The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

“We’ve only a few cookies and one slice of cake left,” she said as they stood near the alcove.

“That’s all right. I’ve already eaten.” The officer spotted the mistletoe above the doorway. “Merry Christmas,” he said and kissed her quickly on the lips.

She gave him a peck on the cheek, and thought briefly of Tom and what he might be doing at this hour. She had promised herself to call him tomorrow, on Christmas Day.

She led the officer to the casting room where the soldiers were posing for a picture. Some stood, others sat cross-legged on the floor, their faces covered with bandages and eye patches; others with wounds exposed or wearing newly completed masks. The few who could drink comfortably held champagne glasses. One soldier, Monsieur Thibault, the right side of his face swathed in white strips of cotton, posed with his rifle.

Hassan waved his hands for quiet. The group hushed as the Moroccan readied a tripod camera; then, signaling three, two, one with his fingers, he pressed the shutter cable with his thumb. The magnesium flash powder exploded in a puff of smoke, sending a white, acrid haze ballooning into the air. As the fumes rose and dissipated, laughter and coughs echoed in the room. Soon, glasses clinked and conversations began anew.

Emma was overjoyed at the soldiers’ good spirits.

The lieutenant looked toward the wall of plaster casts, again hidden by the white sheet. “You’ve covered them,” he said to Emma.

“For our patients’ well-being. Virginie draped the casts this afternoon. Some men have gone insane over their reflections. The soldiers don’t need to be reminded of their injuries, especially on Christmas Eve.”

“I understand. God knows, these men have been through enough.”

During the next half hour, Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement all breezed by Emma and the officer. The housekeeper, attired in her best black dress, swayed a little as she approached them, apparently a victim of too many glasses of champagne. The creases around her eyes deepened as she stared at the American; then, she laughed, patted him on the shoulder, and shouted in a somewhat slurred voice, “Joyeux Noël.”

“Would you like to dance?” the lieutenant asked Emma as Virginie put a record on the phonograph.

“Only if you ask Virginie and Madame Clement first,” Emma replied.

“Well, I can see asking Virginie, but Madame Clement is another story. . . .”

Emma slapped his arm.

“No, I don’t mean she’s too ugly or infirm. She’s had too much to drink. What if she falls from my arms?”

“It appears one of our soldiers has saved you from your dilemma.” Emma and the officer watched as Monsieur Thibault approached the housekeeper and asked her to dance. A wide smile swept across her face; then, she gulped a last swig of champagne before the soldier led her to the dance floor created in the middle of the room.

“So, I must dance with Virginie?” the lieutenant asked, as he spotted the attractive, young nurse in her white uniform.

Emma nodded.

“I think I can make the sacrifice.” He ambled across the room and pointed to the dance floor.

Virginie smiled in surprise and looked to Emma for approval.

Emma nodded and the couple began to dance, the officer leading Virginie slowly around the floor, picking up the pace as they meshed as partners. Lieutenant Stoneman’s booted feet waltzed in unison to the music as he held the nurse’s hand high in his.

From the corner of her eye, Emma spotted a flash through the curtains. Probably fireworks, or someone shooting a rifle from the rooftop in celebration. In an instant, the flash brought back the disturbing memory of the shelling at the Front and the nights spent at Tom’s bedside. What is he doing now? Is he thinking of me, or of someone else?

Another flash split the sky and a nearly imperceptible rumble reached her ears.

Is the city being shelled?

Lieutenant Stoneman broke away from Virginie and hurried to the windows.

Emma, her heart pounding, followed.

The officer threw back the curtain, exposing the glass, and peered out.

“What do you think it is?” Emma asked.

He stared intently out the window. “An aerial bombardment or Big Bertha.”

“No . . . not even the Germans . . . on Christmas Eve.”

The officer’s head jerked left as yet another flash lit the sky.

“That was farther away,” Emma said.

“Yes, I saw it.” He seemed relieved as he held back the curtain. “A pyrotechnic shell.”

A shadow fell across the window.

Madame Clement gasped.

Emma wheeled to find the room’s occupants frozen like figures in a painting. The phonograph needle slipped into a repetitious clack . . . clack . . . clack at the end of the record. Everyone stared at Monsieur Thibault, who had deserted the startled Madame Clement in the midst of the dance.

The French soldier, his right arm extended, stood in front of Emma, pointing a pistol at her, but seemingly looking through her body into the night beyond the window pane.

Emma sensed that Lieutenant Stoneman was about to move toward the armed soldier.

Monsieur Thibault suspected the officer’s actions as well and waved his pistol at the American, a deathly signal not to move.

Emma grabbed Lieutenant Stoneman’s arm and pulled him back to her side.

“Arrêtez la guerre,” the French soldier whispered gruffly through his deformed mouth.

“What did he say?” the lieutenant asked Emma.

“Stop the war.”

The officer whispered, “Is he crazy?”

“Be quiet, he might understand English,” Emma ordered. “He’s seen his reflection in the window. We mustn’t upset him.” She forced a smile and took a step toward him. “Monsieur Thibault . . . this is a Christmas party. Put down your gun. Virginie, tell Monsieur Thibault we understand his sorrow and we want to help him. Tell him that’s why he came to the studio in the first place—to reclaim a normal life.”

Virginie, her brown eyes wide with fear, recited Emma’s instructions.

Monsieur Thibault moved closer to Emma and the lieutenant. “Tuez les Boches,” he commanded.

“The Germans are not here,” Emma said.

From the other side of the room, Hassan crept toward the soldier.

Emma signaled for the Moroccan to