Dr Jussot was still in the house. He rushed to her assistance, had her carried up to her bedroom, administered hartshorn and arnica, told Lucie to apply cold compresses to her forehead, and when she came round, at once gave her a bromide.
Clothilde was in a state of shock and hysteria for two days. There was no doubt in Jussot’s mind that those two days saved Nicole’s life. Had her mother-in-law continued to interfere in her treatment, the fever would have raged on and the blood-poisoning would have killed her.
But those two days allowed Jussot to take the steps he knew must be taken. There was no ‘remedy’ for the illness: recovery depended on helping the patient to fight back. He had to bring her temperature down, try to cure the infection that had entered somehow when Madame took off the dressings, and cool the wounds.
This he did with wet mosses made known to him by the country people over the years, and with cloths continually wrung out in icy water mixed with aqua fortis and sugar of lead. It was a treatment that needed continuous attention, and here the unassuming elder sister Paulette proved a tower of strength.
Paulette had been whisked back to Calmady from Paris by Madame de Tramont but it had been made plain to her that she must content herself with playing with the children and supervising the house. Madame was going to take over the care of Nicole. Paulette was allowed to visit for ten minutes on the day of her arrival, but it had been implied she must stay out of the way of the great doctor who was coming from Paris.
The great doctor never arrived. No more was said of that. And Paulette stayed in the sickroom from morning to night, her hands becoming raw with the continual wringing out of cloths in the water laced with ice from the ice-house.
Her sister was in a delirium very often. But then the temperature would dramatically fall, there would be moments of natural sleep. ‘Good, good,’ said Dr Jussot, rubbing his hands. ‘She’s winning the fight.’
It was on the following day that Nicole tried to speak. Jussot knew his fight was almost over. ‘Tonight her temperature will go down as usual. But I believe tomorrow morning it will not go up again.’
‘Do you really think so, doctor?’
‘I’ve seen cases like this before. I think the fight is almost over.’
He was proved right. But then came the problem ‒ what was to be told to the young widow?
‘She mustn’t know,’ Paulette insisted. ‘You don’t understand, doctor ‒ she’ll give up trying to live if she hears Philippe is dead.’
‘Then we must prevent her mother-in-law from seeing her for a day or two, because she’ll blurt it out at once.’
Paulette nodded. She pitied Clothilde in her loss but she was growing impatient with the extravagance of grief that the older woman showed. It was she, Paulette, who had arranged the funeral ‒ Clothilde had been quite unable to consider the question. That being so, Philippe had had a simple village burial, the workers of the estate filing behind the bier and strewing the grave with vine leaves as a last salute. The gentry who attended had shrugged: no black ostrich plumes, no black and silver harness on the horses … Well, poor Madame de Tramont, she’d scarcely seemed to know where she was or what she was doing at the church.
Now Clothilde kept to her room. It was quite easy to keep her unaware of Nicole’s improvement for a few days.
Eleven days after the death of her husband, Nicole de Tramont lay in bed supported by a mound of lace-trimmed pillows and said in a hoarse whisper: ‘Why hasn’t Philippe been to see me?’
‘Nicci, darling, you’ve been so very ill …’
‘I know that …’ There was a long pause while she gathered strength for the next question. ‘Why are you in black, Paulette?’
Paulette’s hand flew to her mouth. It hadn’t occurred to her that her sister would be so quick to notice her clothes. Everyone in the house was in black, of course ‒ it would have been an affront to Madame de Tramont otherwise.
The two sisters looked at one another. Nicole lay on her pillows, her face almost as white as the fine linen. Tears began to trickle down Paulette’s cheeks. Nicole watched their progress. Her mind, clogged as if by fog, was slowly working.
‘Has … something happened … to Philippe?’
‘Dearest, never mind about that now ‒’
‘Tell me, Paulie.’
At the old childish nickname, Paulette broke into a great sob that wouldn’t be stifled. ‘Oh, Nicole, Nicole,’ she cried, and buried her head in the sheets that lay across her sister’s lap.
Nicole slowly raised her hand and rested it on her sister’s black-trimmed lace cap. After a long moment she said, ‘Don’t cry, Paulie. Tell me.’
‘No, no …’
‘Look at me, Paulie.’
Unwillingly Paulette raised her head.
‘He’s … dead?’
Paulette took Nicole’s hand and held it hard.
‘He was killed in his curricle while he was going to fetch a special doctor, Nicci.’
‘Ah …’
Silence flowed into the room. Paulette knelt by the bedside, holding her sister’s hand, watching the white face, trying to guess what she was thinking. If she had cried out, fainted ‒ that would have been easier to bear.
At long last Nicole said, ‘I would like you to go, Paulette.’
‘No, dear, you mustn’t be alone ‒’
‘I would like you to go. Just go … Outside the door …’
The habit of doing as she was told was strong in Paulette. She got to her feet and went out. She sat on the chair outside the door, the chair where Philippe had sat while he waited to be told whether his wife would recover from the accident for which he felt responsible.
For a time the silence was unbroken. Then Paulette heard weak, helpless sobs. She sat motionless. Her instinct was to rush in and take Nicole in her arms, but she had been told to go.
The surge of grief had given Nicole the energy to turn herself on her pillows. She buried her face in their soft surface to stifle the sound, and wept.
‘Philippe … Philippe … My darling, my only darling, my love … Oh, Philippe, why were you taken and not me?’
The tears flowed long. Yet when they ceased, strangely, she fell at once into a deep, healing sleep from which she didn’t rouse even when Paulette and Lucie changed the pillows under her head.
Later that day she was being fed bouillon from an invalid cup. She drew back her head and asked: ‘How is Madame de Tramont?’
‘She’s … she’s staying in her room, Nicci.’
‘And the children ‒ they’re well?’
‘Oh, fine, fine, Nicci ‒ just fine.’
‘Have you told Alys and Delphine …?’
The attempt at heartiness deserted Paulette. ‘I tried, dear. But they’re too young to understand.’
‘Of course.’ The meal was resumed. When the contents of the invalid cup were gone, Paulette wiped Nicole’s mouth with the napkin then plumped up her pillows.
‘How is Mama?’ Nicole asked. ‘She was here, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, we brought her. We were afraid …’
‘That I was going to die?’
‘Never mind about that. Mama is rather poorly at the moment but she’ll pick up ‒ you know the warmer weather always helps.’
‘Yes.’ Nicole had as much to think about as she could cope with at present, in her hazy, weakened state. She drifted off to sleep again.
When she woke it was evening. Dr Jussot was by the bedside. ‘Ah, you’re awake. How do you feel, madame?’ He took her wrist, consulted his big pocket watch while he counted her pulse.
‘I feel strange. Very light and … not here.’
‘That will pass. Now, since you have done so well today, I’m going to allow your daughters to come in for a peep at you. They’ve been very puzzled, not understanding why they can’t see you.’
A great surge of longing overwhelmed Nicole. Tears slipped over the rims of her eyes.
‘Now, now, if you’re going to cry ab
out it, we must put it off till another day.’
‘No, no, doctor … Please …’
The children were brought in, in nightgowns and velvet slippers. They stood gravely by the bedside, afraid to move, for they had been warned they must be very good. Delphine, too unsteady to stand upright by herself, clutched fiercely at Nanny’s hand.
‘Mama!’ cried Alys in a sudden despairing shout, and rushed to throw herself against the carefully folded counterpane of the bed.
‘There, there,’ Nicole said, putting her hand on the child’s curly head. ‘Don’t cry, Alys … Mama will be taking you for a walk again before very long.’
‘But where have you been?’ howled Alys. ‘I wanted you!’
Delphine, infected by her sister’s grief, began to cry in convulsive gasps. ‘Mama … Mama …!’
‘You’re being very bad,’ scolded Nanny. ‘You promised you would be good, Alys.’
‘Be quiet,’ Nicole said to her with unexpected authority. ‘Now, children, please be quiet. I’ve something to tell you.’
She was summoning her strength to say that their father was dead. But when it came to the moment, she found she could not utter the words. Instead she said, ‘You can come and see me tomorrow again. And because today is special … you may have a marron glace divided between you before you go to bed.’
She lay back, exhausted. The little girls, comforted by her voice and the promise of sweets, were lifted up to kiss her.
When they had been ushered out, Jussot said, ‘You are tired now. You must settle down for the night.’
‘Yes.’ She submitted to having her pillows rearranged by Lucie and was closing her eyes when she remembered something important. ‘One more thing, doctor.’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you ask my mother-in-law to visit me?’
Jussot pursed his lips. ‘Ahh … Madame, I don’t think you’re strong enough for that.’
Nicole shook her head. ‘It’s Madame de Tramont I’m thinking of. I hear … she’s shut herself up in her room …?’
‘I’m afraid so. But that will pass.’
‘The sooner the better … Ask her, doctor. Tell her I want to see her.’
‘Very well.’
He was dubious about it, but carried out her request.
Clothilde stared at him from a gaunt face. ‘No, I don’t want to see her.’
‘She asked especially madame. After all ‒ it’s nearly two weeks since you went near the sickroom.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Very well. I’ll tell her you refused.’
‘No!’
‘Well, what shall I say, madame?’
Clothilde didn’t know how to answer him. She was sure she didn’t want to venture out of her room, and especially not to visit Nicole in her bedroom, the room that had been the master bedroom of the house, the room of the husband and wife. It spoke to her of Philippe, as did his study with its untidy piles of books and papers.
‘For the moment, I shall say nothing,’ Jussot suggested. ‘Young Madame de Tramont is asleep. Time enough to give her your decision in the morning.’
Next day Clothilde was still of the same mind. But by the following morning curiosity was beginning to grow. The housekeeper, who came every day for orders about household matters, reported that the young mistress was improving. She was sitting up today, had had some of the bandaging removed so that she looked more presentable. The children had been to see her again.
‘And you? Have you seen her?’
‘Of course, madame.’
‘How does she look?’
‘Pale, madame. Very thin. Many red scars where the glass went in. She says she doesn’t see too well with one eye, but Dr Jussot says that is probably due to some tiny scar on the … the … some part of the eye. He says it will heal. We are all so grateful to God she wasn’t blinded.’
‘Of course, we are grateful to God for that.’ But we hate Him for taking away Philippe, Clothilde added inwardly.
All the rest of that day she struggled against the desire to see Nicole for herself. It was nothing to her what happened to her daughter-in-law. Nicole had only been important to her because Philippe loved her enough to marry her.
Yet some unsuspected affection must have taken root, for she began to worry a little about what her daughter-in-law’s appearance would be like once the scars were all revealed. A pretty girl … Would she become displeasing to look at? If so, what a tragedy … It would have grieved Philippe to the heart.
It was a bright, sunny April evening when she sent word to the sickroom that she would like to visit the invalid if it was convenient. Paulette was reading to Nicole at that moment. She sprang up in terror. ‘Madame is coming?’
‘Good gracious, Paulie, don’t take on so! She’s only human, you know.’
‘Are you sure?’ Paulette inquired, only half joking.
She and Lucie flew about, making a tidy room even tidier. Wilted flowers were tweaked out of vases, a used water glass was spirited away.
Madame de Tramont came in with little of her usual imposing manner. She was dressed completely in black. She came to the bedside, leaned over, and kissed Nicole briefly on the forehead. Then she looked around for a chair, which of course appeared as if by magic.
‘How are you, child?’ She studied her frankly as she spoke. She saw a fragile figure with her head artfully covered with a turban of gauze to hide shorn hair and bandages. Dressings were still attached to her shoulders and back by sticking plaster but these were largely concealed by a loose wrapper of lilac silk. On her face were many small cicatrices but these were already fading under the experienced attention of Jussot.
‘I’m improving, madame. How are you?’
‘I am as you see.’
‘Yes.’ Very sombre, very dramatic. ‘Are you well in yourself?’
‘Oh, my health is excellent.’ Her tone implied, as if that matters.
‘Have you seen the children? They’ve visited me every day since I took a turn for the better.’
Truth to tell, Clothilde had not. She had not asked to have them brought to her boudoir and until now had not thought of visiting them in the nursery. All at once that possibility became real. ‘I’ll go to see them tomorrow morning,’ she said.
‘I wish you would. My sister, you know, has been acting as substitute for me but she must go home soon. She had a letter yesterday from Auguste ‒ I think it was full of reproaches for neglecting him so long. So she and Edmond will be leaving and the children will need someone to read to them and play with them.’
The idea of playing with her grandchildren had never occurred to Clothilde, and if Nicole were honest she didn’t expect that. But her aim was to give her mother-in-law reasons for venturing out of the fastness of her room.
After that, the household returned to something more like normal. Paulette, weeping bitterly, took her leave two days later. Clothilde gradually began to move about the house and grounds as formerly.
Yet when she was sitting with Nicole one morning her real feelings burst out. ‘I shall leave this place,’ she said. ‘I want to see it as little as possible! It all reminds me too much of …’
Nicole nodded. ‘I understand. You have your apartment in Paris, of course ‒’
‘Oh, that … That was so that I could pursue the matter of regaining the title. But what is the point of that now?’ There was great bitterness in Clothilde’s voice. Her life’s work was now useless. Her only son had died, and there was no male heir. The title of Marquis de Tramont could never be revived.
‘I think I may travel,’ she went on. ‘I believe it would do me good. But I suppose, before I go, I ought to give some thought to the future of the de Tramont business.’
‘If you feel ready to discuss that, madame,’ Nicole said, ‘perhaps we should settle a few things.’
‘Very well. I should like you to stay on here and bring up my son’s two little girls. After all, it is the family home. But as to the wi
ne-making, I have decided to sell out.’
‘What?’ gasped Nicole.
‘My dear!’ cried Clothilde. ‘You have gone quite white! Have I startled you so much?’
‘Sell Champagne Tramont?’
Clothilde nodded with vehemence. ‘You know I have never really liked being in trade. It is unsuitable for the de Tramonts. As I have no interest in it, I have decided to sell.’
Nicole recovered her voice. ‘Have you spoken to Monsieur Pourdume about this?’
‘Naturally not. He had more delicacy than to approach me on such topics when I was in the first depths of my grief, and when he wrote to me in condolence he merely added that he was at my disposal to arrange any business matters in due course.’
Nicole was lying on a chaise longue in what had been Philippe’s dressing-room. She was wearing a fine cotton peignoir with a ruffled collar. She drew it closer around her, as if she felt cold. She suddenly saw that she was about to engage in a great battle with her formidable mother-in-law.
‘Madame, you can’t sell Champagne Tramont.’
‘I certainly can ‒ and shall. I understand, of course, that you have interested yourself in the work. But as to money, you needn’t fear ‒ I shall make arrangements that part of the proceeds of the sale come to you ‒’
‘Madame, you misunderstand me. I don’t mean you can’t sell because I would prefer you not to. I mean, you are not able to sell it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You can’t sell Champagne Tramont. The firm cannot be changed or disposed of without my agreement.’
Clothilde’s brow grew dark as thunder. In that moment she looked very like her son when he was in a bad temper, and Nicole’s heart almost melted. Nevertheless, it was necessary to be on her guard against her own feelings. She was fighting for the business and the livelihood of all the people who took part in it.
‘My dear child, I think you overestimate your importance. Of course you brought us the cellarage as your dowry, but that does not give you control ‒’
‘I think you will find it does,’ Nicole intervened gently. The settlement of the property was arranged so that it went directly to Philippe, as was only right since it was my dowry. At his death, it returns to me, as his widow.’
The Wine Widow Page 13