Amandine (27 page)

“And your news of today, was it not grim?”

“War is different.”

“Is it?”

“You must know that it is. Invasion, occupation, requisition, deportation, work camps, extreme privation—”

“Extreme privation? Hunger, is that what you mean? And grotesque cruelties, too, I imagine. It all sounds familiar enough, Baptiste. Perhaps only the aggressors’ costumes will change from the ones worn here. And now I wish to see Paul. Will you ask her to come here to me, or shall I go to her?”

Baptiste notes Solange’s use of the name rather than the title.

“You must know that she is devastated. I have little will to protect her, yet I assure you that she did not, in any way—shall we say—
assist Josette. Fabrice tells me that you know the story of Josette and Paul, the story of when they were children. As I admitted before, had I known more of it, I might have—”

“I blame no one. I have no heart for anything but to take my little girl away from here, quickly and forever away. It’s neither in fear nor disgust that I’m leaving. Amandine and I will go away because this part of our lives is finished, and so to stay would be wrong. It might have been finished a while ago, longer ago than that, but I didn’t understand until now. I didn’t recognize the ending. I want to see Paul not to punish her but to say good-bye.”

“Wait, Solange. Wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll bring Amandine here. We’ll bring her home and—”

“This is not our home. I don’t know when it ceased to be our home, but it is no longer that.”

“And your home in the north, when was the last time you heard from anyone there? Hadn’t you better write, if not a letter, a telegram? Some communication seems indicated. What if they’ve gone? The
boche
taken over the house? It’s possible there is no home up there for you. Have you thought of that?”

“They’ll be there. I know my mother. My grandmother. There may be a few
boche
boarders, but my mother will be there.”

Baptiste and Solange continue to look at one another but neither speaks, she seeing his white flag, he her mettle.

“And His Eminence?” Baptiste wants to know.

“I was just going to ask you if—”

“He’s here. He’s been here since, since earlier today.”

“Why the train, my dear? My driver will take you door to door. There’s the difficulty about petrol, but we still have it hoarded here and there as far as I know and, of course, the roads will not be unencumbered with either vehicles or refugees, but surely an auto ride is preferable to…”

As he speaks, Fabrice takes a chair from its place at the dining table, carries it across the room to Solange’s bedside.

“Thank you, sir. I can’t thank you enough, but Amandine has always adored the idea of a journey on a train. This is the right moment for it. This is what I want to do.”

The bishop settles himself in the chair, reaches for Solange’s hand. His gaze is stern before it’s tender.

“I see. You have reflected on the fact that disorder mounts every day, have you, child? Everyone from the north is on the road south, here to this so-called Free Zone.”

“I have reflected, sir.”

“We French are a race of self-servers, and I can tell you that the shutters will be tight up there even against a Frenchwoman and her child.
Let them do without
shall be the theme of your northern countrymen except when it comes to themselves. You mustn’t think you can count on anyone, Solange. Not until you reach your mother. I am not trying to dissuade you, only to—”

“The traffic going north should be light, sir.”

The wry phrase stops the bishop in midsentence.

“Yes, the road into enemy territory, yes, very light traffic.… And what if your family is among the exodus?”

“My family would never leave the farm. They didn’t during the Great War and they won’t now.
Boche
or not, I would rather that Amandine and I be there with them.”

“Yes. Of course. And what does Amandine say about—?”

“I haven’t yet told her. I haven’t yet seen her since—”

“I see. Well, maybe you’re right after all, Solange. To seek a fresh new hell. You’ve decided, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I shall help you, Solange.”

“W
E DON’T HAVE TO TALK ABOUT IT NOW. ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED
. We don’t, do we?”

It is nearly eleven on a Wednesday morning, and Amandine and Solange are together in their rooms. Earlier Baptiste had taken Amandine for a walk about the gardens and for a visit to the chapel before accompanying her to Solange. Bidding them both a good day, he tells them that he will be by to check on them in the early evening. Amandine reaches up to embrace him, and he goes quickly, perhaps uncomfortably, on his way.

Both Amandine and Solange are skittish, each one worried about the other. Thinking it might be ritual they need to bring them back to where they’d been—if indeed anything ever could—they begin the bathing one.

Amandine turns the taps to fill the tub with warm water and, deft as a spa matron, goes about her business with the almond oil, the purple capsules of lilac foam, shakes open the towels, lays them over the
chair. Solange helps her to undress, to step into the tub. Though Amandine remembers to inhale the lilac scent, Solange does not.

Now, holding hands and propped upright with bed cushions, they sit—side by side in fresh nightdresses—on the sofa before the spent hearth. Marie-Albert has brought them tea and a small bowl of wild strawberries.

“No. I don’t think we do. Not now. When we’re ready, when we desire to talk about it, then we shall. Jean-Baptiste told you that we’re leaving, didn’t he? He wanted to be the one to tell you, and I agreed. He thought that you would be, you know, more open with him. Tell him your true feelings about that prospect.”

“He told me, and I said that I would like to go.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

“And I’m not even worried about my mother, about her not being able to find me. I’ve left her a note.”

“You’ve left who a note?”

“My mother.”

“With
la Vierge?”

“Yes. She’s not very efficient, but still, I trust her.”

“And what did you say in the note?”

“I told her that your last name is Jouffroi and that we are going to Avise. And that I was going to learn to milk goats. I am, aren’t I?”

“Absolutely.”

“I wrote it on a sheet of paper that Jean-Baptiste gave to me. The kind where he writes what pills to take. I know
la Vierge
doesn’t really deliver mail. Not exactly anyway. But I feel better that I wrote the note and left it with her. I just feel better. I didn’t tell my mother about Josette.”

“No. No, I wouldn’t think you would. So, you’re ready to go?”

“Ready. And I’m sort of glad that none of the girls are here. Or are some of them still—?”

“No. All of them gone to spend the summer in one place or another. At least I think so. Won’t they be surprised to find you gone when they return? But you’ll write to them, they to you.”

“I suppose. Mostly I’ll miss Marie-Albert and Josephine and the
other sisters. And Baptiste. I wish you would marry Baptiste, and then we could take him with us. I told him so, and do you know what he said?”

“No, and I’m not certain I would like to—”

“He said: ‘There’ll be time for that.’ What does that mean exactly?”

“It’s another way to say
Maybe someday.”

“So
maybe someday
you’ll marry Baptiste?”

“Enough.”

“I don’t know if I shall miss Mater. Will you miss her?”

“Perhaps I will. But I think
miss
might not be the right term. More she has left me a great deal to think about. More that.”

“I’m a little scared about going. But not too much.”

“That’s one of the best things about a journey … being a
little
scared.”

“I guess … it’s a good kind of scary, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the good kind. We’ll be leaving on Saturday morning. The eight-forty-nine from Montpellier to Nîmes. We’ll change trains there. If all goes well, we’ll arrive in Reims sometime on Monday morning. Maybe a little later.”

“How many trains will we take?”

“Four. Altogether, four.”

“I want to take ten, twenty …”

“I promise you that there will be many train rides in our future. But for now, we’ll begin with four.”

“Okay.”

“We have two days to prepare. Two more days plus the remainder of this one. You must rest and—”

“And you, too. We can rest together.”

“Together.”

Amandine lies down, her head on Solange’s thighs, and closes her eyes. Solange caresses Amandine’s hair, sings a quiet song until she hears the even breathing of her sleep.

“Where is Josette?”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

With her eyes still closed, Amandine says, “I was pretending. Anyhow, just before I fall asleep I always think of Josette, but Baptiste says that will pass. I told him that I won’t forget what happened and he said that things passing and forgetting them are not the same. He says that, even if I don’t forget, I will soon stop thinking about Josette. Do you think that’s true?”

“I know it’s true. And to answer your question, Josette has gone away, been taken away, to a kind of hospital. A hospital that’s also a prison.”

“How long will she stay there?”

“She’ll stay there always.”

“Will they be cruel to her there?”

“No. But probably not loving, either.”

“Why did she do it?”

Solange, still caressing Amandine’s hair, stays quiet, then moves her hands to hold Amandine’s face, to turn it up to hers. “I don’t know. No one can. Not even Josette.”

It is just after one that same day when there is a knock on the door. Solange rises to answer it.

“I think it’s Marie-Albert with our lunch. She will stay the afternoon with us.
Bonjour
, Mar——Mater. I was expecting—”

“Yes, I know, but I asked Marie if I might carry this up to you. Were you napping? I hope I haven’t come too early.”

Solange hesitates, says, “If anything, Mater, I fear you’re too late.”

Paul looks at Solange, takes in the quiddity of her words.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure I am. Too late.”

“Here, Mater, let me take the tray.”

“It’s all cold food so that whenever you have appetite … Amandine.” Paul holds out her hand to Amandine, who stands now behind Solange.

“Bonjour
, Mater
.”
Amandine takes Paul’s hand, shakes it very formally.

“Well, you’re both looking well, I must say.”

“Thank you, Mater. Won’t you sit?” Solange invites.

The three arrange themselves almost simultaneously in a row upon the sofa, Amandine in the middle. They smile at one another, settle into the cushions. Looking straight ahead then, all of them seem exceedingly fascinated by the spent hearth.

“I haven’t seen these rooms for a very long time. It feels much like a home, a real one, I mean.”

“Maybe you could come to live here, Mater, now that we’re going. You could have Solange’s bed because it’s bigger, and then you could have one or another of the sisters come for a sleepover sometimes. The convent girls always talk about sleepovers but I’ve never been to one although Sidò invited me many times and—”

“Isn’t that a lovely thought. Thank you.”

Solange pulls Amandine’s hair, grimaces at her.

“So then it’s true? That you’ll be leaving,” Paul asks.

“Saturday,” Solange confirms.

“So many changes.” Paul turns to look at Solange.

Still sitting between them, sensing their breach growing, Amandine asks Paul, “Would you like to hold hands?”

She holds out hers to Paul, who takes it, looks down at her old brown hand enclosing Amandine’s tiny white one.

“I like holding hands better than talking sometimes,” Amandine tells her.

Amandine takes Solange’s hand with her other one, then begins to swing the arms of her two charges as though they were off to see the fair. Paul begins to laugh, then catches herself, places Amandine’s hand gently on the sofa, rises. “I shall leave you now. To your lunch and your rest.”

“Thank you, Mater. Thank you for bringing the—”

“If only I’d thought to bring it sooner.”