nodded, very quickly. Who was she mourning? A husband, a son, a daughter, a mother? Did she talk to her dead the way I did?
You never asked what I said to Baptiste when I visited him. You were most respectful. I can tell you now. I gave him all the news and tidbits about our neighborhood. I told him how Madame Chanteloup’s shop on the rue des Ciseaux nearly burned to the ground and how the firemen fought all night long to master the flames and how exciting yet horrible it had been. I told him how his friends were bearing up (funny little Gustave on the rue de la Petite Boucherie, and rebellious Adèle on the rue Sainte-Marthe). I told him how I had found a new cook, Mariette, talented and timid, and Germaine bossed her around in a scandalous fashion until I put my foot down, or rather you did, as the man of the house.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, I went to the graveyard to talk to my son. I told him things I never dared tell you, my very dear. Our new Emperor, for instance, and how I was not impressed by the runt of a man parading on his horse under a cold drizzle with crowds hollering, “Long live the Emperor!” especially after all those deaths during his coup d’état. I told him about the great balloon bearing a majestic eagle that floated over the roofs in the Emperor’s wake. The balloon was rather impressive, I whispered to Baptiste, but the Emperor was anything but that. However, you believed, at that time, like the majority of people, that the Emperor was “remarkable.” I was far too soft-spoken to voice my true political feelings. So I quietly told Baptiste that in my humble opinion, those haughty Bonapartes were far too full of themselves. I told him about the lavish wedding at the cathedral, with the new Spanish-born Empress that everyone wanted to see, that everyone made a fuss of. And then, when the Prince was born, I told him about the cannonballs fired from the Invalides. How jealous I was of that baby prince! I wonder if you ever felt it. Seven years beforehand, we had lost our own baby prince, our Baptiste. I could not bear reading the interminable articles in the press about the new royal child, and I carefully averted my eyes so that every new and sickening portrait of the Empress preening herself with her son could no longer be seen.
GILBERT HAS INTERRUPTED ME with the most astounding news. He has just seen Alexandrine skulking along the street. I asked him what he meant. He looked at me sternly.
“Your flower girl, Madame Rose. The tall, dark one with all that hair and a round face.”
“Yes, that’s her,” I said, smiling inwardly at his description, which was most fitting.
“Well, she was just outside the house, Madame Rose, peering in. I thought she was going to ring on your bell or open the door, so I gave her a little fright. It’s getting mighty dark out there, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when I popped out of that corner. She scuttled off like a frantic hen, and she did not have time to recognize me, I can assure you.”
“What was she doing?” I asked.
“Well, I believe she was looking for you, Madame Rose.”
I stared at his grimy face.
“But she thinks I’m with Violette, or on my way there.”
He pursed his lips together.
“She’s a bright girl, Madame Rose. You know that. She won’t be taken in that easily.”
He was right, of course. A few weeks ago, Alexandrine had supervised the packing up and removal of my furniture and valises with an eagle eye.
“Are you truly going to your daughter’s place, Madame Rose?” she had asked nonchalantly, bent over one of my cases as she struggled to close it with Germaine’s help.
And I had replied, even more nonchalantly, gazing at the darker patch on the wall where the oval mirror used to hang:
“Well, of course I am. But first I shall spend some time with the Baronne de Vresse. Germaine is going down to my daughter’s with most of my luggage.”
Alexandrine had shot a
You never asked what I said to Baptiste when I visited him. You were most respectful. I can tell you now. I gave him all the news and tidbits about our neighborhood. I told him how Madame Chanteloup’s shop on the rue des Ciseaux nearly burned to the ground and how the firemen fought all night long to master the flames and how exciting yet horrible it had been. I told him how his friends were bearing up (funny little Gustave on the rue de la Petite Boucherie, and rebellious Adèle on the rue Sainte-Marthe). I told him how I had found a new cook, Mariette, talented and timid, and Germaine bossed her around in a scandalous fashion until I put my foot down, or rather you did, as the man of the house.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, I went to the graveyard to talk to my son. I told him things I never dared tell you, my very dear. Our new Emperor, for instance, and how I was not impressed by the runt of a man parading on his horse under a cold drizzle with crowds hollering, “Long live the Emperor!” especially after all those deaths during his coup d’état. I told him about the great balloon bearing a majestic eagle that floated over the roofs in the Emperor’s wake. The balloon was rather impressive, I whispered to Baptiste, but the Emperor was anything but that. However, you believed, at that time, like the majority of people, that the Emperor was “remarkable.” I was far too soft-spoken to voice my true political feelings. So I quietly told Baptiste that in my humble opinion, those haughty Bonapartes were far too full of themselves. I told him about the lavish wedding at the cathedral, with the new Spanish-born Empress that everyone wanted to see, that everyone made a fuss of. And then, when the Prince was born, I told him about the cannonballs fired from the Invalides. How jealous I was of that baby prince! I wonder if you ever felt it. Seven years beforehand, we had lost our own baby prince, our Baptiste. I could not bear reading the interminable articles in the press about the new royal child, and I carefully averted my eyes so that every new and sickening portrait of the Empress preening herself with her son could no longer be seen.
GILBERT HAS INTERRUPTED ME with the most astounding news. He has just seen Alexandrine skulking along the street. I asked him what he meant. He looked at me sternly.
“Your flower girl, Madame Rose. The tall, dark one with all that hair and a round face.”
“Yes, that’s her,” I said, smiling inwardly at his description, which was most fitting.
“Well, she was just outside the house, Madame Rose, peering in. I thought she was going to ring on your bell or open the door, so I gave her a little fright. It’s getting mighty dark out there, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when I popped out of that corner. She scuttled off like a frantic hen, and she did not have time to recognize me, I can assure you.”
“What was she doing?” I asked.
“Well, I believe she was looking for you, Madame Rose.”
I stared at his grimy face.
“But she thinks I’m with Violette, or on my way there.”
He pursed his lips together.
“She’s a bright girl, Madame Rose. You know that. She won’t be taken in that easily.”
He was right, of course. A few weeks ago, Alexandrine had supervised the packing up and removal of my furniture and valises with an eagle eye.
“Are you truly going to your daughter’s place, Madame Rose?” she had asked nonchalantly, bent over one of my cases as she struggled to close it with Germaine’s help.
And I had replied, even more nonchalantly, gazing at the darker patch on the wall where the oval mirror used to hang:
“Well, of course I am. But first I shall spend some time with the Baronne de Vresse. Germaine is going down to my daughter’s with most of my luggage.”
Alexandrine had shot a
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