Thomas reaches out and grabs Hélène by the wrist as she is halfway out the door. “About England, I don’t know what to do.”
“So I see. Well, you’ve got a few weeks, maybe a bit more.” She turns toward the hall and its dark, narrow stairs.
“Londres,” mutters Thomas. “London,” he repeats, following Hélène down the stairs.
—
The first week goes by as slowly as seven ticking days can do. Instead of having their get-together once a week, Thomas has insisted that they rendezvous every second day in the little upstairs room that looks across at the towers of Notre-Dame. He saw the reluctance on Hélène’s face when he made the request and was relieved when after a moment of long silence she agreed. But the three sessions of that first week came with little joy. What was a delightful, secret pleasure is now a chore. An obligation. Apparently even worse on Hélène’s part. Thomas feels he’s getting charity from a woman he’ll soon be seeing no more. It makes him study the beams overhead for a long time after they’ve gone through the usual motions on the first day of the second week.
Thomas sits up and pulls on his chemise. He watches Hélène pull on her stockings. She notices his attention and acknowledges it with a curt nod.
“You don’t— we don’t have to do this anymore,” Thomas says haltingly.
“It’s all right.” Hélène does not glance his way. She is attaching her garter belt. “A few more days is all we have. Then....” She does not complete the thought.
Then you’re gone? Then I’m left alone? Then I go back to reading to my invalid wife in the evenings and fucking whores from time to time? “Then what?” Thomas finally says aloud.
“Would you tie me up?” Hélène makes fleeting eye contact before she turns her back to him. “Please?”
“You said: we have only a few more days and then. Then what?”
“I don’t know, Thomas. That’s right, pull the laces tight like that.”
Thomas does as she requests. And he decides not to repeat his question. He does not see any point in coming to this room again with her. Where once there had been nothing more that he craved than the feel of the curves of her body and a certain look in her eyes, he no longer feels that way.
“Better end it,” are the words his lips mouth. Better end it. That’s what his father said to him back in Vire. They were in the shop and his father was gesturing at the cat. She was lying on its blanket on the floor making an awful noise. Thomas knew exactly what those words meant. At twelve, he was apparently old enough to manage the task all by himself. The last time, six or seven years before that, he’d gone with his father to the river with a kicking, screaming sack. He’d watched the man, twice his size at the time, hurl the sack out into the water. It splashed and disappeared from sight. “Showing its age,” his father said. “No mice in a month. I’ll get a new one this afternoon.” Thomas’s face must have betrayed sad surprise, because his father put a hand on his shoulder and explained. “It’s what we do before our animals get too old. We don’t eat them, so—” The man glanced at the water. “Better early than late.”
“Better early than late,” Thomas says aloud.
Hélène turns around, her brow furrowed. “What’s better early than late?”
Thomas finds a grim smile. “Most things in life, it seems.”
Hélène gives him a puzzled look. “I’m almost set. What’s keeping you?”
There is an order to things, thinks Thomas as he steps into his breeches and hoists them up. The trick is to be a part of the order, somewhere near the top. Like where he is, on the ascendant, in the office of the magistrate judge.
“Oh,” Thomas says, glancing at Hélène waiting by the door. She cannot hide the look of impatience on her face. It makes him smile. He’s going to miss her, he is. “Do you remember you once said you’d like to see La Camargo?”
Hélène gives Thomas her full attention. “I do.”
“The judge told me this morning that she’s at the Opéra for the next two weeks. But he has to be in Rouen for a case. He asked if I wanted his tickets.” Thomas holds up two fingers. “Two tickets.”
“Don’t tell me that if it’s not so.”
“But it is. Are you pleased or not?”
“Of course I am.” Hélène’s expression shifts from a broad smile to trying to be coy. “As long as—.”
“As long as—?” Thomas finishes buttoning up his veston and reaches for his justaucorps. “As long as you are the one I take? Is that it?”
“If you insist.” Hélène’s eyes sparkle in a way they have not for quite a while.
“It’ll be something to remember Paris by,” says Thomas with a shrug.
“You’re sweet.” Hélène pulls him to her and kisses him hard on the mouth.
—
“Thomas.”
Marguerite thinks her voice especially soft as it floats across the table. She and her husband are about to begin their evening meal. She has something to confide in Thomas that she does not want any of the servants to hear. She’s not sure how he will react. “I’m going to be out with my dear cousin tomorrow night. I’m afraid that means I’ll be leaving you here all alone.”
“I see.” Thomas’s face shows mild surprise, nothing more than that. “And what do you and Madame Dufour have planned?”
“A play, I think. Something satirical, no doubt. It always is with her. You know the type. Supposed to be witty and clever when it’s nothing of the sort. Cousin has a box for the evening and she insists I go along.”
“The Opéra or the Opéra Comique?”
Marguerite wonders if she sees his left eye twitch. “The Comique, I presume. That’s where Marie-France’s taste runs. I’d rather stay home, but I really have no excuse. Cousin knows my leg is at the moment not swollen or acting up.”
Thomas leans back in his seat with what Marguerite recognizes as a kind and generous expression on his face. “That should be fun for you, my wife.”
Marguerite is delighted to see how pleased Thomas is that she is going out. She had wondered if he would resent her doing anything with Madame Dufour, who never tires of disparaging him. Yet, clearly, he does not. He has a forgiving heart.
“Yes,” replies Marguerite. “I just hope it’s not like those shows they put on at the fairs of Saint-Laurent and Saint-Germain. Dreadful. Madame Dufour pretends they make her laugh. The pantomimes, the grimacing. They so tire me.”
Thomas smiles again. “Well, it’s good of you to keep her company. And your leg?”
“It has been good this past week, knock wood. I’m taking Simone along, just in case. She can help the two of us, the old girls, in and out of the coach. Run errands. That sort of thing.”
“Well, my wife, I predict the play will be better than you fear. With your expectations so low, you can only be pleasantly surprised.”
“Aren’t you sweet.”
—
Back in his room after dinner, Thomas’s chest feels like it might swell to bursting. He can release the grin he has kept reined in throughout the meal. So Marguerite is going to the Opéra Comique with Madame Dufour! Now he does not have to make any excuse at all about where he’s going. How fortune smiles on him!
Maybe seeing La Camargo will convince Hélène to not leave Paris after all. That the city is the centre of the world and that she should stay connected to someone as fortune-favoured as Thomas Pichon.
—
“Well, this should be fun, should it not?” asks a smiling Madame Dufour.
Marguerite waits until Simone is settled in the seat beside her before she replies. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Cousin, for taking me, for taking both of us along. Right, Simone?”
Simone curtseys as best she can toward Madame Dufour from her seated position.
“My Thomas sends his regards.”
“Does h
e now? Pity he was not able to come along with us this evening.”
Marguerite maintains what she hopes is an agreeable expression. At no point, at no time at all, did Marie-France ever so much as hint at inviting him. Does Madame really think she did? Or is this her way of reminding Marguerite that Thomas is not of sufficient rank to go with them to a social setting? Marguerite controls her breath. She feels a throb in her gouty leg. Thomas really is good to forgive her cousin for being the ill-natured woman she is.
Marguerite turns to Simone. Her servant’s gaze looks to be locked at something out the window, out upon the street.
The coach shifts, then begins to roll.
“Here we go,” says Madame Dufour.
“To our pleasant evening.” Marguerite addresses her kindly words to Madame Dufour. “Thank you again, Cousin dear.”
—
By the time the women are seated in their box the musicians in the orchestra in front of the stage are all tuned up. They’re ready for the conductor to raise his baton and start the opening music.
“A lovely box, Marie-France,” whispers Marguerite.
“Except it’s too far back.” Madame Dufour does not lower her voice at all. “Especially considering what I paid. We’re nearly at the rear.”
“Still, the seats are comfortable. And we have a good view of the stage. Oh, look, the curtain’s going up. I hope it’s amusing.”
The orchestra begins to play. “I believe the music is by Rebel,” announces Madame Dufour.
Marguerite nods. She does not want to be one of those many patrons who talk loudly and disturb the show for everyone nearby. It seems as if the box already has one of those. She gives her cousin a disapproving glance.
From the first few notes, Marguerite’s attention is more on the orchestra than on the stage. From time to time she follows the dancers, led by a young woman who spins and swirls and jumps. Marguerite hears appreciative remarks from Madame Dufour and a few whispers from Simone. She, however, is more captivated by the violinists in the orchestra. How they lean into the music as they play. Their bodies arch and sway while their bow hands stir the air. It’s as if there’s a life force in the music that they are trying to capture and absorb within their chests. As a girl Marguerite learned to play a few simple tunes on the harpsichord. It was never anything like this. Maybe if she’d been encouraged. Maybe she could have learned the violin. It must be wonderful to be part of something larger than oneself.
The descent of the curtain for the intermission arrives suddenly, or so it seems to Marguerite. But then she’d not been following the dramatic exit of the principal dancer on the stage. Her eyes had moved from player to player in the orchestra. Most recently, she’d settled on the young man with long hair that had fallen out of its queue. He had a cello tucked tightly between his legs as he bowed the strings. His head swayed with abandon from side to side with every note he played.
Marguerite turns to her cousin. “Thank you again, Cousin. I am enjoying myself. If you had not insisted on me coming along, I’d likely be home with a book.”
Madame Dufour tilts her head and places a particularly knowledgeable expression on her face. “Are not her entrechats à quatre and cabrioles well done? I think La Camargo may indeed be the best.”
“Oh, that’s who it is. I’ve heard that name before. La Camargo.” Marguerite glances down at the orchestra area, now empty of its players. Only their instruments are left behind. She brings her gaze back to Madame Dufour. “It’s such a relief to come to something with real music. I’m afraid I find most comedies a bore.”
“That’s the second time you’ve spoken of comedy. This is the Opéra, Marguerite, not the Opéra Comique.”
“Oh.”
“Madame. Madame.”
Simone is tugging gently on Marguerite’s sleeve. “Yes, Simone.”
The servant looks like she’s just had a shock. Her face and frame are stiff.
“Madame.” Simone gestures for Marguerite to lean her way, away from Madame Dufour on the other side. Simone turns so as to not make eye contact with Marguerite. She whispers out of the side of her mouth. “Madame, I ... I think I see your husband down there.”
“You what?”
Simone points at the rail. Marguerite gets up out of her seat.
“What is it, you two?” calls out Madame Dufour.
“A minute,” hisses Marguerite to her cousin. “Just a minute please.”
Marguerite goes to the rail. She follows where Simone’s trembling finger leads.
“Blessed Seigneur.”
Marguerite grabs the rail with both hands. It is. It is Thomas. He’s wearing the black outfit he likes so much, and he has on the silver wig Marguerite always tells him makes him as handsome as a prince. “But—”
“Madame,” Simone whispers in Marguerite’s ear, “I thought I saw him leaving our building in a hurry as our coach was pulling away.”
Marguerite stares at her servant. There comes a low nod. Now Marguerite returns her gaze to Thomas. He is caught up in an animated conversation almost directly below. Why and what is he doing here? Why didn’t he just say? Oh, she sees. It’s a little surprise that he’s planned. This means he’ll be coming up to the box for the second half.
Marguerite turns to Madame Dufour. “Marie-France, did you know this? Did you know he’d be here?”
“Whatever is it?” Madame Dufour lifts herself out of her seat and bustles in between Marguerite and Simone. “Marguerite, whatever are you talking about?”
Getting no response from her blinking cousin, Madame Dufour turns to Simone. “Show me, little one.”
Simone does as she is told. She points to a particular man in the noisy throng below.
It takes Madame Dufour a moment.
“Why, that’s him, your husband. And whoever is he with? Some deep, dark conversation, it seems.”
“What?” gasps Marguerite.
In her chest it feels like something is taking away her air. She takes hold of the sleeve of Marie-France’s dress and peers down below. Yes, there is a woman sitting beside Thomas. She had not noticed her before. And yes, Thomas is chatting away with her, a broad smile upon his face. But who is she? She’s wearing a dark green dress. It looks like the sort of thing a merchant’s wife might wear. Alas, Marguerite cannot see her face. It’s obscured by the ruffle and the barbe on the woman’s white cap. And at the back, the lace lappets hide her hair and neck. All that Marguerite can make out is that the woman in the green dress is more slender than herself. That means younger, does it not?
A hot sensation, like the tip of a red-hot poker, makes its presence felt in her gut.
“There is an explanation, I’m sure,” offers Marguerite. Even as she says it, she hears the wobble in her voice. “Dear Simone, would you please go down and speak with my husband? Perhaps he does not know exactly which box we’re in. Please let him know. I expect he’ll be joining us for the second half.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” There’s a warning look in Madame Dufour’s eyes.
“Why ever not?” Marguerite hopes her thin, rigid lips do not betray any doubt.
“As you wish.” Madame Dufour exhales loudly, and makes a show of looking up to the ceiling for help.
—
It’s the way it used to be. The knowing looks, the smiles, the laughs. Their conversation is moving like a brook. Thomas can’t get over how delighted Hélène looks to be, and this only the mid-point of the programme. Surely she’ll reconsider leaving Paris after this.
“Tell me again,” he says, pretending to be serious, “do you really think that that woman knows how to dance?”
“Oh, isn’t she wonderful, Thomas? I’m so glad you were—”
Hélène halts when a woman from the aisle, a short woman in servant’s attire, makes her presence felt. Thomas refuses to look around, though
he can see at the corner of his eye that the servant is reaching out tentatively to touch him on the shoulder. Best to ignore such people, he thinks. Yet with a beseeching gaze, Hélène is asking Thomas to turn around and see what the woman wants.
“Excuse me, Monsieur,” Thomas hears the woman say. Then comes the tap he knew was on its way.
So he must turn and tell her to go away.
Thomas sees who it is. “Oh, shit” comes muffled off his lips. He tries to smile at the servant yet cannot. Instead he casts frantic looks to the servant’s left and right. No one else, no Marguerite. Thomas takes a breath. “Simone, whatever are you doing here?”
“Simone?” he hears Hélène say. “Simone.”
Simone presents a faint smile to each in turn. The smile widens as the diminutive servant raises her right arm and points above their heads. Thomas follows Simone’s gesture up to the row of boxes where the wealthiest patrons are. He scans one then another. He sees faces he does not know chatting among themselves. When his gaze comes to the third box, however, he finds two women staring down. Each seems to be pointing at him. He blinks at their wide-eyed faces. It takes him what feels like forever, two, maybe three, seconds, to recognize Marguerite and Madame Dufour.
Thomas feels the refusal of the muscles in his neck to tip further back. He is dimly aware that one of his hands has come up near his chin. He watches it make a small wave at Marguerite. His eyes close of their own volition before he turns away.
“Monsieur?”
“Yes, Simone.” Thomas stares into her eyes.
“Monsieur, will you be joining your wife and her cousin in their box? They’ve sent me to ask.”
“I think not.”
Thomas sees and hears Simone snort. “No?” The servant then points at Hélène. “We’ve not been introduced.”
“I am the widow Kharlamov,” Hélène says in a near whisper.
“Sorry, what’s that?”
“Widow Kharlamov,” repeats Hélène. Her expression is that of someone resigned to her fate.
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