“I am sure, madame. That is not my errand. I just wanted to ask . . . Have you given birth recently?”
Her hands stopped.
“No,” she said shortly. “How did you get that idea? Anette, we are about to run out of glue. Run over to the factory to get another pail.”
“But we have enough for—”
Smack! The mother’s hand shot out and slapped the daughter’s cheek.
“Do as I say!”
From the girl’s overwhelmed and hurt reaction, I could see that this was much harsher treatment than she was used to.
“Mama!”
“Go! Do I need to say everything twice?”
The girl got up, threw me a dark look that suggested that it was all my fault, and then did as she was told. She had to edge by me, and I caught a whiff of petroleum from her tightly combed hair—her mother’s attempt to shield her from head lice, I thought.
“Well,” said Estelle Audran as soon as the door had closed behind the girl. “Get to the point. I need to deliver four hundred of these before six o’clock.” In demonstration, she lifted the box that she was folding.
I cleared my throat. “I saw in the archives of Public Health and Decency that you were in custody for some months earlier this year.”
“Ah, so that’s it,” she said flatly. “I knew you were here to preach!”
“No,” I said. “I would just like to know . . . what happened to you during that time. Did you become pregnant?”
She looked up at me with a bitter gaze while her fingers still worked on as if they were independent organisms that did not require her attention to function.
“How could I have? Or are you suggesting that public servants of the préfecture are fucking the inmates?” She used the word coldly and deliberately, wanting to shock me. But by now I was willing to believe just about anything of the public servants of the préfecture—or at least about some of them.
“Madame,” I said, “I just want to help. I know you were subjected to frequent health examinations while you were in custody.”
“Every other damned day.” Her voice shook a little.
“Would you describe to me what happened during these examinations?”
“No.” The word fell bare, cold, and hard, without softening excuses.
“Why not?”
“Because it was bad enough while it was happening. I don’t need wallow in it now.”
“But . . . it is important.”
“To you, perhaps.”
“To everyone. So that horrible crimes may be solved and the guilty brought to justice.”
She looked very directly at me with yet another hard, dark gaze. Her heavy features somehow looked middle-aged already, though I knew from her file that she was no more than twenty-nine.
“You can take your big fine justice,” she said hoarsely and deliberately, free of her initial attempts to “speak properly,” “and you can stick it where your fiancé doesn’t normally go. What’s all that to me? You come into my home and you think . . . you say you want to help, but you’re the one asking for help. Something for nothing, that’s what you want. Do you think I can afford to give my time away? I lost my place at the tobacco factory, now we only have this, and you can barely pay the rent this way. I have to keep Anette home from school most of the time now. You think I’m going to stick my neck out without a centime for my trouble? Go back where you came from, little miss, and embroider this justice of yours on a pillow with gold thread and chubby little angels, because that’s where it belongs. It has nothing to do with the real world.”
“If I pay you, your testimony cannot be used in court,” I tried to explain.
“Really? Seems to happen pretty often that Simon the Snitch gets five francs from the coppers for framing some poor sod that didn’t even do it. But you needn’t worry your head about that. I’m not going in any damn court, no matter what you pay me. You think I am telling some judge about what it’s like to lie there naked and plucked like a roasting chicken and get their damn medicine sprayed right up your mossy? Medicine, my ass. They said it was against the whore’s pox, but I wasn’t sick.”
“No. I don’t believe you were.”
“Stéphanie Margot, she was sick. But they didn’t spray anything into her, she just got mercury pills.”
She had started to cry. She had learned to do it in the same way as Fleur, it occurred to me—no sobbing, no noise, no attempts to ask for a consolation that would never come anyway. Her hard expression cracked, and she turned her face away.
“Get out,” she said, without hostility this time, just with a heavy hopeless slump.
I got up. On the table among all the matchboxes I placed the few francs I had in my purse.
“I am sorry that is all I have,” I said.
She did not answer. Her hands folded, glued, bent edges, pasted paper. She had had an abortion, I thought. Somehow she had scraped together enough money to have the unwelcome fetus removed. I found it hard to blame her.
I had three addresses left, but my feet were boiling, and I was fairly sure that I was developing at least two blisters. Besides, I still had the case folder uncomfortably lodged under my corset, simply because I had not found a place where I could fish it out with any degree of discretion. I decided to return home for rest and reconsideration before I went on. My head was buzzing with thoughts and theories, facts and hypotheses grinding against one another in a most disorderly fashion.
When I turned the corner from Rue Perrault, I instantly saw August’s automobile, which was parked at the curb outside our house. He had returned! Suddenly, I forgot all about boiling feet, picked up my pace considerably, and noted that I still had sufficient strength to run up the stairs.
“August! I didn’t expect . . .”
But the salon was inhabited by a lady I had never seen before. Effortless elegance characterized the slim silhouette, and her afternoon ensemble—lilac silk with abalone buttons—had clearly been chosen to match the striking color of her eyes. Her shining white hair had been arranged as only a very skillful personal maid can do it, and though she was advanced in age, there was still a freshness to her complexion that did not exclusively originate in a powder puff. She rose briskly to her feet when I entered and looked me over in a way that was only slightly less impolite than the gaze of the croissant-crumbling Barbier had been.
“I am afraid my grandson is not coming until later,” she said. “I wanted to speak to you alone.”
I stopped abruptly with the sensation of having run into a wall.
August’s grandmother. The Empress of Heeringen. The woman who had raised him and overseen his education. The woman whose estate he was expected to inherit.
Of course, I knew that I would have to meet her one day. But couldn’t it have been on a day when I had not spent several hours searching through dusty document boxes, followed by a wild-goose chase that had taken me from one unsavory back alley to another?
“Madame . . . ,” I managed. I was not even sure how to address her. Her name was Constance Heering-Dreyfuss, and she did not, as far as I knew, possess any noble title, just vast resources of wealth. But surely owning an estate like Heeringen made her some sort of lady of the manor? Or a dowager. She certainly looked like a dowager to me. “Welcome. May I offer you . . .” What on earth did we have that I could offer? “. . . a glass of sherry, or perhaps a cup of tea?”
“Thank you. Your sweet little maid has already offered, but I am not here to be served. And you may relax, I will soon be leaving.”
“Did you drive here yourself?”
She gave me a small tight smile.
“No. But thank you for not assuming that an old woman like myself would be incapable of learning something new. I sent the chauffeur down to the kitchen along with your little maid, so that the two of us may speak undisturbed. So. Do sit down.”
We did not have a kitchen. Just the laboratory, where I assumed that Elise was even now boiling water on the Bunsen burne
r so that she could give said chauffeur tea or coffee.
“You and August are to be married, I understand. And he tells me that you still wish to go through with the wedding, perhaps even sooner than you originally intended.”
“Yes,” I said. Could I perhaps serve myself a glass of sherry? My throat was terribly dry. But that would not do since she did not want any.
“He says you are an extremely intelligent and well-educated young woman.”
“Thank you.” It was only now that I registered that she was speaking French without a trace of an accent. Better than August, really.
“I am therefore convinced that you will understand what I am about to say,” she continued. “Everything that I say.”
“I hope so, madame.”
“I know my grandson, mademoiselle. I have long hoped that he would find a suitable fiancée, but I have also always known that he was—and is—a complicated man. I am glad that you have an understanding of these . . . complications.”
There was surely little doubt that Erich Falchenberg was one of the “complications” to which she was referring. I merely nodded.
“You must know as well that he, deprived of the professor’s salary that he will now no longer receive, has only limited means.”
“That is not why I want to—”
“Nonsense. Let us be practical. It may well be that you can honestly claim to love August dearly, but that is neither here nor there and will not provide you with sufficient income. However, there is no cause for alarm. I will support this marriage, and I have no intention of letting my own flesh and blood suffer in exile as long as I have the means to support you. In return, I have only one demand, but that one demand is not negotiable.”
I felt caught by that lilac gaze in much the same way mice are said to react to certain snakes.
“What do you want from me, madame?” I asked, almost as an involuntary reflex.
She sniffed delicately.
“It is very simple. I want heirs.”
“Heirs?”
“Yes. As quickly as may be, but I suppose we must give nature the time she requires. Let us say within two years. Then I shall be satisfied.”
“But . . .”
“That should not be too difficult, especially not when you really do love my grandson?”
I was on my feet, boiling with indignation. Had the entire world entered into a conspiracy to transform me into a glorified broodmare?
“You are right,” I said. “I love August. For better or worse. And we will manage. But we alone, he and I, will decide whether we are going to have children!”
She stiffened, but only a fraction. The lilac eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
“Come now, child. If you wish, I shall be happy to raise the child at Heeringen. Good nursemaids, the best teachers. A year of your life, that is all I ask for—nine months in the womb, three months nursing at your breast for the sake of the child’s health. Surely you can indulge an old woman in that small respect?”
“I have no wish to discuss—”
“Very well. I shall hire a wet nurse. The only thing you need to do is bring the child into the world.”
“That is not—”
“Is it the act itself that bothers you?”
“No! I—”
“Aha!” Her face lit up, and she too rose from her chair. She observed my face intensely, and to my great humiliation, I could feel that damnable blush spreading in my cheeks. “I can see you have already . . . with August? Yes, indeed. Well, then, so much the better!” Her eyes were not merely alight, they shone in triumph. Apparently she possessed the ability to look right through me, at least in this respect. “Then I need hardly interfere. Au revoir, mademoiselle. A pleasure to meet you.”
With the air of a field marshal returning in triumph, she prepared to leave. She did not attempt to shake my hand—she probably knew I would not let her. Instead she opened the door and called down the stairs with a stentorian voice that seemed considerably less elegant and femininely refined than the rest of her.
“Karl! We are leaving!”
There were noises from below, and a young man wearing a uniform consisting of a jacket, riding boots, and cap came clattering up the stairs to offer her his arm.
She turned in the doorway while I was still standing there as if nailed to the floor, filled with equal parts shame and indignation.
“Within two years, mademoiselle!” she said. “Get to it!”
When August arrived—quite late, it was almost ten o’clock—I was sitting in my nightgown and robe, with my feet in a basin of water and my wet hair spread across my shoulders. I had not expected to see him; at this late hour he would normally have gone directly to his lodgings with Madame Guille.
“I am sorry to come so late,” he said, and threw a frankly lingering gaze at my extremely informal state of dress. I did not feel particularly ready to be so viewed. Because of the footbath I could not even get up and come to meet him—or flee up the stairs to dress myself more appropriately.
“I had to go to Strasbourg for the train, Grandmama had taken the automobile . . .”
“I know,” I said heavily.
“You know . . . ?” He looked at me again, this time more at my face than at my body. Then he cursed. “She came here.”
“Yes.”
“With her mad talk of heirs and money.”
“Precisely.”
He smacked his hand down on the back of one of the armchairs.
“I told her not to.” His voice was raw with anger. “Madeleine, I am so sorry. She is an old woman who is used to getting her own way, and she . . . she can be alarmingly practical.”
“I noticed. She even offered to hire a wet nurse so that all I would need to do was lend a womb for nine months.”
“Madeleine! She didn’t say that.” He paused. “Yes, of course she did . . .” He took my right hand in both of his. “It was in much the same way that she ended up being responsible for raising me. But I can see you survived the battle.”
“I am not so sure about that,” I said darkly. “It feels as if she won the first skirmish.”
“How so?” His eyes fell on my other hand, the left, which had slipped down without my conscious notice and had placed itself against my abdomen just below the navel. Exactly where Porro would have begun his incision, I thought, and snatched it away. “Do you think that you are already—?”
“No,” I said firmly and hoped that it was true. “But I will be if we . . . continue.”
“There are methods . . .”
“None certain.”
“Perhaps not. But would it be so terrible if . . . ? Grandmama has offered to raise it. You would be able to continue your studies, your work . . .”
I pulled my right hand from his grasp.
“That woman,” I said with a rage that surprised us both, “that woman is not going to raise my child!”
He looked at me searchingly.
“She raised me,” he said.
I think August was relieved that Papa was still at the hospital. My father had not exactly reached for his riding crop—not that he owned one—and chased my future husband out the door, but the natural friendship and mutual enthusiasm that had characterized their relationship from the very beginning had stiffened into long pauses, averted gazes, and backs held a bit too straight.
Elise brought out a bit of bread and cheese, and I watched him while he ate. His exhaustion was visible in every move, and I doubted that he had had much sleep in the past few days.
“How are you?” I asked at last.
He stretched and brushed a few crumbs from his chin.
“Not too bad,” he said ironically. “Pas trop mal.” We almost always spoke French when we were together, though my German was probably almost as good as his French. “It has been a couple of . . . challenging days.”
“Is there anything new from Heidelberg?”
“What news would there be? That the police have withdrawn the c
ase, that the university has changed its mind, and that I am not, after all, unemployed and considered a criminal in my own country?” He spoke a little too fast and stumbled over some of the syllables, and for once I felt as if he was condescending to me—as if I was young and silly and naïve to even ask. Then he caught himself. “No, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault. But there is nothing remotely encouraging to say about the situation in Heidelberg. It will only get worse from now on—more friends distancing themselves, more accusations, more gossip.”
“More accusations? Do you mean in addition to Falchenberg?”
He sighed so deeply that it was more of a moan. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“The truth, August!”
“Yes. That was a part of our agreement. So. Yes, there have been others. Not many, but it has happened before. I am thirty-four years old, Madeleine, and no monk.”
“Women or men?”
“Both. Have pity, Madeleine. I solemnly promise to tell you everything you want to know, but . . . not tonight.”
Something moved in his face, and I think he felt so hounded and exhausted that there were tears in his eyes. I could not be certain because he looked away.
There was an intimacy to sitting here that was not sensuous: his late supper, my state of dress or lack thereof—I had replaced the robe with one of my loose morning gowns and pinned up my wet hair but was still not what anyone would call presentable. It was like a taste of the casual daily companionship that would be part of being husband and wife, I thought.
“I want to hear about it one day,” I said. “But you are right, it need not be now.” After a brief hesitation, I reached across the table and placed my hand on his. I had not been raised with much physical intimacy, especially not after my mother died, and perhaps he had not either, because he jerked when our hands met. He did not pull away, but it felt a little stiff nonetheless. After a few moments, I withdrew my hand myself.
He looked up. “Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea what an infinite relief it is to sit here, even though I lack the strength to discuss it.”
“Do you want to hear what happened while you were away?” I asked.