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

I’m real in that respect, but in no other, despite your imagination. The war tries the strongest of men. Perhaps, like those men, you are no match for the horrors it unleashes.

Emma stared at the words in disbelief. Was she going insane? What if she had somehow recreated the face of a man she once loved and now scorned? She dropped the pad on the desk and sat in her chair. The studio door creaked open.

“Are you all right, Madame?” Virginie asked. It had been ages since her assistant had addressed her as Madame.

“Yes, thank you,” she responded. “You and Hassan may return to your work. Private Darser is leaving.”

He wrote: Thank you again, Mrs. Swan. I suppose this will be our last meeting.

“You may be right, but I’ve captured your face in my memory, and, perhaps, when we meet again you can look me in the eye and speak the truth.”

The soldier again stared into the mirror. When he lowered the glass, a sad smile had formed on the mask.

Such a smile was impossible, but her emotional perception was real. Could he atone for his desertion when she had needed him the most? Could he help her banish the memory that haunted her?

Private Darser found his coat, nodded to Emma, and walked out the door. His firm steps echoed down the courtyard stairs and through the tunnel. She ran to the window to see him, but he had already disappeared down rue Monge as if he’d never existed.

* * *

“I hear rumors about the war,” Virginie said, opening the studio door. She and Emma circled the teakettle like children waiting for candy.

“Fermez la porte,” Emma said. “It’s foggy and cold and I’m in no mood to catch pneumonia this morning.”

The sun, as it journeyed south, had grown feeble in the late October sky. The lovely warmth earlier in the month had been quelled by a series of dreary and bone-chilling days, damp and overcast, a portent of November and approaching winter.

“We need air,” Virginie said. “I’m sick of plaster dust and the smell of clay and the smoke from Hassan’s terrible cigarettes.”

“I don’t care,” Emma insisted. “Close the door. Sometimes you’re as cranky as John says you are.” She looked at Virginie. The young nurse had aged during the year they’d worked together. The sprite-like attitude and youthful looks, which Emma initially compared to her Boston housekeeper, Anne, had diminished as the war dragged on.

Emma also had taken stock of herself that morning and counted a few gray hairs spreading backward from her temples. The rich blackness of her hair was disappearing with her youth. She could easily blame aging on the war, but other factors had contributed to the lines now creasing her face. She and Virginie were growing older together while Anne, in her memory; Hassan, as most men seemed to do; and the ageless Madame Clement crossed the swiftly flowing current of time with ease.

“What have you heard about the war?” Emma asked. “I haven’t looked at a newspaper in ages.”

Delaying her response, Virginie closed the door reluctantly. “More battles along the Front. Many dead along the Meuse and the Moselle. The dead are everywhere—even near Toul.”

“Yes,” Emma said, remembering the uniforms at the Toul hospital that had been taken from the deceased soldiers. “We can only pray the war will be over soon.”

“The Americans are fighting . . . how you say . . . fee . . . ?”

Emma thought for a moment. “Fiercely?”

“Oui, fiercely. They surprise even our French boys.”

The kettle whistled. Emma turned off the burner, poured the steaming water, and dropped the previous day’s infuser into Virginie’s cup and then dipped it into hers, watching as thin reddish filaments streamed through the water. She looked at Virginie. “Waste not, want not in wartime. I think we’re all tired. Perhaps we need to close the studio for a week and take a rest.”

“A magnificent idea,” Virginie said, “but what about the soldiers?”

“Well, we’ll have to plan our vacation and catch up with as much work as we can before we go. . . .”

Emma started. Two voices, both speaking French, rose from the stairs. She recognized one as Madame Clement’s; the other she was unsure about until he appeared at the studio door. It was Richard, the driver from the hospital. Madame Clement opened the door.

A smiling Richard followed. “Bonjour, Virginie,” he said, taking in the nurse’s figure with obvious delight. Turning to Emma, as an afterthought, he added, “Bonjour, Madame Swan.”

Her heart raced, hoping Richard had only good news to bear. After Tom’s injury, Richard had visited the studio several times, but his visits had fallen off recently. The courier appeared as vigorous as ever, his scruffy, sandy beard making him appear older; however, the facial hair only enhanced the rakish attitude and figure he cut.

Virginie apparently noticed as well and offered her cheek for a kiss.

Richard willingly complied. “Monsieur Swan asks you to return to Toul,” he told Emma, his voice earnest and brassy.

“Is something wrong?” She dreaded his answer.

“No. He requests your company.”

“He said nothing about coming to Toul when we last talked,” Emma said to Virginie.

“You must go,” Virginie said. “The trip will do you good. Hassan and I will conduct business.”

“We have three appointments today,” Emma said, apologetically. “I have nothing packed.”

Richard spoke in French to Madame Clement and the housekeeper chuckled.

“What did he say?” Emma asked Virginie.

“He said women are too, too . . .”

“Too what?”

“Like a statue.”

“Stone-like . . . rigid?”

“Oui.”

“It’s like Tom to issue a challenge, when I’m not in the mood for one. Tell Richard I’ll be ready in a half hour. We’ll talk about a holiday when I get back.” Emma rushed up the stairs as Virginie, Madame Clement, and Richard chatted in the alcove. She gathered a few toiletries and clothes, pushed them into a bag, brushed her hair, grabbed her coat, and was downstairs in ten minutes.

Emma said her good-byes and Richard escorted her from the studio. The courtyard slept