I have no stomach for horror stories. Eugène must read as much in my expression. He scoots forward on his chair. His teacup clatters against his saucer.
“Édouard, stop such morbid talk.” I have never heard Eugène speak so boldly. “Can’t you see how you are scaring the poor woman?”
“I am f ine, Monsieur. Thank you for your concern. Even so, I shall not venture out of doors. I do not think I could bear to see my beloved city in such turmoil. I have been distracting myself by reading and working. In fact, that reminds me. Édouard, could you assist me with something? There is a book on the shelves in the sitting room that is on a ledge much too high for my reach. Could I trouble you to get it for me?”
“Certainly, Mademoiselle.”
As we stand, I hold my breath waiting for Maman to question my request or Eugène to offer his assistance, but the two commence talking about the strength of the National Guard.
Édouard and I walk to the sitting room, listening to the faint murmur of conversation streaming from the studio. I hear Eugène say, “With the speed in which the Prussian army advances, sometimes I fear I will not survive this terrible ordeal.”
Once inside, he follows me to the bookcases. I turn to him. “I am so happy to see you today. I wanted to believe you
would come, yet the last time it had been almost—”
“Shhhh.” He slips his arms around me and covers my mouth with his. “Do not waste our time together on unhappiness,” he says, pulling me closer.
“I was thinking about what you said. We would not have to endure scandal if we were not here to face it.”
“Hmmmm. . .,” he answers, his lips on my neck. My head tilts in automatic response, allowing him room to possess me.
“Édouard, listen to me.” I plant my hands on his shoulders and make room between us, but he tries to close the gap, tries to reclaim my body. “I want us to go away. Tomorrow. I have it all planned.”
He looks at me through hooded eyes, and I cannot tell what he is thinking. So I continue before he has the chance to stop me or before I changed my mind.
“Meet me at the Gare Saint-Lazare at ten o’clock. We can catch the eleven o’clock train for the coast. By the day after, we can be on a boat sailing for America.”
Édouard blinks. He runs his hand through his beard. Sighs. “Berthe, we are at war. I—”
“We are not. We can be together if you will only give me your word.”
He does not answer me. He only looks at me with sorrow-ful eyes that send a mournful shudder through me.
“Édouard, please—”
“Berthe? Monsieur Manet?” Maman’s voice grew closer. “While you’re in there will you please fetch me a book, too?”
“Tomorrow at ten?”
He nods and sweeps a kiss on my lips with his finger. “The Gare Saint-Lazare.”
Chapter Nineteen
If all the world were mine to plunder I’d be content with just one town, And in that town, one house alone, And in that house one single room, And in that room, one cot only,
For there, asleep, is the one I love.
—ancient Sanskrit poem
A
fter Édouard and Eugène leave, I have much to do before the morning without making Maman the wiser.
I’ve not even thought about how I will get out of the house alone without her noticing. I am contemplating how I will get to the station when Amélie brings me a letter from Puvis.
Dear Mademoiselle,
I am not able to pay you a call in person. So I write with high hopes that this letter finds you and your family well during this very sad time for our glorious country.
I am serving in the National Guard, in and around Versailles. Leaders assure us the fight will worsen before it gets better. For many, we will soon see our last hours.
At times like this, dear Mademoiselle, one is inclined to take stock of one’s life and what is important. I decided if I were to die today, I shall pass in peace only if you know how fond I am of you. Your friendship has always been a bright spot in my life, and my only regret is that I did not pursue you more diligently in more carefree days.
As I fight, I want you to know I am defending you. Please do not hesitate to call on me if I may serve you in anyway.
Your devoted servant, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
I am quite astounded by Puvis’s letter. Flattered.
Touched by such a tender declaration. Quite frankly, I had no idea of the depth of his feelings. He has been a friend, appearing now and again in my life, but never has he given me any indication that his feelings run so deep. I am relieved he chose to express his feelings in a letter rather than conveying them in person. When one is so candid, so forthright they do not deserve to have their hopes dashed with the tender words still hanging in the air.
Oh, Puvis. Such a dear, sweet man. My heart is heavy as I utter a silent prayer that he will see the end of this terrible war. I take the letter to my bedroom, tuck it beneath the mattress, and remove my valise from the closet to start packing for
my new life.
*
The only way I am able to leave unnoticed is to time my departure between Papa’s leaving for work and Maman’s coming down for breakfast.
It is good that I am getting an early start because I must walk to the train station—a good five kilometers.
I wait for ten minutes after Papa closes the front door, then I quietly let myself out, hoping that Amélie will not hear the creaking f loorboards and come out to investigate. Or that my heartbeat is not echoing as loudly in the foyer as it is thumping in my ears.
I do not want to explain—or lie about where I am going— as I stand here in my travel clothes with my valise in hand.
My heart weighs heavy as I pull the door closed for what I realize will be the last time. It clicks shut, and I step onto the sun-dappled walk bathed in early morning’s gentle light. I shall miss my Passy. Although it is not my birthplace, it is where my heart will always reside.
Doubt seeps in around the edges of my tightly constructed plan. But Édouard will be there. There is no other option.
He will be there. We will board the train and be at the coast by midafternoon.
This is the only possible scenario.
The streets of Passy proper are a quiet contrast to the sound of cannon fire in the distance. A few people pass—businessmen in carriages on their way to work; mounted national guards-men patrolling the area; a boy delivering newspapers. Strolling along the cobblestone street, I keep my head down for fear I might happen upon a neighbor or a friend of my parents.
I have packed only a change of clothes, as I knew it would be a long walk. Already the valise grows heavy. I switch the case to my left hand and adjust the strings of my handbag to assure it is closed securely. I am carrying only enough francs
to pay for our train fare. Since Édouard and I did not have the time to discuss logistics, I have brought enough to pay for both of us. With his duties, I don’t know if he will have the opportunity to get money. The rest of my francs are tucked away in a pouch I have sewn inside the bodice of my dress.
The breeze blows the faint smell of smoke from a faraway fire, but it smells like freedom to me. I focus on the fact that by this time tomorrow, Édouard and I will be on a ship sailing for New York.
All is going well until I travel about one kilometer down the Avenue Kléber and hit a roadblock.
“Mademoiselle, where are you going?” The armed soldier is young but talks as if he is a father reprimanding a child. “Why are you out this morning by yourself ?”
I tilt my chin. “I am going to the Gare Saint-Lazare to catch a train.”
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle, no trains running today. The station is closed until further notice. I cannot allow you to pass.”
I step closer and he lifts his gun. The gesture startles me. Thought he is not pointing it at me, it is in the ready position. I am offended by the brash gesture.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I must get through I am meeting my fiancé.”
“He is an idiot to let a woman walk alone in the streets. It is not safe after last night’s tragedy.”
The word causes gooseflesh to erupt on my arms. “What are you talking about?”
“Versailles has fallen to the Prussians. Paris is surrounded. I have strict orders that no one is to pass.”
“But I must—” I contemplate turning away as if I am com-plying with his orders and then trying to find another way to the station.
“Bodier, escort the mademoiselle home and see that she gets safely inside.”
The man called Bodier indicates for me to follow. I realize all is lost.
Mere words cannot describe this paralyzing dread expand-ing inside me. All that exists within me is bitter cold and utter helplessness. It is as if I have let go of Édouard’s hand and he has drifted off into the heavens and there is nothing I can do to stop him.
Dearest Edma,
I am writing you because I do not know whether in another few days we shall still be able to correspond. Paris has changed still more. I think of life before this war, and it seems to me it is not the same city. I received a note from Puvis de Chavannes, who writes as if our last hour has come. Moreover, I see that the National Guard is very restive. Manet’s brother told me very calmly that he does not expect to come out of this alive.
Papa pins all his hopes on the success of Monsieur Thiers’s mission. Father continues to be in good health and is driving us all crazy.
Kisses for bébé.
Adieu, dear. Do enjoy the peace of Mirande. It is better than the agitation here.
Berthe
Dear Berthe,
We feel just as indignant as Mother does when Gambetta is unjustly attacked. It was he who did most for the defense, and it is he who is mostly denounced today. He is unanimously attacked in the provinces and held responsible for France’s defeat. In this world success is everything.
This reactionary Chamber does not inspire me with great confidence. Those who advocate caution and moderation do not seem to be the men of the hour. However that may be, the task is grave and difficult. We must wait to judge them.
There is talk in the newspaper of the German army entering Paris. Perhaps you are now witnessing that spectacle. Nothing is to be spared us.
Affectionately, Edma
You are right, my dear Edma, in believing that nothing will be spared us. The Prussians are to enter our arrondissement on Wednesday. Our area is explicitly mentioned among those to be occupied by them. This news was circulated in the afternoon; it was expected that they would arrive tonight; then the report was denied in the evening, but this only meant that the entry was being delayed. Our rue Franklin, usually so quiet, was animated, the Place de la Marie and the main streets are f illed with noisy crowds. The National Guard was against surrendering its arms, and protested loudly. All this is very sad, and
the terms are so severe that one cannot bear to think about them.
Each day brings us some new sorrow, some new humiliation. The French people are so frivolous that they will promptly forget these sad events, but I am brokenhearted.
If I happen to voice this opinion at home, father throws up his hands and says that I am a madwoman.
There was a great commotion yesterday. The National Guard contingent at Belleville declared that they intended to f ire their guns when the Prussians enter. I think we are at the beginning of an emotional period.
Do you know all of our acquaintances have come out of the war without a scratch, except for that poor Bazille, who was killed at Orléans. The brilliant painter Régnault was killed at Bezenval. The others have made a great fuss about nothing.
Affectionately, Berthe
The air is filled with so much acrid smoke I can barely breathe. The boom of cannon fire sounds so often I wonder why each explosion continues to startle me.
We feel the presence of the Prussian troops all around us. All I want to do is stay in my bed with the shutters drawn. I doze between cannon blasts, and in my fitful dreams, sometimes Édouard is there. We are boarding the train at the Gare Saint-Lazare or he is kissing me as we stand on the deck of a great ocean liner bound for New York. But then the cannon sounds, and I awaken in my dark room, remembering that two weeks have passed since Édouard and I were supposed to meet at the train station.
He did not respond to the note I sent him asking him to call. But I realize it is impossible with the Prussians closing in on us outside.
For two weeks I have taken to my bed, and as the cannons sound outside, I am waging a private war with the demons that have invaded my peace of mind. Maman called in the doctor, Monsieur Dally. But all he does is leer at me. I fear he will insist on examining me for his own pleasure rather than trying to help me feel well again. Although, I don’t think it is possible to recover under these circumstances.
“Berthe, wake up.” Maman comes into the room and throws open the shutters. “Get up. Get dressed. You have a visitor.”
Squinting into the brightness, I sit up. My mind skitters from hope that it is Édouard, to fear that it is Monsieur Dally.
Maman goes to the wardrobe and selects a dress. “Monsieur Puvis de Chavannes has come to call.”
I scoot to the side of the bed and try to stand. But I sway from the effort. “Tell him I am not up to company.”
“Nonsense. It will serve you well. You have been brooding far too long. Get dressed. I shall tell him you will be down momentarily.”
Puvis. Maman must be truly worried about me to urge me on to receive Puvis. Her attitude toward him has cooled considerably. Although, I do not know why. It seems like one minute she was singing his praises, encouraging me that he would be such a good match. Then suddenly the very mention of his name sets her in a decidedly bad humor.
Today he is back in her good graces—for what reason I cannot discern. Probably simply to get me out of bed and dressed.
I throw an arm over my eyes attempting to block out the light. I should have known it would not be Édouard. Bitter dis-
appointment builds in my throat until I feel I will gag on the repulsive taste.
I pull up the covers and try to go back to sleep, but moments later Maman is in my room again.
“Get up this instant. Monsieur Puvis has something remarkable to show you, but if you do not come down within the next five minutes you will miss it. Come on, I shall help you into your dress. Now, Berthe.”
“All right! Stop shouting at me.”
The thought of listening to Maman nag for the next two months about how lazy I have become is incentive enough to get to my feet.
It seems I have barely stood when she has me encased in a corset that has become almost too big for me.
“You have lost more weight,” Maman murmurs as she throws the dress over my head. A swipe of the brush. A few well-placed pins in my hair. And Maman smiles and deems me presentable for company.
She accompanies me to the drawing room—probably afraid that if she leaves me to go on my own, I will go back to bed.
“Here she is.” Maman sings my arrival as if I were a late guest to a party. Puvis stands.
“Mademoiselle, how wonderful to see you. I came as soon as I could, considering the circumstances that befall out beloved country. If you will forgive me for being so bold after having just arrived, I have something to show you. Will you and your Maman come over to the window?”
Maman herds me to where Puvis has thrown back the sash. High up in the sky is a giant red balloon. The bright light hurts my eyes and I blink at the spectacle.
Maman gasps. “What in heaven’s name?”
“That is our good friend Nadar. He is the head of the balloon corps. Thanks to him we shall be able to resume com-
munication with the outside world. I saw him f loating in the clouds as I made my way here today and could not wait to share it with you.”
We stand at the window in revenant
silence.
“Everyone used to laugh at Nadar and his fixation with balloons,” says Puvis. “Now he laughs at the world as he f loats high above the ranks. ’Tis like a sign of hope, is it not?”
I blink. It more resembles a strange dream—this vision high in the smoky sky, like a child’s toy left out in the rain. This sight coupled with Maman receiving Puvis so warmly, when I know how much she dislikes him. It is all very strange.
Am I still asleep and this is another nonsensical dream?
I glance up to the sky at the red balloon, my eyes adjusting to the daylight. I try to see Puvis’s glimmer of hope. Is it a sign that the world will soon be right again?
Then I notice Puvis is gazing at me intently and remember his written declaration of love. I back away and sit on the sofa.
I do not want to hurt his feelings, especially after he has come so far. He is a good man, a steadfast friend. Alas, I do not have a single romantic feeling for him.
“Mademoiselle, you look exhausted. Are you all right?”
I nod. “By showing me this you have given me new hope that I might communicate with my loved ones who are so very far away.”
Oh, why did I say that? I hope and pray the mention of writing letters will not inspire him to broach the subject of his letter. Surely not in front of Maman?
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