The Reinvention of Love

by Helen Humphreys

Oh, Maman, I wish you could have been here to see the wedding. There was such celebrating! And such dancing! We had the reception in one of the grand houses at the top of the hill, just up from the garrison where Albert is posted. The house had pillars inside and out, and a ballroom decorated with gold curtains and plaster cherubs on the ceiling. It was so beautiful and I was so happy. I have never known such happiness, Maman. The only happiness that could be greater is if you had been able to attend the wedding. How it would have pleased me to have you here. But I will content myself with knowing that you will be happy for me, that you understand the sacrifices that have to be made for true love. I know you understand that, Maman. I know you understand my happiness, and that makes me love you all the more.

  Your Dédé

  Dear François-Victor,

  Oh, that is discouraging news, dear brother. Could you not ask him again? Surely he will relent now that Albert and I have married. It will be expensive to set up a home here, and Albert’s salary is too small for such a task. Could you not persuade Papa that this could be his wedding gift to me?

  I cannot wait for you to meet my new husband, Brother. You and he have so much in common. You will like each other immediately. I know that. He will become a true brother to you, and that will please me greatly.

  But in the meantime, François-Victor, there is the winter to get through, and I must have money to furnish our new home. Papa is stubborn, but he will listen to you. Could you not make him listen to you?

  Your loving sister, Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  I know what it is to be afraid. I have been afraid of Papa’s rages and his strict rules for me. On Guernsey, I was allowed out only to fetch the papers, and only then if I didn’t go anywhere else en route.

  I have been afraid that my sister no longer hears me, that she is gone somewhere far away and I won’t be able to find her again.

  I have been afraid that Maman will die, that she will be worn out by Papa and by the life on that miserable island, and that she will choose to be with Léopoldine rather than with me.

  I have been afraid that I would lose you, my darling husband (because even though you are reluctant to marry me, that is what you are in my heart—my true husband). I had to follow you so I would not lose you.

  I have been afraid that I would drown on the crossing to Halifax. Some nights the ship groaned and heaved so much, it was like an animal trying to throw me from its back.

  What keeps the fear away is my love for you. It is my only defence against it, and some days, when the fear is everywhere, I have to fight hard to remember my love. But I always do. I always triumph. So I know that you can triumph as well, that you can stop being afraid of my love and welcome it instead. I will wait, with patience and an open heart, for that day.

  Your beloved Adèle

  Dear François-Victor,

  Thank you for the little bit of money. I know how difficult it must have been to wrest it from Papa. I appreciate your efforts, but I urge you to keep them up. By the time the money reaches me, I am in need of more again. Just the expense involved in keeping warm during this terrible winter is considerable.

  Albert and I are finding married life very agreeable. I recommend it for you, dear brother, though I understand the impossibility of meeting anyone suitable while you remain in exile with Papa. I wish that you could return to Paris without suffering his wrath. Or better yet, that you could come and make a new life here in Halifax, near to me. You would find winter an adventure, and I have heard that summer offers equal challenges, that there are large blood-sucking insects lighting on one’s flesh from May to August. I am not sure why anyone would choose to live here, but I must admit that some days the fresh air sets my blood racing, and the view from the Citadel Hill at sunset is very pleasing.

  You asked, in your last letter, if I regret what I have done. If I regret leaving Guernsey. I miss you and Maman so much, and Charles, and sometimes even Papa, but I do not miss the island at all. My only regret is that I did not leave it sooner.

  Your loving sister, Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  I can no longer afford to stay in the hotel. I have moved into a boardinghouse down the street. It is still very close to the garrison, and I still wait for you to come and see me. Every afternoon I will be sitting in the small front parlour near to the coal fire. Even if you knock only once at the front door, I will hear you. The landlady’s name is Mrs. Saunders.

  Your beloved Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  It must be very cold out on parade. I have begun to make you a scarf. I am making it in red wool, to match your uniform. It gives me solace to be making something practical for my betrothed.

  Your beloved Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  The scarf is finished and is waiting for you. If you do not come by to try it on, I will simply have it sent to the garrison. I have begun on some gloves to accompany it.

  Your beloved Adèle

  My dear Maman,

  You would be very proud of me, Maman. I have kept up my needlework, and my stitches have much improved. I am working on a pillowslip for my husband, an intricate design of birds in a nest. I work on it most evenings by the coal fire in the parlour of our house. It is much too cold now to go out at nights. The wind beats against the windows like a living being, and the cold is so cold it is like a kind of heat. When the snow lashes against my face, my skin feels as though it has been scalded.

  But it is cosy in our little house, and I am very happy here. You should not worry about me, Maman. I know that I am far away in one sense, but in another, I am as close as ever. And you know that I will always be your Dédé.

  My darling Albert,

  It was cruel to come to the boardinghouse and say those words to me. It was cruel to give me that package, which I was so excited to receive, hardly daring to breathe as I opened it, then finding inside the gifts I had sent to you. All those hours over the weak coal fire, my fingers stiff with cold, making that scarf and those gloves, that pillow slip where you have never once laid your head.

  I do not understand what has changed you, why you don’t feel what you once did. Perhaps you could explain it to me? Perhaps then I’d be able to understand.

  I stood in the hallway after you’d gone, the cold blast of air from the open door still lingering around me. But I felt colder than that air. I felt as cold as the dead feel. I felt dead.

  I cried. But it does no good to cry. No one hears you when you cry. There must be an ear for a voice, just as there must be a saucer for a cup. This letter is at least an ear for my voice, although I am not sure I will have the courage to send it to you. There was a stack of my letters in that parcel you gave me, tied neatly together with a black ribbon. Some of the envelopes not even opened.

  Why do I not deserve your love, Albert? Answer me that. What have I done that is so terrible that I cannot have your love?

  Your heartbroken Adèle

  My dear Papa,

  I cannot simply return to France. I am a married woman now. My duties are with my husband. Please stop asking me to return.

  Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  I will heed your request, my darling. You will see no more of Adèle. She will not follow you through the streets or wait for you outside the fancy houses where you go to dance. She will not send you any more letters—although she will continue to write them. No, you will see no more of Adèle.

  I have bought myself a cane and a top hat, a coat with tails. I am reborn as Antoine Lewly. There is such freedom when I go out in the evenings now. No one gives Antoine a second glance. I can walk the frozen streets with such liberty.

  I know that you are going to Bellevue House on Spring Garden Road for a dance this Saturday night with your regiment. I know this because I heard the soldiers talking outside the garrison. Have no fear—Adèle will not show up to bother you. But Antoine will be there. He can hide in plain sight, simply by being a man. Antoine c
an wait for you on the steps. Antoine can saunter about outside, wandering from lighted window to lighted window to catch a glimpse of you dancing. Antoine can even venture indoors and ask one of the fine young ladies of Halifax for a dance himself.

  I have never known such liberty!

  I feel such happiness!

  Your beloved (Adèle) Antoine

  Dear François-Victor,

  I am disappointed in you, dear brother. A letter has arrived without a money order. Did you forget to slip it inside?

  Your loving sister, Adèle

  My dear Maman,

  Tonight there is a dance for Albert’s regiment at Bellevue House, one of the fancy houses in Halifax. It is very exciting! We will dine early and take a carriage to the house, even though it is close enough to walk. The streets here are unfit for walking in a ball gown, or for my husband to walk in his polished boots. Sometimes the streets are so muddy and torn up that boards have to be placed down over the mess, and even then, there are times when the boards are actually afloat in the puddles!

  Nothing will make me happier than to arrive at the dance on my husband’s arm. He is so handsome in his uniform. And his manners are so good. He has such confidence in all he says! I am sure he will be given an officer ranking soon. It is not right that so fine a man be only an ensign. I know this was one of the reasons Papa was opposed to the match, but does Papa not remember the days when he was simply an unpublished poet? Why does Papa take no account of anyone’s ambition but his own?

  You will be pleased to know that I have found a piano to practise on. I intend to keep up with my musical studies. There is a woman who lives nearby, a Mrs. Saunders, and she has a decent piano in her parlour that she allows me to use every afternoon, if I wish. I want to get back to my compositions. But one needs a quiet life in order to do any serious composing, and I fear that my life has been too busy as of late. I would also like to write a novel. Remember when Papa said he thought I was as strong a writer as he was? Do you think he really meant it?

  Your Dédé

  My darling Albert,

  You did not see me last night, did you? That man who touched the brim of his hat to you as you were crossing the street, that was me.

  I will be at all your dances, my beloved. And now that I am Antoine, I can also go to the taverns where you like to drink with your fellow soldiers when you are off duty. There is no finer calling card to the world’s pleasures than the dress of a man.

  Your beloved Adèle

  Dear François-Victor,

  It is simply not true! I do not know what lies Mrs. Saunders is telling you, but you must not believe them. I am married to Albert. It is true that we are not living together at the moment, and that I am living in Mrs. Saunders’s boardinghouse, but I did not want Maman to worry about me. She would worry if she knew that I was in a boardinghouse and not living in a house of my own. So I suppose I did lie about that. But the other, greater lies—you must not believe those. I am Albert’s wife, and I do not go about at night dressed as a man. Why would I do that? Ask yourself, Brother, why I would do something like that when you have never known me to be other than I am.

  Your loving sister, Adèle

  My dear Papa,

  I have not been lying to you. Why do you never believe me?

  Adèle

  Dear François-Victor,

  I am sorry, but if you are not going to believe me, and if you are telling Papa and Maman that I am not being truthful about what my life is like here in Halifax, then I will have to stop writing to you. Consider this your last letter from me until all the fuss dies down. I do not want Maman to come out here in the spring and bring me home. I am a married woman. Maman and Papa no longer have any claim on my liberty.

  Thank you for all you have done for me. It sorrows me to think you do not trust me to tell you the truth. But I have faced harder things than that, and I will close my heart to you for the time being, Brother, just so I can continue on without too much suffering. I know you will understand. We Hugos understand suffering, do we not!

  I hope your translating work goes well. Do not let Papa tell you that you are too slow. I have always appreciated your measured pace, François-Victor. You have always been a safe haven for me.

  Your loving sister, Adèle

  My dear Maman,

  This will be my last letter for a while, Maman. You know that I love you, but I fear that if you don’t trust me, and I cannot convince you to do so, then I have little to say to you for the time being.

  I simply want to be with the man I love, and have there be no argument about this. I know you will understand, Maman. Once you think on it for a while, you will understand.

  I hope Papa is still letting you off the island. It would be good for you to be in Paris, Maman. Your true life is there. Just as my true life is here.

  I embrace you.

  Your Dédé

  Dear Mrs. Saunders,

  Please excuse my damaged English. The rent, which I am not paying, will be paying soon.

  Mademoiselle Lewly

  My darling Albert,

  I was too bold, wasn’t I? I walked right into that house after you, right into the middle of that dance. Perhaps I wanted to be caught. But I certainly did not want to be pulled from the dance floor. You almost tore my arm out of its socket, you handled me so roughly! I also did not need to be dragged from the house. I would have left of my own accord if you’d simply asked me to go. I did not need to be dragged into the Poor House cemetery and be berated by you. I was not Adèle but Antoine, and Antoine has done nothing to receive such venom from your lips.

  It does no good to threaten me with the law. What would the police do? If I can be Antoine, I could be Pierre or Sébastien. There is no stopping me. I will make you understand that you must love me. I will not leave you alone. I cannot. You must see by now that I cannot. And there is no escape. I know where you are. If your posting is changed, I will hear of it and follow you.

  My love will not be denied.

  It is my destiny to be with you, as it is yours to be with me. You cannot flee your destiny. I will always be right behind you.

  Your beloved Adèle

  My darling Albert,

  What good do you think it did to send the policeman? I did not listen to a word he said. I will not do as he requests. And now, I will simply leave Mrs. Saunders’s boardinghouse and find other lodgings. The police will not find me again.

  Your beloved Adèle

  Dear Mrs. Saunders,

  I must go. Take the dresses. I leave the dresses for the money I should be paying you. They were once made fine by a perfect Paris dressmaker. Please be having them.

  Mademoiselle Lewly

  Charles

  I AM NOT EXPECTING to ever see her again, but she comes one night after I have had my supper. The tray is still on my desk, and when Adèle, my cook, comes to the door of my bedroom, I think she has come simply to take the tray away.

  “She’s here,” she says, hissing like a snake.

  “George?”

  “No. Her.” Adèle fixes me with her gaze, as though the intensity of her expression will somehow convey her meaning to me. I hear slow footsteps on the staircase outside the bedroom. Whoever is here has been let in the house already and is on her way up to see me.

  “The Channel Islands,” says Adèle desperately, and just as I realize what she’s trying to tell me, Madame Hugo enters my room.

  She has changed. She has grown stout. Her dark hair is a weave of grey. She wears a dull-coloured shawl against the chill of the evening air.

  “Adèle.”

  “Charles.”

  The other Adèle is blocking Madame Hugo’s entrance into my chamber. “That will be all,” I say to her, and she backs reluctantly out of the room. I hear her footsteps hesitate on the staircase, and I walk over and deliberately shut the door behind Adèle.

  I am not dressed for company, am wearing only trousers and a shirt. Not even a waistcoat, and my shirt
not even tucked in.

  “Adèle,” I say, just wanting to hear her name out loud again.

  “Charles.” She extends her hand. I take it. Her skin is cool from the outdoors.

  “Please, sit.” I wave my hand towards the chair by the fireplace, and she crosses the room and takes a seat. I perch on the edge of my desk chair. My heart is thudding so noisily in my chest that I think I may faint.

  “I thought you were in exile,” I say.

  “Victor is in exile. And it’s self-imposed. I have returned to Paris for the time being.”

  “You’ve been in Paris awhile, then?”

  “No, not very long.”

  The lie makes us both uncomfortable, and just as if it were a bad smell in the room, we wait for it to pass.

  I have no rights to Adèle anymore. I can’t act petulantly, burst out with an imagined affront, beg for her affections. I grip the arms of my chair to steady myself.

  “It is as though we have died,” I say, unable to stop myself.

  Adèle smiles at my vehemence. “We have, Charles,” she says. “Don’t you feel it? We have died and this is the afterlife.”

  My cook brings us some wine without my asking her.

  “To warm you up, madame,” she says to Adèle, and then she looks pointedly at me to make sure I haven’t missed the allusion.

  Luckily, Adèle Hugo isn’t paying any attention to my cook, and I am able to banish her from my room once again.

  I pour a glass of wine for Adèle and take it over to her.

  “Thank you.” She sips at it and looks around my room, examining my desk, the window, the pictures on the wall. My room suddenly feels terribly inadequate.

  “I inherited the house from my mother,” I say. “It is not something I chose for myself.”

  “You are busy, Charles,” she says, nodding towards my desk. “You are a man of industry, not idleness. I am glad.”

  It was all I could do after the affair ended. I let my work consume me, feed off my bones. I have nothing else. But writing feels entirely fraudulent in comparison to love. The moment one writes about something is the moment one ceases to understand it. To write is to control experience, and to control experience is to lose its meaning. I am not saved by my work. It is just hard proof that I have lost my way.