In the middle of the night, Mireille crept out of bed, careful not to wake her husband, and went back to sit at her son's bedside. She saw that he had vomited again, and went to clean out the chamberpot before returning to sit on the edge of the bed. He was asleep, but restless, his hair damp with sweat.
She sighed. Auguste always brushed off any of her concerns about Gaston by saying this was the way men were, and that as a woman, she didn't understand. But she didn't see how purposely getting her child drunk enough to make him violently ill was necessary to "make a man" out of him.
She remembered the first time she had seen Auguste. He had walked into her father's saddlery shop, the handsomest man she'd ever seen in her life. "Well, hello there, pretty lady," he'd said charmingly, leaning on the counter. "Who might you be?"
She had giggled shyly, looking downward modestly. "I'm Mireille. We just moved here. Who are you?"
He put two fingers under her chin, lifting her gaze to look into his brilliant blue eyes. "Your future husband," he said with a cocky grin. His confident, take-charge attitude had seemed so manly to her - he had swept her off her feet. A few weeks later, he had asked her father formally for her hand in marriage, and to her it had seemed so romantic, a dream come true. She was only 17. He was 25.
He ruled the household with an iron hand, expecting complete compliance from her, just as he did from his dogs and horses. But, naïve and passive by nature, she accepted it, and tried her best to please him. She had led a sheltered life, raised to be a wife and mother, gentle and submissive, always respectful and obedient to her parents,. She had been taught that a man's home was his castle, that he made the decisions, and a woman's job was to cook and clean and take care of the house and children.
He had raised his hand to her only once, early in their marriage. She had disagreed with him about something – she couldn't even remember what it was now. But they had quarreled, and she had been so caught up in expressing her viewpoint that she hadn't seen the danger signs: how his eyes flashed with anger, his brows drew together, his jaw clenched. Without warning, he had slapped her hard in mid-sentence. She was stunned into silence, her hand flying to her reddening cheek, her eyes filling with tears.
"Do not ever defy me, Mireille," he had said, his voice cold with fury, and stormed out.
Upset, she had gone to see her mother and tearfully told her the story. Her mother had been sympathetic, but not shocked. "Well, dear, you know how men are," she had said. "They don't like to be contradicted. Let him make the decisions, and you just be a good wife and support him, like you're supposed to."
"But…he was so angry," said Mireille. "It was…scary." She shivered. She was a sensitive girl, unused to so much as a harsh word. As a child, she would burst into tears if her parents even scolded her. She hated for anyone to be angry with her.
"Now, now," her mother said comfortingly, patting her hand. "All couples have spats from time to time. You go home and apologize to him, and I'm sure he'll forgive you."
So, convinced the incident was entirely her fault, she had returned home. She saw her husband sitting by the hearth. He turned to glare at her in silence, his expression stony. It took all the courage she had to approach him. Trembling, she knelt in front of him, her eyes downcast, and said meekly, "Auguste, I-I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry with me."
She felt him touch her shoulder, and timidly raised her head to meet his eyes. To her immense relief, he was smiling broadly, like the sun coming out after a storm. "That's a good girl," he said benevolently, his good humor restored. "That's what I like to hear."
Sobbing, she threw herself into his arms, needing comfort and reassurance after her fright. He patted her on the back, saying, "There, there, it's all right. I forgive you. Just don't let it happen again."
"I won't," she said fervently.
She was grateful that he was not the kind of man who constantly got drunk, flew into rages and beat his wife. She knew such men existed. As long as everything was to his liking, Auguste was cheerful and good-natured, seeing himself as the benevolent ruler of his little kingdom. So she did everything she could to keep him happy and their life harmonious.
She knew that the other village women envied her, and that she was lucky. After all, her husband was the most handsome man in town, respected and successful, and a good provider. They had a large house and food on the table. He often patted her approvingly and told her that she was a "fine woman," or a "good little wife." He was very pleased with his choice, and showed her off proudly to others, as though she were a prize horse. He often bought her new dresses and jewelry, wanting his wife to be the envy of all. And his lust for her body had not declined over the years – he still found her as desirable as ever, and ravished her hungrily in bed.
If she ever longed wistfully for tenderness and closeness, for the feeling of being cherished, or simply to hear the words "I love you," she chided herself for her foolishness. Such thoughts were just silly, girlish notions. She knew she had no right to complain.
Besides, Auguste had given her one thing for which she would always be grateful: Gaston. From the moment he was born, he seemed to her the most beautiful, perfect child imaginable. He was the joy of her life, and she loved him wholeheartedly and unreservedly.
People might say she spoiled him, but she didn't care. She loved to see him smile, and was happy to give him anything he wanted. In her eyes, he deserved only the best.
She knew that in time, he was grow up into a man's world, and away from her. It was already starting, in fact – lately he spent more and more time hunting with his father, whom he idolized, or out with his friends. But for the moment he was still a child, and still needed her, and she treasured every moment.
She was glad that Auguste was an involved father, spending a lot of time with Gaston and teaching him things. But she worried sometimes. Auguste was so focused on being tough and beating out everyone else. She wished he would also stress to their son the importance of kindness and compassion.
But the one time she had approached him about it, Auguste had laughed. "You want him to be gentle and kind and sweet? He's not a little girl, Mireille. Your problem is that you never had a daughter to coddle. Gaston's a boy, and a great one. He's doing just fine. I'm not going to have him becoming weak and wishy-washy."
Now she looked at Gaston sleeping, and sighed. She knew Auguste felt he was raising their son the right way, including tonight's trip to the tavern. But how could he intentionally do something that would make their child so sick? And then shrug it off, as though it were unimportant? She didn't understand it. But then, as Auguste said, she was merely a woman.
The next morning, Auguste was up bright and early, as usual. It was the first of the month, which was always a busy time for him. First, he and Julien were going to meet with the local brewers and place their monthly orders. Then, he was going into town to pick up the monthly supplies – feed for the horses, ammunition for his guns, and other household necessities.
He shook Gaston awake. "Come on, son, time to rise and shine!"
Gaston groaned and rubbed his eyes. Auguste chuckled. "How are you feeling today, son?"
Gaston took stock of himself. He didn't feel like he was going to throw up anymore – he felt as though he had emptied himself of everything he'd ever eaten in his life. But his head was pounding, and his stomach hurt, and his throat was raw.
But he knew his father didn't want to hear that. He was impatient with minor complaints, believing a man should be tough enough to take any punishment without whining about it. "I'm okay, Pop," he said.
"Good," said Auguste. "Now get up. It's time for you to do your chores." Gaston nodded and dragged himself out of bed. Standing up too quickly, he felt a wave of vertigo, and grabbed a post for support.
Auguste gave Mireille a perfunctory kiss. "Well, I'm off to town. I'll be back for dinner."
"All right," Mireille said. "Have a good day."
After he left, Mireille looked concernedly at her son. He really looked awful, swaying as though he would fall over any moment. Her heart went out to him. She went over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Go back to bed, sweetheart. You need to rest."
"No, Pop said I gotta do my chores," he said weakly.
"I'll do them for you," she promised. "Don't worry about it."
Gratefully he climbed back into bed with a sigh.
"Do you want some breakfast? I could make you those eggs you like." She smiled fondly, adding, "I never knew a boy who could eat so many eggs!"
Gaston shuddered. The very thought of food made his stomach rebel. "No, I couldn't eat anything now."
"All right. Is there anything I can get you?" Mireille asked.
"Well, I'm a little thirsty," he told her.
She brought him a cup of water. He drank it down quickly. "Thanks, Mama."
She smiled. "That's what I'm here for. To take care of you." Tenderly she brushed his hair off his forehead. Her cool hand felt good against his overheated skin.
He smiled back at her. "When I grow up, I'm gonna miss having you to take care of me."
She felt a pang of loss at the thought. She would miss it more than he would, she knew. But she smiled reassuringly. "Well, when you grow up, you'll have a wife to take care of you," she reminded him. "Some wonderful girl who loves you more than anything and will devote her life to making you happy." She touched his cheek fondly. "She's going to be one lucky girl, whoever she is. I hope she'll appreciate how lucky she is to have you."
He grinned - that mischievous, devilish grin that always melted her heart and, within a few years, would cause girls to swoon instantly. "'Cause I'm the handsomest boy there is, right, Mama?"
"Always, Gaston," she agreed, smiling. She kissed his forehead. "You rest now."
o o o o o o
Auguste returned that evening in a good mood. He had accomplished everything he'd set out to do, gotten good bargains on everything by haggling, and picked up a few extras, including a fine new set of tack for his horse and a new bow and quiver of arrows for Gaston. He entered a house that was sparkling clean and full of the good smell of cooking.
"Ah, now this is what a man likes to come home to," he said jovially, coming in the door.
Mireille came over and kissed him. "Did you have a good day?"
"Yep. And here, I got something for you." He handed her a silver bracelet.
"Thank you," she said, putting it on. She didn't care much about material things, but she was always grateful for any token of affection.
After dinner, Auguste settled into his overstuffed armchair. "So, Gaston, did you have a good time last night?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, Pop!" said Gaston eagerly. He had recovered by this point. Now that he was feeling so much better, he looked back at his night at the tavern as a grand adventure.
"Good," said Auguste. "Maybe in a few months I'll take you again. And in a few years, you'll start coming with me every night. The place is going to be yours one day; you'll need to learn how to run it."
A wave of relief washed over Mireille. She had feared that the previous evening's debauchery was the beginning of a new nightly routine. But thankfully, Auguste apparently saw it as merely a one-time treat, a reward for Gaston's hunting success. She had been given a reprieve: her son would stay her child at least a little while longer, before being dragged into the world of men and away from her.
Feeling grateful to her husband, she moved behind Auguste's chair and began massaging his shoulders. "Mmm," Auguste said, leaning his head back, "that feels good." He reached back and patted her hand affectionately. "Best little wife in the world." He kicked off his boots. "Rub my feet, will you, dear? You know I like that."
"Of course," she said. She knelt down in front of him and massaged his feet. He leaned back, his hands behind his head, and smiled. "Ah, this is the life," he said grandly. "What more could a man want?"
Gaston, playing on the floor with the dogs, was feeling content too. Tomorrow he would brag to his friends about bagging the deer, and going to the tavern. They would be so jealous. And tonight, he was here at home with his parents, and everyone was happy. Things were just as they should be.