Two Crosses (3 page)

Clearing his throat, David came around to the front of his desk and sat lightly on it. His dark eyes flashed as he began to recite:

“Know then thyself, presume not God to scan

The proper study of Mankind is Man …

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl’d:

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!”

When he finished, he returned to the other side of his desk and stared at the mesmerized girls, who seemed not to have understood a word of his soliloquy but nonetheless appreciated his charm and talent. “
Mesdemoiselles
, please! Who can tell me the poet’s name and the title of the work?”

Forty-two heads looked around nervously.

Then a hand went up. He almost didn’t see it, so little did he expect an answer. “Yes, Miss …” His voice trailed off as he searched the roll for the missionary girl’s name.

“Madison. Gabriella Madison.” Her voice was soft but calm.

Gabriella! Even the name of an angel.

“Why, it’s from Alexander Pope’s ‘Essay on Man’!” she exclaimed excitedly, as if she were delighted to find someone else who shared her enthusiasm for the poet.

David felt himself blush, then regained his composure and began his lecture. But after class, his thoughts returned to the angel on his right. Worth investigating, this Gabriella Madison.

Everything in France seemed to close between noon and two. Gabriella had observed the daily routine: shop owners covered their windows with corrugated aluminum and locked their doors, and workers passed one another on the cobblestones in the center of town as they headed toward their homes.

The main meal of the day lasted two full hours and was eaten in leisurely fashion with plenty of bread and wine accompanying each of the four courses. Gabriella blushed slightly as she remembered her first taste of wine at Mme Leclerc’s dinner table.

“
Mais, bien sûr
, you must try a little red wine,
ma chérie
,” the proprietor had insisted. “What is a meal without wine?”

To be polite, Gabriella had lifted the glass to her lips and sipped the rich red liquid. It had burned her mouth and caused her eyes to fill with tears, and she coughed uncontrollably. Mme Leclerc, Stephanie, and Caroline had laughed loudly.

“The first sip is always surprising. But do not worry,
ma chérie
. You will come to appreciate it, I assure you.”

So far, all that Gabriella had come to appreciate about the red wine and ample noontime meal was how hard it was for her to keep her eyes open the rest of the afternoon. She did not want to fall asleep in her first European history class. Stephanie had reported that the history teacher spoke in a slow, droning voice that would lull even the staunchest teetotaler into dreamland. If only she had M. Hoffmann after lunch! No one in her right mind could have heavy eyes in his class.

She had found it hard to concentrate on his lecture that morning. He had seemed discerning and profound, and his dark, deep-set eyes made her feel uncomfortable. Were they dark blue or coffee brown or jet black? In any case, they were penetrating. The other girls called him handsome and mysterious, but Gabriella saw something different. Brilliant and sad, was her conclusion.

“Miss Madison! May I have a word with you?”

Gabriella turned to see M. Hoffmann striding toward her. A feeling of panic swept across her face, and she felt her cheeks turn crimson. What could he want with her? Had he read her mind? She considered ignoring his question and hurrying toward the door of Mme Leclerc’s apartment. Instead, she slowed her step to let him catch up. The brightness of the sun combined with her own embarrassment made her suddenly feel light-headed and weak. She tripped on the cobblestone street and stumbled awkwardly until M. Hoffmann’s strong hand grasped her arm and steadied her. She groaned inwardly. Every girl at school was longing for a
tête-a-tête
with this man, and she, at this golden opportunity, could only conduct herself like a clumsy adolescent.

He seemed unfazed as he matched her pace. “Where are you going? You don’t eat lunch at the cafeteria in town, I suppose?”

“Oh, no. I’m boarding with Mme Leclerc. We eat all our meals with her. She says we keep her company. It’s always delicious, but the wine and food make me sleepy.” She realized she was babbling.

He chuckled. “Bring some toothpicks, then, for M. Vidal’s class. You’ll need them to prop open your eyes!”

Although Gabriella disapproved of M. Hoffmann’s cutting remark, she struggled to suppress a grin.

Again M. Hoffmann seemed oblivious to her uneasiness. “I was impressed that you knew Mr. Pope and his poem. I didn’t expect anyone to recognize it … or to have any interest in my opening statement.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone was interested. They just weren’t familiar with the work. My mother used to read to us all the time—classics, poetry, any books she could get her hands on. I mean, it was sometimes hard to have books … where we lived … in English.” Rambling again. “Anyway, I really like Pope’s poetry.”

“You’re from Africa, I hear. What do you think of St. Joseph and its charming young ladies?”

“I think it will be fine, interesting. Oh dear, there’s Mme Leclerc looking out the window for me. Good-bye.” With that she left his side and hurriedly walked toward her door. Racing up the stairs and entering the apartment, she caught a glimpse of her flushed face as she passed the mirror in the entranceway. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure the other girls would notice.

The first day of class at St. Joseph was over, and Mother Griolet slumped quietly into the black cushioned chair behind her desk.
That went well for a first day
, she concluded, satisfied.
Not a bit like the old days, with all the nuns scurrying about.
Now most of the professors were male. At times she had wondered if hiring each of them had been a mistake.

M. Brunet was a womanizer and everyone knew it, but he taught grammar better than anyone else. M. Vidal had needed a job when he applied four years ago. He spoke a pitiful English, but his knowledge of European history was vast, and she allowed him to teach in French. A position at St. Joseph would pay his bills, if he could manage to stay away from the
café-bar
on his way home after class.

But it was not M. Vidal’s drinking habits that bothered Mother Griolet today as she sat reflecting at her desk—it was the baffling personality of David Hoffmann. She had hired him on the spot eighteen months earlier. His references had been impeccable, a brilliant young man with an Ivy League education, twenty-three years old, the son of an ambassador. Well-traveled. Charming. Confident in his ability to assume his first teaching position. And in this, Mother Griolet had not been disappointed. Though he did not have the degrees to match the other professors, he was a gifted teacher. And it seemed to her as if he felt that he
needed
to be here.

Now, however, she suspected that David Hoffmann was not teaching at St. Joseph as an end in itself. He spoke beautiful French; his manners were polite, though aloof. But she sensed that he was hiding something.…

The bells in the chapel chimed five o’clock. She stood up, smoothed the black robe that had been her daily wardrobe for the past fifty years, and walked out the door and down the hall.

David walked briskly down the dark street, the click of his heels reverberating on the deserted cobblestones. He slipped into a phone booth, plunked a
franc
piece into the open slot, and dialed a number.

“It’s me,” he whispered. “I’ll be there. And listen, I’m bringing a girl.”

“A girl! Are you crazy? The last thing we need is someone else involved.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll be a perfect cover for us. It will work out beautifully.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t know a thing.” He continued quickly, not allowing the voice on the other end to interrupt. “We’ll be in Aigues-Mortes in two weeks. Oh, and my friend has red hair. Lots of it.
A bientôt, mon ami
.” He returned the receiver to its hook, then walked back up the street, deep in thought.

3

Paris, France

In the streets beyond the Seine on the Left Bank of Paris, a young child played alone while her mother looked on from their third-floor apartment. “Be careful, Ophélie!” called the woman, glancing down the street to where three men waited at the corner. Students from the Sorbonne, foreigners perhaps. The men began to move in her direction.

“Dinnertime,
ma chérie
,” said the mother. “
Vite!
Come upstairs quickly.”

“But, Mama,” the child protested, “you said I could play a while longer. The sun has not yet closed his eyes. A few more minutes, please, Mama?”

The young woman coughed weakly. Her face was pale and thin, and her dark, almost black, eyes, framed by rich, thick lashes, mirrored intense pain. Again she coughed and pleaded, “
Now
, Ophélie, you must come now.”

The three men drew closer, and she recognized their faces. Fear erased the pain in her eyes.
“Now!”