“And remember, Josette, no one, absolutely no one must be admitted to those rooms. Trays will be prepared and left for you by Cook or one of her helpers near the entrance to that wing. And you will leave the empty trays in the same place. Likewise with linens and towels and changes of clothing for both you and Amandine. Whatever else you might order. Write what you want and leave the note on the tray. Also, tear out the day’s page of entries and leave it on the last tray in the evening. We’ll see that Jean-Baptiste receives it. Do you understand? And I’m certain I don’t have to remind you to keep the rooms in pristine fashion. You may sleep in the room adjoining hers or on the sofa in the parlor but, wherever you are, leave the door ajar so you will hear should she call you. And use this to wake yourself every two hours during the night.” Like an Olympic torch, Paul slaps the metal clock with the two large bells on either side into Josette’s open palm, watches as the old woman, leather-bound book under her arm, starts haughtily on her way.
“But why can’t I take care of her, Baptiste? I don’t have the fever, I’m perfectly well—”
“Lie down, Solange, lie down and I’ll be happy to explain things to you once again. It’s true that you don’t have a fever, but you were exposed to nearly all, if not all, of the students and sisters who do. Three of whom, I might add, are gravely ill and must be moved to hospital later today. As for you, your throat is speckled in white, your tongue is yellowish, your pulse rate is elevated, and you’ve a mild rash on your neck and shoulders. It’s likely that you will be fully symptomatic by this evening, when I shall have you moved to the infirmary and begin dosing you with penicillin just as I have the others. Now do you understand why it can’t be you who cares for Amandine?”
“Yes, yes. But of all people, why is it to be Josette who—”
“At first I too was uncomfortable when Paul suggested Josette but, under these conditions, she’s actually the best choice. She keeps so much to herself, works quite alone at her scrubbing and cleaning, and prefers to take her meals in her room rather than in the refectory. A strange old duck, I know, but we’ve all witnessed her hawkish approach to her work, to whatever assignment she is given. And that’s what Amandine needs right now. I must tell you that Paul was wonderfully solicitous in setting things up. Explaining the tasks to Josette, the caveats. These days will pass by quickly and, besides, I expect the provincial offices to send help at any time. As soon as they do, I’ll relieve Josette. Rest, now. Save your strength.”
CHAPTER XXVII
“WHAT DEVIL INHABITS HER, JOSETTE? WHAT KEEPS THE BREATH IN THAT child? I wish her dead and gone and never having been. May God forgive me.”
These words, spoken by Paul to Josette months before—soon after what became known as the refectory event had occurred—have remained an almost constant reprise in Josette’s disheveled mind, goading, spurring, obsessing her. Now this windfall of chance to act. How long has she sought retribution, some small justice for all that her beloved Annick has endured? All those years ago she’d wanted to murder Annick’s father. Wandering through the woods and over the meadows when she was eight or nine and had just taken on the care of the doctor’s infant daughter, Josette’s favored pastime was to rhapsodize ways and means of his demise. She would stab him in his sleep or poison his tea with the yellow powder meant for rats or, better, she would take Monsieur Dufy by the hand some afternoon, lead him through the elm wood and down to the river when the doctor and Monsieur’s red-haired, white-breasted wife were in dishabille on the damp blue rug in the fishermen’s cottage. Let Monsieur Dufy shoot him, that would suit her fine. But Josette never did a thing to hurt Annick’s father except to store up her bitterness for him. By the time Annick had become Soeur Paul and she, Josette, had joined her at the convent, she’d dug a deeper and wider place for that bitterness what with all she’d accumulated of it by then for the bishop Fabrice. Yes, the bishop’s fancy for Paul so fleeting, Josette still sometimes hears the great liquorish cackles he’d send up into the unholy night while she waited outside the chapel doors for her Annick. Annick would have killed or died for him and—then and now—Josette well understands that sentiment. But what could she have done to harm a bishop? There were others, too, over the years, postulants who scoffed at Paul, lay sisters who guffawed when her back was turned, convent sisters who conspired to her discomfort. But what could she do to any of them really, they whose lives were already so full of misery? At last, this child.
Metaires from the hamlet—both men and women—have come to help at St.-Hilaire. They take over kitchen duties, scrub floors and walls and stairs with a vile-smelling disinfectant, see to the laundry and the gardens. One of them carries a small, white-wrapped bundle down the stairs from the convent girls’ dormitory. Her splinted, bandaged ankle held up stiff as a rudder, Amandine giggles, asks her young porter to walk faster, faster so she can feel a breeze, then bids him stop in the garden to let her stay for a while in the hot June sun.
“But Mademoiselle Amandine, they’re waiting for you now. I promised. In a few days all this business of the fever will be over and your ankle will be good as new and the sun will be warmer yet, you’ll see.”
Under the loggia then, into the convent, down the far west wing to Père Philippe’s old rooms, where Josette is folding down the linen sheets of the freshly made bed.
“There we are. Carefully now. Thank you, Monsieur Luc.”
“Yes, thank you, Monsieur Luc. Will you come to visit me soon?”
“I would be happy to. In fact, my mother has offered to stay with Mademoiselle during the nights, Sister, should she be needed. She asked me specifically to speak to Mater Paul, but I was unable to find her and—”
“Thank you, Monsieur Luc, but all the arrangements are quite in order. Please do thank your mother, though.”
“Can Monsieur Luc come to visit me, Josette?”
“No visitors for you, my dear. Surely that was explained to you. No visitors. Not until this siege is over. Now Monsieur Luc has many things to do …”
Josette guides the young man to the threshold, nods her farewells, closes the door. Locks it. Removes the key and puts it in her pocket. Pats the pocket. Smiles at Amandine.
At last.
“Josette, did someone bring over my books, my drawing pads? I put everything in my satchel and—”
“It’s all here. But first let me explain Jean-Baptiste’s orders for you. The most important thing to do is to sleep. You must sleep as much as possible, lie still and be very, very quiet—”
“But, Josette, I’m not sick. It’s only my ankle, but even it is much better, see? And I know how to undo the bandage without disturbing the splints and then I have to let it rest for twenty minutes and then I’ll need help in putting the bandage back on though I do know how to do it, it’s a little hard for me to get it even and tight but—”
“You mustn’t worry about a thing. I know what to do. And even though you’re not sick, as you say, we will follow exactly what Jean-Baptiste has asked of us, won’t we?”
Josette walks to the large oak dresser across the room and, from the same pocket where she has put the key, she takes out a small brown glass vial. Her back to Amandine, she shakes a liquid from the vial into a glass, pours in less than an inch of water from the pitcher on the dresser, turns and, smiling, walks to the bed.
“What’s that?”
“Why, your medicine, of course.”
“What medicine? I haven’t been taking any medicine. What’s it for?”
“I am sure I don’t know, dear. It’s what Baptiste has prescribed. Likely it’s just a vitamin potion or some such thing. Now drink this all in a single swallow. Go ahead.”
Josette pulls Amandine’s head back with one hand—tugging at her hair with just a touch too much force—and, with the other, tips the glass into her half willingly open mouth.
“Thank you, Josette. May I have my satchel now? I would like to study the fingering for my new piano piece. I have a paper keyboard you kno
w and I can practice quite well with it—”
“Not right now. Now it’s time to sleep.”
“But it’s ten-thirty, almost time … pour le goûter … I mean. I’m a little hungry.”
“When you wake. Now lie back and close your eyes. I’ll just pull the curtains and—”
“Where will you be?”
“Right here in the parlor. Just on the other side of the door. Hush, now.”
“Will you wake me when they bring le goûter?”
“Certainly.”
Passiflora, valerian, hops, lemon balm. Another of my mother’s potions. This morning when I asked the herbalist for three vials rather than my usual single one, he barely blinked an eye. Mild but efficient, he said as he always did while he twisted the thin blue paper about each vial. I knew that, of course. When Annick was teething or restless or in any sort of pain, a few drops on my finger rubbed across her tongue. And then for Paul, fifteen drops in a bit of water to help her sleep. She’s hardly been asking for it lately, though. Now she takes those long white pills. I took those, too, from her drawer. Way in the back on the left-hand side; she’s never been able to hide much from me. I can’t read the label except for b-a-r and then the ink is smudged. I wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. But if these help Paul to sleep, imagine how they will help the child. I’ll just mash up a piece of one in with the next dose of the potion. In a few hours. Wait to see how she fares with the thirty drops. Such a tiny mouse, she is. To have caused so much trouble. I don’t want things to go too quickly, though. No, not too quickly. Ah, look at her now. See how she sleeps
Josette checks her watch, unlocks the door, leaves the room, locks the door again from the outside, walks to the place where the trays of food and drink are to be left. The midmorning tray waits on the table. Two trays. Amandine’s with a pot of tea, toasted black bread with raisins, still warm and wrapped in a yellow napkin, a small ramekin of fresh cheese. Someone has placed a blue glass plate laid with six candied violets on Amandine’s tray. On Josette’s tray, the same elements are there, save the violets—but in larger quantities. Practiced in such matters, Josette balances one tray upon the other, walks back to the rooms, sets down the trays, opens the door. Closes it. Locks it from the inside, pockets the key. She sits herself at the table in front of the window, opens the curtains just enough to let in a streak of light, then slowly, deliberately, works her way through the tea and toast and cheese from both trays. She sucks on the violets, crushes the sugar crust of them between her teeth. Retraces her steps to the pickup and delivery point, and returns then to the rooms to rest herself in Philippe’s old high-back chair in the parlor.
Limbs askew, breath faint, Amandine sleeps the sleep of the dead, a black and white butterfly pinioned rakishly upon a board. Hours later, when she stirs, it’s to look about, to try to recall where she is and why.
I know now, I am in Père Philippe’s room. Yes, the fever, I am here so that I will stay safe from the fever. How thirsty I am, mouth dry, cannot swallow. So warm. Perhaps le goûter has arrived by now.
“Josette. Josette. Josette.”
Startled from her own sleep by Amandine’s feeble call, Josette approaches the bed. “Yes, yes. I’m here. Awake already, are you?”
“I’m thirsty. Some water, please.”
“No water, child. Doctor’s orders. Nothing to drink. Only sleep.”
“But my mouth is so dry and I’m hungry. Please. My leg, the bandage, will you take it off? It hurts, Josette, and my arms feel so heavy I can hardly reach—”
“Here, let me see the leg.”
Josette pulls back the sheet, raises the bandaged leg, moves it about roughly as though priming a long-unused pump, and Amandine screams in pain. Screams until her breath catches and tears run and she wills herself to wake from the bad dream. But Josette has found a good game and so moves the leg about in the same way again while Amandine, pulling herself upright, flails stick-doll arms in futile defense. Josette laughs, and Amandine knows she is not dreaming.
“Solange. Please, call Solange. Some mistake, Josette. Please call Solange.”
“You can call out all you care to for your Solange, but she can’t hear you and neither can anyone else. You’re mine. No mistake at all. There is only Josette. Let me see to that bandage now.”
Unwrapping the ankle, then lashing the stuff round and round the tiny bones so tightly that, had there been no wound at all, the pain would have been grinding.
“There, that’s what Baptiste wanted. Better, isn’t it? Of course it is. And now, your medicine.”
“Why, Josette, why?”
Josette walks to the oak dresser, pulls the vial from her pocket, measures out into Amandine’s glass a generous forty drops of the valerian potion, perhaps a few more. From some other place in her voluminous skirts, she takes the bottle filched from Paul’s drawer. Shakes out a tablet. Breaks it between her fingers, takes a shard of it and rubs it to a powder in her palm, flicks the powder into the potion. A little water then, not too much. She swishes the cocktail and takes it to Amandine. Putting the glass to the girl’s lips, she pours the liquid into the dutifully open maw, moves the little pointed chin to be sure she’s swallowed.
“Good girl. Now all you need to think about is sleep.”
“But I’m thirsty and hungry …”
As she had done with le goûter and with the lunch, Josette does with the evening’s dinner. This time, though, after collecting the trays, she pulls the small round table to the bedside, sits herself on the edge of the bed very close to Amandine. Josette sprinkles a bit of water over the sleeping child’s face, her eyelids, rousing her, if only partially, so she might witness the feasting.
“Amandine, do look at this. A puree of potatoes with a poached egg on top, and when I pierce that lovely yellow yolk, see how it trickles down into the potatoes and, oh, how delicious they are mixed together, yes, yes, you must taste this, just be patient while I taste it again and then I’ll spoon up some for you, yes, just wait a moment.”
Willing her eyes to stay open, smelling the food, Amandine is ravenous for it yet does not ask Josette to feed her and neither does she reach to take the spoon from Josette’s clutch. With no sound, no sigh, slow, hot tears fall, collect in the corners of her mouth, drip from her chin, wetting her neck and the white lace of her nightdress. Like a wind-fed fire in a hay barn, the knowing sweeps over her, the knowing that hers is a helpless rage, and so she is, in her way, serene watching Josette, watching her with the clear-mindedness of one who has understood—not that life is always bad but that, bad or good, it is mysterious. That it will always be mysterious. That life has so little to do with our will for it, and less is it linked to our own goodness or badness. However shakily goodness and badness can be defined. So if not that, if neither will nor just deserts shape life, what does? She lies there licking the salt tears and wondering. She will have to wait awhile longer to understand about the weight, the power of historical revenges and follies and Judas kisses. She will have to wait to know that we inherit life much as we do the slope of a cheek or silver in a velvet-cushioned box. And to know that it’s we who then perpetuate the life we inherit—gently or ferociously, according to our natures—repeating the ancestral follies and the traitorous kisses and leaving the legacy nicely intact for those who will come after us. Like silver in a box.
And so Amandine lies there in the soiled, crumpled bed where someone means her to die, magnificent as only a stick doll with unshackled curls and a daintily pointed chin and eyes like drowned plums—the same weepy black plums that are her mother’s eyes—can be magnificent, while Josette, amid her guttural swallowings, says once again, “Just one more spoonful for me and then …”
Amandine watches the thick black veins in Josette’s hands as she runs her fingers over the plate, brings them to her mouth and sucks them dry. Still holding the plate, Josette bends her head close to Amandine, whispers something into the tight pink whorls of her tiny ear. Her spittle warm, her sib
ilance deafening, she asks Amandine if she’s hungry, wishes her a bawdy bon appétit, swipes her mouth with the back of her hand, licks her lips, sets the phlegm-smeared plate down on Amandine’s chest.
“Mater, Baptiste has just pronounced me fit, no symptoms after four days in isolation. I asked him if I might take over for Josette and he agreed, asked that you accompany me to relieve her. He said that Amandine should stay another day or two apart and then she, too, can be released, join the others who’ve returned to the dormitory. Will you go with me now, Mater?”
Marie-Albert waits as Paul considers the request, straightens the already perfectly organized elements laid out on her desk.
“Yes, I suppose Josette should be relieved, but are you certain you’re not needed elsewhere? I mean Josette’s usefulness is limited more than yours, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I think it’s Amandine who might enjoy a respite. Four days and three nights with only Josette for company, well, you understand what I intend, don’t you, Mater?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose I do. Though one might look at it from the opposite view and say that four days and three nights with only Amandine for company … Poor old Josette. Yes, well, let’s go. Just be sure to be gentle with Josette, tell her what a good job she’s done. Did Baptiste tell you how she’s charted the child’s vital signs, marked down everything she’s eaten and drunk? Absolutely perfect records she’s kept.”
When Paul knocks on the doors to Philippe’s old suite, there is no answer. Marie-Albert knocks harder. Still no answer.
“Josette, open the door. It’s Paul. And Marie-Albert. Open the door, Josette.”
Josette is sleeping. Having neither washed herself during these four days nor changed her clothes, she sits, barefoot and wearing only her shift, in Philippe’s high-back chair in the now putrid air of the parlor. Not speaking a word in answer to Paul’s commanding voice, Josette walks quickly to Amandine’s bed, hoping to find that her breathing has stopped. That the affair will be finished. But no. Not yet.
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