurt this gentle, kind man? It defied all understanding. She reached across the table and clutched at his hand.

  “So you, ah . . . you prefer men to women?” she said, lowering her voice, fearful that someone might hear and say something unkind to him.

  “Yes.”

  “And your family?”

  “Lost to me.”

  “Oh, Étienne. I am so, so sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. It is in the past.” He poured more wine into his glass.

  “The man you were with, when you were attacked . . . is he your lover?”

  “Not anymore,” he said, and there was a world of regret in his voice.

  “What if you’d been badly hurt? I can’t bear it.”

  “And that is why I love you, my friend.”

  The bottle of wine was empty. Étienne called for another café express and drank it down straightaway, though it was surely hot enough to burn his mouth.

  “Let’s be off,” he said. “Shall we walk on? I don’t feel disposed to take the tram.”

  “Yes, let’s walk.”

  They continued along the boulevard, the route so familiar to her, now, that she might easily have navigated her way home with her eyes closed. They walked arm in arm, and she was comforted by his closeness and steady warmth.

  “I feel so silly. I ought to have understood,” she confessed.

  “I don’t have a sign attached to my lapel. Don’t apologize.”

  It then occurred
to her that if she had failed to realize Étienne preferred men, she might have . . .

  “Oh, Helena—your thoughts are written on your face. No, he is not homosexual.”

  “I, ah, I wasn’t thinking—”

  “Your Sam. He is assuredly not homosexual.”

  “Oh. Well. That’s good to know,” she said, and though she didn’t have any romantic designs on Sam she was unaccountably relieved.

  “You know,” Étienne said, “your reaction surprises me. You do not appear to be disgusted or angry.”

  “Why should I? It would be terribly hypocritical. I know what it’s like to be shunned, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “You were very sheltered, were you not? When you were growing up.”

  “I was, I suppose. Perhaps it was a good thing. No one was able to teach me how to hate.”

  He hugged her close and kissed her cheek. “My heart is full to bursting. I am very glad you are my friend.”

  “I feel the same way,” she said, and they walked on through the night, until they were crossing the Seine and she was almost home.

  “I have decided that I must paint you,” Étienne announced, just as they stepped off the Pont St.-Louis. She was so surprised that she stumbled, and would have fallen if not for his arm around hers.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You are a beautiful woman. I must paint you.”

  “I’m flattered, but I . . .”

  “Why do you hesitate?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve had my portrait painted, but it was something I did for my parents. And I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the way the artist looked at me. As if he were cataloging all my flaws, and trying to think of how best to conceal them.”

  “Then he was an idiot, for I look at you and I see only perfection,” Étienne said. “It would be a pleasant experience for you. I am certain of it.”

  They were at her aunt’s door. “May I think on it a little more?” she asked, still certain she would say no, but not wishing to upset or offend him, not after all they had shared.