The grace of a ballerina combined with the sturdiness of a fortress.
Inside, the walls were stenciled and gilded, Art Nouveau and neoclassicism engaged in an uneasy truce. Columns topped with cupids studded the entry, elaborate mantels crowned every doorway, and carved stone fireplaces warmed each bedroom. Oak floors were inlaid with a Greek key design, covered in thick Turkish rugs.
My older sister, Marguerite, and I used to run through the wide halls, our little brother, Henri, limping behind. We would play hide-and-seek, or pretend we were characters in a novel. Our favorite wasAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland; we would chase the white rabbit up and down the stairs, ducking into niches or behind curtains, ignoring our nanny’s attempts to curtail us.
It has been said that fortunate children take things for granted, and that certainly was the case for me. I didn’t see the beauty at the time, much less understand the indescribable pleasures of having enough to eat, a clean, warm bed in which to sleep. In truth, I was a spoiled child who did not appreciate the great privilege into which she was born.
When Marguerite was twelve, she fell ill with scarlet fever. I snuck into her death chamber, wanting to see her, talk to her, certain I could rouse her with a “fairy wand” made of a twisted beech branch that Marguerite had always insisted contained magic. The horrified adults shooed me out, and I never did get to say good-bye. But later from the pile of her belongings meant to be burned, I took a lace shawl I had always admired and wrapped it around me, thinking of Marguerite. I fell ill within a few days, but I did not die. I am quite sure I passed the sickness on to my brother; he, too, recovered, though it took him much longer. Henri had been frail ever since he was injured in a carriage accident at the age of five. I do believe I was responsible for that as well; he had been chasing me when he ran across the street.
Henri survived the fever, but ever after, his joints ached and he became forgetful and slow. He had to be cared for like a child after that.
?One day a soldier arrived on our doorstep dirty, weary, and hungry, much like any otherpoilu.
But he was angry as well. It turned out he wasRémois, and this was the first time he had witnessed the destruction of our belovedcathedral. He had sought me out in particular, which made me think he needed nursing. But he looked whole enough, standing on what was left of our porch at the Villa Traverne. When I said so, he seemed confused.
“My name is Émile Legrand,” he said. “Your fiancé sent me.”
“My fiancé? Has he been wounded?”
“No, mademoiselle. He was well enough when I left him. He has been worried about your welfare.”
I held his gaze for a moment. His face was young under the whiskers and dirt, but his eyes looked a thousand years old. They were eyes of war, as I was coming to understand. Eyes that had seen too much. If only the ears were as expressive, for they had no doubt heard too much, the flesh felt too much... but it was the eyes that revealed the pain.
The understanding of things that should not be understood.
“You’d better come in out of the cold,” I said, inviting him into our once-fine foyer. The gilt ceilings soared twelve feet, but the winding staircase behind us, of course, was partially open to the sky, covered only in part by what tar paper and planks we could find.
Despite our devastated staircase, Monsieur Legrand was clearly unaccustomed to such a home, and paused, checking his boots for mud. I waved off his concern.
“Oh please, monsieur,” I said. “Come into the next room and you will see what we are dealing with every day.”
In the parlor-turned-sickroom, my mother was tending to a man with a leg wound infested with maggots.
I called to her to join us, and we moved into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a hunk of our last loaf of bread, with marmalade from the final jar put up last year. Most of the help had evacuated the city; we kept only one housemaid, Honorine, who now assisted us with the injured.
Monsieur Legrand held out a package. It was a gift from my fiancé.
A comb,I thought dully when I opened it.I would just as soon cut my tresses off.
“He would better have sent a wheel of cheese,” I said with bitterness, earning a sharp look from my mother. I sweetened my tone. “Please, monsieur, if you would be so kind as to wait a few moments, I’ll write a thank-you note.”
Monsieur Legrand nodded. Other than thanking us earnestly for the tea and toast, the poor fellow hadn’t uttered a word since he had entered the house.
“Are you sure you’re not injured?” I asked finally. “Your tongue, perhaps? We once had a man here, apoilu, with just such an injury. But that poor soul had also lost his nose.”
“No, of course not,” he said with a frown.
My mother gave me another sharp look, and suggested we open a bottle of champagne. Our cellar was nearly empty of preserves and jams, of the last canned peaches and cherries.
But we still had champagne, enough to share.
From the way his weary eyes lit up, I concluded Monsieur Legrand had gone far too long without tasting our beloved bubbly brew.
Chapter Ten
Rosalyn awakened with a jolt. After the initial shock of disorientation, she remembered she was in Gaspard Blé’sgîtein Cochet. She got out of bed and tried to peek through the tiny cracks of the metal shutters, but it appeared to be pitch-black outside.
It was also pitch-blackinside. She groped around the bedside table but couldn’t find the light switch, so she grabbed her phone. It was blinking five o’clock. Disoriented, she wondered whether it was five in the morning or five in the evening.Probably morning,she thought. Europe used a twenty-four-hour clock to indicate time instead of a.m. and p.m., and her cell phone would have made the switch automatically.
