The Blood of Lorraine by Barbara Pope Page B

silence for a full minute before introducing himself. Her black shoes and patched green dress, each too thin to ward off the wintry cold, were as drab and worn as she was. Aware of his scrutiny, the wet-nurse lifted the shawl from her head and brought it down to her shoulders, clutching it with both hands across her bosom. Was she possibly hiding the fact that the breasts she was supposed to be using to feed the little victim had dried up? If so, her attempt at subterfuge encouraged Martin to draw out the silence. When she began to breathe through her mouth, almost gasping for air, he could see that her teeth, like the strands of hair on her head, were dingier and sparser than they should be. An unpleasant fetid odor, a potent mix of malnutrition and fear, emanated from her open mouth. Martin drew back in his chair. How had this unhealthy creature come to be a wet nurse? Wealthy families examined their live-in nannies from head to foot before employing them, even counting and pulling at their teeth, as if they were horses or cattle. Obviously, Martin thought, poorer families had fewer choices. Or had Marc-Antoine’s parents simply cared less? This is one of the things that Martin needed to find out. Had little Marc-Antoine died by intention, or neglect?
    By the time Martin took up his pen, Geneviève Philipon’s hands were visibly shaking. As if on cue, Charpentier, who had been mirroring the relentless severity of his superior, flipped open the notebook that would contain the official version of the interrogation.
    Judge and clerk always began with the preliminaries of identification and background—Where were you born? Where have you lived? How much schooling do you have? What is your work? How much property do you own? Whom did you marry, and when, and why? And, of course, have you ever been in trouble with the authorities? First-time suspects were often puzzled, even visibly annoyed by these drawn-out preliminaries. So many questions, and for what? An examining magistrate knew exactly what: he was building a portrait of the witness, in order to understand her motives and gauge what punishments to mete out. And if it drove a suspect a little mad, that was fine. The better to get her to blurt out an incriminating response. The wet nurse, being humble and puzzled, mumbled her responses to dozens of questions as her eyes darted back and forth between Martin, the inquisitor, and Charpentier, his recorder.
    It turned out that hers was an all-too-common tale of woe. Born into an impoverished family of eleven children in the town of Tomblaine, married to a dirt farmer at the age of seventeen, widowed by a freak accident when pregnant with her third child, Geneviève Philipon had always been in desperate straits and was sinking fast.
    Offering herself as a wet nurse had been her way of getting enough money to hire a man to help her with the planting and harvesting.
    “So this is the first time that you have cared for another’s child?” Martin asked. Up to this point, he had tried to lull her into talking freely by maintaining a calm and matter-of-fact demeanor.
    Geneviève Philipon nodded, as her lips stretched into a painful grimace. Tears and sobs followed as she let go of her shawl and hid her face in her trembling hands.
    Martin shifted in his chair, waiting for her to calm down. Now that they were getting to it, she could not hide her despair. But he had to remain hard. Get this damned case over with.
    “Then why did the Thomases hire you? Surely you were not the most qualified.” He didn’t like to think about how dispensable the children of the poor were, and felt blessed that Clarie was insisting that she would breastfeed their child herself.
    The wet nurse wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She lowered her eyes, focusing on the floor. Martin could almost read an “if only” in them, if only she hadn’t been the one caring for the child. Then she wouldn’t be here now. Everything would be different! His