Time for Eternity by Susan Squires

rooted out, not only of this generation, but of generations to come. To see children in such surroundings brought home that these policies were lunacy.
    Hands stretched out to her as she walked by, but other prisoners just stared, vacant-eyed. They were by far more frightening.
    At last the guard stopped in front of a cell no different than the others. “In here,” he said.
    She could see nothing behind the first row of prisoners pushed up against the bars. “Madame?” she called. “Madame LaFleur?”
    “She is in the back,” a sad-eyed man of perhaps thirty said. He carried a towheaded boy of about four in grimy short pants in one arm, pressed up against the bars. Perhaps the air was better toward the front. “She will never be able to push her way to the fore.”
    “Oh, dear.” Françoise’s eyes welled. Was Madame even alive back there?
    The sad-eyed man pursed his lips as though making a decision. He set down the child in the crush against the bars. “Watch my boy,” he said to Françoise and began to shove his way back into the throng. “Make way there! Make way.” The little boy began to cry.
    Françoise knelt. “And what is your name, brave boy?”
    “Emile,” the child snuffled. He turned up a dirty face streaked with tears. “Is Papa coming back?” The throng had swallowed his father but his continued progress was betrayed by the wave of angry protests.
    “Of course he’ll come back,” she said briskly. “Where is your mama?” Tears welled again in the child’s eyes. Françoise had a horrible feeling she shouldn’t have asked.
    “They took her. Papa says she isn’t coming back.”
    Françoise stuck her arms through the bars and held the child, shushing softly. What villainy was this that could tear families apart?
    A woman pressed above them murmured soft encouragement. They stayed like that, aching, until Emile ’s father reemerged, a breathless Madame LaFleur in tow.
    “Oh, madame, how glad I am to see you,” Françoise said. “Thank you, monsieur. May I know your name?”
    The sad-eyed man picked up his clinging boy and smiled. “I was the Comte d’Ambroney. In these troubled times, call me Christophe St. Navarre.”
    “You have a brave boy, Comte.”
    The man smiled at his son, but the smile was wistful. “He is the best of me.”
    Madame pushed the last few feet through to bars. She reached through the grating and grabbed Françoise ’s hand, her expression clouded. “You should not have come here.” She glanced to the guard. “It is too dangerous to be seen with me.”
    “And could I let you languish here alone? Not likely.” She leaned in. It was not as if their conversation could be private what with people pressed in on either side of them. “My benefactor will secure your release, I’m sure,” she whispered.
    Madame’s old eyes held pity in them. That surprised Françoise. It was she who should pity her friend. Madame was about to say something, then thought better of it. “Of course,” she said lightly. “Your benefactor, he is good to you?”
    “I had lobster for dinner last night with a salt cellar on the table.”
    Madame frowned. “I’m sure you did. But is he good to you?”
    Françoise snorted. “Good? Avignon? The two words cannot exist in the same sentence.”
    Madame shook her head. “I mean … is he a gentleman?” she whispered.
    Françoise smiled ruefully. “What would a man like him want with a girl like me?”
    Madame grimaced. “If I need to tell you that, you are in more danger than I thought.”
    Françoise blushed. “You needn’t worry. He thinks me a nuisance. But he will intercede on your behalf and then we will be comfortable again.”
    Again the look of pity. Françoise was about to protest that look when the guard interrupted. “You there, girl. Enough. You come back tomorrow if you want to chat.” He prodded Françoise away. She stretched her hand back to Madame, who reached out through the bars to prolong the human