speak with Marie.”
The women started up the steps. Genevieve and Lucie did their best not to stare, but both took advantage of the curving of the staircase to try to catch a glimpse of Marie, standing like a statue in her black crepe. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in the library, but her face was turned to the view outside. She was like a paper cutout, nothing but a dark silhouette with the light behind her.
The comte braced himself. At one time, he had loved a challenge, loved the adrenaline rush of dealing with difficult situations, and testing his own abilities. The coming encounter only sapped his already depleted strength. He felt every moment of his age, every ache in his body. He stepped into the library and closed the door behind him. “Marie,” he said, turning toward his oldest daughter, “how good to see you. We weren’t expecting you until August. Julien is with you?”
Marie turned toward him, her eyes nervous and tired, more fragile looking than he had ever seen her, and he found himself feeling relieved. Perhaps they would be able to avoid a battle. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and her hands rested on his forearms for a moment. “Yes. He’s upstairs resting. The trip was quite a strain on him. He’s not been well.”
The comte searched her face. She looked haggard; her skin was pale; dark shadows hung at her eyes. She seemed uncomfortable with his gaze, and turned back to the long windows, seeking the sun. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold.
The comte searched his jacket pocket for his pipe, and began to load and tamp it down. He kept his eyes on his work. “Julien is sick?” He kept his words as level as possible, and focused on lighting his pipe. He exhaled, and smoke curled up around him. He inhaled again and moved to the window beside her.
Marie turned and met his gaze. The blue of the walls cast a harsh shadow on her skin, making her look gray and sickly herself. “Yes.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “His stomach. He’s had a very rough time keeping anything down. I thought it would be best—that he would recover better if he were here.”
She took a deep breath, and the comte noticed that her body almost shook with the effort of appearing calm. “Yes,” Marie replied. “He’s upstairs resting. Perhaps the waters of Vichy can work their magic on him.”
“I’m surprised you dared to travel so far, if he’s that ill.” The comte took another long drag on his pipe. He stared out into the green lawn, the deeper green of the woods beyond. Servants were on the terrace, gathering up the plates and silverware, crystal and linen, from the outside table. Wind gusted, lifting the edges of the tablecloth as they worked.
Marie nodded, and turned toward him. Her eyes were brittle. “He can get better care here,” she said. “Better doctors. And servants”—she raised her eyes to the floor above them—“to help.”
“Have you any idea what might be wrong?” The comte inhaled, and blew smoke toward the window.
Marie seemed to be finding it difficult to get the words out. “We thought it might be the water. Conditions are so primitive there. Perhaps something has contaminated the well.” Her words sounded rehearsed. Both the comte and his oldest daughter were well trained at maintaining composure, at framing information in the most beneficial way, but the air was thick with what was not being said.
The comte took another deep drag on his pipe, let the smoke out slowly. “I see.”
Marie turned her head toward the window. She sat down on the arm edge of a chair, her body stiff and brittle, like a china doll perched on a shelf.
The comte stood beside her, but did not turn to look at her. “Marie, I have not survived eighty-five years of French politics because I’m a fool. One does not run halfway around the world, with a man who is deathly ill, because of bad water. You could have drawn water from a different source—drilled another
The women started up the steps. Genevieve and Lucie did their best not to stare, but both took advantage of the curving of the staircase to try to catch a glimpse of Marie, standing like a statue in her black crepe. She stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in the library, but her face was turned to the view outside. She was like a paper cutout, nothing but a dark silhouette with the light behind her.
The comte braced himself. At one time, he had loved a challenge, loved the adrenaline rush of dealing with difficult situations, and testing his own abilities. The coming encounter only sapped his already depleted strength. He felt every moment of his age, every ache in his body. He stepped into the library and closed the door behind him. “Marie,” he said, turning toward his oldest daughter, “how good to see you. We weren’t expecting you until August. Julien is with you?”
Marie turned toward him, her eyes nervous and tired, more fragile looking than he had ever seen her, and he found himself feeling relieved. Perhaps they would be able to avoid a battle. They kissed each other’s cheeks, and her hands rested on his forearms for a moment. “Yes. He’s upstairs resting. The trip was quite a strain on him. He’s not been well.”
The comte searched her face. She looked haggard; her skin was pale; dark shadows hung at her eyes. She seemed uncomfortable with his gaze, and turned back to the long windows, seeking the sun. She rubbed her arms as if she were cold.
The comte searched his jacket pocket for his pipe, and began to load and tamp it down. He kept his eyes on his work. “Julien is sick?” He kept his words as level as possible, and focused on lighting his pipe. He exhaled, and smoke curled up around him. He inhaled again and moved to the window beside her.
Marie turned and met his gaze. The blue of the walls cast a harsh shadow on her skin, making her look gray and sickly herself. “Yes.” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “His stomach. He’s had a very rough time keeping anything down. I thought it would be best—that he would recover better if he were here.”
She took a deep breath, and the comte noticed that her body almost shook with the effort of appearing calm. “Yes,” Marie replied. “He’s upstairs resting. Perhaps the waters of Vichy can work their magic on him.”
“I’m surprised you dared to travel so far, if he’s that ill.” The comte took another long drag on his pipe. He stared out into the green lawn, the deeper green of the woods beyond. Servants were on the terrace, gathering up the plates and silverware, crystal and linen, from the outside table. Wind gusted, lifting the edges of the tablecloth as they worked.
Marie nodded, and turned toward him. Her eyes were brittle. “He can get better care here,” she said. “Better doctors. And servants”—she raised her eyes to the floor above them—“to help.”
“Have you any idea what might be wrong?” The comte inhaled, and blew smoke toward the window.
Marie seemed to be finding it difficult to get the words out. “We thought it might be the water. Conditions are so primitive there. Perhaps something has contaminated the well.” Her words sounded rehearsed. Both the comte and his oldest daughter were well trained at maintaining composure, at framing information in the most beneficial way, but the air was thick with what was not being said.
The comte took another deep drag on his pipe, let the smoke out slowly. “I see.”
Marie turned her head toward the window. She sat down on the arm edge of a chair, her body stiff and brittle, like a china doll perched on a shelf.
The comte stood beside her, but did not turn to look at her. “Marie, I have not survived eighty-five years of French politics because I’m a fool. One does not run halfway around the world, with a man who is deathly ill, because of bad water. You could have drawn water from a different source—drilled another
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