Thursday, December 13
T
HE DARK-BLUE-AND-GREEN
tartan. That would do, Clarie thought, as she pulled the dress out of her armoire. She hurried to the mirror and held the thin wool dress against her at the waist and by its stiff white collar. She hadn’t worn it for months. It used to be her favorite for teaching. But that was before—
Rose’s timid tapping on the door did not save Clarie from thinking
Henri-Joseph
. She froze, afraid again that her heart and chest would turn to stone, and that she’d be dragged down into a place so dark and deep she’d never return. Clarie took a few breaths, filling her lungs, assuring herself that she could go on. She had to. For her husband. For her father. For everyone. That’s why she had to visit the church today, the one that Madeleine had told her about. She needed some reason to hope. For her son, and for herself. “Just a minute.” She sat down on the bed and pulled the dress up over her flannel petticoat and bodice. She wanted to show her maid that she was perfectly capable of doing things by herself. “Come in,” Clarie called as she began to fasten the tiny cloth buttons that ran down the front.
Rose stepped into the bedroom. “I heard you moving about. I wondered if you needed help.”
“Oh, that,” Clarie said dismissively, trying to smile away the worry on Rose’s face. “I was just searching for my gloves. I had trouble finding them.” She knew this did not explain why she had been slamming the drawers, or why she could not overcome the feeling that everything was somehow out of place.
“Are you going out, Madame Clarie? Alone?” Clasping her hands together, Rose ventured closer.
“Yes.” Clarie got up and went back to the dresser. She picked up her brush and attacked her dark tangled hair with brisk, long strokes.
“Does Monsieur Martin know?” Rose asked meekly.
Clarie put down the hair brush and stared in the glass. Should she feel guilty about not telling Bernard, or angry that Rose was interfering, watching over her as if she were an invalid?
“I’m sorry, it’s not my place to ask about Monsieur.” Rose lowered her head as she backed away from Clarie’s still reflection. “It’s just that you haven’t eaten any lunch, and with the snow coming down so hard, you could catch the grippe or—”
Assaulted by the same inexplicable impatience she had felt while searching for her things, Clarie swirled around ready to object. But when she saw the motherly concern furrowed across her maid’s careworn face, her irritation evaporated.
“You walked here, didn’t you?” she said gently. “You came through the snow just to dust our rooms, and light our fires, and make our meals. And I’m certainly stronger than you, younger too. Oh, you are such a dear.” Clarie reached out and drew Rose to her. She rested her cheek on the shorter woman’s head and pressed the maid’s soft body close to hers. When she pulled back, she noted how thin the gray hairs were that Rose always pinned back into a tight bun. And that she was still troubled. “Don’t worry about me, Rose, really. I’m just going for a walk,” she explained, although this was not quite true, “and then I’m going to meet Mme Froment for tea in the square. School is out for the season, and she wants to celebrate.”
Rose glanced at the window. “But it’s still coming down. Monsieur le juge was so discouraged this morning, he almost didn’t go to work.”
“Discouraged. That’s funny. It’s going to be so beautiful,” Clarie said, trying to sound cheerful. “Let’s open the curtains even more and let the light in.”
Let the light in
. That’s what all of them kept telling her. They hadn’t dared to add “Bring some life into this room,” for that’s what the room would lack forever after Henri-Joseph’s death. For a moment Clarie feared that the paralyzing weight would descend upon her again. She lurched toward the dresser, hoping that Rose had not noticed her panic. She started again to brush her hair, harder and harder, until the air began to flow back into her throat and lungs.
Now it was Rose who stood paralyzed by the windows, gazing at Clarie. It was stupid, of course, but Clarie felt that if she did not play the part of a healthy strong woman, Rose would try to stop her from leaving the apartment. Even though Rose had no power over her. No right. Rose was like everyone else, “trying to help,” hovering. Clarie had to keep on acting.
“Can you help me with my hair? I think I’ll wear it up today,” Clarie said as she lowered herself onto the wooden stool in front of the mirror.
Out of the corner of her eyes, Clarie saw Rose raise her hands to her mouth as if a prayer had been answered. The maid hurried to her side. “Let me help you find your pins,” she said eagerly.
It was working. If she gave up the braids they might begin to leave her alone. Braids were for the sick, for women who stayed in bed all day. A fashionable hairstyle, piled on top, with little curls coming down over the ears. Well, that was a sign of health, recovery. What they all wanted. “Rose, do it so it’s pretty. Monsieur Martin would like that,” Clarie said, although she couldn’t care less about being “pretty.” As Rose lovingly began to wind her hair, Clarie stared ahead, hardly recognizing herself. Would she ever be the same woman that Bernard had fallen in love with? Should she even try?
“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” The impatience again, the fear. “I’m going to wear the hat over it anyway.”
“The one with the little red feathers?” Clarie heard the lilt in Rose’s voice, anticipating that her mistress was finally consenting to wear something with a bit of color.
“Yes, of course, it’s warmer.” Clarie hoped Rose did not notice that her chest was beginning to heave. She swallowed hard. It took every bit of control to remain gentle and patient as Rose put in the pins, carefully and slowly, making sure not to poke her.
When Rose finally stepped back to admire her work, Clarie wanted to leap up and throw on her coat. Instead she gripped the sides of the stool while she waited for Rose to retrieve the hat and attach it to her hair. The black Persian lamb’s-wool hat, with the dead bird’s wings, in obscenely festive red. Bought to match the ruffled black woolen cuffs and collar of her gray coat, which at least was sober enough and normal enough to wear out walking with no one taking notice. Clarie closed her eyes and sighed when Rose stood back again. Finally. She went to the bed and pulled on her boots while Rose left to fetch her coat. When Rose returned, Clarie shoved her arms into the sleeves, pushed on her gloves and, with a parting smile, headed for the front door. Just as she reached for the doorknob, Rose came running with her lamb’s-wool muff.
“No, the gloves will do.” Clarie did not plan to mince about like a lady. She was on a mission. Seeing the disappointment on Rose’s face, Clarie leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be fine. If Monsieur Martin returns before me, tell him I’m at tea.” Then she gave Rose one last smile, lifted her skirts, and scrambled down the three flights of stairs, the black velvet pouch hanging from her left wrist bouncing up and down with each step. At the bottom, she yanked the outer door open and stepped into freedom.
A strange kind of freedom it was! She gulped the fresh clean air as she peered up and down the rue des Dom. Only a few brave souls were out, holding the ends of their scarves over their mouths as they trudged through the heavy snow. The shops that remained open glowed with the flickering light of gas lamps and candles. This was not the busy, chattering Nancy that Clarie loved. Yet somehow a muffled, solitary city suited her purpose. Fighting the wind and snow would make her feel more like a pilgrim setting out on a sacrificial journey for her son.
By the time she reached the market place she was breathing hard. The damp was seeping into her boots, and her nose and cheeks stung with the cold. For a moment she thought of turning back. Or waiting for a tram. She heard one coming up from behind, the bells around the horse’s thick neck jingling a warning. She stood aside and watched. The hooves of the great gray horse made only muted sounds in the thick snow and it was panting hard, snorting out bursts of warm air like vaporous apparitions. Poor beast. Her gaze moved to two shoppers leaving the market. Poor women. Heads bowed, they hugged their filled string bags against their chest as shields. Maids who had to work, Clarie thought, otherwise why would anyone be out here—anyone without a reason.
I have a reason
. Clarie clenched her jaw.
I must pray for my son
. She plunged forward, becoming as oblivious as the others to anyone in her path, looking up only to measure her progress. At last, the Saint Nicolas Gate. Then, the graceful steeple of the Saint Pierre Church, unfettered by snow, rose to touch the sky, giving her hope. She was halfway there. She had only to march on, straight ahead even though the Avenue de Strasbourg widened before her into an eerie emptiness. Her skirts were beginning to weigh her down, in spite of her efforts to hold them above the layers of white flakes. To keep up her spirits against a wind that had begun to blow against her, she recited what Madeleine had told her.
This is the miraculous Virgin who saved Nancy from wars and plagues; the Virgin worshiped by royalty; the Virgin to whom the faithful run and pray in times of trouble.
Then Clarie saw it. Unlike other churches, Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours did not face the street. The broad avenue ran along the east side of the church, leaving the entrance right in front of Clarie as she walked along the sidewalk. She blinked away the snow and slowed her pace.
Notre-Dame was a bit forbidding. It did not soar. It was heavy and narrow, as if built to fit between the road and the priestly residences attached to its west side. She knew, because Madeleine had told her, that they built the church on this very spot in order to house the miraculous statue of the Virgin where it had always stood. Even the great Duke Stanislas insisted on being buried there under this Mary’s protection. Yet, Clarie was suddenly assaulted by doubt. She almost heard Bernard’s voice in her head. There are no miracles. And, if there were, as her dead mother and Madeleine believed, what miracle could the Virgin grant her? She would never get Henri-Joseph back. She let go of her skirt and covered her mouth to smother a cry. She would never see him again. Why had she come? What would the prayers of a sinner mean?
Was she a sinner? Was that why Henri-Joseph had been taken away from her? Then she remembered. Hadn’t the nuns always said that to the Blessed Virgin the prayers of a sinner were the sweetest of all? Couldn’t she make sure that her little baby was not suffering somewhere, in limbo, alone? She gathered her skirts and struggled through the snow, almost tripping as her feet tried to find the steps leading up to the door. Desperately she grabbed one of the door handles. She had to get in. Frantically pushing the snow away with her foot, she grasped the handle and pulled and pulled until it opened wide enough to let her squeeze into the pitch-black vestibule. Clarie stamped the snow off her boots and swiped it away from the sleeves of her coat. She took a breath, straightened up, and pushed through another door to the inside.
She saw the Virgin at once because a light from above burst upon Her through the center of a marble cloud over the main altar. It took Clarie a moment to realize that the sun had come out, and that its rays shone through a window purposely cut into the dome above the Holy Mother. This was God’s light. The rest of the church was empty and dim, hardly illuminated by the rows of stained-glass windows and votive candles, which lent a comforting, familiar waxy odor to the chill air. Shivering from the cold, Clarie tiptoed toward the communion rail. The closer she got, the more her heart pounded with fear and hope. She didn’t like the elaborate carved statues and gold-leaf curlicues and luxurious marble that surrounded the Virgin. This was not her kind of faith, if, indeed, she had any real faith.
Before the main altar, she took hold of the icy cold brass rail with her gloved hands as she bent to her knees, never taking her eyes off the Virgin. Clarie saw then how old and humble She was. Like a mother. Like Clarie’s mother. The Virgin held out her arms to spread her great mantle over the supplicants that knelt before her, embracing them with her compassion. She was not fancy or majestic. She was plain, simple, an alabaster white statue, yellowed ever so slightly by the countless candles that other desperate souls had burnt before Her. “Blessed Mother,” Clarie whispered, “take me back. I will be humble. I will obey. I will be worthy.” Clarie bowed her head. To be truly worthy, what would she have to give up? Not Bernard, surely. Some of his ideas, yes. And teaching? Had she sinned in leading her students to believe that they could make the world a better place? Now she knew that the world was filled with tragedy. That Madeleine was right, there was pain and sin everywhere. “I know that now, Mother, I do.” She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes closed. She did not want to cry again. She was tired of crying.
Then something, the sound of a voice like that of her own dear dead mother, made her lift up her eyes, toward the light, toward the cloud above the Virgin’s head. She gasped. She saw that the marble cloud was carved with cherubim and Henri-Joseph was among them. Steadying herself on the altar rail, she rose up and peered hard above her. It was him. She could tell because unlike the carved statues, her baby had a fringe of black hair, just like he had when he came out of her womb. But he was older now, healthier, with fat cheeks like the other smiling marble angels. Her son, in heaven, smiling down at her. She clutched her hands together and raised them up in gratitude. The miraculous Virgin had given her a sign, Clarie was sure of it. Her baby was in heaven, her mother was taking care of him, and both of them would be waiting for her there forever.
If the Virgin had given her a sign, had she been forgiven for the sin that took Henri-Joseph from her? If only she knew what she had done, she’d never do it again. She knew then that she needed to confess. She stumbled down away from the altar to the side of the church, searching through the dark for a confessional. She found it, but of course no one was there. She was alone. Weeping in frustration, she knelt down and laid her head against the polished wooden confessional. She began to pray, for her son, for her mother, and for herself. When she had exhausted her prayers, she put her hands against the confessional to steady herself as she rose to her feet. She dried her cheeks and nose with a handkerchief and squinted at the cloud of cherubim above the Virgin. She let out another sob. Henri-Joseph was no longer there. He had gone back.