"I thought of it," he admitted, "quite seriously, in fact, as a boy."
"What stopped you?" I demanded curiously.
"The idea of dying in poverty." He grinned. "Now, be a good girl and come to bed. It's late and my son must have his rest."
While Charles slept I lay awake, seeing the picture that he had painted for me of this very special child. I imagined the sign of the cross made with holy water on the smooth, rounded forehead of a flawless baby… the first fashioning of our great love. Charles had promised me perfection and I believed in his vision without question; I had no doubts, none of the normal anxieties that beset an expectant mother. Within the magic circle of our love our happiness seemed safe and assured, protected by foundations that could never be shaken by misfortune.
Everything came to me, of course… the lovely old seventeenth-century house in the Rue St. Patrice and the income from my father's many sensible investments.
"You're a woman of independent means;" Charles told me pensively, and I sensed his vague unease. He didn't want anyone saying he had only married me for my money. For the first time I became aware of the inner conflicts any man faces when he marries above his station and I began to be increasingly convinced that we should leave Rouen and start afresh elsewhere.
I went through Papa's house, systematically itemizing those sentimental relics of my childhood with which I knew I could not bear to part—Mama's jewelry, Papa's architectural library and files, the small violin on which I had screeched my first ungodly notes. And all the time stilted letters of condolence continued to arrive, expressing regret and respect in the appropriate proportions. Then one morning I opened a letter from Marie…
Marie Perrault, companion of my tedious captivity in the convent, had been my bridal attendant—possibly the plainest bridesmaid that ever was. Even Mama had raised an eyebrow at my choice. I suppose Marie had always been an unlikely friend for me. Even in the convent I had had my following, my own particular set who hung upon my every word and copied my hairstyle and the subtle little touches I added to my dresses. And certainly in looks Marie had nothing to recommend her. She was excessively plain, whey faced and pinched beneath a shock of unfashionable carrot-colored hair, and she had about her that air of timidity which automatically attracts every bully in the vicinity. She must have been about ten when I first took her under the mantle of my protection. The rest of my friends found her boring, and had I given the signal, they would gladly have made her life a misery with the age-old ritual of schoolyard torment But I did not give it. I allowed Marie to trot after me, like some faithful spaniel, and told the others that I found her useful—which was true enough and yet not the whole truth. I was the prettiest girl in the convent and the most influential by far; my word was law. And Marie remained my friend long after the rest had drifted away to homes scattered throughout Normandy, and ceased to write.
The letter I opened now was entirely Marie—full of clumsy gaffes and muddled sentiments that were written straight from the heart, but probably better left unsaid. She begged us to come and stay with her family in St.-Martin-de-Boscherville, and as I pushed the letter across the table to Charles, I heard him groan. I gave him a look and he subsided into silence. We went down to Boscherville at the end of the week.
Charles survived two days of overpowering Perrault hospitality before deciding that a contract required his urgent presence in Rouen. And the same afternoon that he left, Marie and I discovered that the isolated, stonewalled house on the edge of the village was for sale.
Covered with ivy, sprawling, inconvenient to run, its gardens and orchard entirely neglected by a previous elderly occupant… I fell in love with it on the spot.
"It's too far from Rouen," said Charles in horror when he returned.
"It's beautiful," I murmured.
"It needs a lot of work."
"I don't care. Oh, Charles, I want that house so much! It's so—so
romantic
!"
He sighed and I noticed the sun picking out the silver threads that were just beginning to sprinkle his jet-black hair.
"Oh, well," he said, with his familiar air of resigned indulgence, "if it's romantic, then I suppose we shall simply have to take it."
And so we came to the sleepy village of Boscherville.
By May the old house had been completely redecorated and furnished in the latest Parisian style.
It was a perfect little palace, awaiting the arrival of my perfect little prince.
The third of May 1831 is a day I will never forget.
It was hot, unseasonably hot for early May, and I lay on the sofa like a beached whale, fanning myself and demanding drinks of lemonade from the housemaid.
I was tired and peevish. My two-year-old spaniel, Sasha, bounded tiresomely around the drawing room, dropping her ball repeatedly at the side of my couch and wagging her tail hopefully.
"It's too hot to go out in the garden," I grumbled. "You'll just have to wait until Marie comes. Oh, Sasha, do go away! Simonette!
Simonette
!"
Simonette appeared in the doorway, adjusting her apron hastily.
"Yes, madame?"
"Take this silly dog outside and don't let her in again until Mademoiselle Perrault comes to take her for a walk."
"Yes, madame."
In the romping chase that ensued, my new table lamp was knocked to the floor, smashing the white glass shade and spilling colza oil on the carpet. My shriek of fury drove both dog and maid from the room. I was on my hands and knees mopping clumsily and ineffectually at the mess when Marie arrived.
"It's ruined!" I sobbed angrily. "My lovely new carpet, it's spoiled!"
"No, it's not," said Marie, in her maddeningly reasonable fashion. "It's only one patch, really. If we put this rug over it, no one will ever know it's there."
"I don't want a rug there!" I said childishly. "It throws the entire room out of balance. I shall have to have a new carpet."
She sat back on her heels in her plain muslin gown and regarded me thoughtfully.
"That's not necessary, you know, Madeleine. If I were you I'd leave it as it is. No one wants to live in a house that's perfect all their lives, least of all a small child."
I glared at her. I was about to tell her that
my
child would never dream of romping around my lovely house, spilling things on my best carpet, when the baby kicked beneath my heart with such violence that I gave a gasp of shock.
"Nobody asked for your opinion, you little beast!" I muttered, half angry, half amused by this startling reminder of his unseen presence.
But Marie did not smile, as I had expected her to. Instead she turned away and looked intensely uncomfortable.
"I don't think you should say a thing like that, Madeleine. Mama says it's terribly unlucky to speak against the unborn."
"Oh, don't be such a goose!" I scoffed. "It can't hear me."
"No," she said uneasily, "but God can."
I laughed at her, all my good humor suddenly restored by her superstitious absurdity.
"God has better things to do than eavesdrop on the faithful," I asserted confidently. "Think of all the really wicked people in the world, all the murderers and the harlots and the heathens…"
The conversation drifted to other matters and by the time Marie left I had quite forgotten my anger. Charles wouldn't mind if I had a new carpet. "Whatever you want, darling," he would say if I asked, "whatever makes you happy." And, gross and uncomfortable as I was, I could probably contrive to struggle into Rouen once more before the birth.
It was growing cooler now, a fresh wind blowing through the open casements. Sasha was permitted back into the room and, worn out with her walk, fell asleep on what was left of my lap. I watched her head vibrating steadily to the rhythm of the baby's vigorous kicks… He was restless tonight, I reflected indulgently. We always spoke of the coming baby as he. Charles had suspended my wedding ring over my abdomen on a piece of cotton thread and insisted I was carrying a boy. I knew how much he wanted a son; a son to follow him as a master craftsman…
Through the half-open door I listened drowsily to the sounds of Simonette preparing supper. I knew that Charles would be late home. He had accepted a lucrative contract for a huge mansion on the outskirts of Rouen and his men were taking advantage of the light evenings. I did not expect him home before dusk.
The hall bracket clock was just striking six, the sun still streaming through the windows and making a lattice-work pattern on the carpet I intended to change, when they carried him home on a makeshift stretcher…
There had been an accident on the building site—a piece of falling masonry. They assured me that it was no one's fault, that no one was to blame, as though they expected that to be some sort of comfort.
The doctor came and, shortly after, the priest.
Suddenly my house was full of people murmuring platitudes about the child, the child I would have to comfort me in my untimely bereavement.
On the evening of the day we buried Charles I lay alone in our bed—our magnificent new bed that had been a wedding gift from my parents—and felt the new life throbbing beneath the swollen drum of my stomach.
I remember that I prayed for a son, a son to remind me of Charles.
Well, now I had one…
Hours had passed since his birth; gradually I became aware of a new day dawning outside the uncovered window.
And with the light I heard again the first plaintive notes of that siren cry which wrapped itself around my brain like a lover's caress. I pressed my hands against my ears, but I could not shut it out; and I knew that even if I ran to the farthest corner of the world I could not escape from him. That sound would still be there in my head, driving me mad with grief.
With weary resignation I went back to the bed and covered the hideous little face with a handkerchief. When I could no longer see him, I found I could control my revulsion sufficiently to handle him.
Dragging myself downstairs, I found a little milk in the kitchen and warmed it.
Later, while he slept in a room full of summer sunlight, I
sat in a chair feverishly fashioning the first garment he ever wore.
A mask…
Looking back, I don't know how I would have managed without Marie and Father Mansart, for I quickly learned what a slender and ethereal thing popularity is.
My status in the village evaporated overnight. No one came near my house—it was as though they had painted a red cross on my door, as they used to do in the old days to warn passersby that those within were contaminated with the plague. Even in this bright new century, where science makes new leaps with every year that passes, superstitious fears still rule most small rural communities like Boscherville. Hearsay tales are inclined to grow out of all proportion, but in this case imagination and malice would have been hard put to embroider the lurid truth. When I finally ventured out into the village, I found myself shunned like a leper. People walked the other way when they saw me approaching, and when I had passed by, I would be deeply aware of the nudging and cruel gossip that was taking place in my wake. Father Mansart warned me not to take the child out in public; and though he did not say so, I knew it was because he feared for our safety.
Marie came most days, in spite of the displeasure of her parents and the censure of the village. She overcame her own horror and timidity for my sake and taught me the true meaning of friendship; I was now entirely dependent upon her for companionship and comfort.
The expensive cradle lay forlornly in the attic bedroom, whence 1 had quickly banished it; and for most of the time it was mercifully silent. He never cried unless he was hun-gry and that, thank God, wasn't very often. It was as though some deep-rooted sense of self-preservation prevented him from seeking any other form of comfort.
I suppose my distaste at handling him must have communicated itself to him from his earliest days, and indeed, he gave me so little trouble in those first months that I was able to shut him out of my mind for hours at a time. I never went near him unless I was forced to; I never smiled at him or played with him; I assumed he would be an idiot.
It was Marie who hung a string of little bells across the cradle, out of pity; and one morning she drew me upstairs, against my will, and made me stand outside the open door.
"Listen!" she said.
I heard the familiar, random tinkling of the bells, the lonely sound of a solitary, neglected baby amusing itself, which I had heard so many times before and from which I now turned in guilty haste.
"I'm baking," I complained uneasily. "The cake will burn."
"Let it!" she said rather shortly. "I want you to hear something… listen!"
Surprised by her tone, I did as she asked, and as I listened, I became aware that the bells were not being struck at random, but deliberately, in a repetitive pattern which formed a short phrase.
It had to be a coincidence, a freak chance, but even as I told myself this, the phrase shifted, altered, and settled itself into a new pattern which was repeated, without variation, several times.
"This is no ordinary child," said Marie quietly. "How much longer do you think you can continue to shut him away up here, trying to pretend he doesn't exist?"
I turned and fled downstairs, slamming the kitchen door shut on the sound of the bells which had seemed to follow me.
I had not allowed myself to think beyond the possibility of caring for some mindless animal. My child was a hideous monster and somehow the thought that he might be exceptional in any other way only filled me with terror. If Marie was right, I knew my predicament was going to grow worse. It was not going to be possible to ignore the mind that was developing rapidly behind the little white kid mask.
One evening, roughly six months after his birth, there was a terrible storm. The wind rattled the glass in the casements and howled down the chimney, making the fire flicker and smoke. Rain pelted madly on the roof, thunder rolled directly overhead, and each flash of lightning lit the entire room for a split second.