The Blood of Lorraine

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  “Yes, I suppose.” They let go of each other and Clarie flipped the lid on the pot to see if the tea was ready. “How was school?” she murmured.

  “The same. Every day the same.” Madeleine was searching for some amusing anecdote to relate about the students or the headmistress when a flash of fear shot up her spine. “Are you thinking of coming back?” She had counted on staying the rest of the year.

  “No, no.” Clarie poured a little tea in each of their cups. “I don’t know if I’ll ever go back.” She acted as if pouring the tea took all of her concentration.

  Despite her relief, Madeleine was puzzled. Clarie loved teaching, and her students loved her. Surely Clarie did not think that is why Henri-Joseph had been taken from her, that her teaching was some kind of sin. Or, if it was, it didn’t have to be. As long as she did not fill her students’ minds with radical ideas, as long as she understood that it was her mission to raise the wives, mothers, and teachers of a God-fearing France. This is what Madeleine had always done, and would do until the end of her days.

  Eyes downcast, Clarie sipped the hot tea.

  “And Paris. You may never be asked to go there again. It’s such an opportunity, especially at your age.” At any age. Paris was the most coveted assignment, if only because it was the one place where a female teacher could make more than a pittance. The thought of it made Madeleine’s pulse race.

  Clarie had the nerve to shrug, and then mumble, “I don’t know.”

  Madeleine slumped back in her chair. They were at an impasse. Another one of those lapses in conversations that used to be so lively. Clarie must be thinking about the baby again. It was so hard to get her to concentrate on anything. Madeleine’s gaze wandered around the room hoping to find something to remark upon, when a chill wind blew into the café. Two portly men, dressed very smartly in coats with mink collars and beaver tophats came into the café and, each taking a side, held the velvet curtain wide open for their women. The first pranced in wearing a coat adorned with rings of expensive black sable, one around the collar, two around her cuffs, and three rows of the exquisite, expensive fur rimming the bottom of her outfit. The other wore a garish hat spiked with what looked like peacock feathers. Madeleine was about to comment on how inconsiderate it was of these couples to keep letting the cold air in, when she realized who they were: Jews, rich ones.

  She bent toward Clarie and whispered, “Look who’s coming. Don’t turn around. Watch in the mirror.” She tilted her head so that Clarie could observe the foursome.

  Clarie peered into the mirror, but did not react.

  “You can’t tell?”

  Clarie shook her head. The man in the bowler barely moved. He didn’t seem to know either.

  “They can.” Madeleine caught a glimpse of the young officer with the curled mustache as he turned from the bar to face the two couples. He stood, legs apart, as if ready for a fight. “The soldiers,” she whispered.

  Clarie shifted her gaze in the mirror.

  “Give them the best seats, why don’t you,” the officer growled as the waiter went up to greet the newcomers.

  The two couples froze. The women looked to their men apprehensively.

  “Messieurs, mesdames,” the waiter, trying to ignore the soldier, started toward a table.

  “Ask them about Dreyfus. Ask them if they speak German. Ask them if they just got here from across the border.”

  “I think he’s drunk,” Clarie said. Her mouth fell half open and her brow furrowed with worry or fear.

  One of the other officers put a hand on the combatant’s shoulder. “Come on, now. We need to finish our drinks and get back to the barracks.”

  This attempt to mollify him only made the young officer more aggressive, for he shoved his companion’s arm away and took a step toward the four newcomers. Squinting hard, Madeleine saw that the women were tightening their grip on the men’s arms. Afraid and, Madeleine hoped, ashamed. She straightened up to catch every word and every gesture. This could be a thrilling confrontation.

  “It’s enough you ruin all the little people with your banks and financial schemes, but now you think you can take over the army,” the officer said as he took another step toward the two couples.

  Suddenly Clarie, still staring into the mirror, rose out of her seat. “This isn’t right.”

  Madeleine grabbed her arm. A young matron had no part to play in such a confrontation. Besides, how could Clarie dream of turning against a man who had been so chivalrous to her?

  Fortunately, no one noticed Clarie’s reaction, because at that very moment the two men, with their fur-collared coats and leather gloves and expensive hats, escorted their women back through the velvet curtain and out the door.

  “Dreyfus!” the officer shouted, “Dreyfus!” and his two companions laughed. “All right. You told them. Let’s drink to that,” one of them said as he pounded on the bar and asked for one more round.

  Clarie stopped peering into the mirror and slumped back in her seat. “That was terrible.”

  Terrible? “Terrible is when they ruin your life.”

  Clarie did not respond. Madeleine knew why. She didn’t want to argue. She undoubtedly thought Madeleine was wrong to hate the Jews, to believe that they had no place in a truly Christian country. What with Clarie’s immigrant father and her republican husband and the teachers at Sèvres—Protestant, most of them—she would never understand, never. Madeleine reached down into her sack and took out a lacy handkerchief to dab her eyes. Her best friend, and she had forgotten why Madeleine was a spinster, condemned to be forever alone and penniless.

  Clarie stared as Madeleine dabbed her eyes. “Didn’t you think it was terrible,” Clarie said quietly, “making them leave like that?”

  “They didn’t have to leave, you know. The two of them could have stood up like…like men.” Madeleine blew her nose defiantly. She didn’t know whether to feel hurt or angry.

  “Against three soldiers?”

  Madeleine shrugged. “Please don’t let it upset you; it’s all over,” she said, hoping it was all over and done with as she jammed her damp handkerchief back into her sack.

  But Clarie persisted. “How did they even know?”

  Sometimes Clarie was so naive. “The noses, I suppose, or the ostentatious clothing, or maybe they just knew who they were.”

  “And you, you knew.”

  “Yes. As I told you.” Why did she even have to explain?

  Clarie stared down at her lap and shook her head. “I never look at people that way.”

  “Hmmm,” Madeleine sighed, “perhaps you have never had to. But when you grow up, as I did in Bordeaux, where some of them are as rich as the Rothschilds, you notice, believe me, you notice. And when your father dies because of them.” How many times did she have to explain to Clarie about losing her dowry in the bank crash and then the way the Panama Canal scandal totally wiped out her family’s fortunes?

  “I’ve spoken to Bernard about what you’ve said about the Union Générale failure, and he said it was the Catholics who were incompetent, and the Israelites had nothing to do with the bank’s failure.” Clarie delivered the judge’s verdict with gentleness, but this did not hide the fact that she was taking his side.

  Madeleine clenched her jaw. “I believe differently. After all, it was my dowry that was lost. Which is why I was forced to go to Sèvres, hoping that somehow I would earn a living that would give me a position in life and some dignity. But,” Madeleine said with clipped words, “as you see, my dear, it has not happened.” She stopped. Clarie looked distraught and pale, despite the rosy chafed marks on her cheeks. Even though worried about Clarie’s pallor, Madeleine could not resist a final plea. “How could you take their side?”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side.” Clarie was so subdued that Madeleine hardly heard her.

  “Then you should.” Madeleine made an effort to keep her voice low, so that no one else would overhear them. “You know that they brought down the Union Gé
nérale because it was a Catholic bank, and they just couldn’t stand that. They are against the Church. Our Church.”

  Clarie frowned. Her eyes were blinking. As if, for once, she was trying to understand. “I just don’t know,” she murmured. “The soldier…. It didn’t seem right.”

  “Our Blessed Mother. You know they will attack Her when they get more power.”

  Clarie began rubbing her forehead. “My mind feels so fuzzy. There’s so much I don’t understand.” She put her hands on the table and pushed herself up. “I’m getting cold, my feet.”

  Madeleine got up and looked down at the dark wet stain circling the bottom of Clarie’s wool dress. She had been dragging her skirts through the snow, unmindful of her fragile condition. Her boots must be soaking wet. “Of course you’re cold,” said Madeleine, alert to the fact that she needed to care for her friend’s body as well as her soul. “Come here, my dear, let’s button up your coat and get you home. We’ll put your feet up right by the fire.”

  She placed Clarie’s gray coat around her shoulders and waited patiently as her companion fastened it, one thoughtful button at a time. Madeleine noticed that the man in the bowler was writing in a notebook. Coward! He had done nothing to help Clarie or the soldiers. Madeleine sighed and put the last of her coins on the table. At least she knew what she had to do.

  36

  Friday, December 14

  “TODAY IT’S SUNNY AND CLEAR,” said Martin bitterly. He was bouncing on his toes with impatience as he began the morning’s planning with Jacquette. What Martin managed not to say is that all the way to the Palais he had been cursing yesterday’s storm for bringing down two plagues upon his house. He was sick with worry about Clarie, who had gotten the grippe because she had ventured out into the snow, while it was obvious that the murderer had not. Thus Martin had no way to prove or disprove his suspicions about the tinker. Nor could anything come of Barzun’s observations of a certain Lieutenant Toussaint with Thursday leaves and an aggressive hatred of the Israelites. No trained officer would murder on an afternoon when he could so easily be tracked, and no judge in his right mind was going to haul in a soldier on the eve of the Dreyfus trial, unless he had concrete evidence. The snow had blocked the investigation as profoundly as it had clogged the roads.

  “Sir,” Jacquette tapped his knuckles on the desk to get Martin’s attention. “No one got killed. That’s good news.”

  “If you like waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Martin grumbled. He knew, he could feel it in his bones, that if they did not catch the killer soon, someone else would be murdered. Worse, the next victim might be someone they knew, like Singer or the rabbi or, God forbid, even a woman or child. According to Hémonet, all Jews, of any age or sex, should be expunged from society. They still hadn’t found any disciples of the ex-priest besides the bookseller Villiers, but who was to say there was not another madman, a third viable suspect, lurking in the streets?

  “May I?” Jacquette pointed to the chair.

  Martin nodded.

  The inspector sat, crossed one leg over the other, and lit a cigarette. “What about our mind doctors? Any report on Hémonet?”

  Martin tapped on three folded sheets of paper lying in the middle of his desk. “From Bernheim,” he said. “Apparently he enjoyed yesterday’s weather as much as you did. It trapped Liébeault in town and allowed them to spend the night reminiscing about old cases in front of a roaring fire.” Casting his sarcasm aside, Martin added, “I haven’t had time to go over his report. I’ll send you a copy as soon as Charpentier transcribes it.”

  Jacquette screwed up his mouth so acutely that his tawny mustache ended up, for one instant, entirely on the left side of his face. “I didn’t say I liked the weather. In fact, it has made my problems worse. The men. If we don’t get them off this watch duty, we’ll have a revolt on our hands. Standard-issue boots and coats aren’t holding up in all this wet and cold, and neither is their patience.”

  Arms spread, palms down on his desk, Martin leaned toward Jacquette. “I thought that was their job,” he said, emphasizing each word.

  “Yes, but so is interviewing everyone in Ullmann’s mill, his business associates, Erlanger’s clients, keeping an eye on the workers’ haunts and the entire regiment. To say nothing of the fact that there are other cases,” Jacquette added as he pulled a drag on his cigarette. He did not meet Martin’s heat with his own. Instead, he calmly laid out the reality of their limitations.

  Martin crossed his arms and surveyed his desk. Piles of testimonies, slanders, and dead-ends. He opened the latest edition of La Croix de Lorraine and held it up for Jacquette to see. “Have we identified this Titus?” he asked, as he pointed to an article in the newspaper.

  “Near Epinay, about forty kilometers away, some priest in a rural parish. I could get him for you if you really—”

  “No.” Martin shook his head. “He’s far enough away, and you have plenty to do.” He sighed and slumped into his chair. “Let’s put a different man on a rotation every day,” he suggested. “Make his presence in front of the Temple and certain homes visible, as a preventive measure. Then next Thursday—”

  “Again?” Jacquette asked skeptically.

  “Again,” Martin confirmed, “unless we come up with a better idea. Or, if you like, someone is murdered on Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday.” Martin should have bit his tongue. He needed to be alone. He was too frustrated to be fit for human company.

  “We’ll find the killer. Sometimes it just takes time.”

  “If we’ve got time,” Martin retorted.

  Jacquette arched his eyebrows and gave a half-mocking, fully friendly salute as he got up to leave.

  Martin could not repress a smile as he held up his own hand in response. Thank God for Jacquette, he thought as he watched his inspector leave the room. Then, settling in, he unfolded the report that Liébeault had made to Dr. Bernheim.

  My Dear Hippolyte,

  The patient François Hémonet was brought to the clinic at 2 P.M. on Wednesday 12 December in great distress. He showed all the signs of addictive inebriation: involuntary twitching, slurred words, raging temper, residues of vomit on his clothing. Since he kept saying that the only medicine he needed was a “good bottle,” I was able to question him on what he meant. As I suspected, ever since leaving the priesthood, he has become a slave to the “green fairy” supplied to him by a “devoted” family. We can only hope for his sake that his absinthism has not yet reached the point of causing permanent physical damage.

  There was no question of my putting him into a hypnotic sleep. As you know, it is useless to try to do so with an uncooperative patient, and I doubt if I could have effectively relieved his symptoms. God willing, time will do that if hereditary weakness does not lead him once again to try to ease the pain in his tortured soul with drink.

  As to whether he is telling the “truth,” I cannot say. Perhaps he is insofar as he can in his present despairing state. He told me, no, shouted at me, that he believed in Jesus Christ Incarnate, and all who did not belonged to the Devil. I kept trying to soothe him by telling him I have nothing against his religion, being a Christian myself, and suggested that he try to pray quietly to his God for comfort. I did not tell him what I truly believe, that he has distorted and twisted his faith into an instrument of hate, and there may not be a God that can help him. If he ever becomes willing to be put to sleep, perhaps we will find out the true source of his hatreds and help to expel them from his spirit. For now, I conclude Hémonet is a man maddened by despair, an absintheur, and an extreme anti-Israelite. (I am grateful, dear friend, that you did not have to suffer his venom against your race.)

  As to whether he is capable of murder, you may tell the judge what we have always said: anyone is capable of doing anything, despite the teachings of religion, morality, and family, if the suggestion of the crime is forceful enough. If he did commit the crimes, then we will have to ask, what was his state of mind? Could he help himself? Was he mad
or fully culpable? We cannot answer these questions until the poison of absinthe has drained from his body.

  Yours, Liébeault

  Martin refolded the pages and rubbed his aching forehead. Nothing, this is what the report amounted to, nothing new. Martin’s eyes fell on the latest column by the man who called himself Titus, the one he had waved before Jacquette. What would it be today, another report of a ritual murder committed by the Jews in some exotic corner of the world? Or a peasant being cheated, once again, by a “circumcised one”? And why Titus? Was the nom de plume an homage to the disciple of Saint Paul or to the Roman Emperor who had so triumphantly destroyed the great Temple in Jerusalem? If both, the two together—the apostle and the conqueror of the Jews—how clever of him, thought Martin, unable to shake off the cloud of apprehension and irritation that was enveloping him.

  Little did Martin know that Madeleine Froment was having exactly the same thoughts as she glanced at Titus’s latest column. However, what she was experiencing was a kind of elation. How clever! How learned! And, of course, confirmation that she, too, had enough of a Christian education to understand the dual meaning of the pseudonym. She intended to read Titus to Clarie when she woke up. Madeleine had also brought, deeply hidden in her school bag, Grignion de Montfort’s Traité de la vraie dévotion à la Sainte Vierge on the True Devotion to Mary, the Mother of God, and Drumont’s La France Juive. Sitting patiently by Clarie’s bedside, Madeleine set aside the newspaper and took out her rosary to pray for her friend.

  37

  Monday, December 17

  DURING THE LONG WEEKEND OF Clarie’s illness, Martin tried desperately to get her to enjoy the things that used to give her so much pleasure. He read stories by de Maupassant to Clarie and brought her expensive greenhouse roses from the market. He even transported hot chicken broth to her bedside on a tray with the mock flourish of a snobbish Parisian waiter. She was polite, grateful, but remote. Through it all, she seemed to find more comfort in Madeleine’s company. Sitting alone in the living room, listening to the murmurs coming through the bedroom wall, Martin imagined them talking about miracles and angels, sin and repentance. He wanted to shout, Our son is dead! We did nothing wrong! But he held back. At some point the pious Mme Froment was bound to leave to visit her relatives for the holidays. When that finally happened, Martin would win Clarie back and make her whole. They’d go to mass together, if that is what she needed. Nancy was a big city. They’d find a parish led by a priest who shared their republican ideals. They could even clasp their hands together and pray to the God in whom each of them believed.