‘I’ll go and warn your driver you may be some time yet.’ Laurent helped Bel to her feet, the boy still sleeping in her arms.
‘He’s as light as a feather,’ Bel whispered, as she looked down at his innocent young face, trusting her to take care of him, simply because he had no alternative.
Laurent watched her as she carried the child carefully, tenderly, into theatelierso as not to wake him. And as he went to speak with Bel’s driver, his own eyes brimmed momentarily with tears.
She was waiting for him on the chair where she sat every day as he sculpted her, the child still in her arms.
‘I’ll prepare a pallet for him in the kitchen,’ said Laurent, wondering what on earth Landowski would say when he arrived to find a filthy street child in hisatelierat sunrise tomorrow. But nevertheless, he wished to help.
A few minutes later, Bel carried the child through to the kitchen and gently laid him down. ‘At least I should wash his face and perhaps try to clean his wound. Have you some cloth and antiseptic?’
‘Somewhere,’ Laurent said, and he began searching in the cupboards until he found the antiseptic. Disappearing from the room, he arrived back with a piece of white cotton netting, more commonly employed in the studio for plaster of Paris moulds, so Bel could use it to clean the child’s wound.
‘Have you a bandage?’ she asked, and when Laurent said there were none in the cupboards, he watched as she gently bound the wound with the netting to protect it. The boy flinched, but remained asleep.
‘Even though the night is warm, he is shivering with fever. We need a blanket,’ she ordered and Laurent duly brought the one that he would have wrapped around his own shoulders that night.
‘I will sit here for a while, bathe him in cold water to bring down his fever and make sure he feels safe,’ she said, as Laurent stood above her in the tiny kitchen. Nodding, he left and went to prepare his own pallet in theateliernext door.
‘Sweet child,’ she whispered as she wiped a water-soaked rag across his forehead and stroked his hair. ‘When you wake up tomorrow, I won’t be here, but don’t be afraid. I promise when I return, I will make sure you are safe. But now I must leave you. Sleep well.’
As Bel began to rise, a hand suddenly reached out from beneath the blanket and grabbed at her skirt. The boy’s eyes were open wide as he stared at her.
And in perfect French, he said, ‘I will never forget what you have done for me tonight, mademoiselle.’ And then, with a sigh of contentment, the child rolled over and once again closed his eyes.
‘I must go,’ Bel said to Laurent as she emerged from the kitchen. ‘Where is the key to lock the prison door?’ she added, sarcasm in her voice.
‘Izabela, you know I only do it to protect the professor and his family. This is their house, and his great work of art,’ he reminded her as he indicated the half-formed sculpture of Christ.
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘But you must promise me that when the boy wakes tomorrow, you will tell him he is safe here? And I myself will speak to the professor and explain, as it was me who has caused this trouble. Now, I must leave. God knows what wrath I’ll face from Senhora da Silva Costa in the morning.’
‘Izabela . . . Bel . . .’ Laurent grabbed her arm as she made to walk to the door. He pulled her towards him suddenly and wrapped her in his arms. ‘You are truly beautiful, inside and out. And I can’t bear any longer to continue with this masquerade, this pretence between us. Please feel free to tell me to release you from my arms, but God help me, seeing your compassion tonight . . .’ He shook his head. ‘At the very least, I want to feel the touch of your lips on mine.’
Bel stared at him, knowing she was on the precipice and that not a single part of her cared if she leapt off it.
‘I am yours,’ she murmured. And his lips fell upon hers.
And in the kitchen next door, the young boy slept peacefully for the first time in months.
25
When Bel arrived back at theatelierat five the following evening, she was full of trepidation. Not only for the fate of the young boy, but also to discover whether Laurent’s declaration and kiss had merely been a reaction to the high emotion of last night.
‘Aha!’ said Landowski, who was cleaning himself up after a day’s work. ‘It’s Saint Izabela herself!’
‘How is he, professor?’ she asked, blushing at his comment.
‘Your foundling is currently sitting down to supper with my children,’ said Landowski. ‘Like you, when I called my wife in to see him sleeping like an emaciated rat on the kitchen floor, she immediately took pity on him. She insisted he have a good hosing-down outside in the garden and scrubbed him from head to toe with carbolic soap for fear of lice. Then she wrapped him in a blanket and put him to bed in our house.’
‘Thank you, professor. I’m sorry to put this trouble on your household.’
‘Well, if it was me, I’d have kicked him out on the street where he belongs, but you women, you all have soft hearts. And us men are thankful for them,’ he added gently.
‘Has he said yet where he’s from?’
‘No, because he hasn’t uttered a word since my wife took charge of him. She thinks he is mute.’
‘Monsieur, I know he isn’t. He spoke to me just before I left him last night.’
