Lies Told In Silence (8 page)

Lise took a position near the window while Henri roamed the room. She was acutely aware of how comforting his arms had felt in the garden, and even in the confusion of her fears for Guy, the smell of him and the touch of his cheek had prompted thoughts of happier times.

“You’ve changed it,” he said.

“What?”

“The room.”

“Oh. Yes. The days here are long.”

He closed the door. “I like it. It suits you.”

Lise leaned against the window ledge. Night was black in Beaufort, unlike the faint glow permeating Paris even when dark was deepest. On occasions when sleep evaporated, she would stand by the window waiting for signs of living creatures. If it was open, she might hear leaves rustling or the mewing of baby pigs, and as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she might see a nighthawk floating against the moon or watch the trees bend in the wind. Tonight, only a train of stars was visible. An owl broke the silence.

“When we first came here, I felt isolated, as though we’d traded an ocean liner for a rowboat adrift at sea. But now I’m a little more content.”

“What changed?”

“I suppose I’ve changed.” She glanced at her husband, but he said nothing. “I’ve read a lot, and books make me think. Your mother also made me think.” A tiny laugh escaped her. “I realize I’ve never been introspective, just allowed myself to be carried along with events and friends and household things. Everyday life, I suppose. Here, I had to learn how to occupy myself. And there was plenty of time to think.”

“What did you think about?”

“Our children. You. Me. What makes life so difficult. Why I was unhappy. Our marriage.” Lise was still by the window, her back to her husband.

Henri spoke as if to himself. “We esteem that which we have most desired as of no value the moment it is possessed.”

“Who said that?” she asked, turning to face him.

“Salignac. He was an archbishop and tutor to Louis XIV’s grandson. I’ve thought about that statement a lot lately.”

“Why?” she said.

“Because I’ve lost you. Through my own fault, not yours.”

Lise did not contradict him. “Perhaps we both succumbed to the superficial. Seeking attention and admiration.” A little shrug. “Vanity, really.”

“That’s harsh.”

“As I said, I’ve had a lot of time to think.”

Henri squared his shoulders. “I’m not involved with Vivienne D’Aubigne. I ended it well before you told me you knew. You have to believe that. She meant nothing to me. And there haven’t been any others. I swear that to you, Lise. No one else. I love you, only you.”

“I used to wonder about men who betrayed their wives. And how I would feel if it were me. And now I know. First, anger, then bewilderment, then shame. I thought everyone was whispering
behind my back.” Lise enumerated her feelings as though ticking items off a list. “Then doubt. I wondered if you had ever loved me, and if our marriage was a lie. I doubted my worth. Moliere says doubts are crueller than the worst truths. So you see what you’ve done to me.”

Henri closed his eyes and bent his head. He did not speak.

Her voice softened. “Your mother helped me. I had to talk to someone, and it was surprisingly easy to tell her once I started. I thought your mother would assume it was my fault. But she didn’t.”

Henri broke his silence. “My mother is more than observant. She’s intuitive. I could never hide things from her.”

“We talked for a long time. She told me many things about you, about her own marriage.” Lise stopped and again Henri waited. “Then she told me that if I forgive you, you will belong to me and I to you.”

“She told you to forgive me?” Lise nodded. “And will you?”

“Will you belong to me again?”

“I would give anything for that.” Henri crossed the room and gently put his arms around her. “I love you, and I won’t fail you again.”

* * *

Afterwards, tangled in bedclothes, Lise curled into Henri, her scent filling his nostrils. The feel of her made his senses soar. His days had been empty without her sustaining warmth. Driving to Beaufort, he had dared to hope for his wife’s forgiveness, and now he felt complete once more; never again would he risk their relationship.

Instead of sleeping, they talked.

“Tell me what you think is going to happen. I was too upset earlier to listen carefully.” Lise held his hand, rubbing each finger in a slow rhythm, touching the tips of his carefully manicured fingernails as though she needed to reacquaint herself with every inch of his body.

He sighed. “It’s impossible to be certain. Our world is churning with ancient grievances and political intrigue. Austria seeks to restore her fading prestige; Serbia is looking for national unity for Serbs; Russia wants control of Constantinople and the Bosphorus Strait; Germany desires more influence in Europe; France longs for the return of Alsace-Lorraine. It’s so complicated. England is afraid that Germany’s navy is too strong. Some of my colleagues think we’re in danger of succumbing to ignorance, hatred and propaganda, and there’s so little we can do to stop it.”

“Having you here makes me feel less fearful,” said Lise.

“You still have to prepare yourself for war, my darling. I wish I could tell you otherwise. At the War Ministry, we’re considering three scenarios. One involves containing the conflict to the Balkans. Very little chance of that, though. A second scenario assumes Germany will come to the assistance of Austria, using the Balkans as a diversion before attacking France.”

“And the third?”

“The third scenario is a European-wide conflict, although many feel this third option is highly unlikely.” Henri held the opposite opinion but did not want to alarm her any more than he already had.

“And if Germany attacks us?”

“She’ll head straight for Paris.” Henri tensed at this thought. “That’s why I want you here. Safe.”

“And what about Guy?” she said.

“I’ll try to get him assigned to General Staff where he would be behind the lines.”

“But you’ll be in Paris.”

He didn’t answer, and she drew his arms tight around her.

* * *

Three days later, sunshine streamed into the house, reflecting through chandelier drops to make rainbows across one wall of the dining room. The smell of coffee lingered.

Three generations of women stood by the front door waiting to say good-bye. Lise noticed her mother-in-law’s face etched with sadness and the nervous way Helene looked from her father to her
older brother. She watched her son lift suitcases into the automobile as Gaston checked beneath the hood and Henri disappeared into the house to fetch his satchel of papers. Throughout, she presented a mask of calm acceptance, as if it was normal for a mother to bid farewell to a son enlisting in the army, and for a wife to have a husband living in another city.

Though her stomach churned, no one except Henri would have guessed her true feelings as she tucked a fresh handkerchief into her son’s jacket pocket and shooed away a squawking chicken that had strayed from their neighbour’s farm. Her cloak of fortitude remained firmly in place, as long as she did not think.

Guy hugged his mother and grandmother. With forced gaiety, he swung Helene and then Jean off the ground.

“I’ll write every week and come to Beaufort on my first leave,” he promised.

Henri embraced his family, saving Lise for last. “I love you,” he whispered so only she could hear.

“I love you too,” Lise
responded, her eyes glistening.

Moments later, the red Tonneau roared off.

Chapter 11

July 1914

Le Petit Rodin, an intimate restaurant near the Paris Opera House, was bustling by eight o’clock on Wednesday. Henri opened the door, grateful to leave the rain behind, and passed by two couples waiting in the lobby. Jerome, the maître d’hôtel, was looking at the couples through narrow spectacles perched on the end of his nose, but he waved Henri through with a courteous nod of his head.

Charles and Maurice were waiting for him at a circular table with a splendid view of grand arches and illuminated statues of the Palais Garnier, which housed the opera. With Lise in Beaufort,
Henri rarely entertained at home and instead had invited his friends to dinner at one of his favourite restaurants. In their company, he could let down his guard rather than play the confident senior bureaucrat.

As they consulted the menu and extensive wine list, Henri and his friends chatted about inconsequential matters and the latest news of French society. While Maurice told a lengthy story about hunting at a country estate owned by a descendant of the Duc d’Orleans, Henri tapped his fingers on the table. What he most wanted to discuss were the latest political developments, but he waited until a bottle of Bordeaux had been poured and properly
savoured.

“
Delcassé and Viviani are worried,” he said after the three men had raised their glasses in silent salute. “In fact, everyone at the Foreign Ministry is worried about the demands Austria will make of Serbia. I’ve heard talk of them wanting judicial standing in Serbian court proceedings against those responsible for the assassination. There are even rumours of artillery and ammunition being sent to the frontier between Austria-Hungary and Serbia, which suggests that Austria is using this time to prepare for conflict.”

“What about Germany? Will they support Austria?” Maurice inclined his head to acknowledge a bulky man with a florid complexion being seated near their table. “Alain Rivest,” he said in response to Henri’s questioning look. “Adrienne’s cousin.”

“Right. He looked familiar.” Henri cleared his throat. “Apparently, the Kaiser has reassured Berchtold that they will support Austria whenever necessary.” Henri swirled his wineglass and inhaled then looked off to one side trying to discern a particular scent. “Blackberries,” he said.

The men stopped talking while the waiter served their meals and topped off their wineglasses.

“I understand Russia is backing Serbia,” said Charles.

“Russia has been after a share of the Balkans ever since the Turks withdrew, but Austria keeps them out. I guess the Russians think their best bet is an arrangement with
Serbia,” said Henri.

“The Balkans has
always been messy. So many tribes and ancient feuds. I need a history book to keep it straight.” As he spoke, Maurice waved his fork in the air.

Charles and Maurice both looked at H
enri, waiting for his response.

“It’s a powder keg waiting to blow,” he said. “I’ve seen a cons
ular report on Austria’s economic and political outlook. The report says the demands on Serbia will be severe. Things like dissolution of propagandist societies, repression of nationalism, cooperation with Austrian officials to guard the borders, revision of school curriculum to be more favourable to Austria. Our Foreign Ministry believes Austria wants Serbia to decline so they can instigate military operations.” Henri picked at his food, not the least bit hungry.

As they sipped wine in silence, Henri knew his friends were thinking about their sons. Maurice had three old enough to enlist, and although he had persuaded them to wait, he had recently mentioned that he feared his eldest would soon change his mind. With only one son, Charles had told Henri privately that he was prepared to send Denis to America in order to keep him safe.

“What about Guy? How is his training going?”

“He has just enlisted. I signed his papers last week. I tried to persuade him to wait, but I think he’s heard me speak about the possibilities of war so often that he feels a duty to be involved.”

“And how has Lise taken that news?”

“How do you think?” Henri did not elaborate. He put down his knife and fork and drained his glass of wine.

* * *

“Taxi, Monsieur?”

Henri nodded. The rain had stopped, leaving intense humidity in the air. Puddles lined either side of the road, and although many establishments remained open, their lights were dimmed by the foggy gloom. Having lingered with his friends over a second bottle of wine, his head felt thick and sluggish, a combination of alcohol and fatigue. He did not think of himself as a fearful man, but with Guy’s enlistment, a cold blade of fear hung over every hour of the day and night.

Henri dismissed the taxi several blocks from home and stood beneath a lamppost to relight the cigar he had been chewing. The match flickered as wind whipped around the corner, and he cupped his hands to protect the flame, inhaling the cigar’s spicy aroma. He held the smoke in his mouth a moment or two before exhaling then returned the matchbox to his pocket and continued walking beside the Seine, which was spreading through the night like a black silk ribbon. Lights twinkled from houseboats moored along the banks. At this time of night, people were still about, though most walked
briskly. Henri turned away from the water.

He frequently regretted sending his family to Beaufort. Each evening, he returned to a lonely house where he used only his bedroom and the library. He felt his family’s absence most keenly at night: the absence of conversation, of sound, of clutter, the knowledge that no one was there. Even Tout Tout, curled up on Jean’s bed, was silent. From time to time he fell asleep in one of the library chairs then woke in the middle of the night confused as to his whereabouts.

On Friday, Guy would be home for the weekend. His son’s initial weeks of training had concentrated on basic soldiering: drills, marching and rifle practice. He told his father that while learning to give orders was essential to officer training, learning to obey orders without question was the first requirement. Already stronger and fitter, Guy was proud of how he looked in uniform. Though they rarely spoke of it, both knew what he was learning signalled grave personal risk. Now that Guy had enlisted, Henri knew his son’s training would intensify, and he doubted he would see him for several months.

Could he bear the loss of another son? Losing Marc as a small child had been difficult enough. Losing Guy just as he was becoming a man, as their relationship was evolving into one of deep devotion and mutual respect, would be an agonizing blow. He wondered if such a wound could ever heal.

* * *

“Maman, we have lots of letters today,” Helene said as she entered the kitchen. “For you, there’s one from Guy and one from Papa. One from Marie for me, and two for Grandmere. Is Grandmere in her room?” Lise nodded. “Then I’ll take them up to her. Do you need help with dinner?” Helene did not wait for her mother’s reply but continued talking. “I’ll be down in a while.”

Lise smiled, happy to see Helene in better spirits. She went to the salon, where she sat on a large chair next to the front window. Letters from Guy were to be savoured, read over and over whenever she needed the comfort of his words. With their bold script and occasional flourish, these letters brought him close.

Dear Maman,

Thank you for your recent letter and the gift you sent. I am so pleased to have a first edition copy of Rousseau and have started to read it already.
Where on earth did you find it?

My training is proceeding. Laurent Laporte has joined the same unit, as has Robert Santerre. Perhaps you will remember them from the riding club?
We are becoming closer friends.

Our instructors are demanding, and the days are long.
Much time is spent on the tactics of artillery placement. For each piece of equipment we must understand the physics affecting the range our guns can reach, the speed at which men can load ammunition, the heat thrown off, the dangers to those who man these big guns.

We spent the past two weeks
exploring troop deployment as our instructors conjured various disastrous scenarios. I am beginning to understand the enormity of our work, and I can honestly say that it frightens me at times to imagine where we might be a year or more from now. I feel that I can express these worries to you–others might judge me lacking in courage or strength of character.

I dined with Papa last weekend. He is well but very preoccupied with the situation between Austria and Serbia. When I was home, I attended a coming-out party for Simone Choisy, which was very enjoyable. She is rather shy but beautiful. You can be assured that I requested the appropriate number of dances on her card. Simone’s Maman sends her best wishes to you and Grandmere. Too much champagne left me with a terrible headache on Sunday, although I went to Mass with Papa, as you would want me to.

I will write again soon.

Your loving son,

Guy

As Lise folded the letter, a few tears trickled down her cheeks. She had considered her son half-boy and half-man, but this letter showed how quickly he was growing up.
He should be happily carefree, not weighed down with the woes of our world
. During his visit to Beaufort, she had made him promise to tell her the truth about his activities, and his letter indicated he was taking her seriously. Artillery placement. Troop deployment. The words made her cringe.

If she let herself, she could imagine a bullet hurtling towards an unsuspecting target, the rush of air compressed by an object travelling fast enough to pierce a man’s body. She could hear the pounding of an artillery explosion followed by an upward thrust of dirt, stone and body parts. If she let herself, she could see her son with bayonet poised to strike, sharp steel glinting in the sunlight, a bellowing cry on his lips.

Lise looked out the window. The light was already fading, and only one swan was visible on the pond. A gust of wind scattered leaves along the walkway and rattled a rose bush against the dining room window. She picked up Henri’s letter, hoping that his words would be more soothing.