doing? Chasing each other, somersaulting, laughing, rude noises, buying cakes at corner, etc.
Intelligence appeared to satisfy him. However, I observed alteration in demeanor. Asked if something was wrong. He shook head. Later, tho, as we descended stairs, he asked (in a whisper) if the children were coming to kill him.
17 F RUCTIDOR
Have made repeated requests for assistant. 1 hr/day of care not sufficient. Guards refuse to carry out instructions. Lacking anyone to administer physics, salve & dress lesions, exercise limbs, etc., patient unlikely to recover. Have been told that Committee has it under consid.
20 F RUCTIDOR
No word.
22 F RUCTIDOR
Still no word. Delays v. frustrating .
23 F RUCTIDOR
Word reached me late A.M. : Committee has granted request. Assistant to begin work next week.
Have been told little about him. Trade: upholstering. Repub credentials: impeccable. Modest experience in nursing. Name: Chrétien Leblanc.
CHAPTER 13
An Ancient Relic Rediscovered
H ERE’S A WONDER . At dinner, Nankeen breathes not a word of our recent encounter. Whenever I catch his eye, he’s the one looking away, and as soon as dinner’s over, he excuses himself and retires upstairs to his studies.
He’s ashamed, is that it? Or else, in those few moments when Vidocq held him by the shirtfront, he caught scent of a different world—where civilization and nankeen trousers availeth a man not. Or maybe I’m only saying that because it’s the way I feel.
At any rate, the disappointed Rosbif and Lapin retire without bloodying any of their fellow eaters; Charlotte takes away the dishes; and the only ones left in the dining room are Mother and me. Not that she notices. This being Friday night, she is polishing her silver.
The silver was part of her bridal trousseau, and to the best of my knowledge, it has never actually been used. (All the lodgers of Maison Carpentier make do with pewter.) In no way does this discourage her weekly ablutions. She wraps one of Charlotte’s aprons round her black tulle dress, sheathes her sleeves in muslin, and bears down, with a surgeon’s fixity. Before five minutes have passed, her arms are coated in a viscous, pearly lather, as though she had plunged them into a whale.
“Mother.”
She doesn’t look up or greet me or do anything that would loosen her mind’s grip. She says only:
“The newel post is still loose.”
“I know.”
“You said you’d get to it.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday. The day before, too, if I—”
“Mother, please. I need to ask you about something.”
My temples are pulsing, and as I pass my hand over my face, a slick of sweat comes free.
“Not something,” I correct myself. “Some one .”
“Who?”
“Father.”
And here she does, in fact, pause in her labors. For one second.
“What could I possibly tell you,” she says, taking up her chamois once more, “that you don’t already know? You grew up in this house, you saw him every day of your life. That was you living here all those years, wasn’t it?”
“That was me.”
“Well, what a relief. I thought perhaps you were…a changeling or…something like that….”
For the next half minute, the only sound is the friction of cloth against teaspoon.
“Of course,” I say, “just because you live with someone doesn’t mean you won’t have questions about them.”
The cloth halts for a fraction of a second, then hurries on.
“People are what they are, Hector. There’s no point in…there it is.”
“He was a doctor once.”
“Who?”
“Father.”
Her eyes now are flat and gray, and orbiting, as though she’s mislaid something.
“That was many years ago, Hector.”
“Why did he stop?”
“Ohh.”
She wipes her forehead with her sleeve. The gray froth clusters over her eyes like a third brow.
“He had his reasons,” she says. “I’m sure he did.”
“What were they?”
“Oh, how ridiculous you sound,
Intelligence appeared to satisfy him. However, I observed alteration in demeanor. Asked if something was wrong. He shook head. Later, tho, as we descended stairs, he asked (in a whisper) if the children were coming to kill him.
17 F RUCTIDOR
Have made repeated requests for assistant. 1 hr/day of care not sufficient. Guards refuse to carry out instructions. Lacking anyone to administer physics, salve & dress lesions, exercise limbs, etc., patient unlikely to recover. Have been told that Committee has it under consid.
20 F RUCTIDOR
No word.
22 F RUCTIDOR
Still no word. Delays v. frustrating .
23 F RUCTIDOR
Word reached me late A.M. : Committee has granted request. Assistant to begin work next week.
Have been told little about him. Trade: upholstering. Repub credentials: impeccable. Modest experience in nursing. Name: Chrétien Leblanc.
CHAPTER 13
An Ancient Relic Rediscovered
H ERE’S A WONDER . At dinner, Nankeen breathes not a word of our recent encounter. Whenever I catch his eye, he’s the one looking away, and as soon as dinner’s over, he excuses himself and retires upstairs to his studies.
He’s ashamed, is that it? Or else, in those few moments when Vidocq held him by the shirtfront, he caught scent of a different world—where civilization and nankeen trousers availeth a man not. Or maybe I’m only saying that because it’s the way I feel.
At any rate, the disappointed Rosbif and Lapin retire without bloodying any of their fellow eaters; Charlotte takes away the dishes; and the only ones left in the dining room are Mother and me. Not that she notices. This being Friday night, she is polishing her silver.
The silver was part of her bridal trousseau, and to the best of my knowledge, it has never actually been used. (All the lodgers of Maison Carpentier make do with pewter.) In no way does this discourage her weekly ablutions. She wraps one of Charlotte’s aprons round her black tulle dress, sheathes her sleeves in muslin, and bears down, with a surgeon’s fixity. Before five minutes have passed, her arms are coated in a viscous, pearly lather, as though she had plunged them into a whale.
“Mother.”
She doesn’t look up or greet me or do anything that would loosen her mind’s grip. She says only:
“The newel post is still loose.”
“I know.”
“You said you’d get to it.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday. The day before, too, if I—”
“Mother, please. I need to ask you about something.”
My temples are pulsing, and as I pass my hand over my face, a slick of sweat comes free.
“Not something,” I correct myself. “Some one .”
“Who?”
“Father.”
And here she does, in fact, pause in her labors. For one second.
“What could I possibly tell you,” she says, taking up her chamois once more, “that you don’t already know? You grew up in this house, you saw him every day of your life. That was you living here all those years, wasn’t it?”
“That was me.”
“Well, what a relief. I thought perhaps you were…a changeling or…something like that….”
For the next half minute, the only sound is the friction of cloth against teaspoon.
“Of course,” I say, “just because you live with someone doesn’t mean you won’t have questions about them.”
The cloth halts for a fraction of a second, then hurries on.
“People are what they are, Hector. There’s no point in…there it is.”
“He was a doctor once.”
“Who?”
“Father.”
Her eyes now are flat and gray, and orbiting, as though she’s mislaid something.
“That was many years ago, Hector.”
“Why did he stop?”
“Ohh.”
She wipes her forehead with her sleeve. The gray froth clusters over her eyes like a third brow.
“He had his reasons,” she says. “I’m sure he did.”
“What were they?”
“Oh, how ridiculous you sound,
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