Moonlight Over Paris(37)

The Luxembourg Gardens were dormant and rather sad at this time of year, but they were quiet, a rarity in a modern city like Paris, and their cool beauty was exactly the tonic that Helena needed after the combustible atmosphere of Ma?tre Czerny’s class.

They walked north to the Musée du Luxembourg, and then, wordlessly agreeing that its paintings could wait for another day, made their way over to the Grand Bassin, and then to the playground. Finding a bench, they sat and watched as beautifully behaved children, their faces gravely dignified, waited their turn for a ride on the garden’s carousel.

“My daughter loves to ride the carousel,” Mathilde said quietly. “Although we have not come here in a while.”

“You have a daughter? I mean . . . I feel as if I ought to have known.”

“Her name is Marie-France. She is almost ten years old.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“Not here. But I may have . . . let me see . . .”

Rummaging through her bag, Mathilde extracted a sketchbook and handed it to Helena. “There—that drawing. That is my daughter.”

“She’s very pretty. Is her hair as dark as yours?”

“Yes. And it is just as straight. It will not hold a curl, no matter what I do.”

“What color are her eyes?”

“Green, like my husband’s.”

Helena didn’t say a thing, just held her breath and waited for Mathilde to continue.

“His name is Antoine. We have been married for twelve years. He was gassed during the war, and he lost his right arm, too. He cannot work, not any more. He does what he can, but . . .”

“It must be very hard for you both,” Helena said, taking care to keep any trace of pity from her voice.

“We live with my parents. They own a café in the eighteenth arrondissement. I work there in the evenings.”

“That is why you aren’t able to come out with us . . . ?”

“That, and Marie-France. I like to be there for her supper, and to put her to bed.”

Helena thought of the tuition she had paid for her own year at the academy, a not inconsiderable sum, and the money she had spent on paints and canvas and other art supplies over the past months. “How is it that you’re able to attend the academy? I don’t mean to pry, but it’s—”

“I had an uncle. He never married, was fond of me . . . he saw how I loved to draw when I was in school. He encouraged me always. When he died last year, he left me a small legacy. He asked that I use it for art school. I had a term at the école des Beaux-Arts, but I hated it there. So I tried again.”

“How do you manage it all?” Helena asked. “I can scarcely keep my head above water, and I only have to take care of myself.”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I? It’s not so very hard. Of course there are days when I am very tired, but then I remember how fortunate I am. My husband returned from the war, though many did not. I have a roof over my head, enough to eat, family to share my work. I have a child who is happy and healthy. I am a very fortunate woman, am I not?”

Mathilde stood, the same soft smile upon her face, and turned to look down at Helena. “Shall we be on our way?”

Helena returned her smile gratefully. Given what she had just learned, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Mathilde had hated her and Daisy on sight. Her friend carried so many burdens, and unlike Helena she never complained about them—she didn’t even whine about Ma?tre Czerny.

“Where would you like to go now?”

“Would you mind if we visited the cathedral? It’s on the way home for both of us, is it not?”

“It is. Allons-y, then.”

Walking north, Helena and Mathilde continued until the Seine was before them and they were facing the grassy prow of the ?le de la Cité. They bore east for half a mile, to the narrow Pont au Double, which led them across to the busy forecourt of Notre-Dame Cathedral.

Long ago, she knew, the church’s great west fa?ade had been brightly painted, though she couldn’t recall if the colors had been stripped away or had simply faded over the centuries. She tried to imagine what the cathedral would have looked like six or seven hundred years earlier, when its stonework had mimicked the stained glass of its windows. Modern eyes would find it jarring, no doubt, but it must have suited medieval tastes.

Helena hadn’t returned to Notre-Dame since her first exploration of Paris in early September, but it promised peace, and sanctuary of a sort, as well. With Mathilde leading the way, they slipped inside, dodging the tourists and their guides. They paused to make certain that Mass was not being said, then walked down the nave toward the high altar.

As they neared the transept, Helena bent her head, keeping her eyes fixed on the worn marble floor. She passed the first row of chairs and walked a yard or two farther, until she was at the center of the crossing. Only then did she turn to the right and raise her face to the jeweled radiance of the south rose window.

She had first visited Notre-Dame as a child, and she had overheard someone, possibly a guide, advising a fellow visitor to do the same. The beauty of the cathedral had moved her beyond words, and the light from the window sustained and nourished her even now. She would likely never achieve perfection in her own work, but someone else had, and the simple thought of this, of its possibility, comforted her beyond words or sense.