Lies Told In Silence (3 page)

Chapter 4

May 1914

Henri swirled his glass, sniffed appreciatively and took another sip of brandy, its fiery heat and smooth aftertaste eliciting a brief moment of relaxation. On his desk were three piles of papers: one contained an analysis of the Balkan situation, a second detailed ongoing discussions between France and Great Britain and the third pile, a smaller pile, included a report of actions by various German military leaders. Despite their ominous topics, Henri was not reviewing any of these papers.

Instead, he had General Bernhardi’s book
Germany and the Next War
open to chapter two, chillingly titled “The Duty to Make War”, where Henri had bookmarked a particular sentence: “The lessons of history thus confirm the view that wars which have been deliberately provoked by far-seeing statesmen have had the happiest results”.

The words
war
and
happy
should never be in the same sentence
, he thought.

Given Bernhardi’s vast political and military influence, there was only one conclusion: Germany would soon provoke war and reap the benefit of picking the most advantageous timing. Then her alliances with Austria-Hungary and Italy would bring those countries into the conflict.

He flipped forward to chapter seven, where he had also marked passages calling for universal service to augment the total fighting strength of Germany and describing the factors necessary for German success. Bernhardi concluded that offensive warfare combined with tactical striking power and efficiency would outweigh the combined numbers of France, Britain and Russia.

Henri was
seriously alarmed. As he tried to imagine what options were left for France, he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

A discreet cough drew his attention away from his papers to the library door where Helene waited for permission to enter. Still caught in grim ruminations, Henri beckoned absently. Under other circumstances, he might have told her that he was busy, but their estrangement pained him.

He knew she did not want to go to Beaufort and had observed her moping about the house, snapping at her younger brother or at little Tout Tout, both actions out of character for his sweet-natured daughter. He had also noted whispered conversations between Helene and Guy that ceased as soon as he appeared. Henri wished he could pull her onto his lap as he used to when she was little and, with easy promises, bring a smile back to her face.

“Helene—”

“Papa, please let me speak. I know you’re very concerned about Germany and Austria-Hungary. Guy has explained more of the situation, and I have been reading the newspapers every day. I can see that it’s a great worry. However, you have always said that education is important for both girls and boys, and you must see that I cannot be properly educated in such a small village. I will help Maman and Grandmere get settled, but I would ask you to agree that I can return in September when school begins. I can be useful here in Paris, Papa. You and Guy will need a woman in the house.”

Henri was amused at Helene’s calm logic. He kept his face solemn.

“You’re right to say that education is important. I have always wanted that for you and the boys. But your safety is much more important. No, no. Wait.” He held up his hand as she began to protest. “Guy and the newspapers don’t know the full story. Sadly, I am privy to much more.”

Henri’s eyes went black as he imagined a Paris overrun with soldiers and the havoc they would create.

“Your duty is with Maman.” Henri leaned forward and took his daughter’s hand. “She will need your strength and determination, and your company. We may be facing difficult times. Very difficult times.” Henri nodded more to himself than to Helene.

“But Papa . . .”

“No buts, Helene. Please do as I ask.”

Helene’s eyes filled and her cheeks took on a blotchy pink stain. She disengaged her hand from his but otherwise did not move.

“Yes, Papa.”

“I need you to act like an adult. Can you do that for me? Maman is very unhappy about this; Grandmere is getting older and will need your help; Jean is still young. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Beaufort is a happy place, you’ll see.”

Henri remembered the curve in the road from which the first glimpse of Beaufort appeared, a small traditional village set amongst fields of wheat, potatoes and beets. When he was young, they had usually travelled by train for their summer visit, excitement building as August approached and they prepared to leave Paris. Tante Camille always sent last-minute shopping requests to Henri’s mother: special jams from Hediard, linens from Noel, fabric from Poiret or Worth, medicines and creams from the pharmacist. One year he remembered bringing a woman’s dress form so his aunt could create her own styles, having declared in a letter to his mother that the village seamstress was hopeless.

When they finally left Paris, their carriage would be overflo
wing with suitcases, boxes, presents, food and other paraphernalia that his mother deemed necessary for summer in Beaufort. Henri’s father never protested, knowing the wisdom of allowing his wife to have her way in such matters. And each year they would leave items for the following summer—rubber boots, a large pot for making soup, a soccer ball, swimming trunks, a lace shawl that his mother only ever wore on holiday. Tante Camille would protest that her house was already full but took secret pleasure in the implication of next year’s visit.

“Beaufort is where I learned to swim and fish,” he said to Helene. “Grandpere would take us to the river with a small tub of worms and our fishing rods. My brothers and I would stand on the riverbanks with him for hours. He was a different man in Beaufort.” Henri chewed his lower lip. “We had few restrictions at Tante Camille’s, free to do as we pleased most days. So different from Paris.”

“When did you stop going?”

“When you were little. Life took a new direction, I suppose.” He paused. “Your mother didn’t like it. Said I was different there.” He shrugged. “You’ll be fine.”

“I will do my best, Papa.”

“I promise I’ll revisit the decision in a few months. Guy and I will write many letters, and the days will pass quickly.”

“Yes, Papa.”  Helene ran a finger back and forth along the polished surface of Henri’s desk. “Papa?”

“Mm hmm,” he said, already beginning to think about Ber
nhardi again.

“Can we at least attend Gabrielle’s wedding before we go to Beaufort? Marie wants me there, and I know Cousin Yvette has spoken to Maman. Please, Papa. I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

Henri placed the cap back onto his pen and twisted it closed then tapped the pen against his chin. “Perhaps. But I’ll talk to your mother first.”

A flicker of hope flitted across Helene’s face.

“Thank you, Papa,” she said, offering her cheek for a quick kiss before leaving the room.

Henri watched his daughter, noting, not for the first time, how much her figure reminded him of Lise. Soon she would have young men clamouring for her attention. He sighed then turned back to the mounds of paper on his desk and was
quickly immersed again in worry.

Chapter 5

June 1914

“I’m glad you’re here,” Francois said as Helene stepped into the Delancey home. “Maman, Gabrielle and Marie are so preoccupied with wedding preparations that Papa and I are starved for sensible conversation. Shall I take your hat? If men were in charge of organizing weddings, they would be much simpler affairs. I’ll tell you a secret.” Francois leaned close enough for Helene to smell the residue of shaving cream. “Papa said he’s refraining from commenting on any aspect of the arrangements to avoid further expense.”

“Francois! You shouldn’t talk about money in front of Helene,” Marie said as she entered the front hall.

“Why not? She’s family. Tell me, Helene, are we second cousins or third cousins? I can never remember.”

“We’re second cousins,” said Marie. “We have the same great-grandparents.” Marie grinned at her brother and then at Helene. “I’m so glad you’re here, Helene. I have so much to show you. Gabrielle is having a fit of tears, and Maman says we should leave her alone for a little while.”

“Tears?” said Francois. “You women are impossible to unde
rstand. She loves Raymond. He loves her. Soon they’ll be married and live together. It’s simple.” He snapped his fingers and winked at Helene.

Francois’s voice was deeper than Helene remembered, his demeanour more authoritative, as though he had shed the uncertainty of youth. Although his hair was still the colour of roasted chestnuts, his face was more defined, round contours chipped away by maturity, and his shoulders had broadened.
He’s handsome
, she thought, surprised to find herself considering him that way.

“You understand nothing, Francois. You men think everything is so easy and it’s not.”

“But you love us anyway, don’t you? Helene, I hope you aren’t as obsessed with fashion as the women in this house are. I swear they would take over my bedroom just like they’ve taken over the rest of the house if I didn’t keep my door closed. I’ll be so glad when things return to normal.”

Francois said all this in such a lighthearted voice that Helene and Marie both smiled at him.

“Come with me, Helene, I’ll show you Gabrielle’s trousseau. Her clothes are so beautiful.” Marie’s blue eyes sparkled. “I’m sure Francois has other things to do.”

Gabrielle’s trousseau was kept in a wooden armoire, its edges carved with orange blossoms, birds and laurel leaves to signify prosperity and fertility. The armoire was divided in half, one side containing a rod for hanging dresses, blouses and skirts, the other side arranged with shelves for household linens and two drawers for lingerie, silk stockings, gloves, handkerchiefs, hatpins and collars.

“Maman said Gabrielle should have six of everything,” Marie explained, showing Helene nightgowns in soft pastel colours with tiny buttons and delicate ribbons, blouses, a travelling suit, day dresses and skirts, and six camisoles, one so sheer Helene thought it might as well not be worn at all.

“Look at this petticoat,” Helene said, draping a length of silk edged with lace against her arm.

“Gabrielle made that herself. The lace took ages to complete. See how tiny the threads are.” Two heads bent over the slip to examine it in more detail. “And the top shelves are full of sheets, tablecloths, pillow cases, napkins. All in white.” Marie touched several items, her hand lingering on a pillowcase edge with silk ribbon.

The contents of the armoire enchanted Helene with the promise of romance and the allure of unknown pleasures. Lying in bed that night, she wondered what her own future would be like. Would some man look at her like Raymond looked at Gabrielle, as if he wanted to devour her and protect her at the same time? Would she marry but then be angry with her husband like Maman was with Papa? Would someone stir her heart with passion as books and poems promised? What would it be like to live with a man and share his bed, his moods, his days and nights?

No wonder Gabrielle is emotional
, she thought.

*
* *

Murky clouds that threatened rain all morning were chased away by billowing puffs of white by midafternoon. Helene’s mood danced as the sun spre
ad its wings.

Everyone in her family was attending the wedding, and the house bubbled with activity, releasing some of the gloom caused by her father’s decision to send them away. Even Maman was smiling as she helped Helene dress.

Her mother had agreed that the occasion required a new gown. At a shop on Rue la Fayette they had chosen fabric in cornflower blue, a shade that complimented Helene’s grey eyes and light complexion, and a design composed of a sleeveless underdress with ribbon straps and a lace overskirt and blouse stitched in intricate swirls. When Helene went for her second fitting, Maman had exclaimed that the dress made her look much older than sixteen.

Helene drew a stocking smoothly up her leg and fastened it to her garter belt. She reached for the other stocking.

“Will you let me put my hair up, Maman?”

Tradition held that as part of coming out, a young woman wore her hair up for the first time to signify she was ready to consider marriage. Helene hoped her mother would be flexible; the idea of looking more mature was irresistible. Perhaps Francois would ask
her to dance.

Maman tilted her head back and forth as if considering an extremely important decision. “All right,
chérie
, it is a special occasion. I remember the first time I put my hair up. Of course, I was two years older than you and had finished school. Be prepared for your grandmother’s disapproval. I’ll get my pins and sculpting brush.”

Helene hugged her mother. “Thank you, Maman.”

“We all need a little cheer right now, don’t we? We won’t have grand occasions like this in Beaufort. In fact, we might not have any occasions at all.” Maman sighed.

When she reappeared five minutes later, she set out her brushes on Helene’s dresser and placed a small felt bag nearby.

“What’s in the bag?”

“You’ll see.”

Maman brushed Helene’s hair and gathered several thick strands in one hand. Deft movements quickly secured Helene’s curls with two pearled combs. “And now a little extra.” Her mother extracted two small jars from the felt bag, a small stick with one end blackened, some cotton wool and a round silver case.

Helene smiled, for these were the items Maman used to add colour to her face. Her mother wrapped some cotton wool around one end of the stick and dipped it first in one jar and then the other. “Widen your mouth like this,” she said as she demonstrated.

Helene did as her mother requested. Maman held her chin and applied the mixture to her lips. She then opened the silver case and smoothed a little pink powder on Helene’s cheekbones, and finally she took the black end of the stick and, after telling Helene to hold still, brushed
it against Helene’s eyebrows.

“What do you think?” she said.

Helene stood in front of the full-length mirror and stared. “Oh, Maman,” she said. “It hardly looks like me.”

*
* *

Incense mingled with orange blossoms as Helene and her family entered the church. Soaring columns and high Gothic arches
dominated the central aisle leading to the sanctuary while light flooded in from every angle. Feathered hats and flashing jewels, crisp bow ties and starched white collars adorned the assembled guests. Greetings and gossip mixed with the rustle of silk, organza, satin and crepe in a kaleidoscope of colour.

Maman led the way to a pew on the bride’s side of the church. When the music softened and the guests grew quiet, Helene turned to see Raymond, the groom, walking slowly down the aisle with his mother, followed by Cousin Yvette and Francois, then Marie carrying a basket of white roses and wearing a gown fashioned in layers, a golden mesh tunic over ivory satin, the neck, hemline and sleeves trimmed with sparkling beads. A few moments later, Gabrielle appeared on her father’s arm.

The couple stood beneath a white canopy while the priest conducted the ceremony in smooth flowing Latin. During the final blessing, Raymond’s brothers held a square of silk over the bride and groom to symbolize protection from future harm. According to custom, the couple would save the silk to swaddle their firstborn.

Outside the church, a long line of carriages waited to take them to the reception. Drivers in top hats and polished boots kept their freshly groomed horses calm as guests climbed aboard. Alongside their route, the Seine rippled with golden shadows, and as they approached the museum
, where they would dine and dance amidst Egyptian and Roman antiquities, jets of water rose from a fountain lit by submerged lights.

Everything looks magical
, Helene thought.
Like a fairy tale
.

Holding the hand of the driver,
she stepped down from the carriage. Inside the building, crisp-collared waiters offered champagne from silver trays, and music swirled from somewhere beyond the grand two-storeyed lobby. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds and gold sparkled from bosoms large and small. While her parents and grandmother chatted with others, Helene stood to one side, listening to a swelling babble of voices.

“You’re supposed to go through the receiving line,” Francois whispered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be part of the receiving line?”

“I know. Maman is waiting for me. I’m sure it will be tedious.”

Helene smiled as Francois hurried off. She wanted to savour every moment and was content to watch as others took their places in a long snaking line, gowns dazzling against a backdrop of black tie and tails and a smattering of dress uniforms. Papa beckoned and she joined her family. Beyond the receiving line, the dining room glittered with candles and chandeliers, white damask linen set with crystal and fine china, tall pedestal vases cascading with tiny white blooms and green ivy.

Dinner unfolded with a bewildering array of courses. Helene turned left and right to engage in conversation and kept her back straight and a smile on her face. A string quartet located in a small balcony struggled to be heard over the din of conversation and bustling waiters. Aromas of consommé, roasted salmon and duck confit mingled with perfume and the scent of fresh flowers. Guy, the only other member of her family at the table, was seated at the far end between a woman
, who looked to be older than Grandmere and wore a lorgnette dangling from a string of pearls, and Sarah Brouillard, whom the Noisette family had known since birth. Sarah had always been awkward as a child. Now she was a beauty and, as far as Helene could tell, Guy was hanging on her every word.

“Mademoiselle Noisette, what do you think of our crime of passion?” said the man sitting on Helene’s left.

“Madame Caillaux, Monsieur? It’s a tragic situation,
n’est-ce pas
? A woman who felt she was forced to protect her husband’s reputation by sacrificing herself.”

“But she didn’t need to kill Calmette. She could have allowed fate to rule.”

“Yes, Monsieur, she could have, but what if, under the circumstances, her husband felt duty bound to challenge Calmette to a duel? Monsieur Caillaux might have died.”

“Perhaps. But he might have been the victor instead. I prefer men to protect their women. This is more natural and more . . . chivalrous. The way French men should behave.”

“I’m sure Madame Caillaux kept her intentions secret from her husband.”

“I’m sure she did. A true crime of passion. Would you care to speculate on the outcome of her trial?”

“I know almost nothing of the law, Monsieur. Best that I leave speculation to others.”

“Wise indeed, Mademoiselle. Wise indeed.”

When the meal was over, Helene looked for Marie and found her with her mother in the salon.

“The food was delicious, Cousin Yvette” she said, sitting next to Marie on a black and gold striped sofa.

“Thank you, dear. My goodness, you girls look beautiful.” Yvette rose from her chair with a smile. “I must return to our guests and find my husband before the dancing begins. Don’t gossip for too long; the music will start any minute.”

After her mother hurried off,
Marie leaned close to Helene. “Did you see Madame Brunet? She is wearing so many jewels it’s a wonder she doesn’t fall over. And Madame Laberge could not possibly show more of her bosom. I have no idea how her dress stays up.”

Helene laughed at the thought of the woman’s dress falling down. “Guy seems smitten with Sarah Brouillard. He spoke with her almost exclusively during dinner.”

“I thought he might enjoy sitting with her. I convinced my mother that if she insisted on placing Madame Lachasse next to your brother, she had to place someone much nicer on his other side. What do you think of Gabrielle’s gown?”

“She looks like a princess.” Helene sighed, recalling Gabrielle’s gown of rich ivory satin, its long, sweeping train and deep neckline trimmed with pearls and frothy lace. At the back, tiny buttons cascaded like drops of spun sugar.

“Here you are.” Francois appeared at the entrance to the salon. “Jean-Paul is hoping you will dance with him, Marie. Come with me, ladies. I’ll escort you.”

He offered both arms and led the way to the ballroom, where two enormous chandeliers hung from giant rosettes at either end. Rose trees in full bloom lined one wall, and clusters of bamboo palms, their stems wound in alternating white and gold ribbons,
marked the corners. The orchestra played from a raised dais while white-coated waiters passed trays bearing crystal flutes of champagne, and the dance floor whirled with colour.