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Mon cher Clopin,Well, here it is, and I hope you're satisfied. I must say I'm doing this entirely against my own better judgment, and it just goes to show how utterly silly I'm getting, to let you flatter me into writing out my own little history for you. I am not so silly, however, as to forget your promise to me, and if I see so much as a scrap of a puppet that could be mistaken for anyone in this story, you'll have no more favors from me. And you know exactly what I mean by that, so you can wipe that innocent look off your face this instant.
There. Now that we understand each other, I will begin.
Any tale of my childhood must begin with my father. Robert Sardin came from Rouen, the third surviving infant born to Hubert and Marie Sardin, and ultimately one of five children. Hubert Sardin was a laborer who dug ditches and broke rocks in exchange for a sack of meal, or a length of cloth, or, if he were lucky, a small coin -- whatever he could earn. Marie was a tidy housekeeper who could prepare a feast from a wild rabbit and a few apples. Poor as they were, they managed to keep their family fed and sheltered, and were as content as could be expected.
I should apologize now for a tale which may seem nothing more than a catalogue of sickness and death, but I know very few people whose lives are not measured off by the lives lost around them. Robert Sardin was five years old when his mother and two of his sisters were taken by whatever disease was depopulating Rouen that summer. His infant sister, Jeanne, had been sent for her own safety to an Aunt and Uncle in Elbeuf, and there she remained after her mother's death, since her father had no means to care for her. Hubert Sardin kept his two sons, but Arnaud, the elder, who had always been lazy and troublesome, ran wild without a mother to guide him and, within a year, had run off to join the army, or go to sea, or become some other drain on society, and was never heard of again.
This left Robert and his father with no one but each other. Robert was a stout lad, unafraid to take on the heaviest loads, young as he was. He kept house for his father and, though he burned his share of suppers and broke his share of dishes, the two of them settled into a happy, bachelor existence. Until the day when, digging in the hot sun, Hubert Sardin fell dead in the street, his shovel clutched tight in his hands.
Robert Sardin was nine years old, and was packed off at once to the Aunt and Uncle in Elbeuf, to be reunited with a little sister who had no idea who he was. When the Aunt and Uncle had taken in baby Jeanne, they had just begun a family of their own. By now, however, there were enough hungry mouths around the table that Robert's was not a welcome sight. Within a matter of days, he was apprenticed and put out to earn his own way in the world.
Elbeuf, as you may know, is famous for its woolen trade, and Robert was apprenticed to a weaver named Henri Bernard. Bernard was a good master, and taught Robert everything he knew about wool. Robert was an eager student, and a diligent worker, and Bernard was pleased with his progress. So much so that he brought the boy to the attention of Maitre Pierre.
Maitre Pierre was a cloth merchant, one of the richest men in the town. I remember knowing him when I was a very little girl. He was immense, to my sight, and moved very slowly, like a drowsy bear. His hair was short and spiky, and his face was as mottled as a sausage. He had a low voice, that seemed to be buried somewhere in the earth beneath his feet, and I can remember him bowing to me with a solemn air and asking, "How are you today, Therese?" He would wait until I had answered, "Very well, sir, thank you," as Papa had taught me, then he would nod and say, "Good," and go on about his business. He was never anything but kind and gentle toward me, but I was always a little afraid of him.
I say he was one of the richest men in town, but you wouldn't have known it to look at him. He worked hard to present an image of frugality, and strove to convince everyone that he was a close, tight-fisted man with a heart of stone, but he was always undercutting this front with the most startling acts of generosity. For instance, there was the story of José, a young man who had come all the way from Castile with his wife and little else. He had found work as a shepherd on a farm in the neighborhood, but had died within a year of his arrival. His widow had no family at hand, and spoke French only haltingly, but Maitre Pierre just happened to come to the conclusion at about that time that he required another servant in his house, and that José's widow would suit his needs as well as anyone. She became a favored maid to Maitre Pierre's jolly wife, and to his four merry daughters, and learned to speak the local tongue, though always with a charming accent. And you shall hear a little more about her, later.
Now, having met Robert Sardin and heard Henri Bernard's glowing reports of him, Maitre Pierre began to watch the boy's progress. Coming into Bernard's house one day, Maitre Pierre made a great show of going over a bill of sale he had brought with him. Frowning and squinting and looking down his nose at the scrap of paper, he had called Robert over and said, "Make that out for me, boy; my eyes aren't what they used to be." Robert answered that he could not; he did not know how to read. Maitre Pierre exclaimed that this was a fine situation, and demanded of Robert how he had managed to live so long without knowing one letter from another. Declaring the whole sorry state of affairs a disgrace, and taking a winking Bernard to task for neglecting the boy's education, Maitre Pierre arranged on the spot for Robert to go to a tutor three times a week and to learn to read and write and do figures. This was not a common practice, and my father knew it well, but the more he tried to thank Maitre Pierre for this kindness, the more the old merchant insisted that it was nothing of the sort, that all apprentices were thus educated, and Bernard was a scoundrel for not having taken care of it himself. One way or the other, the result was that Robert did learn. And, by the time he was twenty, he was an educated man who knew everything anyone had ever known about wool, and he was working (and prospering) as Maitre Pierre's assistant.
Maitre Pierre's wife had died by this time, but the Spanish housekeeper was still there, and she became, if not a second mother to Robert, at least a doting Aunt. It was she who was the friend of the farmwife, Madame Pasquier, and she who introduced Robert Sardin to Madame Pasquier's daughter, Margerie.
Margerie Pasquier was not what the Parisians would call a great beauty, but as farm girls went, she was quite charming, with her sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. Robert Sardin was taken with her at once, and she with him. It was a lengthy courtship, since Robert did not feel right about marrying until he could support a wife and family as generously as they deserved. Maitre Pierre gradually nudged him in that direction, however, and Robert and Margerie finally stood up before the local priest, and settled down in a cozy house of their own.
Being a farm girl and not a fine town-lady, Margerie considered herself quite capable of keeping a house and a husband without a royal retinue of servants, and Robert, with his own humble beginnings, and the modest example of Maitre Pierre before him, deferred to her judgment. They hired one woman, a country widow with the constitution of a plowhorse -- and a bit of the look of one as well, which had earned her the nickname of Chevaline. She was a help when it came to the heavy tasks, but Margerie, who was an efficient housekeeper and an excellent cook, took pride in doing nearly everything herself.
Margerie and Robert had been married for about two years when they found themselves expecting a child. You'd think they were Adam and Eve and no one had ever had a baby before, for all the fuss they made. Margerie was anxious, even though she had Chevaline at hand, and her own mother not too far away to come in from her farm twice a week. Maitre Pierre stepped in, as well, and lent her his old Spanish housekeeper. The woman was wise in the mysteries of childbirth, and had successfully delivered all five children born so far to Maitre Pierre's own daughters. Her knowledge and attention did a great deal to calm Margerie's fears, and, when the baby came at last, in the wee hours of a November morning, it was the old Spanish woman who caught the child in her hands and joyously exclaimed, "Ah, Madame, such a beautiful little girl!"
The old Spanish woman swore by the saints that Margerie's had been the easiest delivery she'd attended in years, and her plump, rosy infant was a marvel of health, but Margerie was so convinced that the midwife had performed nothing short of a miracle that she insisted on naming the baby after her, and Robert, so relieved he would have fainted if he'd been a weaker man, gladly agreed. Of course, it was the custom for a child to be named for the saint celebrated on its birthday, and it would not do to offend the church, so they added a middle name to honor their daughter's saint. The old Spanish woman, you'll have guessed by now, was called Teresa, and I had been born on the 22nd of November, and that is how I was christened Therese Cecile Sardin.
It will come as no surprise, I trust, if I admit that my earliest memories are of food. I was always in the kitchen, whether I was wanted there or not, with my hands in everything and everything in my mouth. My mother often took me to the market with her, one apron string tied around my wrist so she wouldn't lose me, although I was never a "running off" sort of child. I don't believe I was ever pretty, but I must have been charming enough to please the vendors, who were always offering me bits of fruit or bread or cheese to nibble on -- mainly, I suspect, as a deterrent to my helping myself.
Papa possessed something almost as fascinating to me as food: Papers. He was not a scholarly man, he never read for pleasure, but he kept his books and accounts and bills of sale, and sometimes, when he was not too busy, he would let me sit in his lap while he went over his Papers. I knew enough to keep my hands to myself and not disturb him, but one evening -- I don't remember this, myself, you understand; it was a story he told later, and, even though he insists I was only three, I think he was exaggerating -- at any rate, one evening, while I was sitting with him, I began to wag my tiny finger at the markings on the paper and mutter softly to myself. He stopped and asked me, "Therese, what are you doing?" "Nothing, Papa!" I answered promptly, stuffing my fists in my lap and pressing my lips tight shut. "No, you're not in trouble," he laughed. "Tell me; were you reading?" I shook my head and said, "No, I was counting." "Do you know your numbers? What is this?" he pointed to a "2" and I told him. I told him all the numerals by sight, 1 to 0. Counting by tens or hundreds, or doing figures I had no concept of, but I could recognize the numerals, and I knew how many of my fingers they represented. I could recognize a few letters and small words, "laine" (wool) chief among them. Papa took a scrap of paper and wrote and spelled out for me T-H-E-R-E-S-E. And, from then on (he says), I asked everyone I met if they would like to hear me spell my name.
At this point, I believe, the market vendors began giving me food to shut me up.
He never said so, but I think Papa must have been a little sorry that I was not a boy. He was proud of my cleverness, but it must have seemed something of a waste to him. A boy could be a scholar, think great thoughts, make great discoveries, perhaps alter the course of history, itself. A girl, on the other hand, was confined to the domestic sphere, and too much learning was not becoming in a young lady. When I was nearly three, my parents had another child, my little brother, Gilbert. Papa tried to steer him toward an academic career, but Gilbert was an indifferent student. He wasn't stupid, he was bright, and cheerful, and affectionate, but a little spoiled, and apt to leave things half-finished as soon as his attention had wandered somewhere else. In spite of this -- or perhaps because of it -- I was dearly fond of him.
Before I go any further, I must update my death-and-loss ledger. Maitre Pierre had gone to his reward when I was six. He had a funeral so elaborate, the extravagance would have sent him off in a fit if he hadn't already been dead. Half the town, I think, turned out for it, and all I can recall was the scratchy black dress I wore, and how very long and boring the whole business was. Teresa, who had brought me into the world, was passed on like a family heirloom to Maitre Pierre's oldest daughter, and went to live with her in Caen.
I have said very little about my mother's family. Her father died the summer after I was born, and her brother, who was quite a bit older and not very close to her, took over the farm and took care of their mother. I remember Grandmere a little; she had soft, brown eyes, and smiled a lot, and always brought us the most delicious cakes. I was four when she died. My mother's brother, who had never married, and had always dreamed of abandoning the farm for travel and adventure, gave up the property and left Normandy. Like Papa's brother, we never knew what became of him. Papa was never close to his family in Elbeuf, not even his sister, Jeanne. They were strangers to him, and he had little in common with them. Jeanne married, I don't remember when, and went away, I don't know where, and that was the last I knew of my relations.
If my childhood so far sounds idyllic, well, it was. Papa insisted we weren't rich, but we were certainly well enough off. He had no stomach for affectations or vanities, but he was generous in providing for our comfort. We were as content as could be, right up through my eighth Christmas. Then, our lives took a dreadful turn. Papa's life had taken so many turns already, this was just another one for him. But, for me, it was the first real trial I had faced, and my cozy, complacent existence to that point had done nothing to prepare me for it.
My mother had an attack -- I don't know what else to call it -- that laid her in bed for a week. The physicians who were called in could not explain it, and my mother ended up coming through it with no help from them. She resumed her old life, and seemed all right at first, but from that point, her health began to decline. This did not happen all at once, you understand; nor in a matter of days, or weeks, or even months. This happened slowly, over the course of almost three years, one step, or drop, at a time. She went from walking, to stumbling, to hobbling with crutches, to losing the use of her legs entirely. Her hands, once so skillful, stiffened, and shook, and lost their senses; she would crush an egg in her fist because she could not tell how tightly she was holding it. Her sight and hearing faded a little, but, mercifully, were never wholly lost. Worst of all was the toll on her mind and her spirit. As her body failed her, and she became more and more dependent on us for her physical needs, she became more and more like a little child, sometimes cheerful, sometimes petulant, fretful, forgetful, asking the same questions over and over, always needing things explained an extra time or two before they sank in. Eventually, she demanded our constant attention.
Chevaline was still with us, and tried to take up the slack in the housekeeping, but nothing she did now was good enough for my mother, who hated not being able to manage things herself. Eventually, the servant, not angry, but sad and tired, decided that this was not the job she had signed on for, and left us, to go live with some relatives in the country. I wished I could have gone with her.
I have said that I do not believe in true and undying love, but that was not entirely honest of me. I do not believe that I am capable of true and undying love, but my father certainly was. I can't begin to describe his patience and gentleness in dealing with my mother, or the pleasure he took in finding little ways to comfort her. He called in physicians from Paris and beyond, but none of them could help her. Papa was a religious man, but in more of a moral than a mystical sense. He spoke to the priest, but only for spiritual solace, not in the hope of any miraculous cure. Herbalists and folk-healers he dismissed out of hand, as quacks, and thieves, and "gypsies." "Gypsy" was a word I often heard kicked around by my father, but he did not use it exclusively to denote a member of the Romany culture. For him, it meant anyone who did not have a settled residence and a steady job. Anyone, dark or fair, French or foreign, who tramped from town to town, lived off a horse or out of a wagon, and got their suppers by such frivolous "work" as dancing or story-telling, was a Gypsy. Conversely, the swarthiest Rom, earringed and bewhiskered and speaking his own tongue, would have become thoroughly respectable in Papa's eyes with the addition of a house, and a wife, and a flock of sheep.
We talked about hiring another housekeeper, but my mother had grown anxious about "strangers" in her house. She trusted Papa, and me, and Gilbert, and a few of her old friends who were kind enough to visit once in a while, but she was wary of anyone else. Gilbert was too young, and too confused by what was going on, to be of any help, and Papa had his business to attend to. And so, that left me.
My mother could not read or write, and had invented her own rough, but adequate, methods for keeping track of things. Papa, however, had taught me the basics of numbers and figures, and I took great pride in making up and keeping my own detailed accounts. I was nine, and Chevaline had just left us, when I took on the task of going to the market alone. Papa was generous with the housekeeping money, but I felt a responsibility to manage it wisely, and always planned carefully for what I needed, and what it should cost.
Many of the market vendors were the same ones who had fed me as a toddler. They respected my father, and understood our situation, and dealt fairly with me. Then came the day, when I had just begun going to market alone, that my usual apple-seller was ill. My mother wanted apples, though, and they had to come from somewhere, and so I had to deal with another woman, one I did not know well, and who did not know me. A little shy, but putting on my best attempt at a businesslike demeanor, I approached her and asked the price of six apples. Her answer was more than I was used to paying, but, with the competition off the field for the day, I accepted it, and took out the money. Besides, the woman had smiled at me and called me "dearie," which had calmed my initial anxieties, and I was glad to have the deal done so easily.
The apple-seller took my money and started handing me apples. They were the most pitifully small apples I had ever seen. "I'm sorry," I gulped, refusing to take them, "but I'd like some bigger ones." She had them; they were clearly visible in the bin.
"My, my," she tittered unpleasantly, putting back the stunted fruit. "What does such a little girl need with big apples? Never mind," she brushed off her own question, and asked me for some more money.
"I've already paid you, Madame," I said.
"But you paid for the regular apples, not the large ones."
I squirmed and weighed my purse. The timid child with the sick mother and too many tasks waiting for her thought for half an instant of taking the puny apples and being done with it. But an indignant voice, just a quaver short of firmness, came out of her mouth from who knew where and said: "I won't pay good money for those; they're not big enough to choke a pig!"
The apple-woman gaped at me in amazement. "What did you say?!?"
I was short for my age, of course, but already sturdy, and I squared my shoulders and declared, "If you can't give me anything better than that, then give me back my money."
Heaven knows I wasn't as brave as I hoped I appeared, but I was emboldened by the knowledge that my friend the Dairy-man had noticed what was happening, and was looking my way.
The Apple-woman twisted her mouth into a bitter smile and said, "You drive a hard bargain, Miss. Here, let me pick out some nice big ones for you."
Victory! I restrained myself from either cheering or fainting while she carefully selected some of her largest apples. I reached up and took the first one she handed me, and my heart sank. I did not put it in my basket, but handled it thoughtfully.
She saw my frown and said, "Now I suppose that's too big!"
"No, Madame." I glanced at the Dairy-man, who was close enough to hear me, and I thought, well Therese, might as well be shorn for a sheep as a lamb. "It's too soft."
"It's what?!" she snarled.
"It's mushy," I insisted, showing her the indentation my thumb had left. "And that one," I pointed at the apple in her hand, "has a worm hole in it."
With a barely-suppressed squeal of frustration, she snatched the first apple away from me, so roughly that it burst into a handful of pulp in her grasp. The Dairy-man laughed out loud.
"I'll thank you to keep out of this," the Apple-woman snorted at him, wiping her hand on her skirt.
The Dairy-man came up beside me and said, "Let Mademoiselle Sardin choose her own apples. Or do you want the whole town to know you tried to cheat a little girl?"
She glared at him for a moment, but some of the other vendors and their customers were by now growing curious, and she saw that it would do her no good to hold out.
"All right," she snapped at me under her breath. "Take what you like, rob me blind, you little brat. Just be quick about it."
I did not know I was shaking until I felt the Dairy-man's hand on my shoulder, holding me still. He stood right beside me while I picked six, healthy, medium-sized apples from the bin, then he said, "Come along, Therese; I have some cheese I'd like your opinion on."
I did not know the apple-woman well enough then to be aware that she was generally disliked by the other vendors, but I soon found out. For days after that, the story circulated of how I had stood up to her, and all the good folk I usually bought from praised me and teased me and called me "Brave Therese," and "Therese the Ogre-Slayer," and all manner of embarrassing names. I fretted over what Papa would say if the tale of my boldness ever reached him, but if he heard about it, he never let me know.
By mid-summer, before my eleventh birthday, my mother was bedridden. She was more than Papa and I could handle, now, and too weak and muddled to care or complain, so he finally broke down and hired a nurse to help tend to her. We still did our share, of course. Papa saw to that, gently "suggesting" me into feeding her or sitting with her if he felt I was being neglectful. He was still as attentive to her as ever, and I was a little sorry that I was not as good and as patient as he wanted me to be.
My last memory of her is of going into her room one afternoon to check on her, as part of my daily routine. She was sleeping, as she was more often than not, now. I did not want to wake her, but I slipped my hand into hers and stood for a moment, thinking of all that had happened to us. Many children lose their mothers, I know, but I had lost my mother only to have her replaced by a child I wasn't strong or wise or generous enough to take care of. I felt sorry, sorry for her, sorry for myself, sorry that I wasn't a better daughter, or mother, or whatever it was I was supposed to be to her.
She stirred, and opened her eyes. They were clouded and unfocused, but she had enough vision left to find me. She looked intently at me for a moment, as if she were surprised to see me there -- almost as if I were some other, half-forgotten person from her past -- and then she smiled. "It's Therese, Maman," I squeezed the words around the lump in my throat, still not sure if she saw me, or someone else. Her cramped fingers tightened around mine for an instant, but I couldn't tell if it was a deliberate or accidental gesture. Then her eyes closed, and she was asleep again, and I left her.
Papa went in to sit with her later that day. When it grew dark, and he still did not come out, I went in to see if he wanted anything. My mother was sleeping; I could hear her ragged breath. Papa was sitting by the bed. "What is it, Therese?"
"Nothing," I whispered. "I came to see if you were all right."
"Fine, fine." He got up and came to me. "Maman is sleeping. Have you and Gilbert had your supper?"
"Yes."
"Is he working at his lessons? You should go and help him. It's all right, Therese," his arm was around my shoulders and he was walking me to the door. "Maman is sleeping, and the nurse is here if I need anything. You've worked so hard. Go and rest."
And so I did.
My mother died that night. Papa had known it was coming and did not want me to see. It was no more than an hour or two after I had spoken to him, and Gilbert and I were both still awake. Gilbert wanted to see her. I did not. My little brother was eight, and went into the sickroom bravely enough, but he came out in Papa's arms, dripping with tears. "Come here," I sat him down beside me and we spent a good, long while huddled together, Gilbert drenching my shoulder while I rocked and hushed him. I never knew such a little boy could have so many tears in him.
Papa thanked me later for tending to my brother, and for being brave, but I was not brave. I had cried all my tears while my mother was alive, and now that she was gone, I had none left. Papa grieved deeply for the loss of his wife, and Gilbert wept pitifully for the loss of his mother, but I could feel nothing but relief. I tried to explain it by telling myself that, of course, it was all for the best; she had suffered so much, death could only be a blessing to her. But the truth was, I had reached a point where I could no longer remember a time when she wasn't sick, and I was weary of carrying even my little portion of the burden of caring for her, day after day. God forgive me, I didn't have my father's patience, and I was glad to have the whole thing over.
In the end, our lives had revolved so much around hers that it was strange at first to be able to think of ourselves again. Papa suggested that we hire a housekeeper, but I told him emphatically that I did not want one. The household was mine now. I had paid dearly for it, and I was not about to give it up. And, after spending so much time taking care of everyone else, I certainly did not need anyone to take care of me. He argued the point, and I know he was only trying to make my life easier, to give me back some part of the childhood I had lost. He encouraged me to get out and make friends with other girls my age, and he threw little parties and staged little outings for me to meet them. But I did not like the girls I knew. They were silly and stupid and spoiled. And they did not like the odd, plain girl who cared more for cooking and reading than frippery and foolishness. My friends were the market vendors, who treated me as an adult, and an adult with a nose for a good piece of cheese and an eye for a freshly-caught fish, at that. My dearest companion was Gilbert, who had become half brother and half son to me. I was always happiest at home, managing my own small domestic kingdom, and Papa, understanding this, finally gave up on the housekeeper and the neighbor girls and let me do as I pleased.
Gilbert's education had fallen into disarray, and Papa had hired a tutor to put him back on the path. His name was Etienne, he was a young man, slight and fair and solemn, and I had a crush on him before I ever knew what a crush was. Since Gilbert always did so much better on his lessons when I was there to coax him through them, Papa winked and looked the other way and let me study right alongside him. Etienne was nervous at first about having a young lady pupil -- I think he was afraid someone would find out, and he would be burned for heresy or some such thing. "Therese," he told me early on, "you are a very clever girl." He said it with a touch of surprise in his voice, and a shadow of fearful respect in his eyes, as if he found the notion of female intelligence intimidating -- as I'm sure he did. I would laugh at him, and tease him, and flirt with him to the extent of my awkward abilities, though, and before long, he grew accustomed to me. I was eleven when he came to us, and by thirteen I had outgrown my infatuation with him, thanks to the butcher's brown-eyed son, who had begun working in his father's shop that winter. I'm afraid I wasted far too much money on ham that year.
That was the story of my infant love life. Every six months or so, a new infatuation, always directed at some poor lad who could not have cared less for me. I had no idea how to make myself interesting to them, so I pined away hopelessly, and secretly as well, since I had no girl friends to confide in and Papa, like all fathers of daughters, distrusted young men on principle.
I was glad I had survived my crush on Etienne, for I was then able to settle into a comfortable friendship with him. His own interest was in the sciences, and he taught us many interesting things. Gilbert delighted in experiments that led to smoke and explosions, but I was more intrigued by the unexpected properties of common household substances, and the dangerous effects of mixing or misusing them. This was not a morbid fascination, you understand. I was alarmed by the possibilities, and made notes to remind myself of what not to do. And not in my maddest nightmares could I have dreamed then of how Etienne's lessons would one day become useful to me.
Now I come to the next page in my catalogue of loss. I had just turned eighteen, and we were having a hard winter. Talk had begun of a sickness going around, but as yet it had taken only a few, weak, old people and a baby or two. When Gilbert, who was fifteen and healthy, started a fever and complained of a few aches and pains, we were concerned, but not alarmed.
To this day, I am astonished by how quickly we lost him. We should have called in the physician sooner, although he said, himself, that there was nothing he could have done. My brother died before my eyes, while I sat on his bed, sponging his burning face and begging God with every bit of my heart and soul not to take him. Even when I knew he was gone, I could not leave off soothing him, and Papa, who was there as well, had to stop me. I choked down my sobs and did not cry, as much as I wanted to, because I did not want to make things any harder for Papa. He was in the first stages of the sickness, himself, but I was less worried about him; he was a strong man, and the doctor had been watching him all along, and said he was in no immediate danger.
The doctor and I took care of the arrangements for Gilbert. I wanted to talk to the priest, alone, but I was afraid to. I felt responsible for my brother's death; not because we hadn't called the doctor soon enough, not because I hadn't tended to him carefully enough, but because I had not grieved for my mother. It was as if God had said, very well, Therese, you didn't cry when I took your Maman, let's see how you feel if I take your brother; can I make you cry for him? And, yes, I did cry this time. Not until the day was done, not until Papa was in bed with a nurse to watch over him, and I was alone in my room, but at last, in the dark, I stuffed my face into a pillow and screamed and sobbed for my poor little brother until my stomach was in knots, and my jaw ached miserably, and I was as red and as hot as if I had had the fever myself. It was far and away the most brutal loss I had suffered in all of my eighteen years. And, to this day, I wonder how different the course of my life might have been if only Gilbert had lived.
Adding to my distress, Papa was much worse in the morning. Losing Gilbert had sapped his will to fight off his own illness, and the grief and exhaustion had overcome him. I helped the nurse tend to him. I was too numb and defeated to worry; God was beating me down, and repaying my selfishness, and if He wanted to take my father from me, my worrying would not stop Him. I did not let Papa see this; I put on a good face for him, and fixed all the dishes he liked, and managed to keep him eating. I was afraid to hope that he would recover, but at least he did not worsen. He hung at some point several steps short of death, weak and lethargic, but safe for the time. He talked to me a great deal then, about Maman, and how he had fallen in love with her. He spoke often of our times with her before she was sick, and asked me if I remembered the incidents he would recount, and I always said yes, even though I usually didn't. That was also when he told me the story of how I'd learned to read and count, sitting on his lap while he worked, and I told him honestly that I did not remember that, but he insisted that it was all true.
One time, he held my hand and told me, trying to sound as if it were nothing but a passing remark, what a good girl I was, and how clever I was, and how he didn't know how he would ever have managed without me -- and by then, he was sorry he'd said anything, because my face was fairly dripping with tears, and it always made him uncomfortable to see anyone cry. "Now, Therese," he croaked, giving my hand a slap and a squeeze, "don't get all emotional." And I smiled and said, with a big, noisy sniff, "Don't be silly, I'm not emotional!" And I wiped my face and went to get him some supper.
We never spoke of Gilbert during this. I was afraid of upsetting him, and I know he was afraid of upsetting me, so we left poor Gilbert alone.
By evening on the fourth day after we had buried Gilbert, I had a fever. The sickness had taken so long to get to me, I had begun to believe it would pass me by altogether. But, in the morning, I could not get out of bed, and the nurse had two patients to watch. Ironically, I proved to be a bigger help to Papa when I was sick than when I had been well. Jolted by my illness into realizing that he was on the verge of losing all the family he had, Papa fought back and made a startling recovery. Oh, he did not regain all his old strength; that, he would never do. But, it wasn't long before he was sitting by my bedside, fussing at me to eat, and exhorting me to fight off my weakness. Although I would never wish to feel so dreadful again, I had a strong constitution and was never in any danger. Before long, I was back to my old self and as healthy as ever. And, just as Etienne had no idea what his science lessons would lead me to, no one would have guessed that all their raving about what a strong, healthy girl I was would someday give me the courage to poison myself and believe I could survive.
For a long time after my mother's death, and before Gilbert's, Papa had been doing business in Rouen, travelling often between that city and our home in Elbeuf. Once spring came, and we were both as healthy as we were likely to get, Papa decided that we should move to Rouen for good. Gilbert's death had made the old house uncomfortable for him, but I think there was another reason, as well.
We had been so cozy together, Papa, Gilbert and I, that he had never pushed me out of the nest, so to speak. Papa assumed that he would live for, oh, half an eternity or so, and, should the day ever come for him to leave us, Gilbert and I would still have each other. But now it was down to Papa and me, and Papa had just had a good long visit with his own mortality. In his view, I had to be taken care of, and if he were not here to do it, who would? The pool of appropriate suitors was wider and deeper in Rouen, and Papa had a large circle of business associates there who might prove useful. So, to Rouen we went.
I was not sorry to go. The only person I was saddened to leave was Etienne, our tutor. Papa had had to discharge him, of course, after Gilbert's death. Although I no longer had any delusions of being in love with him, I suppose I still would have taken Etienne, had a match been arranged. But, there was never any thought given to such a bargain, and, in the end, he married the niece of my friend the Dairy-man. It was a much happier choice for all concerned.
I had some small idea of what Papa was plotting, but I kept my peace. I knew he would never press me into a marriage I was unwilling to enter. He tried, again, at nudging me into some friendships with other young ladies, but they were all so pretty and delicate next to plain little me that I grew quite cross with comparing myself to them and ended up right back where I'd started. I was introduced to the sons of the merchants he knew. Some, I disliked; some disliked me. One or two were pleasant company and were actually willing to engage in intelligent conversation with me, but the sparks, so to speak, never flew. Well, said Papa, you can't rush these things. Yes, I said; I know.
I met Charles Gercourt at a funeral. You'd have thought that would have told me something right there, but it didn't. His father, a prosperous wine merchant, had just died, and the family business was now in Charles' hands. He was twenty-six to my eighteen, really quite a reasonable balance of ages, but, for some reason, neither Papa, nor anyone else, had seen us as a possible match. I will not say that I fell in love with him at first sight, but he did catch my eye. For one thing, he was extremely tall, a virtue I've always found appealing, and, added to that, he was fair and fine-featured, with a pair of remarkably piercing blue eyes. He was mature and sensible, which earned him high marks in Papa's books, and seemed older than his years. I think he had rather the reputation of a dry old bachelor, even as young as he was, and there was some talk, as I heard later, that his friends had been trying to marry him off for years with no success, and so had given up on him.
It is difficult for me to recount our courtship in any sort of innocent or objective manner. I do know that it was my cooking that first caught his attention. Papa had invited several associates to dinner, and Charles, praising every dish as it was set before him, had threatened to hire Papa's cook away from him. At last, Papa informed him that I was the cook, and he thanked me very gallantly. Looking back, we all would have been better off if M. Gercourt had hired me to cook for him and left it at that, but I was too flattered and delighted by his attention not to be smitten with him, and I think at that moment Papa saw my future laid out before him.
I am certain Papa would never have allowed me to marry any man unless he believed that man truly cared for me, but to this day, I do not know to what extent my marriage was arranged by my father, and to what extent it was the result of whatever fondness Charles Gercourt felt for me at the time. He was never wildly, dramatically, passionately in love with me; I know it now, and I believe I knew it then, but since I had never been on the receiving end of any sort of romantic attention, his respectful tenderness was enough to make me happy. I married him, gladly and willingly, and, though he was not always as demonstrative as I might have wished, I thought us quite content. Charles insisted that Papa come and live with us, and I was grateful to him for it, for I hated the thought of leaving my father alone after all we had been through. All three of us knew it would not be for long. Charles and I were married early in my 19th summer, and we lost Papa the following winter. I cried, but not bitterly; he was content to go, and I was content to let him go. The last thing he spoke of to me was Maman.
And so, Clopin, there is the tale you asked for, the completion of my backwards biography. The adventures of Madame Darbois the tavern-keeper I need not recount to you, since you've had a sizeable role in them, yourself. As for the tragedy of Madame Gercourt, you've heard more than enough of that story already. But, perhaps, those women will make a little more sense to you, now that you know the history of the wool merchant's daughter, Therese Sardin.