my wheelchair, staring off into space, and think about Anita—;how she was, what she was doing, and wondering why she didn't answer my letters.
It was my custom to write her each week. Gilberte provided me with paper and pen and ink; and later she would take the letters to post when she went off duty. I remember the first time I handed her a finished letter she glanced curiously at the name and the address.
“Your mothair?” she asked in her broken English.
“No,” I replied, not realizing I was being cruel, “my wife.” And not satisfied with that, I pulled out the picture of Anita I always carried in my breast pocket. “How do you like her, Gilberte? Isn't she lovely?”
She took the picture from my hand and studied it intently. There was a look in her eyes like some hurt animal and instantly I was ashamed of myself. Knowing how the girl felt about me, I should have known better.
“Vairy nize,” she murmured and returned it. I saw a tell-tale sparkle under her lowered lids.
Now please don't think for a minute that I am manufacturing this story out of whole cloth.
I can find no explanation for her misguided affections. I certainly did nothing to inspire them. The only observation I might truthfully make is that love is mighty strange and ofttimes somewhat silly. But to prove that Mademoiselle Monet was a real person and not a figment of a distorted imagination, you have only to look up the transcript of my trial in Tompkins County. One of the prosecution's major exhibits was a letter in the French language, addressed to me and signed by her. I never found out what the letter contained until I heard it translated in open court. Yes, it was a love letter. I ought to know, because it helped to convict me.
Gilberte showed her love for me in a way to which I could not possibly object. She did not try to kiss me, caress me or hug me; and pray do not imagine nightly assignations after the other patients in the ward were asleep; she was just over-kind and ever willing to go out of her way to please me. When she spoke of her love at all, it was quietly and in her own language, which I could not understand. Of course, there was no mistaking the meaning of her words. Behind them whispered something else—;an international esperanto which no one could fail to have recognized.
And if, while she administered my sponge-baths, she lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, what was so wrong in that? She liked to fuss over me like some mother with a child. In the garden on some of the nights when we were alone, she'd lean her head on my shoulder or carry one of my hands to her breast. It was done so sweetly and so lacking in the frenzied sex quality that endowed many of the other women nurses in the hospital, that I was deeply moved. I daresay had I not already lost my heart to Anita... but that's the way it was.
Have I made myself clear? Except for that night during the early spring, there was nothing between us. And it was not Gilberte's fault that there happened even that. If anyone was the aggressor—;it was I. Do not, please, get the impression that she egged me on. Her love was on a higher plane and sex was not paramount. I still have the feeling that I soiled something, strode ruthlessly across a priceless tapestry with muddy shoes.
Now, I often regret that I didn't find out more about Nurse Monet; but at the time, you can understand, my mind was flooded with thoughts of my wife and her picture blotted out everything else or threw them out of perspective. As it was, I merely tolerated Gilberte. She was merely an audience attending a nightly eulogy of Anita. Knowing where I stand now, I am sorry that I paid her so little attention. I must have been exceedingly cruel; especially do I regret taking her. If, by some chance, she ever comes across this book, I hope that she will believe me when I say that I will always hold her memory very dear. I get a little comfort by telling myself that, although she was
It was my custom to write her each week. Gilberte provided me with paper and pen and ink; and later she would take the letters to post when she went off duty. I remember the first time I handed her a finished letter she glanced curiously at the name and the address.
“Your mothair?” she asked in her broken English.
“No,” I replied, not realizing I was being cruel, “my wife.” And not satisfied with that, I pulled out the picture of Anita I always carried in my breast pocket. “How do you like her, Gilberte? Isn't she lovely?”
She took the picture from my hand and studied it intently. There was a look in her eyes like some hurt animal and instantly I was ashamed of myself. Knowing how the girl felt about me, I should have known better.
“Vairy nize,” she murmured and returned it. I saw a tell-tale sparkle under her lowered lids.
Now please don't think for a minute that I am manufacturing this story out of whole cloth.
I can find no explanation for her misguided affections. I certainly did nothing to inspire them. The only observation I might truthfully make is that love is mighty strange and ofttimes somewhat silly. But to prove that Mademoiselle Monet was a real person and not a figment of a distorted imagination, you have only to look up the transcript of my trial in Tompkins County. One of the prosecution's major exhibits was a letter in the French language, addressed to me and signed by her. I never found out what the letter contained until I heard it translated in open court. Yes, it was a love letter. I ought to know, because it helped to convict me.
Gilberte showed her love for me in a way to which I could not possibly object. She did not try to kiss me, caress me or hug me; and pray do not imagine nightly assignations after the other patients in the ward were asleep; she was just over-kind and ever willing to go out of her way to please me. When she spoke of her love at all, it was quietly and in her own language, which I could not understand. Of course, there was no mistaking the meaning of her words. Behind them whispered something else—;an international esperanto which no one could fail to have recognized.
And if, while she administered my sponge-baths, she lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, what was so wrong in that? She liked to fuss over me like some mother with a child. In the garden on some of the nights when we were alone, she'd lean her head on my shoulder or carry one of my hands to her breast. It was done so sweetly and so lacking in the frenzied sex quality that endowed many of the other women nurses in the hospital, that I was deeply moved. I daresay had I not already lost my heart to Anita... but that's the way it was.
Have I made myself clear? Except for that night during the early spring, there was nothing between us. And it was not Gilberte's fault that there happened even that. If anyone was the aggressor—;it was I. Do not, please, get the impression that she egged me on. Her love was on a higher plane and sex was not paramount. I still have the feeling that I soiled something, strode ruthlessly across a priceless tapestry with muddy shoes.
Now, I often regret that I didn't find out more about Nurse Monet; but at the time, you can understand, my mind was flooded with thoughts of my wife and her picture blotted out everything else or threw them out of perspective. As it was, I merely tolerated Gilberte. She was merely an audience attending a nightly eulogy of Anita. Knowing where I stand now, I am sorry that I paid her so little attention. I must have been exceedingly cruel; especially do I regret taking her. If, by some chance, she ever comes across this book, I hope that she will believe me when I say that I will always hold her memory very dear. I get a little comfort by telling myself that, although she was
Similar Books
