Chapter Twenty-One: Change Again

I blinked once, very unintelligently, when I met Florence a few days later.

She stood in the doorway, a basket in the crook of her arm and a white cap over her gleaming red curls, the picture of a gentle country beauty, an absolute angel. Turning to me with a pure smile, she said, "Oh, you must be Cécile! I'm Florence, how do you do?"

I said nothing for a moment, completely dumbstruck. She was everything I had imagined at the castle those months ago, the exact incarnation of my ideas of Alain's future love. It was unbelievable. The hair, the expression, the saintly radiance, everything, right down to the bunch of flowers in her basket.

She looked to Alain with slight confusion, obviously questioning my sanity.

Fortunately I regained my senses within a few seconds. I quickly put on a smile, and, delighted to see the expression on my face, she gave me one of her own.

"I'm so sorry, Florence," I said smoothly. "I have such terrible manners, please forgive me. But I am so glad to meet you at last, Alain's told me all about you."

"If you could only hear him talk about you," she said, smiling at Alain with a sidelong glance.

Again, I was surprised. Alain talked about me? Anything he'd said up until about three days ago would have made her hate me, I was sure of that. "Well, I beg you, don't let anything he has said about me color your judgment."

"Nonsense, Cécile, he's only ever praised you!" she replied, then stopped herself. "I hope it is all right that I call you Cécile," she added quickly.

"Of course," I assured her. "I can tell we're going to be great friends."

Alain looked at me in wonder. Then he put an arm around Florence and guided her onto a bench. She lit up even brighter at his touch.

I said, "How was the journey from town?"

"Oh, it was fine, but it is so hot!" she replied. "Mon Dieu! Already the farmers are suffering from the drought. It simply must rain soon."

"Let me get you something to drink," I offered.

"No, no, thank you," she said. "Anyway, I found these lilacs in the forest, I just had to pick them for Monsieur Pierpont. It is so hard to find flowers in this weather!" Always smiling, Florence took her basket toward Papa's room. She even liked flowers. How was it that this girl was exactly who I thought she would be?

"Don't say anything, Cécile," Alain said pointedly when she was out of the room. We heard her give Maman a cheerful "Bonjour!"

"Alain, what makes you think I would have anything to say?" I said.

"Because I know you," he replied, smirking.

I could not deny that he was right—the Cécile he knew would certainly have a smart remark to make about such a kind, unpretentious, and charming girl. But Florence was so sweet that I couldn't have found anything negative to say if I had tried. "Why, how dare you," I said, pretending to be offended.

I had met Florence a few more times before Alain asked me what I thought of her. I didn't have to think twice; my opinion of her had not changed, not since the moment she walked through the cottage door. "She's an angel, Alain, it's impossible not to love her," I told him sincerely.

Alain looked past me, toward Papa's room, where we could hear Florence chatting happily. I was troubled not to see a certain look cross his features, an expression of complete happiness and selfless adoration.

"Don't you agree?" I said quietly, not asking so much as stating what I hoped was a fact.

He looked back at me with those clear blue eyes. Now there was a look I knew—one that betrayed that I had stumbled on the truth.

"You do love her, don't you, Alain?" I made myself ask, not wanting to hear the answer.

"How could I not," he said, looking at his palms.

I was almost angry at his response. Here he went again. "Look at her, Alain," I said more forcefully, nodding toward Papa's room, where we could see Florence laughing. "Don't you see her glowing that way? She loves you, can't you see that?"

"Stop it, Cécile," he said crossly.

"No, Alain, I'm not going to stop. How could you do this to her if you don't love her?"

"Well it's not that I don't!" he said loudly, then quieted himself immediately, lest Florence should hear.

"It's not that you don't," I repeated. "What does that mean?"

He said nothing.

I nearly rolled my eyes at him. "Alain, can't you see that she's perfect—"

"I know she's perfect, damn it!" he said, fists clenched, trying to keep his voice down. "But—"

"But nothing," I said simply but firmly. "She loves you. Loves you. With all her heart."

"You don't understand," he said, shaking his head in agitation. "But how can you, I don't understand it myself. It's just that I—oh, I don't know what to think anymore." He hung his head.

After a moment's silence, he said, "What you said, that day you left the palace. Do you—would you—" He broke off.

"I would say exactly the same thing now, Alain," I said slowly, looking for his eyes.

"You would say the same thing now," he repeated at a murmur, not looking up. Then he stood up and left the cottage.

"Where has Alain got to now?" Florence asked good-naturedly a few minutes later.

"Oh, I think he just wanted some fresh air, that's all," I said lightly.

"In this heat? What is that boy thinking of?" she said, smiling. "He really can be quite odd sometimes!"

I laughed. "Yes, he can. But you know, he really does admire you." I felt a little guilty saying it, if it wasn't exactly the truth, but perhaps some extra affection from Florence would sway Alain?

She blushed and smiled.

Alain and Florence visited often, usually every day. When they were at the cottage, everything was well. Florence, especially, was a great blessing. She knew how to make Papa laugh and did so as often as possible. She was open and kind and we were thrilled to have a cheery face in the house. Alain didn't mention our conversation and was full of a new enthusiasm for everything Florence had to say. It filled me with a happiness I hadn't known in some time.

In some respects I wished things would never change. I was still worried about Étienne, especially when Alain and Florence weren't around to distract my attention. But for the most part the cottage seemed to be another world. I didn't have to think about embroidery or my complexion or the harp.

But I could, and did, think about Alexandre. He had been so kind to me these past weeks. I was ashamed of my behavior toward him before. What could have been so terrible that I could have treated him with such disrespect? I couldn't even remember. All he had ever been was courteous and attentive. Perhaps a bit too attentive, but was that really a flaw? I had been overwhelmed by my new surroundings, and I had judged him too soon. When Father had asked a friend to stay over for a few weeks, I had jumped to the conclusion that he was trying to set me up with him. I had been biased against Alexandre, predisposed to dislike him. I had no doubt that if I had given him a chance, I would have liked him. Alexandre was a true friend, kind and supportive, and had proved it when I had needed him most. When Papa was better and I went back to the manor, I told myself, I would start over with Alexandre. I would try truly to return the friendship he had given me.

In addition to Alain and Florence, the doctor checked in every few days as well. It pained us to hear that Papa's situation was not improving, and we were determined to reverse the verdict.

"Come, Papa, you must eat this," I said one day after I had been at the cottage for a few weeks, holding out a spoonful of stew for him.

"J'en ai marre," he grumbled. "I eat it three meals a day."

"Your health is in the condition it is and you're complaining about being sick of Maman's stew?" I teased.

"You would too if it was all you ate," he replied.

"Perhaps you're right," I said. "But it is good for you. Please eat some, Papa."

He gave a loud, dry cough. "Well, perhaps just a little bit then," he said grudgingly.

I smiled. "There now, doesn't that feel better on your throat," I said. "Really, it's doing you worlds of good."

But I don't think either of us believed what I said.

It was difficult taking care of Papa. We knew he was very sick, and we knew there was nothing we could do about it. If only there were some special mixture, some miraculous remedy I could give him. Or perhaps there was some gifted physician somewhere who knew Papa's condition and had a cure for it.

Then it dawned on me—Étienne's doctor! Why had I not thought of him before? He was the best doctor I had ever heard of. He had nursed me back to health when it seemed unlikely that I would be able to recover from my illness. I wondered whether Étienne would allow me to… No, that was silly. Étienne was only just convalescing himself, he had great need of his doctor.

My thoughts lingered on Étienne. Even though I went to church and considered myself religious, I had never been exceedingly pious. But I prayed often now. If Étienne didn't recover, I didn't know what I would do. I missed his friendship very much. Although I wasn't sure if we were exactly friends anymore—the last time we had met there had been quite a shouting match. And we had said such awful things to each other. I felt my face heat up; the memory brought bitter tears to my eyes even now. It appalled me that he had dared say such things to anyone, much less a lady.

No, I wouldn't go to him begging for his help. And I wouldn't accept the courtesy even if he offered. Well, I probably would. But only for Papa's sake.

Then another thought occurred to me. It wasn't as though Étienne owned his physician. What was to prevent me from enlisting the doctor's aid? Surely if I asked him, if I had the funds to pay him, he would come. I could ask Father for the money, I had no doubt that he would understand. I was suddenly filled with new hope.

"I'm afraid there's not much I can do, mademoiselle," the doctor said quietly to me after examining Papa. "Here is some tonic, perhaps it will ease a bit of the pain. But the problem is an internal one. I wouldn't expect that…that he has much time. I'm so sorry."

I nodded, blinking back tears. I had feared, yet somehow expected, that he would say this. Maman was in town—I would have to relay the message to her later.

He put a wrinkled hand over mine comfortingly. "He has had a long life. He deserves the peace he will find with God."

I said nothing.

"And I hope you are well?" he said starting to pack up his bag. "No relapses?"

"No, no, I am quite well," I assured him. I asked delicately, "And…how does the prince fare?"

"I'm afraid I can't say that, miss," he said.

"You can't say, or you won't say?" I asked before I could stop myself.

"Well, strictly speaking, I'm not permitted to say."

He looked at me for a moment, then smiled. "He is not fully recovered," he said, "but his condition improves."

"Dieu soit loué," I said.

"And forget I've said anything," he said softly, wagging a finger at me playfully. "I only tell you because I know how, er, how well the prince thinks of you."

I would have corrected him, but it didn't seem necessary.

"I shall tell him you asked after him," he said.

"Oh—please don't," I replied.

The physician looked puzzled, then seemed to comprehend. "Very well," he nodded.

"Merci beaucoup," I told him as he stood to leave. "We are very much in your debt." I handed him a small purse.

He thanked me in turn. "And I am terribly sorry there was nothing more I could do."

He rode off and I let out a long, slow, despondent sigh.

"Cécile," Maman said softly to me in the dark.

My eyes opened at once. No, not now, I thought. Papa couldn't be—

"Your papa wants to speak to you."

I breathed in shakily.

Maman put a hand on my arm. "Cécile?"

"Yes," I said, trying to sound firm and secure. I stood up and went to Papa.

I watched him for a moment in the dim candlelight before entering the room. He was breathing hard.

"Cécile?" Papa rasped.

I swallowed hard. "Yes, Papa, I'm here," I said hollowly.

"Sit down," he said.

I sat.

He looked me deep in the eyes, though he didn't need to. He could undoubtedly see the complete and utter despair on my face. He spoke in a soft, somewhat gravelly voice. "Don't worry, child. It's my time."

My eyes filled with tears, angry tears. I couldn't believe Papa was using that ridiculous expression. "Your time?" I echoed. "How can you say that?"

He coughed loudly. "Oh, I can just feel it," he said lightly a moment later. Then he gave a soft chuckle. "I wish I could think of something profound to say to you, great men always have some bit of wisdom to impart on their deathbeds."

"You are a great man, Papa," I choked.

Another coughing fit, longer than the last, interrupted him. He gave himself time to regain his breath, then went on. "No, Cécile. I just knew what I wanted, and I followed it. That's the only way you can make anything happen. I am so proud of the woman you have become, Cécile. But you mustn't take anything for granted. You must take your life in your own hands, you've got to fight for what you want. And believe me, nothing ever comes easily. But if you work hard for what it is that you want, then you'll have earned every bit of it." He paused, looking somewhat pleased. "Mon Dieu," he said bemusedly, "I believe I've done it."

I beamed at him, the tears still streaming down my face.

"There, there," he said softly, taking my cold, clammy hand in his.

Then he closed his eyes. It was like a nightmare. Images of Étienne flashed into my head. Blood, darkness, tears, and the sickeningly sweet smell of roses. I wanted to scream at Papa, to cry out that whatever he did, he must keep his eyes open.

"Will you remember what I told you, Cécile?" he said wanly.

A tiny wave of relief washed over me. "Of course, Papa," I said, "of course."

He breathed deeply and smiled, eyes still closed.

We sat in silence for what seemed at once an eternity and the blink of an eye. Then I felt his hand go limp. The tears began to fall again. And then Maman was there, holding me in her arms.