Moonlight Over Paris(40)

“He was taken prisoner. For months, we thought he was dead. And then he came home, and he’d lost a leg, and he was different. We all knew it, but no one said anything, not at first.”

“Did you break it off?”

“No, of course not. I’d never have done that to him. He was struggling, and so unhappy, but I didn’t know how to help. I don’t think he wanted me to help him. It went on for months, and then he came to see me one day and broke the engagement, just like that. He told me that I was too good for him and that we would make one another unhappy.”

“Was he right? Would you have been unhappy with him?”

“I think so. He married someone else not long after. I think he was in love with her all along.”

“Ma pauvre Hélène.”

“It didn’t hurt me. It didn’t. They are happy together, from what I’ve heard. And she was nice to me, the one time we met. I don’t blame either of them.”

“But . . . ?”

“But the gossip was awful. No one would believe that our parting was amicable. They assumed it was my fault. That I’d broken things off because of his missing leg. That I had done something to deserve being set aside.”

She took a sip of her wine, embarrassed at how her hand trembled. It had been so long since she’d allowed herself to think of that dark time, and still it upset her. “It has been so lovely to make friends here and not have to worry about any of it. I so dreaded it, that look in a person’s eye—”

“I know what you mean. You are introduced to someone, and before you have even opened your mouth they have weighed you on some invisible scale, and found you wanting.”

“That’s happened to you?” she asked incredulously. “How could anyone not like you? You’re kind, and generous, and you are very handsome, though I shouldn’t say so.”

“Darling girl.”

“And you’ve always been so nice to me. Since the moment we met, just before our first class, you’ve been so kind.”

“Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?” he asked, and though he smiled his eyes were sad. “You smiled at me, you were civil to me. Why would I not do the same in return?”

“Of course I was civil to you. Anyone would have been.”

He smiled again, his eyes even sadder, and kissed her cheek. “Do you remember last month, when I had a black eye?”

“You’d slipped on some wet leaves.”

He shook his head. “No, ma belle. I was set upon. I was walking with a friend; we’d been at Chez Graff, in Pigalle—”

Understanding dawned. “I’ve heard of it. My aunt said that’s where the . . . well, where the homosexuals go . . .”

“Yes. And sometimes thugs who hate men like me. They call us pédés and they consider it a kind of sport to attack us.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wishing to embarrass him. How could anyone wish to hurt this gentle, kind man? It defied all understanding. She reached across the table and clutched at his hand.

“So you, ah . . . you prefer men to women?” she said, lowering her voice, fearful that someone might hear and say something unkind to him.

“Yes.”

“And your family?”

“Lost to me.”

“Oh, étienne. I am so, so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. It is in the past.” He poured more wine into his glass.

“The man you were with, when you were attacked . . . is he your lover?”

“Not anymore,” he said, and there was a world of regret in his voice.

“What if you’d been badly hurt? I can’t bear it.”

“And that is why I love you, my friend.”

The bottle of wine was empty. étienne called for another café express and drank it down straightaway, though it was surely hot enough to burn his mouth.

“Let’s be off,” he said. “Shall we walk on? I don’t feel disposed to take the tram.”

“Yes, let’s walk.”

They continued along the boulevard, the route so familiar to her, now, that she might easily have navigated her way home with her eyes closed. They walked arm in arm, and she was comforted by his closeness and steady warmth.

“I feel so silly. I ought to have understood,” she confessed.

“I don’t have a sign attached to my lapel. Don’t apologize.”

It then occurred to her that if she had failed to realize étienne preferred men, she might have . . .

“Oh, Helena—your thoughts are written on your face. No, he is not homosexual.”

“I, ah, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Your Sam. He is assuredly not homosexual.”

“Oh. Well. That’s good to know,” she said, and though she didn’t have any romantic designs on Sam she was unaccountably relieved.

“You know,” étienne said, “your reaction surprises me. You do not appear to be disgusted or angry.”

“Why should I? It would be terribly hypocritical. I know what it’s like to be shunned, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

“You were very sheltered, were you not? When you were growing up.”