The Blood of Lorraine Read online

  “But this place is so small,” Madeleine objected.

  “And it took all we had to furnish it and hire Rose, our day woman. I suppose that in a year or so we’ll have to move across the railroad tracks to one of the new neighborhoods. But for now, we’re quite happy,” Clarie said, hoping that would put an end to it.

  “Here? Above one of your students? Having her father as your landlord?”

  “Rebecca Stein is very respectful. She always asks before she visits. And she’s a sweet girl.” Clarie reached over to the plate that lay on the end table by her chair and picked up a small ginger biscuit. “She brought these to me this morning, with the excuse that she had made too many for her family. I think she just wanted to show she was thinking of me.”

  Clarie began to chew on the sugary biscuit to hide her irritation.

  “That’s because she worships you. They all do. They must find me a very poor substitute.”

  “Oh Madeleine, you mustn’t think that way,” Clarie said, exasperated, even though there were times she suspected her companion was not a very popular teacher. “Think of all the things you taught me, I was such a country bumpkin—”

  “That was a long time ago.” Madeleine concentrated on buttoning her gloves as she spoke.

  This time Clarie did manage to push herself up out of the armchair. If only there was something she could do for her friend. She was about to reach out to her when she heard the key rattle in the door. Both of them turned and watched as Bernard came into the foyer. As soon as he saw them, he took off his bowler. “Madame Froment,” he greeted Madeleine with a slight bow of his head.

  “Monsieur Martin.” Madeleine nodded. She seemed quite aware that Bernard did not like her.

  Clarie went over to him, although she knew he would not kiss or embrace her. Not in front of a guest. Not even in front of the maid. Her judge was so reserved. Still he smiled at her, before frowning.

  “Sorry I’m late. I know we have to get ready. I was held up.”

  “That’s right,” Madeleine said, “I’ve been keeping you. You need to get properly dressed.”

  “Oh, I’m in no hurry,” Clarie smiled. “In my condition you don’t have to worry about being too fashionable, thank God. Bernard,” she turned to her husband, “will you fetch Madeleine’s coat? And you,” she took Madeleine’s two hands in hers, “don’t worry so much. By this time next year I’m sure you’ll find a good position.” Clarie pressed until she felt her grasp being returned.

  “My dear,” Madeleine said as she pulled away, “I do hope you enjoy yourself tonight.”

  Clarie shook her head. “Neither of us is looking forward to it, I can assure you.” She said this for Madeleine’s benefit, so that she would not envy them this occasion, and because it was true.

  The empty crib—and the images it evoked of the baby in the morgue—added to Martin’s apprehensions as he and Clarie maneuvered around their cramped bedroom, getting dressed for their first formal dinner in Nancy. He knew that Clarie had been dreading this occasion from the day of their arrival more than two years ago. Being a shy man from a relatively humble background, Martin was just as uneasy about social duties. Especially tonight. If only he had not promised Singer that he would find a way to talk to the prosecutor. Still the courthouse was his world, not Clarie’s, and his first duty was to set his fretting, pregnant wife at ease.

  “You know they are going to think I am unnatural, too ambitious to be really womanly, just because I chose to work for a living,” Clarie said as she closed the armoire and threw her woolen cape on the bed beside him.

  “I am sure they will know you are quite womanly. You’re beautiful. And you are obviously about to be a mother.”

  “And awkward, too, like a goose,” she grumbled as she moved over to the dresser. “A big blue goose,” she added referring to the satin dress that she and Rose, their day woman, had hastily put together for the occasion.

  “More beautiful than ever,” Martin murmured as he pulled up his silk stockings and slipped into his shoes.

  Clarie fell into silence as she put on sparkling blue earrings and stuck a matching pin into the coil of hair she had wound at the back of her head. She picked up the heavy silver-and-sapphire pendant her mother had left her. “Help me with this?” she asked.

  “With pleasure.” Martin tried to maintain the jocularity in his voice as he got up and took the necklace from her. After he fastened the clasp, he kissed the fragrant spot on her neck where she had just applied her perfume. He looked up to see her smiling in the mirror. How could he not love his passionate Arlésienne? Compared to her, he was an unobtrusive presence in the world—grayish blue eyes, brown hair and beard already flecked with gray, everything about him plain and ordinary. Clarie, with her mass of black hair and great almond-shaped brown eyes, made a mark everywhere she went. He watched as she began to finger her pendant. The mischievous glimmer in her eyes dimmed.

  “I know you wish your mother were alive for this,” he said softly.

  “And you, your father.” Spoken like the brave girl she was.

  But it was different for her. Although they had both lost a parent, Martin was sure that at a time like this a woman must need her mother. Besides, Giuseppe Falchetti, Clarie’s father, had become a second father to him. As for his mother, she had never forgiven him for choosing a blacksmith’s daughter over a rich cousin from an influential family and, consequently, had never taken to Clarie. Martin kissed his beautiful wife again. “At least we have each other.”

  “You never told me why you were delayed today,” she said, giving him a playful push to break the mood.

  Martin crossed to the armoire to get his silk cravat. “Just a case that Singer wanted to discuss with me,” he said, facing the closet to avoid looking at her. This was foolish, of course. The image of the grotesquely maimed baby was not etched across his forehead.

  “And?” Clarie always took a lively interest in his work.

  “And nothing. Boring technicalities.” He closed his eyes, assaulted by guilt. He had never kept anything from her before. Would he feel more terrible if he told her the truth about what he had seen at the morgue? He could not do that. Not now. He took a deep breath and turned to her. “I’d wager that your conversation with Madeleine was much more exciting.”

  “Not likely.” Clarie shrugged. “More of the usual: the poor king in exile, the Church under siege, the godless Republic corrupted by power-mongering Protestants and Jews. Mostly the Jews, of course.” She rolled her eyes and gave him a crooked ironic grin.

  Martin yanked at his cravat as he tried to tie it. He was well aware of Madeleine Froment’s reactionary opinions, but he had forgotten her particular animus against the Israelites. Did he need another reminder that he had more to do at dinner than get Clarie through it?

  “I can see you are annoyed.”

  “No, not at all,” although he was. “It’s just too bad that you have to spend so much time with her. You should be resting, enjoying yourself.”

  “You men are so silly. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands. And it costs nothing to listen to the poor dear.”

  Poor insufferable dear, Martin thought as he peered in the mirror and angrily botched the knot again.

  “Don’t tell me you’re as nervous as I am,” Clarie laughed. “Let me do that for you, or we’ll never get out of here.”

  He gladly submitted to her ministrations. Although Martin was a man of medium height, Clarie was almost as tall as he was. Her hair tickled his nose as she concentrated on his tie. Having her so near, smelling her scent, feeling her warmth restored his good humor.

  “There,” she stood back, “you look very handsome.”

  “Hardly.” But what did it matter? Clarie had told him he was, and was laughing.

  “We’d better hurry,” she warned. “I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”

  “Right you are.” Martin picked up Clarie’s cape and wrapped it around her. After he had thoroughly shielded her
against the cold, he kissed the slightly upturned tip of her long, thin nose. “Courage!” he whispered. They would both need it.

  Clarie prayed that no one would demonstrate any curiosity about her or her pregnant state until after dinner, when the men separated themselves from the women in order to smoke and “talk business.” The introductions in the gas-lit drawing room, to seven of Bernard’s colleagues and six of their wives, passed smoothly enough. One only had to smile politely and sip on the champagne offered by the liveried servants. But as soon as she entered the rectangular dining room, with its dark walls hung with crimson-colored embossed paper, Clarie began to feel closed in. Illuminated only by huge ornate candelabras, the room’s opulence gleamed at her from all directions: from sideboards covered with dishes filled with steaming food, to the heavily framed portraits hanging on the wall, to the long dining table, where each setting held a daunting surfeit of shining silverware and gold-rimmed plates. Worse, as first-timers, she and Bernard were given seats of honor, he by the hostess at the foot of the table, she by Charles du Manoir at its head.

  Mercifully, as the Presiding Judge of the Court at Nancy, du Manoir enjoyed holding forth and ignored her most of the time. When he did give her his attention, he proved to be a solicitous host, exchanging innocuous pleasantries, and tacitly guiding her through the proper order of things by being first to pick up the appropriate utensil for each course. Clarie began to breathe more easily as the paté, the bisque, the turbot, and the roast beef succeeded each other.

  Her particular purgatory did not ensue until the white-and-black-uniformed maids began to offer the tray of cheeses. The mistress of the house, Albertine du Manoir, could no longer suppress her curiosity.

  “So, Madame Martin,” she began, almost shouting from the opposite end of the table, “you teach?”

  “Yes,” Clarie said as she glanced at her husband through the branches of the candelabras.

  “The upper grades?” Mme du Manoir spoke even louder this time, encouraging her prey to do the same. Her neck craned upward from her portly body. Clarie could clearly see all the white curls her elderly high-born hostess had so carefully arranged around her stern, powdered face.

  “Yes, at one of the new public high schools for girls.” Clarie got it out quickly. Her heart began to pound. She had said it. She was working in a place that was “new” and “public,” certainly not the way the wife of a judge should spend her time. Perhaps all these facts run together would shock them into silence, at least for the moment.

  It did. And the silence was unnatural. The clink of silver on plate had ceased. So had the murmur of conversation. Clarie took a sip of wine; her mouth was running dry.

  “And how, my dear, did you learn to do that?” Mme du Manoir was not about to let her off the hook.

  “I was trained at a boarding school, at Sèvres, just outside of Paris.” Clarie put down her knife and fork. She had no need for more food, and she certainly was not going to eat when all eyes were on her. If only she were sitting beside Bernard, he’d do something reassuring.

  “You went off to Paris on your own?” asked the prosecutor’s wife, who sat directly across from her. She was younger than most of the other guests, perhaps in her thirties. A pretty brunette with an oval face, which expressed surprise, but, Clarie hoped, not disapproval.

  Clarie nodded and looked down at her plate.

  “How extraordinary.”

  Clarie was not even sure who had interjected this comment, which was not meant as a compliment.

  “Yes, it was extraordinary. Very competitive,” Bernard intervened, leaning over the table to get the attention of the diners.

  “Still, a young woman, alone, allowed to roam the city with other young women. I understand there were no restrictions on travel.” Clarie could have sworn that Mme du Manoir’s jowls were shaking in disapproval. Her large diamond earrings quivered and shimmered in the candlelight.

  “Only the restraints of a very strict morality. A Kantian morality, to be specific. I can tell you,” Bernard continued, “that I was more nervous about asking the headmistress for Clarie’s hand than her father. Mme Favre was much more exacting about who could court her students.”

  “You actually asked the headmistress’s permission?” The prosecutor’s wife smiled in amazement. Clarie’s chivalrous defender had won at least one of them over.

  “I did not drop to my knees,” Bernard paused before adding, “but let me tell you, I felt I should have.”

  This even drew appreciative titters.

  “Still,” Mme du Manoir laid her hand on Bernard’s as if to forestall more frivolity, “one wonders, what kind of woman would pursue such a difficult profession.” She stared in Clarie’s direction, waiting for an answer.

  Clarie’s felt a rush of blood spreading across her cheeks and forehead. How could any of them possibly know how difficult it was? First there was the uncertainty about finding a place. And when you found one, facing all those eager girls, expecting you to teach them everything under the sun. Staying up until the early morning hours, preparing, almost crying with fatigue. “Actually,” she said trying to keep her voice as even as possible, “the students at Sèvres come from all walks of life.”

  Mme du Manoir raised her eyebrows. “Surely not.”

  Was this the point where Clarie was supposed to admit that her own father was an immigrant and a blacksmith, and Bernard’s had been merely a clockmaker? She held her hands tight under the table to keep from trembling. She was becoming a spectacle.

  “Albertine,” Monsieur du Manoir came to Clarie’s rescue, “if our republican government has decreed that young women deserve a secondary education, who better to give it to them, a nun or someone who will become a wife and a mother?”

  “Hear! Hear! Let’s raise a glass to that!” cried out Alphonse Rocher, the senior examining magistrate, whose face was already ruddy with drink. A dozen diners, in various stages of reluctance and bewilderment, lifted their glasses. Relieved at the distraction, Clarie again refused the cheese plate. After the anemic toast, the table dissolved again into the sharp clink of silverware and the soft murmur of private conversations. Still flustered, Clarie surveyed the scene under lowered eyes. When she saw the servants arranging ices and cakes on the sideboard, she let her hands slip apart and breathed a sigh of relief. It was almost over.

  Martin touched the tips of Clarie’s fingers with his own as he passed her on his way to the library with the other male guests. This was his unspoken apology. He didn’t like having to leave her at the mercy of “the ladies,” but there was nothing to be done about it. As soon as he consulted with Théophile Didier, the prosecutor, Martin had every intention of getting Clarie away.

  Martin paused at the entrance to the library and took a deep breath. Unless there was some truth to Singer’s assertions, this should be easy. If the Proc refused to let him lead the investigation, then Martin would explain to Singer that he had done his best. If Didier agreed to hand the case over to Martin, a much more likely possibility, then he would begin to concentrate on formulating a plan of action. Either way, Martin told himself as he pulled down his dinner jacket and forged ahead, a definitive decision should help him get through the weekend without seeing flashes of that little corpse in his mind’s eye.

  The rest of the men were gathered around du Manoir’s gargantuan mahogany desk, where the servants had set out the cigars and cognac. Big as it was, the desk was dwarfed by a room lined with books reaching up to a very high ceiling. The Presiding Judge had even installed a movable ladder so that he, or his servants, could reach the top shelves. Martin doubted that this device was used much. Du Manoir had never struck him as a very deep thinker.

  Martin refused a cigar and picked up a snifter of cognac, planting himself at the edge of the conversation, waiting for his chance. When Didier broke off from the rest of the smokers to peruse a shelf of books, Martin immediately approached him.

  “Singer came to see me this afternoon,” he
began.

  “Oh, really?” Didier arched his eyebrows and took a sip from his tiny round glass of cognac. He was a tall, thin man with curly, close-cut sandy hair. He usually wore the severe expression appropriate to his calling on his clean-shaven face. Even in this social situation, he demonstrated one of his many well-known tactics, forcing the witness to fill in all the details and, possibly, to stumble.

  “He was upset about the case you just handed him, the mutilated baby and the accusation of ritual murder.” Martin lifted his glass to his lips, although it hardly sheltered him from Didier’s unflinching blue-eyed gaze.

  “And?” the prosecutor asked.

  “And, he’d like me to take it over.” There, now it was Didier’s turn. Martin took a gulp of the warm amber brandy.

  But instead of responding, Didier whispered a warning. “I think Rocher is heading our way.”

  There was a general, unspoken disdain around the courthouse for the portly Alphonse Rocher, Nancy’s senior examining magistrate, who somehow had blustered his way to the top. Reluctantly, Martin stepped aside, allowing the man who had offered the clumsy toast to Clarie to join their circle.

  “What’s this? Talking business?” Rocher asked, before sucking contentedly on his cigar.

  “You might say that.” Didier’s smile went up one side of his face as he gave Martin an expectant look.

  “Well, let’s hear it then!” Rocher exclaimed, the dinner’s drink having made him even more voluble than usual.

  “It’s nothing,” Martin muttered as he took another sip and tried to step back further from both of them.

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that. I bet it is something.” With his rosy cheeks, walrus mustache and generous mane of white hair, Rocher could have been any child’s jolly grandfather. But he wasn’t supposed to be indulgent and jocular. Judges were supposed to be serious about their duties and their responsibilities. Martin had no desire to discuss Singer’s request with him.