The Priest's Madonna (13 page)

Gérard evidently thought so, too, for he complimented me on it. “It brings out your pretty eyes,” he said. I did not thank him; I thought he was teasing me. But he went on complimenting me day after day—on my dress, my hair, my face, and even, backhandedly, my intelligence. “You read too much,” he said. “Girls shouldn’t be as smart as you.” Soon it became clear that despite the obvious foolishness of the match, Gérard was indeed courting me. Claude gloated.

I am sure our relationship would not have evolved much beyond those initial conversations had my mother not noticed his interest and encouraged it. She sent me on errands to his family’s farm to buy bottles of their wine just at dinnertime, so they would be obliged to invite me to eat with them. And whenever Gérard walked by, she rushed out to greet him and invited him in. He was not what she’d hoped for as a husband for me—Joseph, Michelle’s husband, came closest to the ideal: a kind and responsible man with a steady, generous income. But Joseph had also taken Michelle away from us. Gérard, she knew, was unlikely to leave Rennes-le-Château.

My mother’s enthusiasm was more than evident to Gérard, even if mine wasn’t. I was awkward and strange with him. The fact was that he bored me to the point of disgust. His good looks had made him proud; he bragged about the number of girls who were in love with him, as if to notify me of how grateful I should be that he chose to spend his time with me. He talked of his family’s vineyard and goats, narrating each day’s progress in excruciating detail. Worst of all, he couldn’t read. When I unwisely spoke to him about Renan, he rolled his eyes. “Here she goes again,” he said, “talking nonsense.” His mind and spirit were wholly provincial. Everything I had come to hate about Rennes seemed embodied in Gérard.

I took refuge in the weekly letters we received from Bérenger. His kind inquiries after each of us and his accounts of his days in Narbonne softened my memory of his doctrinal militancy. He had been appointed as a teacher at the
petit séminaire,
where boys prepared for the priesthood, and his letters poked gentle fun at the innocence of his students. One was perpetually falling asleep in class; another popped chestnuts in his mouth every time Bérenger’s back was turned. Sometimes he wrote about his brother David, who also taught at the seminary. (I gathered David was a heavy drinker, for he was frequently getting into midnight scrapes and having to be rescued from cabarets and other questionable places.) Occasionally, Bérenger alluded to invitations he had received from influential new acquaintances—a count, a duchess, a highly decorated soldier, a prize-winning actress. It appeared that he had become something of a minor hero among his fellow monarchists. He always included a line personally for me, asking whether I’d been reading or how the garden was faring. And he sent gifts: a model ship for Claude, a pretty coral necklace and an embroidered handkerchief for me. I wore both proudly.

“Once I get enough money, I’ll buy you a gold necklace,” Gérard said. “With diamonds.”

Gérard courted me all that spring. When the lilacs began to bloom, he brought me bunches of them, telling me that I should wear them in my hair. I left them scattered on the table. He would bring baskets of food just at midday and ask my mother if he could take me for a picnic, knowing, of course, that she’d order me to go. I went and nibbled sullenly on the bread and cheese. He filled my glass with wine and then scolded me for not drinking enough. “What’s wrong with it? My mother bottled this especially for you.” And when I finished the glass just to keep him quiet, he filled it again to the top.

“I’ll get drunk,” I protested.

“Drunk girls are more fun,” he said.

I will admit to being moved by his good looks. His lips were red and full, like a woman’s, and they stood out appealingly against the flat planes of his tanned cheeks. He wore his hair longer than the other boys in town, letting his loose curls dance at his ears and neck. He was strong and well-proportioned—more lithe and lanky than Bérenger. He always looked as if he’d just come from a party, smiling rakishly and ready to frolic. There were times on our picnics when, tipsy from the wine he’d urged on me, I could look at his face, framed by the wind-bent grasses and the sharp blue sky, and think it might not be so bad to marry him. There were times when I allowed him to kiss me, when I gave myself over to the sensual pleasure of his lips on my face and neck, his broad hands against my back, pressing me to him. But then, inevitably, he would speak and I would remember how dull he was.

He was persistent—almost admirably so, considering how poorly I treated him. He thought I was testing him. He’d say, “How am I doing so far, Marie? Give me some idea,” as if I were keeping score. He laughed off my rejections, which became more and more biting. I once told him that if he were a sheep dog, the sheep would herd him. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Then, one day that spring, a month or so after Gérard had begun courting me, we received news that Bérenger would be returning. The mayor proudly waved the bishop’s letter, declaring that it was our petition that had brought him back. Whether it was or it was simply that Bérenger had completed the term of his suspension, we couldn’t tell, but the fact of his imminent return rekindled hope in the village. My mother finally forgave my father, who sent Claude and me downstairs to sleep by the hearth that night.

Spirits grew buoyant. Many sentences began with the words, “When Monsieur
le curé
returns …” and the gist of what followed was that all would once again be well. Rumors of the tattler were still bruited about—Madame’s name was mentioned, just one more amid the others—but their pace decreased and their savagery diminished. To my mother’s delight, my father rounded up a group of men, including M. Baptiste, M. Paul, and old M. Baudot, and set to refurbishing the presbytery. They swept the floor of debris, hauled out the rotting bedposts and chairs, patched and whitewashed the walls, and replaced the cracked roof tiles until the place was livable. They blissfully hammered, hefted, sawed, and caulked, walking around with pliers and putty knives hanging from their belts like swords and daggers. When they were through, my mother and I cleaned the place thoroughly and arranged an assortment of donated furniture.

I was overjoyed. I let myself imagine that Bérenger was returning for the love of me, that he had been tortured by his absence from me, and had gone to the bishop begging to be reinstated at Rennes. I felt I no longer had to endure Gérard’s advances, no longer had to entertain the notion of marrying him, now that my true love was returning. Even if I had to live the rest of my life as I had lived it until this point—cleaning, cooking, mending, tending—I felt that if I could do it in Bérenger’s presence, I would be happy. He would be my freedom.

I began to ignore Gérard. My mother scolded me fiercely. “You don’t have to marry him, Marie. But you may not treat him like your dog. Have some pity for the poor boy.”

As summer neared and the date of Bérenger’s return approached, I grew anxious. I worried that he might have forgotten me. I dreamt of embracing him. Gérard’s kisses—as disgusted as they made me after the fact—had aroused a new awareness in me. What would a caress be like from someone I truly loved? I longed for it, dreamt of it, ached for it, while simultaneously punishing myself for even considering such a thing. A kiss from Bérenger, however sweet, however passionate, however yearned for, would be an unforgivable transgression. Even if I had rejected the Church, even if I became a diehard anticleric like my father, it would still be a mortal sin to tempt a priest.

I was in this Abélardian frame of mind when Gérard caught me by the arm in front of the château one afternoon. He said he had something he wanted to speak to me about, in private. I answered him roughly. “What do you want?”

“Come here, Marie,” he said angrily. “Can’t you slow down for a minute?” He led me across the square to the water pump and then down the stairs to the grassy hill that supported the ruined wall of the castle. I backed into the branch of a flowering tree, which caught in my hair like fingers.

He looked at me fiercely. “I want to ask you if you’ll marry me,” he said.

I laughed. “What?”

He looked away, at the fields beyond the road, greening with wheat and barley. “You heard what I said.”

“Why are you asking me that, Gérard?” I said, in disbelief. “Honestly. Why?”

“What do you mean?” He was stung.

“We’re completely unsuited. Why don’t you ask one of the ten other girlfriends you have?”

He gritted his jaw. “I’m asking you.”

“Look, Gérard. It’s not a good idea, our getting married. We’d kill each other on our wedding night.”

“That’s not what I’d be doing,” he said and wrapped his hand around my neck to pull me toward him.

I knocked it away. “No. More likely, I’d kill myself.”

He stared, finally hearing me. “You don’t want to marry me?” he said.

“No, Gérard! How can I tell you more plainly? I think you’re boring and dull and I don’t want to marry you. The end!”

“You’re a whore, is what you are.” His words came like a hand against my face. “You’re just waiting for that no-good priest to come back so you can open your legs for him, aren’t you? Can’t you see I’m trying to save you from becoming a priest’s whore?”

I was shocked, not only at the violence of his words but also that he’d guessed my feelings for Bérenger. I turned away and tried to walk back to the stairs, but he grabbed my elbow and pulled me to him, then pinned me against the castle wall with his hips and began kissing me with an open, biting mouth. I screamed, but his mouth muffled the sound. He grabbed at my breasts with one hand and with the other lifted my skirt, and fumbled with my waistband. He would have torn off my underclothes had Mme Laporte not appeared at his side, a small silver pistol in her hand.

“Why don’t you go home now, Gérard,” she said calmly.

He released me; I moved away. He stepped slowly down the grassy slope. When he reached the path, he sprinted to the top of the hill, where it joined with the main road that led through town. Safe there, he turned and shouted, “The whore and the traitor—a perfect match! Marie, did you ever think about who betrayed your darling priest? Don’t you know never to trust a Jew?” Then he disappeared around the corner, in the direction of the village.

I tried to straighten my dress, but Gérard had torn the blouse. The best I could do was hold the fabric closed so as not to expose my camisole. Hair fell about my ears and in my eyes. I spat on the ground, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Madame sighed—one of the few displays of distress I had seen her make. She replaced the safety on the pistol and slipped it into her skirt pocket, then regarded me tenderly. I fought to keep tears from rushing forth. “Come inside, Marie,” she said. “Let me lend you a frock.” She offered her arm and I took it, more for psychological support than any physical need. We entered the château through the kitchen. Mme Siau raised her eyebrows when we came in, but did not say a word.

Upstairs, Madame selected a dress for me and let me change in her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. I stepped out of my own ruined shift and pulled Madame’s linen frock over my head. The bodice was tight; I could not cough without feeling as though I might pop all the buttons off the front. Madame’s kindness, her defense of me—armed, even—was the more remarkable thing. The pistol was shocking, but I was so grateful for her intervention that it did not occur to me to wonder why she owned it. Overwhelmed, I shed a few tears.

The bedroom seemed to be hers alone. There was a single bed in the room and a vanity table, as well as a bookshelf and a night table, on which perched a few leather-bound books and a lantern. On the vanity was a brush, a comb, and a mirror, all silver, laid out as if for a guest. I sat at the chair in front of the mirror, and examined myself. My topknot had slipped sideways. My cheeks were blotchy. I looked to be ill, drunk, or an idiot. I unclasped the hairpins and, using Madame’s brush, repinned my hair.

Madame’s window looked onto the church and the cemetery, just adjacent. I wondered if she really was a Jew, and if so, whether it offended her to have her bedroom look onto a church. I figured Gérard must have been making up lies. From what I knew of Jews, they kept to themselves and did not intermarry with Catholics, which Mayor Laporte most certainly was. It puzzled me again, the fact of their marriage—especially after seeing this room, which was so clearly the room of a woman who spent her nights alone.

I returned the brush to its place on the table and left the room to meet Madame in the library, just down the hall. There she poured me a small glass of brandy. I sipped it, welcoming its searing path down my throat.

“The dress suits you,” said Madame.

“Thank you,” I said, pulling self-consciously at the bodice.

“Sit down, Marie.” She gestured toward a chair.

“Thank you, Madame, for your kindness. I’m in your debt.”

“I am glad I was here.”

“How did you know we were there? Could you hear us?”

“I saw you from my window. When Gérard led you away by the wrist it made me wary. I don’t like to see my friends in danger.” It was the first time she had called me a friend. I felt a rush of affection and with it a sudden desire for intimacy.

“Gérard is a pig,” I said, my voice trembling. “He did the same thing to Michelle last summer. I walked in on them.” The thought had not occurred to me until I’d spoken it that Michelle might not have welcomed his advances. My rage grew, fueled in part by remorse for having possibly misjudged my sister. “And the things he said about you! He should be in prison.”

“The things he said about me are true, Marie,” she said. She was standing by the fireplace, which emanated warmth from its bed of white ash. In her hand was a small china cat, which she stroked with her thumb. “I am a Jew. And I did write to the Minister of Religion last fall after the sermon Monsieur
le curé
gave before the October elections. Though I do not consider myself a traitor. That’s Gérard’s interpretation.”