Werewolf of Paris (7 page)

And now the babe within her never stopped squirming and kicking and gave Josephine not a second's peace.

Chapter Four

O
ne day late in December, to be precise on the twenty-third, Mme Didier and Aymar sat at the dinner table and ate with little appetite and conversed desultorily. Aymar ate out of some vague sense of duty, while Mme Didier had, ever since her girlhood, been accustomed to eat whatever was set before her and finish it down to the last particle, a trait that the French are fond of instilling in their children, perhaps to give the lie to the notion that the French are a race of gourmets.

Suddenly Mme Didier spoke up: “You know, I am beginning to be worried.”

“What about?”

“Of course you will think me superstitious.”

“No fear,” said Aymar ironically. “You? Superstitious? Never!”

“Now don't make fun, Aymar. I have seen a good deal more of the world than you have.”

“What, for example?”

“Do you believe in Christmas?”

“Of course I do,” said Aymar. “Everybody believes that Christmas comes on the twenty-fifth of this month, and they are one and all right.”

“If you will stop your silly jesting, I'll go on.”

“Do go on, I've always wanted to know about Christmas.”

“Do you believe that the animal world is conscious of the coming of Christmas?”

In spite of himself, Aymar smiled: “Are you going to tell me that the cattle kneel in their stalls on Christmas night?”

“That is precisely what I am going to tell you. And more, that I have seen it with my own eyes.”

“Of course you have seen it. Anyone going into a stable any night of the year can see some or, if he is lucky, all of the cattle kneeling.”

“I knew you were going to say that. But it isn't true. And what is more I went one night, as the birth of our Saviour was approaching, and heard the bees sing in their hives.”

“Bees always sing in their hives.”

“Come, Aymar, in the dead of winter bees certainly don't sing in their hives.”

“And you say you heard them?”

“If you can't get me one way, you will have me another. Is that it, Aymar?”

Disconcerted because she had worsted him, he remained silent for a moment and then brought the conversation back to the beginning. “And so that is why you are worried?”

“No, of course not. What worries me is that Josephine is about to be delivered, and as like as not it may be at the very hour of Our Lord's birth.”

“Why should that distress you? I should think, on the contrary, that you would see reason to rejoice.”

“It is because I am superstitious, if you like me to put it that way. But let me tell you this. I knew a man who came to no good end, and it had always been said of him that he was doomed from the beginning, for he had been born on Christmas Eve.”

“And naturally everybody did his little bit to make it come true,” said Aymar bitterly.

“Do you number me among those?” Mme Didier reproached him, and went on rapidly: “And in our village and in other villages where the people are God-fearing, the wives stay away from their husbands during most of the month of March and a week or so of the month of April, in order that they may not have children born on that day.”

“Now, will you tell me what sense you can see in that practice?”

“I spoke only of superstition, my dear Aymar, but if you wish me to speak of sense, which is more rightly your province, I suppose, then I have this to say: When people believe in a thing, they like to show their respect for it. I have noticed that the first thing the revolutionaries do, after they have torn down a lot of old statues, is erect a lot of new ones, and after they have ruled out a lot of old holidays, institute a lot of new ones. I don't suppose that would strike you as being superstitious?”

“That is neither here nor there,” said Aymar.

“Very well,” Mme Didier continued, “but you will grant that people like to show their respect for what they believe in, and those who believe in the beautiful and gentle life of Christ like to honor him. Now, tell me, can they practice any finer act of homage than the renunciation of carnal conception during that period when the Virgin Mary conceived immaculately? Tell me, must not even such as you admire therein a refinement of taste and a delicacy of worship which has no parallel in your modern boisterous attachment to one political leader after another?”

“It is not lacking in beauty,” Aymar admitted. “But what does it mean?”

“It means as much as all your cockades and colors and speeches,” Mme Didier retorted. “What do you mean? How many times in my life has blood been shed here in France in order that people should be happier, in order that there should be no more poor? I cannot see that anyone is any better off for all this fighting.”

“You have told me that you see no meaning in politics, but you still haven't told me what sense there is to worrying about a child being born on Christmas eve.”

“Aymar, my dear nephew, is it not already enough of evil that Josephine should bear the child of a priest? Is that not already enough of an insult to heaven that a priest should be guilty of such misconduct, without adding to this sad birth the characteristic of being a mockery of the birth of Christ?”

In spite of himself Aymar was moved. “That's a Mother Goose story,” he said irritably.

“In my opinion,” Mme Didier continued, “Josephine was an innocent little girl, but when the devil tempted Father Pitamont, he did not spare her. The devil is in her now and I see it every time I go there. She is dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” said Aymar, but he was startled nevertheless. Somewhat unnerved and more than a little vexed, he wished to stop the conversation and therefore rose with the excuse that he had to get back to his writing.

He retired to his room and lit his Quinquet lamp. But he had no desire to work on the story he had chosen to tell, namely, that of a young man who strives to lead the world on to happiness for all and who succeeds only in losing his life.

Annoyed, he pushed away the sheets of paper. “The world is too big to be cramped up in a book,” he said. Then he wondered: Why had he no ability to stick to what he had decided to do? After all, the idea wasn't a bad one and people didn't expect you to put the world into a volume. This was now the tenth or twelfth idea he had thrown into the discard. Every time a new book appeared and drew to itself the plaudits of the critics, then he found it to be on a subject he had once thought of doing himself, an idea that he had rejected for one paltry reason or another.

He leaned over on his desk and restedhis head on his outstretched arms. So Josephine was going to have a baby in a day or so? What did she look like, now, with her body swollen to term? He could not picture her. In fact he could not call her face to mind. What is it I have loved? he asked himself distractedly, if her image has already faded? What he had loved was a softness and a clinging warmth, a gentleness and a vivacity. And now she would have a baby and moan like those others he had heard as he climbed the steps of Mère Kardec's Maison d'Accouchement. He found himself thinking of that baby, thinking of it with fondness and wishing that it were his own. Wishing that he and the baby and Josephine were one family.

Late the following night, Françoise returned from Mère Kardec's.

“Well?” Mme Didier asked.

“Not a sign yet,” she reported to her mistress.

“Very well, Françoise, come, hurry up or we shall not find places for the midnight mass. And you, Aymar, you are not coming?”

“I think not, my aunt,” he mumbled, his mind occupied with a bold scheme. While they were secure in the packed church, he would slip over to Mère Kardec's and be back before they returned.

No sooner were they well off than he had hastened out toward the Maison d'Accouchement. Well known to all the servants, he had no trouble in being admitted despite the lateness of the hour and went upstairs as fast as his bad legs could carry him.

A woman bustling out of Josephine's room with a large pail of red-tinted water caused him to stop in dismay. The first thought that struck him was that Josephine had died in agony. When the woman came back with her pail filled with fresh water, he appealed to her for a word of news, but she only smiled at him and entered, closing the door rapidly, before he could get a distinct view of what was inside. He had caught, however, a glimpse of Mère Kardec and a man, the doctor evidently, for though Mère Kardec was an accomplished midwife, she always called in a doctor.

Aymar waited without for what seemed to him hours. In vain his mind strove to interpret the sounds he heard, sharp phrases, the swishing of water, and feet moving back and forth. Suddenly there was a piercing scream, a long drawn-out blood-curdling yell that wound and wound, growing shriller and shriller, stopping suddenly with a deep dark gurgle as though all that vast sound were being sucked back and down into a waste-pipe. The silence that followed was so intense that the shivering Aymar could hear the responses of the people in the church across the street. Even the tinkling of the bell announcing the miracle of the transubstantiation of the wafer and wine into flesh and blood could be heard distinctly. And precisely then another sound came from the room, the strangest, queerest squeaking and mewling. Thereafter came that same medley of rapid commands, the splashing of water, the clatter of pottery, all dull and low as if heard through a dream.

Suddenly the door was pulled back and a tall man stepped out. Aymar pressed himself against the wall as if he would have liked to sink into it. But the tall man had seen him. “So you're the fortunate father?”

“Yes,” Aymar stuttered.

“Well, let me be the first to congratulate you on the birth of a son.”

“Is she dead?” Aymar breathed.

“Who? The mother?” he chuckled with professional satisfaction. “Never had an easier case. Slipped out like a kitten. Work would be a round of pleasure for me if they were all as easy.”

“But that scream…”

“Bound to be a little pain, of course. Better not to see her now. She's sleeping. Come back in the morning.” And with an amicable pat on the shoulder, he dismissed Aymar from his mind and hurried down the stairs.

And Aymar, recalling all of a sudden how little time he had if he wished to get back before Mme Didier and Françoise returned from midnight mass, scuttled down after him.

He had barely sat down in his favorite chair before the window when there was a noise at the door and Françoise and Mme Didier entered.

“It was marvelous,” said Mme Didier.

Aymar's natural question stuck in his throat. All he brought forth was a gurgle. Mme Didier began to look at him suspiciously. He pulled himself together and asked: “What was?”

“The mass, of course,” she answered. “The sermon was so moving, so touching. One could have fancied oneself actually present at the birth… Why, what is the matter with you, Aymar? Why, your face is the color of cheese!”

“I'm a little tired,” he said as calmly as he could. “I think I'll go to bed.”

“You're evading me,” said Mme Didier severely. “Tell me now, where does it hurt you? What you need is a good tisane or some rhubarb.”

“No, no,” he protested, “I'll be all well in the morning.” She shook her head. “You don't take care of yourself,” she declared. “I'll have to watch you more carefully.” He shuddered. “Perhaps,” she pursued, “you might have a vacation yourself. You know you haven't been out of Paris for over a year, and this city, with more gas lamps every day, is becoming really poisonous. No wonder everybody, especially women, are always fainting. When I was a girl, a woman was considered as strong as a man. Here I am forgetting all about you, thinking of my girlhood. Positively, I'm getting to radoter like an old woman. Wait, I'll go fetch you some rhubarb.”

He submitted dully to the rhubarb pill for want of courage to argue against her.

Early the next morning he was already itching to be off, but neither Françoise nor Mme Didier seemed to have any thought of going to Mère Kardec's. Their calmness irritated him. How could they go about their work so stodgily? Truly women had no hearts. Josephine's scream still rang in his ears as indeed it had done all night. All night he had rehearsed the sounds of his nocturnal experience. He heard the clanking of vessels filled with water. He heard the doctor's pleasantly rough voice cutting into Mère Kardec's bass. He saw the woman rushing out with that horrible pail of pink water in which he thought he could recall the sight of swirling streaks of deep red. He shivered. He was allowing his imagination to get the better of him.

Finally, he heard Mme Didier call out: “Françoise! Françoise! How could we have forgotten?” He breathed with relief. He meant to propose to go with them just as soon as they broached the subject of going to see Josephine. But he heard his aunt continue: “There's all that linen in the chest. That's where those missing sheets must be.”

With deep disgust he heard the two women scurrying away toward the chest which they opened with exclamations of surprise. They laughed and chatted about their amusing oversight, saying ever and again until Aymar thought he would die of rage: “How could we have forgotten…I never thought…I don't know what's coming over me…”

At noon the reason for the women's lack of interest was revealed. “Well, that's a stone off my heart,” said Mme Didier to Françoise as she served the potage.

“Oui, madame,” said Françoise.

“What's a stone off your heart?” Aymar asked.

“The fact that we haven't heard from Mère Kardec.”

“Did you expect to hear from her?” Aymar managed to say, suddenly divining the whole situation.

“Why, yes, she told Françoise yesterday that she would send a messenger this morning if anything happened during the night. Well, my worst fears are over. It won't be a Christmas baby.”