One Summer in Montmartre

by Teagan Kearney

  "Are you hurt in any way?"

  "No. Nothing's broken." She looked up at him. "Oh, thank you. Thank you."

  A hint of mischief flickered in his eyes. "Thank me for what? Taking a walk in the evening? But why on earth are you alone in the park? Surely Louise…?"

  "I was looking for you. Louise sent me."

  He frowned at her.

  "Benoît is sick with a fever. She said to ask you for help."

  He stared at her, baffled, taking a moment for her words to register, as if he couldn't understand what she required of him.

  "We need a doctor for Benoît," she added quietly, "it's urgent."

  He galvanized into action, the spell of her sudden arrival broken. He retrieved his cane. "My house isn't far. From there we can take the carriage to the doctor's house."

  "Merci a Dieu! Thank you, Monsieur Marteille."

  "Luc," he said. "Call me Luc." He took hold of her elbow, hurrying her along, and learned Madame La Grange had told her of the shortcut through the woods. He cursed her for putting Hélène in danger.

  The houses gradually became less grandiose and smaller, but still set in individual plots with well-tended gardens. Luc finally stopped. "I'll arrange for the carriage and let Émilie know what is happening." He released his hold on her arm and opened the gate.

  She felt an odd sensation of loss without his touch.

  He ushered her through the front door. "Her health has not been good since our last child was stillborn."

  Ah, Hélène thought, instantly everything made sense: why he would hire her as a model without seeing her; why he would pay for Collette; his many kindnesses towards Louise. She'd never doubted Louise's love and faithfulness to Pierre, but had wondered why Luc had been so concerned about Louise that he'd paid for a mid-wife, and why her cousin had turned to him for help.

  Inside the house, he escorted her into a front parlor.

  As soon as she was safe, her fears for Benoît returned with force, and she paced restlessly around the room. In spite of her anxieties, she couldn't help noticing the tasteful, and clearly expensive, furniture and décor of the room. She would never enjoy the pleasures of luxury such as this, but she didn't envy Luc or his life. You accepted your lot and made the best of it. How you dealt with what came your way in life enabled you to find joy and happiness, not the trappings of luxury. Thinking of the devastation Louise and Pierre would suffer if any harm came to Benoît, she prayed for his protection.

  Less than five minutes after arriving at his house, Luc assisted her up into the serviceable brown vehicle that was the Marteille family carriage.

  She sat opposite Luc, her hands clasped tightly together, staring out into the night as they drove off to fetch the doctor. The clattering of the horse's hooves complemented the creaking of the carriage in a bizarre night medley. She was thankful she'd stumbled, literally, into Luc, and indebted to him for saving her from the attempted robbery or worse. If he hadn't been on his way home when she chanced upon him, she might even now be trekking through the city as night descended, trying to find him in the cafes of Montmartre. She shuddered, wondering how long she might have had to search, and indeed might not have tracked him down if he'd gone to a friend's studio or house. Nonetheless she had located him and brushed aside the feeling that a line had been crossed between them.

  "Are you quite recovered?" he asked.

  "Yes, thank you." She met his gaze. He wasn't looking at her in the same professional way he had during the sitting earlier that day. He was pleading with her. Confused, she looked away. She knew he wanted more from her, but he was married and she was engaged. What did he think was possible? Didn't he understand the rules? Or did he assume they didn't apply to him because he was an artist?

  "Benoît will be fine. Babies often have fevers, and Dr. Brasson is excellent. He's treated my two little ones and they've come through quite a few childhood illnesses." Luc reached over and clasped her hands. "Don't worry."

  His hands on hers were hot. Her attention narrowed to that one point where his skin touched hers. She wished she could tell him to stop, that he was making her forget she was betrothed, but she said nothing, hardly daring to breathe, avoiding his gaze.

  He removed his hands and sat back.

  "Thank you," she said. She was separating, becoming detached from her moorings: the line anchoring her to her life was disappearing.

  As soon as they pulled up at the doctor's house. Luc leapt out. "Stay there," he ordered before running up the drive.

  She sagged into the seat, weak with relief, but she didn't know if it was because Benoit would receive the help he needed, or because Luc's presence left her in such turmoil. He returned within minutes carrying the good doctor's bag and chivvying a small, bald, portly man down the drive. She was surprised when Luc clambered back into the carriage as she thought he'd leave after he'd secured the doctor's help.

  He leaned out of the window urging the driver to make greater speed.

  As the carriage clattered through the darkening streets, Hélène sent silent prayers for little Benoît. She kept seeing his flushed face and tiny cries. Please, please, she begged, let him be no worse than when I left.

  They turned into Rue Theloze, and spotted Pierre standing outside his apartment, looking fretfully up and down the road. His agitated expression lessened a fraction as the coach stopped and Luc climbed out, turning and helping the Doctor from the carriage.

  "Thank God you came. I think his fever is getting worse," Pierre threw over his shoulder as he led the way, taking the stairs two at a time and constantly looking back to make sure they were behind him. They heard Benoît's piteous cries long before they reached the door.

  The doctor, Luc and Hélène crammed into the room behind Pierre, filling the space.

  "Merde!" exclaimed the doctor bending over the infant and unwrapping the blankets. "He has a fever and you wrap him up! What are you trying to do? Boil him alive?"

  Louise looked stricken.

  "Fetch me cold water and a cloth. Quick!"

  Louise ran to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, and filling it with water.

  Hélène followed. "Oh, he doesn't really mean that." She attempted to comfort Louise.

  "But what if I have made him worse? What if he…?" Louise wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

  Hélène snatched up a towel. "Come on! Who are you going to listen to? Me, who you practically brought up? Or a grumpy old Doctor?" Hélène put her arms around her cousin, hugging her tight. "Benoit is going to be fine," she whispered in Louise's ear.

  When they returned to the living room, Doctor Lasange had removed most of Benoît's clothes except the cloth diaper. The baby was on his back in the middle of the couch, squalling and waving his little arms and legs in frustration.

  The doctor took the towel from Louise, and dipping it into the water, began to wipe down the infant. "I've given him one dose of medicine. I'll leave you several more and I've explained to your husband that you must keep the child cool." He dipped the end of the towel into the bowl, and barely squeezing it, wiped Benoît's face, body, arms and legs. The child's cries diminished.

  "Do this for half an hour, then another dose of the medicine to sort out the fever." Dr. Brasson addressed both parents. "He'll be fine, but you must lower his temperature by keeping him cool. Listen and pay close attention. The second the fever drops, when his skin is cooler, you must dress him. Immediately. You don't want him to catch a chill." He glared at Louise, who appeared genuinely fearful of the little round man.

  She nodded, and he appeared satisfied she understood his instructions.

  He pulled another paper sachet from his bag and added it to the one in Louise's hand. "Here's one more dose for the morning. That should be enough. Despite his fever, it's not serious."

  "Thank you, doctor. Thank you, Monsieur Marteille." Pierre's voice trembled as he reached out and took Luc's hand, gripping it between his two. "I don't know how I can repay you for saving my son's li
fe." His voice cracked with emotion.

  "I am finished here. We can go." The doctor's businesslike attitude dispelled the last of the parents' distress.

  "How can we show our appreciation, Monsieur Marteille?" Pierre looked at Luc, gratitude in his eyes.

  "Seeing little Benoit recover his good health is enough for me."

  Hélène thought of his dead child. She shouldn't judge him too harshly.

  "Bon nuit, Louise," He bowed, short and quick. "Hélène, I'll see you tomorrow."

  Exhaustion hit Hélène after Luc and the doctor departed. Benoit's fever had abated. The crisis was over. Tomorrow everything would be back to normal. Tonight she'd seen a different, kinder, side of Luc. He had saved her from being assaulted, and more crucially, saved Benoit. What would they have done without him? She remembered the beat of his heart close to her ear. Tomorrow she would have to contend with what was becoming an increasingly complicated relationship with Luc, but for the moment she was happy, and thankful, that her nephew was alive and healthy.

  Chapter Eleven

  Crisis, trauma and distress distort our perspective of events. Small details, generally not noticed, spring into focus; and of the major incident we retain one or two images which condense and summarize the whole experience for us.

  Paris, July 2007

  "François! François!" Anna shouted, her voice rising. "Help! Thief! Thief!" She looked around frantic to get someone's attention but the other diners stared uncomprehendingly at her.

  Suddenly François was at her side. "Anna, I'm here. What's wrong? Are you okay?"

  She struggled to catch her breath, and couldn't seem to suck in any air.

  He pushed her gently back onto the chair. "Slowly. Breathe. That's it."

  "My handbag's been stolen," she gasped. She looked down the street desperate to point out the young man, but he'd long disappeared.

  "Do you remember what he looked like?" François pulled out his mobile. "What was he wearing?"

  Anna kept wheezing. "A paper bag. I need a paper bag."

  François stared at her for a second as if she'd gone mad before he understood. He dashed back into the restaurant while Anna sat wheezing and trying to breathe. Then he was back out and thrusting a brown paper bag into her hands.

  Minutes later, her breathing under control, she gave the briefest of descriptions‒male, jeans, short brown hair‒the few details she'd observed of the thief as he fled. She hadn't noticed the color of his T-shirt.

  François questioned the people at the nearby tables. They apologized—they hadn't understood Madame's problem. One couple had seen the young man, but from the back as he absconded. Someone noticed he'd worn a dark blue top. Was the lady all right? They were sympathetic.

  As François dialed the police, bombarding them with a stream of rapid French, she kept seeing the photo of Jeremy she'd kept it in her card wallet. The picture was one of her favorites, and she'd never made a copy.

  Jeremy had been ten years of age and playing a solo on the guitar at an end of term school concert. His dark hair was short and neat with his curls shorn off as she'd taken him to the hairdresser the previous day. He wore his school uniform, crisp white shirt, red school jumper, and grey trousers, and stood in the center of the stage searching the assembled parents with his guitar clutched to his chest. When he spotted them, he relaxed. There were two high spots of color on his cheeks. Anna couldn't tell who was more nervous, Jeremy or her.

  He looked out at the audience, and in a serious voice announced he was going to play a Spanish piece called Cuchama. Anna, Ingrid and Greg also knew the piece off by heart, as he'd practiced assiduously every night the previous week. Some sections were easy, and there were other parts where his fingers didn't press the strings hard enough to produce the correct note. Jeremy bent his head over the guitar so he could see precisely where to position his fingers. It wasn't till Ingrid jumped to her feet and started clapping after the performance was finished that she released the breath she'd been holding. He'd played the piece from beginning to end without a single mistake. Jeremy gave a small bow before leaving the stage.

  Eventually other studies and interests occupied his after school hours, and he'd stopped having guitar lessons. But he'd kept his guitar, playing purely for pleasure, and taken it with him when he left for uni.

  The photograph had been a school one and there wasn't a negative. The joy of the day dimmed: she didn't want to remember how little was left of Jeremy; a few possessions in one room. The photo had been her connection to that particular memory. She wondered if other memories of him would fade with time. And there would be no more new ones.

  François was all business. He got the name of her bank, started pressing buttons, and when he had them on the line, handed her his phone so she could cancel her cards.

  "Your passport?" he asked.

  "No, no." A tiny sigh of relief. She supposed it fortunate that she'd forgotten to carry some form of ID, but she would never have thought to leave the photo. Now it was gone forever. "I left that in the drawer at the hotel."

  "And the Musée has your letter, that's two good things," he said. "Come. A short trip to the police station and that'll be it."

  Without François's insistence, she wouldn't have bothered to go to the authorities as she'd done the most important thing, cancelled her cards. However, none of her muttered protestations swayed his decision, and so, shaken, but without any idea of what else to do, she trudged along with him.

  Two weary hours later, Anna lay on her bed gazing at the same patch of blue sky she'd seen upon waking that morning. They postponed the visit to the museum to look at Luc's letters till tomorrow, as by the time they'd finished the required paper work, the archive section had closed.

  She did appreciate François's endeavors on her behalf, but the effort of spending time with someone new, someone outside her circle of friends and acquaintances with their established, proven relationships, was a struggle.

  On the positive side, he was familiar with Montmartre and French history, understood art and today he'd been kind and considerate. He'd turned what might have been a very awkward situation into something bearable. But she hadn't been able to relax. She was continuously aware of him—his scent, his hands touching her arm. And her reactions to him. His presence was complicating her life.

  Yet nothing had been too much bother for him. She pictured Greg in the same circumstances. Nothing she could have said would have stopped him blaming her. Not openly. No, nothing so obvious. But he'd have made it clear her carelessness had caused the problem. After all, she'd placed the bag in a position where it could be stolen. And he would have made sure everyone was aware of her mistake.

  Mentally she placed Greg beside François and compared them. One was like a pair of old slippers that you were so used to that you didn't notice how uncomfortable they'd become. And she couldn't help but make the comparison. The other appeared to be a classical style shoe in good condition, even fit for dancing.

  Anna knew she was being cruel towards Greg, but the growing gap between them, more apparent since Jeremy's death, couldn't be glossed over anymore. She resented him and couldn't forgive the let's move on attitude he presented to the world. First she had to come to terms with her loss, after that she would move on, attempt to resume some semblance of her former life.

  One of the biggest obstacles was they hadn't shared the burden of grief. At least not after the first week. Greg grieved in his own private way, but he was supposed to be her rock, her support, the love of her life. Giving up a promising career to bring up their children was a decision she didn't regret. She'd willingly agreed with his proposal, because the children were her priority, his salary gave them more than enough money, and it was what he wanted.

  But how many of her years were lived through his successes? Sometimes she felt like a shadow, someone or something without substance. In comparison where were her achievements? Apart from the children, what did she have? Shiny surfaces? Did that mean s
he had to agree with everything? How much did she owe Greg?

  Exhausted and tormented by her thoughts, Anna dozed off. She woke hearing Ingrid's infectious laughter and Jean Paul's deeper voice. Then silence. Maternal suspicion kicked in, and moving faster than she thought she could, she was over at the door, opening it with a whoosh. The pair were exactly as she'd suspected, their bodies entwined in a tight embrace. At the sound of the door, they moved apart, at least having the grace to look embarrassed. Jean Paul stared at a spot on the carpet.

  "See you at seven? Ciao, chérie." Ingrid reached up, giving Jean Paul a peck on the cheek.

  "And you also, Anna. You will come too?"

  Anna looked blank.

  "For dinner with my uncle and you and Ingrid and me? Yes?"

  "Bien sûr. A bientôt!" Ingrid answered for her, half turning to blow a kiss at Jean Paul as she entered the room. "I bags the shower first, mum," and with that Ingrid vanished into the bathroom.

  Anna was tired. The morning climb, the museum, and the afternoon's drama had left her short on enthusiasm. She was sure the wine had fuelled some very erratic thoughts but right this minute she yearned for room service, a hot bath, bed and her book. Instead, she was stuck with another evening of tête-à-tête with François as Ingrid and Jean Paul drooled over each other

  As Ingrid showered, Anna remembered she'd not phoned Greg. She should have phoned him last night and told him they'd arrived safely, but somehow among the mix of Montmartre, and the thrill of being here, she'd postponed the call. And so far today, there hadn't been time. When she got out her phone, she saw he'd left three messages Needless to say, if you mute the thing, that's what happens, she groaned. She had turned the volume off yesterday evening so as not to disturb the meal and forgotten to turn it back up.

  "Well, I'm glad you're both enjoying yourselves," he said after she explained why she'd not answered his calls. Yes, he was fine. No problems at home or at work to report. Typical of him, she thought, irrespective of how serious a problem might be, he'd keep quiet and find a solution without ever informing her. He saw admitting to difficulty as a weakness, to be combated and defeated by sheer will power.