The Blood of Lorraine by Barbara Pope

what you had seen, our son would be born with a scar down his front, just like that poor, little baby left by the river? Perhaps after all your talk about progress and women’s rights, you are secretly that superstitious.”
    “Clarie—”
    “Well, I am not,” she said as she threw her napkin on the table and, using both her hands, pushed herself up. “And I am not feeling well, so I am going to bed. Rose will clear when you are done. Good night, gentlemen.”
    “Clarie!” This time Martin rose, about to run after her.
    Giuseppe stuck out a stout, strong arm to stop him. “Sit. Eat. Let her be for a while.”
    Martin stood for just a moment before sinking back into the chair.
    “Even though Clarie’s mother had borne six sons for her first husband,” Giuseppe said as he filled Martin’s wine glass, “she still had the nerves during her last month with our little Clarie. And then, after our beautiful baby came, it was all smiles.”
    “I know. That’s why….” Martin stopped himself. The white-haired Giuseppe Falchetti was a fine man, a lovable man, but he could not possibly know what it was like to carry the gory images of dead bodies around in your head or realize that, once again, you had been handed a career-threatening case. That it could be Aix-en-Provence all over again.
    “We should eat,” said Giuseppe as he tore a piece of bread and used it to wipe around the rim of his bowl, “we should drink, and then we should take a walk.”
    Martin fingered his fork, listening for any sounds from the bedroom. Sobs? Slamming? Shoes being thrown on the floor? Nothing.
    “Eat while it’s hot. She loves you. She worries about you, that’s all.” Giuseppe imbibed another mouthful and grunted with pleasure.
    “That’s all?” Then why the empty chair, the chastened Rose, the two men left alone in front of a rapidly congealing feast?
    Giuseppe leaned toward Martin. “She asked me to get you to walk me back to the hotel tonight. She wanted us to try to talk about what is bothering you.”
    The kind-hearted, burly Giuseppe was a second father to Martin. He knew that even when the Italian pounded the table and roared out his opposition to the oppressive laws that Martin was charged with upholding, he did it with good humor and love, as a way of engaging and embracing the son he’d never had. Nevertheless, Martin was not in the mood to spar with him tonight.
    “Clarie and I should not involve you in our quarrels,” Martin said, as he concentrated on twirling the spaghetti round and round on his fork.
    “But I am involved!” Giuseppe stretched out his arms and then thumped his heart with his right hand. “I am. After all, I was the fool who brought the paper home.”
    “And she asked you after she read—”
    “No, before. Clarie’s too smart a girl not to notice that something’s wrong.”
    Before . Martin deposited the forkful of pasta into his mouth and began to chew. Even before she saw the newspaper, she had asked her father to get involved. And Martin thought he had been protecting her. He was a fool.
    Giuseppe set Clarie’s half-full bowl inside his and pushed them aside. “So you see, my boy, we’re both under orders.”
     
    Giuseppe insisted that they stop for a drink as they headed down the hill toward the railroad station. They chose a dimly lit café, with only a scattering of customers, and took a corner table near the window. Martin stared at the red-and-white checked table cloth in sullen silence as Giuseppe ordered two cognacs. Neither said another word until the blacksmith’s patient expectant gaze resigned Martin to the inevitable.
    Yes, Martin admitted, he was keeping the weaver and the tanner under lock and key. Yes, he was under pressure to do this. “But,” Martin whispered, “there may be a great deal more at stake.” Giuseppe nodded sagely when Martin asked if he was aware of the upcoming trial of Captain Dreyfus in Paris. Then the old man shrugged.
    “Who cares about