Chapter 5- In which Jules has a religious experience
Through the latticed window, Jules could watch Aimee walking in the walled garden, the gray-robed Sister holding her hand. Most of the flowers were dead, unable to survive even the post-summer warm spell they'd enjoyed, but there were still a few, hardy blossoms close to the ground. She was standing on tiptoe, peering at a bird's nest in a shrub . . . .
"How old is the child, Monsieur Verne?"
He turned away from the window and faced the desk behind which Sister Simon was seated. She held a pen over the paper, the edge tilted so the ink would not drip before she was ready to record his words for eternity.
Jules found himself focusing on the pen tip. He crushed his cap in his hands and shook his head. "I don't know. Perhaps seven, eight, nine?"
"She is not . . . your own child?"
"NO!" he declared, a little too quickly. He cleared his throat and looked up to see Sister Simon's patient smile. "No. She's not mine."
"But she's a relative--?"
"No."
The nun lowered her head over the paper, the pen scratching audibly as she recorded his answers. The afternoon light shone through the windows, the lattices creating shadowy patterns on the floor. The ceiling of the room was high, with ancient, dark-brown, wooden beams supporting the stone arches. Save for the sconces, where tapers were established, and the occasional trappings of religious decoration - pictures of the Virgin Mother, a crucifix - the walls were bare . . . plain gray like the habits of the nuns.
It was warm here, and there was a sweet scent to the air, a feeling of peace and contentment. Aimee needed peace, after the brutality of her young life. But Jules still found the lack of color disturbing. What was contentment without joy?
"The mother?"
He looked back to Sister Simon, her pen pausing again, awaiting his answer.
He had none. Jules shook his head. "I don't know."
"The background, family?"
Again, he shook his head.
"The father? The father's family? Where are they from? What is their occupation?"
Too many questions, too few answers. The heavy stone felt as if it were closing in on him, the room a reminder of boarding school - dull gray walls and priests in black cassocks, with hard and quiet words. He had to be educated, of course. He had to be kept apart from his family, so that he might learn.
A letter to a child - told his father was sick abed, but not to return home. To write, only. To send his best wishes and regards. His father grows well. He does not go home.
A letter to a child - told his mother is abed with her first daughter, but not to return home. To write only. To send his best wishes and regards. He does not go home.
Kept apart from his family so that he might learn.
Learn . . . what? How to be alone?
"Monsieur Verne? The father's family?"
Jules started and shook his head again. "I don't know. I don't know where she came from. If I did, I'd find her family."
Sister Simon lowered the pen to the blotting paper - a bad sign. She fixed him with a steady gaze, her face framed by a white wimple and black scarf, features as gray as her clothing. "Where did you come across this child, Monsieur, if she is no relation?"
The words would not form on his lips. "A man . . . in the street. He tried . . . he tried to sell her to me. For the night."
Sister Simon was seated, but she rose to her full height in the chair. "Did you know this man?"
"No." Jules shook his head, then paused, catching a glimpse of red through the window - Aimee's shawl. He fixed his eyes on her playing in the garden as he spoke. "I was coming back from the tavern. He was in the shadows - I don't know where he came from. There was a thief - the gendarmes caught him. The man fled. . . he left the little girl alone, in the street, with me."
"And you did not give her to the police?"
He turned toward the nun, bewildered. "They would have locked her in a cell. Or turned her back to the street. Surely it was right to protect her?"
"I find no fault with the intent, young man. God loves those of his children who succor the needy and abandoned." Sighing, she rose to her feet and set aside the papers. "I'm afraid we cannot take the child."
Jules took a step toward the desk. "What? Why?"
"She's been defiled."
He was too stunned to speak at first, and then bit back the words the instant they appeared on his tongue. Although his father's attempts to raise him in the church had met with little success, there was still enough of the teaching left within him to keep him from shouting at a nun. Instead, Jules turned around and crumpled his hat into a ball. "She's an innocent little girl," he said, somehow managing to control his voice.
"No, Monsieur Verne, she is not." He nearly jumped when the elderly woman's hand touched his shoulder. Sister Simon gestured toward a door on his left. "Here we have forty-three innocent little girls, many younger than the one you've found, all of them without a mother, or father, or family. They are poor, but they are also innocent of the world. Would you have us endanger their souls by exposing them to the foulness your Aimee has endured?"
Jules shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the door - it might have been bolted shut for all the good it would do for Aimee. "There's no hope here for her."
"Not now. You should take her to a house of fallen women; they might take pity on her and let her earn her keep with household tasks. If she lives to the age of reason, she may repent her sins and finally find comfort in the bosom of the church--"
"She has no sins," declared Jules suddenly, turning on the nun. "She's a little girl. She's not responsible for what's happened to her."
Sister Simon raised her hand to bless him with the sign of the cross. "God keep you, Monsieur Verne . . . and the child. I'm sorry, but we cannot take her in."
Before she had finished the motion of her hand, he was already halfway to the door. Jules slapped his cap over his hair and headed through the covered archway into the garden.
Aimee saw him coming, a smile lighting her features. Releasing the hand of the young nun with her, she raced toward him holding a single flower, whose orange-colored petals were tipped with brown, already half-dead. "Look, Jules! I have a flower that smells like the soap!"
"We have to go," he said sharply. His was angry enough to forget his manners, but those ingrained remnants of his childhood education had greater sway than his immediate emotions - he paused to nod curtly to the nun. "Sister."
The nun chased after him as he hurried Aimee from the walled garden along the path that led to the gate. "Monsieur Verne - wait! Please! You've forgotten her things!"
He hesitated out of respect - his father would have struck him for less, would do so even now if he were present - and out of necessity, for the bundle she brought to him held all of Aimee's earthly possessions.
The nun caught up with him, but looked first to Aimee as she approached. "She's a beautiful girl."
She touched Aimee's chin, but the child's expression was suddenly guarded. He smiled down at Aimee, realizing that he'd frightened her, then met the nun's eyes guiltily as he took the bundle. "Pardon me, sister. I--"
"I understand. Many in need are turned away from here. Too many." She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up to meet his gaze. She had large, lovely eyes, the color of spring grass. "You must take Aimee to the government foundling home. Not tonight," she gestured toward the sun, which was already beginning to set, "it's too late, they close their gates at dusk. If you go tomorrow, they will take her. She'll be fed, and clothed, and taught her lessons."
Jules brushed Aimee's hair with his hand and she managed a small smile at him, but he could see the worry in her eyes. "Is this foundling home a good place? Clean? Will they treat her well?"
"A few coins could make the difference," said the young nun, shrugging in answer to his questions. "Her life won't be easy, but it'll be better than the one she's known. She'll be sheltered from the cold, in any case."
"That's more than I can do." Tucking the small bundle beneath his elbow, Jules held out his hand. "Thank you, Sister--?"
"Sister Bertrand," she said, taking his hand and shaking it gently.
He expected her hand to be as soft as the skin on her face. Instead, he found her fingers scored and callused. His surprise must have shown in his expression, because she released his hand quickly. "We all give to God in our own ways, Monsieur. For me, it's the garden."
Jules nodded, embarrassed and not quite knowing what to say.
"Let me show you the way to the street." Taking Aimee's hand, Sister Bertrand led him along a stone pathway edged by hedges.
Jules was jealous of the ease with which the sister had gotten Aimee to trust her, their clasped hands swinging between them as they walked. A moment ago he had been so certain that this was the wrong place for Aimee, but as he watched the smile she shared with Sister Bertrand, he was suddenly sorry the church had found the child wanting. Could this have been the proper place for her, protected from the evils of the world until she was of a proper age to deal with them?
And what age would that be? He hardly knew, having found himself the target of evil men with dreadful schemes, and not having the faintest clue of how or why he'd been placed in that position.
At the gate, Sister Bertrand rested her free hand on Aimee's head. "God bless you, child." Then she placed Aimee's hand in Jules'. "And God bless you, too, Monsieur. Take her to the foundling home tomorrow. She may not find comfort there, but she'll thrive. Perhaps, like me, when she's older she may find her peace elsewhere."
"Sister, wait--"
But the gate had been closed, and locked, Sister Bertrand disappearing within the quiet shadows of the convent garden, while he and Aimee stood on the noisy streets of Paris in the fading light of dusk. He drew Aimee closer to him as a heavily-ladened cart clattered past on rickety wheels.
"I want to play with the dogs again, Jules," announced Aimee, tugging at his hand and pointing to a green patch on the other side of the boulevard.
"They've gone home. I think it's time we headed home, too." Jules enviously watched another cart pass - he'd be tempted to hitch a ride if it weren't going in the wrong direction. His neighborhood wasn't that far, just enough to be intimidating. With the setting of the sun came an evening chill - it seemed the summer warmth they'd enjoyed the night before was now gone.
The cold made him think of Aimee. Kneeling down, he wrapped her shawl more tightly around her. "Is that better?"
"Yes." She leaned forward, laying her head on his shoulder. "I'm tired. Can I have some bread and butter?"
"When we get home, yes." Jules dropped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and felt the coins remaining in the bottom of the sock. Enough to pick up something warm to eat at a tavern on the way home . . . but Sister Bertrand had told him Aimee would receive a more welcoming reception at the foundling home if there was money to pay her way.
Hearing the faint jingle of the coins in his pocket as he released his hold on them, Jules repeated, "When we get home."
He quickly discovered that he wasn't used to walking with a child. When he went anywhere with his friends from the Aurora, they ambled, or strolled, but more often ran, always dashing to or from danger it seemed. He was used to setting his own pace, but now he found his steps curtailed by the length of her smaller legs. Their trip to the Orphanage of the Sisters of Mercy had been pleasant, under a shining sun, with an afternoon breeze, and a side trip to the park.
Darkness brought on an itch between his shoulders, a wariness of unseen danger. Only the main boulevard showed any real signs of light and life, even this early in the evening. Taking to the small side streets that would lead to his rooming house meant dodging through shadowy corners, past places of dubious repute which might at another time have held an allure simply because they were different, because they were Paris.
He found he couldn't hold tightly enough to Aimee, one of his hands clasping hers, his other hand on her shoulder, constantly in danger of falling over her because he needed to stand at her back to protect her. Jules soon realized that he was more alarmed than Aimee - she showed no fear of the dark, nor of the strangers who moved into and out of the shadows, shouting, careening drunkenly against the alley walls or one another, laughing as they went.
This was her world and he was the stranger in it.
To his relief, neither of them recognized anyone on the journey back to his rooming house. Jules knew that Aimee had walked about as far as her legs could carry her at least a half mile from his door. After making her promise to hold tightly to the bundle, he swung her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way.
Aimee was light, but after carrying her weight that distance he was more than pleased to see the door of the rooming house ahead . . . and just as wearily contemplating the climb up the stairs to his room. They had, at least, managed to straighten things before they'd left earlier in the day. There was only the matter of dinner to consider - the last of the bread, cheese, and pastry, enough for the two of them - and then washing up, followed by bed. He was not looking forward to spending another night on the floor, but he could see no alternative.
So occupied was he by these thoughts, that he misjudged the weight he put on the second step as he climbed the stairs with Aimee in his arms. The warped wood twisted beneath his feet - the instant before he heard the prolonged 'creak', he knew they were done for.
Mme Ludek popped out of her door in the lower apartment like a comic doll in a puppet theatre, hurrying up to the steps and peering through the dim light of the courtyard at him. "Monsieur Verne!"
Resigned to his fate - which could have been anything from having to pay for an extra boarder for the night to being ejected from his room - Jules sighed and set Aimee down on the step above him.
"Yes, Mme Ludek." He stomped unhappily down the steps to face her.
His landlady stared through the balustrade of the stairs. "Who is that?"
"My sister." It was so much easier to lie when he was tired. "Aimee, this is my landlady, Mme Ludek." He cleared his throat. "My family was visiting. She was supposed to return to Nantes with my brother - I'm sure he'll be here any minute to retrieve her--"
"See that he does."
Jules couldn't believe his luck when she nodded sternly and turned away, but before he could move toward the stairs, she added, "Oh, and there was a man looking for you; he came to the door not more than an hour ago."
"A man?" He glanced back at Aimee worriedly. Could it have been Dondre?
"Yes. A Spaniard, I think."
"A . . . Spaniard?" Puzzled, Jules scratched his head. "I don't know--"
"In any case, he left you this--" she handed him a paper folded over and sealed, "and a basket in your room - some bread and a bottle of wine, I think. I didn't see it well enough."
Mme Ludek had broken the wax seal, no doubt, but Jules had expected as much. It didn't matter, as the scent of the paper told him precisely whom the letter was from. He flipped it open and stood beside the window to Mme Ludek's rooms - the light shining through was barely enough to make out the words.
"'Have landed safely--'" he read aloud to Aimee, who was now standing at the balustrade. "'Come if you're not otherwise engaged.'" He laughed, suddenly giggly with relief. "Otherwise engaged?"
Mme Ludek didn't seem to see the joke. Jules ran to the balustrade and showed Aimee the letter through the spaces between the slats. "They've come back," he told her. "They've come back and they want us to visit them."
Aimee stared at him with owl eyes, as uncomprehending as Mme Ludek.
"It was Passepartout," he explained to her. "The man who was here - his name is Passepartout and - Aimee, you'll love him. He's a lot of fun." Jules turned toward Mme Ludek. "His name is Passepartout."
"I don't care what he's called, that Spaniard." She huffed indignantly, shuffling back to her doorway. "Thinks he's a charmer!"
For a moment, Jules stared after her - he almost thought he saw his landlady smile before the door banged closed on her - then he ran to the stairs and took Aimee's hand, quickly leading her up the steps. "You should wash your face and hands, and change your smock. My shirt should be dry - at least I'll be able to change."
But as he dragged her into the room behind him, Aimee dug in her heels, pulling back. "Jules! Jules!"
He stopped, suddenly realizing that something was wrong, and knelt down in front of her. "What is it? Are you sick?"
"I--" She stared at him, then threw her arms around his neck. "Please don't sell me, Jules. Please don't sell me!"
Her panic-stricken tone cut directly to his heart. His arms went around her immediately and Jules hugged her as tightly as he dared. "I'm not going to sell you." Pulling back from her a little, he showed her the letter again. "This is from my friends. We're going to see them now. And we have to dress up the best we can, because they're very important people."
"Are they rich?" asked Aimee, staring down at the paper. She took it from him and lifted it to her nose, realizing that it had a pretty scent. "Nice."
"Very nice. And as far as money goes, probably very rich, too." He slipped his suspenders from his shoulders, rose to his feet, and began to unbutton his shirt. "But what's even more important," he informed her, as he shrugged out of his rumpled shirt and pulled the clean one from the shutter, "is that they're very smart. They'll help me find you a home, a proper home," he decided, tucking the shirt into his trousers. "A place where you can be happy."
"We can be happy in the glass house, can't we?"
Jules paused a moment, a lump in his throat as he stared at his reflection in the window. Aimee was standing behind him, Rebecca's letter held in her hand. She could have no idea what the letter meant, no idea what she was asking.
"Of course we can." He practiced his smile for a moment before turning toward her. "Now, let's open the bundle and change your smock - it might be wrinkled, but at least it'll be clean."
As Aimee busied herself in changing her clothing, Jules turned back to the window and looked up at the stars in the night sky. They weren't quite close enough to touch, but they felt nearer here than in the street. Somewhere beyond that darkness, there was a God who'd been asked twice today to bless him, and to bless the child. Surely a God who could arrange the return of his friends at the proper moment would forgive him the small lie he'd just told Aimee?
The question was, could he forgive himself?
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End of Chapter Five
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