Prologue: Four Years Later
I hadn't always been this way. And perhaps if I had a different group of friends to be around, I wouldn't be here now. But that's not something I would like to think about. Would I do all the same things and still end up here or would I try to dissuade him and we would all live, even unhappily? I didn't know which I would chose, because either way no one really won. I have finally come to terms with that there was really nothing I could do by way of their deaths and mine spared.
My young daughter was nestled in my arms as my husband was out making money. His shift would be over soon. I wished I could work with him - or do what I had always done. But we had a daughter and she could not go hungry. We were both from rich families but his family had disowned him after our marriage and I didn't want to live off my family's money. My brother would turn in his grave if he knew I had not accepted my dowry. He had always wanted the best for me.
My husband, Jean Prouvaire, came home and started to prepare dinner. He liked to keep us equal in the household because he knew I deserved the same amount of respect he had. We had fought in the same battle. Once we had eaten, I took our daughter Éloise to her cot and lay her down.
"Mama," she said, her yellow eyes, much like mine, were wide and alert.
"Yes, ma cherie?" I asked her and smoothed her light hair.
"Tell me of the barricade again. How you and papa fought," she said and sat up, taking one of my hands in both of hers.
"Mon amour, you've heard it many times over," I said to her. Reliving those events hurt me deeply, but they gave her happiness to know her parents were unlike the others around her.
"Je sais, mama. So one more time couldn't hurt," she said, hope in her wide eyes. Yes, one more time could hurt. Each time was a slow death - something my friends had thankfully been spared.
"Alright," I sighed and Jehan walked into the room. He looked at me, his warm eyes giving me comfort as they always had been able to do.
"Why do you wish to torment your mother? She has learned patience, not tolerance for this variety of torture," he said and placed a hand on my shoulder. Éloise laughed, as if my pain were funny to her.
"Please, papa?" she begged and I looked up at mon soleil. He gave me one small nod and I returned it.
"Alright… it all started with…" And from then on I told my story, a story that has left my lips more times than I care to count. Maybe one day, I'll tell her all of the horrible things that actually happened. And maybe then, they wouldn't bring her such joy.