Moonlight Over Paris(38)
“Do you wish to stay here, or come with me to the chapel of St. Geneviève? I won’t be long,” Mathilde whispered.
“You go. I’ll sit here for a while.”
The choir had gathered, it seemed for a practice, and rather than linger before the altar Helena found a seat on the southern aisle of the nave. Sitting in the shadow of a looming pillar so high she could scarcely discern its terminus, she listened to the gathered voices, rising and falling, singing the same words in exquisite counterpoint: Dona Nobis Pacem. Give us peace.
She sat and listened, and presently she noticed a large plaque that had been affixed to a nearby pillar.
TO THE GLORY OF GOD
AND TO THE MEMORY OF
ONE MILLION DEAD
OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE
WHO FELL
IN THE GREAT WAR
1914–1918
AND OF WHOM THE
GREATER PART REST
IN FRANCE
A million dead across the empire, and millions more in Europe and beyond. How was she, or anyone else, to make sense of such numbers? Of such suffering?
Of those dead, how many had been artists? It wasn’t the sort of thing that was summarized in war diaries and official histories, but many hundreds, even thousands, must have been artists like herself. They, too, had struggled and doubted themselves and wondered if they might be better suited to some other occupation. And now they were gone.
A year or so after the Armistice, she’d bought a book of poems by Wilfred Owen, who, she later learned, had been killed just before the end of the war. The poems had been difficult and troubling, raw in their beauty, and she’d read them over and over, using them to make sense of her own, pathetically insignificant sorrows.
“Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were,” he had written. Millions were dead, though they ought to have lived—ought to be working and loving and standing in the nave of Notre-Dame as the spangled light of the south rose window fell across their faces. Millions more, men like Mathilde’s husband, had been left disfigured, maimed, and tormented.
What were her troubles, compared to that?
She would not despair. She would make the most of this chance to study, to learn, and she would remember to look up and see the beauty that surrounded her.
Presently she felt a hand on her arm. It was Mathilde, her eyes aglow with sympathy and understanding.
“Shall we go?” Helena whispered, and her friend nodded in reply.
Outside again, they stood blinking in the afternoon sun.
“I didn’t—” Helena began.
“I’m sorry,” Mathilde said.
“I didn’t lose anyone. I don’t want you to . . . that is, I was engaged, and he was wounded, but we broke things off. He did, that is. He was in love with someone else.”
At this, Mathilde shrugged ruefully. “So you are sad for him, but not because of him.”
“I suppose so. Him, and other men I knew. I wanted to say . . .”
“Yes?”
“I am very glad to have you as my friend. Thank you for coming along with me today.”
“It is nothing. I was glad of a chance to talk with you. All the same, I must be on my way. My family will be waiting.”
“Shall I see you at the studio tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course.” Mathilde kissed Helena on both cheeks, her face a little flushed, and disappeared into the crowds milling about the cathedral forecourt.
And then, for it was late in the day, and Hamish would be wanting his walk, Helena, too, went home.
Chapter 15
Helena’s life had settled into a comfortable, and comforting, rhythm. On Monday mornings she woke at seven, had a hasty breakfast of café au lait and toasted tartine with marmalade, took Hamish on a walk around the perimeter of the island, turning up her collar against the late November chill, and set off for school.
Lunch was shared with her friends in their studio. Mathilde had brought in an old percolator, which produced murky but sustaining cups of coffee, and Madame Beno?t had kindly lent them a mismatched set of cups, plates, and cutlery. Daisy and Helena contributed cheese, dried sausage, and ham from their kitchens at home—Agnes’s cook was invariably generous—and they all took turns paying for a fresh baguette at the boulangerie at the corner.
Daisy always offered Louisette something, but the woman refused to accept even a glass of water. It must have been incredibly boring for the woman, sitting there hour after hour as she did, but Helena found it hard to muster even a scrap of sympathy for someone so uncongenial in spirit.
After lunch, it was back to the studio for another hour or so, then home. Helena preferred to walk, but on cold or rainy days she would take the tram up the boulevard St.-Michel. As soon as she was home, she took Hamish out for a second time, since the extra exercise was good for both of them, and then dined with her aunt.
The exception to her routine was Sam, for she could never be sure when she might see him. Not only did he work odd hours, but he also was prone to disappearing for days on end, she assumed because of some story or another he was writing. Despite this, she’d managed to meet up with him half a dozen times, though they hadn’t again bared their souls as they’d done that rainy evening in his garret room.
His first petit bleu had arrived the morning after their dinner at Rosalie’s.
Dear Ellie—Woke up sneezing. Hope you’re all right after our run through the rain. Menzies down the hall lent me his kettle and gave me a packet of tea. Said it will cure whatever ails me. Is he a liar? If not, how do I make a decent cup of tea? I know you have strong feelings on the subject. Sam