“
Bonjour
, Father,” she said, and no more.
“You see why I wished to speak to you, Père,” said Louis. “I need to know if I can be married, Friday, in this church — or not.”
“I see.” The priest sat down in the pew behind her, with Louis. She sat again and twisted to face them. “My daughter, are you a Catholic?”
“Oui, père.”
“Where were you baptized?”
“Église de Sacré-Coeur, Montreal, Quebec.”
“And your home parish now?”
“Église de Saint-Patrick, Boston, Massachusetts.”
The priest permitted himself a small smile. “I gather you have no intent to be married in your home parish.”
She matched his tiny smile. “Non, Père.”
There was a long silence. Pere Reynaud sighed. “This is a serious problem, Monsieur Dessant.”
“I know, Père,” said Louis.
Bishou took a breath to speak. Louis saw, held up his hand, and she let the breath out again.
The priest continued to sit there in silence, frowning in thought. At last, he said, “It is a long and hard road if you so choose it, Monsieur Dessant, a road back to the faith.”
Again, Bishou moved to speak. Again, Louis held up a hand. This time, she said, “Non, Louis, I will not hold my tongue. Père, why do you call him Monsieur Dessant? Is he not Louis? Is he not also one of your children?”
“Bishou.” Louis held up a hand. His voice was firm. “
Silence, ma chère
.”
“
Oui, mon cher. Mes apologies, Père
.” She turned away from them, and faced front.
After another moment of thought, Père Reynaud said, “Come into the sacristy with me, Louis.”
“Oui, Père.”
The men’s footsteps echoed in the empty church as they walked to the front, where the Père opened the door from which the procession had emerged. There was light within. In a moment, in the rectangle of light from that doorway, she saw Louis kneel on a prie-dieu and clasp his hands. The Père was not in her view, but she could see Louis’s bowed head, and saw his lips move as he answered questions. The voices themselves were the indistinguishable murmurs of two men.
Louis kept his hands folded as he answered questions, but she saw more animation in his replies as they became lengthier. She wondered if he and the Père had spoken at all since the day of Louis’ first wedding, the marriage that had evolved into deceit and disaster — Louis’ false bride, his headlong descent into a life of crime. Louis bowed his head, as if accepting a blessing. Then he took a packet from the priest and stood. Together, they came into the church again.
She knew her anxiety was in her eyes, but she didn’t bother to disguise it.
Père Reynaud bent over her and said with a smile, “We’ll see you on Friday, then.”
Bishou burst into tears.
Louis didn’t look very surprised as he half-lifted her to her feet. “Why, my formidable
Americaine
! I was not sure you even knew how to weep.”
“This was so important,” she sobbed.
Louis gathered her into his arms. “
Mon tresor
,” he said, sounding close to tears himself, “we are all right. Sh, sh.” To the priest, he said, “Friday morning, then, nine o’clock.
Au revoir, Père
.”
“
Au revoir, mes enfants
,” said Père Reynaud, and he was smiling. He signed a cross over their heads, turned, and left again for the sacristy as they made their way outside.
Beside the car, Louis fished out his handkerchief. “
Cherie
, don’t cry, please.”
“Hard to — to stop, once I start,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I was trying so hard.”
He wiped her face. “And you defended me,
ma tigresse
.”
“You laugh at me.”
“Non, non,” he protested softly, still wiping away tears. “Or if I do, it is because you made Père Reynaud laugh, too. This time, he understands that I marry for love.” He maneuvered her into the car, and got in himself. “I know what we will do. There is a little fisherman’s café down the coast road, toward Saint-Benoit. I know you like your seafood,
hein
? We will see what the catch of the day is.”
“I like that idea.” Bishou smiled through her tears.
“
Bon
, then that is what we will do.”
• • •
The little fishermen’s café had mussels today, and they were wonderful, accompanied by white wine and good bread and butter. They sat inside, the easier for Bishou’s red-rimmed eyes. Louis told her what had happened. “My first confession … since before my first wedding. Then he asked about my time in France, prison and all. And then … about you. I said many things I am glad you could not hear.” Louis sipped the wine. “Good things, I assure you, but I might have made you blush. And he asked about my hopes and dreams. I have never had a priest ask that.” There was another pause while he freed a mussel from its shell. “I think I have you to thank for that,
ma cherie
.”
“I am headstrong. I’m sorry I disobeyed you.”
“Pfah.” Louis shook his head. “You did right. When he called me Louis, in your hearing — I think that was the first time he ever called me Louis. I think you made him realize he was treating Frenchmen,
zoreils
, different from native Creoles.”
“Did he say so?”
“
Non
. And I would not have been rude enough to ask if he had a higher standard for me than he did for some
apache
off the street.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “But I did notice that those instructions he gave me for my indulgence were already made up in packets.”
“Is this something that must be completed before the wedding?”
“
Non, non
. He takes my word on this. Well, God is overseeing us all, I had best keep that word,
hein
?” Another mussel. “Rosary time every night until further notice, prayers from the little booklet he gave me; I think I am making up in one bundle all the prayer I have skipped for ten years.” He reached out, and clasped her hand for a moment. “But it is in a good cause.”
“I am sorry to be more upset than you are.”
“Pfah.” He shook his head again, and operated on another mussel. “You do not know what peace I felt this morning, with you beside me, in the church. As long as you are with me,
ma Bishou
, this is a very agreeable penance.”
“Oh, surely, since I am the one who got upset.”
Louis chuckled and ate another bite. “Your turn today, mine tomorrow.” That was an old gamblers’ saying, worthy of the tobacco auctions. “You are not yet sorry you said yes to me, are you? Do you now have the cold feet?”
“No, I am committed.”
He laughed and almost choked on his wine. “Yes, baby, you are committed. If you were to say, ‘Oh, no, Louis, it was all my mistake’ to me now, I would fling you over my shoulder and carry you to the church Friday.”
“You just try it, that’s all,” Bishou told him. Her own appetite was recovering. “Now my only remaining battle is the dress I will wear.” She thought of Madame Nadine, the elegant local dressmaker, snarling, “I am not a dressmaker to American working girls, or rich Americans, nor will I be. The women of France and Reunion Island, these are for whom I make my fashions.”
“If all else fails, wear this outfit. It’s nice.” He pointed toward what she wore, although the hat was now out in the car. “With the new little shoes.”
“
Oui
, with the new little shoes,” she said with a smile.
“Madame Nadine snorts that she will only serve
réunionnaises
, very well, you are becoming one. If she will not serve you,
tant pis
. There are plenty of other dressmakers throughout the world.” He spoke with the easy confidence of a millionaire.
“What was she talking to you about?” Bishou wanted to know. When the dressmaker stood with Louis outside the shoe store, he had very evidently appeared to wish to be somewhere else.
“Oh.” He reddened. “She did not know why I was waiting in the street, of course, so she came to pass the time of day with me. She is very intense. I think she would have — how did you say it — would have thrown me over her saddle and carried me off to rescue me, if she could.”
Bishou smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Oh, then I was correct in that impression.” Now she had another question. “Louis —
am
I rescuing you?”
Louis glanced at her. “Perhaps a little. But you know, it is not one-sided. You are not flinging me over your saddle. I am climbing up on the horse, pulling you up behind me and saying, ‘Oh please, Bishou, rescue me.’”
She chuckled at the grain of truth. “As long as we know where we stand.”
“
Oui
.” He reached out and clasped her hand again. “I have committed terrible crimes, Bishou. I know that.”
“You
didn’t
know, Louis. How could you have known that the woman who came to marry you had killed another woman and taken her place?”
“I know.” Louis sighed and frowned. “But you know, Celie’s sister, Adrienne, was adamant that I remain in prison, that I could never be forgiven for losing my heart to the wrong woman.
Mon agent de liberation conditionnelle
— I don’t know the English term — ”
“Parole officer.”
“
Oui
, parole officer — still receives letters from Adrienne, saying I have not been punished nearly enough for my sins.” A cloud passed over Louis’s expressive features. “From her point of view, that might be the truth. I did not murder Celie Bourjois, but I was a willing accessory.”
“Who spent seven years at hard labor to atone for it.” Bishou rested her hand upon his. “Louis, if Père Reynaud — and God — can find it in their hearts to forgive you, what more do you need?”
The cloud passed. Louis smiled and patted her hand, reassured. The manageress came over, and he paid their bill. Full of wine and mussels, they began their return journey, turning inland a bit. Louis took jungle roads he knew, and Bishou just enjoyed the ride. A riot of colors met her eyes. Once, in the far distance, she saw le Piton de la Fournaise, the volcano that had created the island.
They were almost home, driving along the road toward the cigarette factory, when Louis pulled over suddenly and abruptly to the roadside, yanked on the parking brake, and shut off the engine. He grabbed something from the door pocket, jumped out, and ran across a field where other men were working. In surprise, followed by alarm, Bishou realized he was carrying a machete. A second thought occurred to her — this was Sunday, the men shouldn’t be working. She saw them, half a field away, chopping, and thought:
Tobacco rust. Pruning with the machete
. Just as they had discussed at that workshop at East Virginia University, months ago, when she first met Louis Dessant.
Louis was talking to a Creole, evidently a foreman, and took a few chops himself at a tobacco plant, lifted the leaves, and examined them. Machetes in hand, he and the foreman walked further back in the field and were lost to her sight. She waited patiently. This was a business crisis.
Fifteen or twenty minutes passed before she saw them walking back toward the car. The foreman didn’t look worried; neither did Louis. Louis, however, looked determined. They walked right up to her car door.
“Bishou, this is François Dellerand, my field foreman,” Louis introduced her. “François,
ma fiancée
Bishou.”
“
Bonjour
, mam’selle.”
“
Bonjour
, monsieur,” she replied courteously.
Louis paid little attention to the amenities. “You don’t know how to send transoceanic cables, do you?”
“Non, I don’t.”
“Can you drive this
voiture
?” he asked, equally intently.
“Yes,” she admitted. She always let him drive. As her brother Jean-Baptiste (Bat) often said,
Driving is a man thing.
“Have you got paper and pencil in your purse?” Bishou pulled them out. Louis wrote an address, then a name she recognized as an antibiotic. “You will go into Saint-Denis. This street is a right turn off Rue Marché, a few blocks before you reach the retail district. This is the address for Claire Aucoeur’s flat — she’s on the second floor. You will take her to the factory and she will send a cable to the Sorbonne, that we need this drug to Garros Airport by the first plane tomorrow morning, details please telephone us.”
“
Oui, monsieur
.” Bishou slid over to the driver’s side. He had left the keys in the ignition. Quickly she turned the car around, and drove toward Saint-Denis.
There was a dearth of street signs, but she made an educated guess and saw a three-story house before her. She breathed a sigh of relief, however, when she spotted Louis’s secretary standing before the building.
Claire spotted her boss’s car at the same moment, and hurried to the curb. “Mademoiselle Bishou?!” she exclaimed.
“Please, I am to take you to the factory to send a cable,” Bishou told her. “The tobacco has rust, and you are to request the antibiotic.”
Claire simply dropped whatever she had been doing, and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Give me directions,” said Bishou, “this is all too new to me.”
“
Bien sûr
,” said Claire, pointing her down a couple of side streets and out to the road again. Once underway, Bishou explained what happened.
“It is good that Monsieur Dessant is with the workers,” Claire said. “There will be no panic or anxiety if he is there. His hand is steady. Monsieur Campard, sometimes he lets them see how worried he is. Not Monsieur Dessant.” This was probably more than the good secretary would admit within the walls of the factory.
“I know,” said Bishou. “The crown has been jostled a bit, but he is still a king.”
“Oui.” Claire smiled. “I am not telling you anything new, am I? This is good. If we telephoned Paris today, on a Sunday, we might get anyone, and they might say anything. If we are in a queue of Monday-morning cables, we have more of a chance of being taken seriously by the university. I will also be on the telephone to them Monday morning, believe me.”
“I believe you.” Bishou drew up at the guards’ cubicle. That car, those women — the guard waved her through. They were at the main doors in a heartbeat, where another security man let them inside.