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

* * *

An infant floated through the cottage shadows, a faceless thing with no mouth and eyes. It soared like a ghost toward Emma while she balanced on the edge of a scream. She covered her mouth with her hands and the baby disappeared. In its place, the disfigured faces of Private Darser, Monsieur Thibault, and other soldiers hung in the air above her, speaking nightmarish gibberish until they faded as well. As she tried again to lose herself to sleep, the sad injury to her now impotent husband swirled through her mind. Her life had become an endurance test. She was no closer to banishing the memory of the infant than when she arrived in France. What hope do I have? She was uncertain of the answer. One overarching thought came into her head:

I would do anything to bring back the child I conceived.

CHAPTER 9

PARIS

November 1918

“The war is ending,” Virginie said. “I know it in my heart.”

“I hope you have firm evidence for your statement—not a whim based on your weather forecasting abilities,” Emma countered. Their morning camaraderie was pleasant, made all the more so by sharing tea and biscuits at the large casting room table. She was happy to see Virginie, Hassan, and Madame Clement again after her time in Toul. A solid overcast darkened the room, but Emma’s spirits remained cheerful despite the somber day.

“My friends tell me, the Americans are making great strides along the Meuse,” Virginie continued. “The Boche are melting like butter in the summer sun. The war may end in a matter of days.”

“We’ve gone through this before and have always been disappointed,” Emma said.

Hassan and Madame Clement nodded, although Emma wasn’t sure if they were agreeing with her viewpoint or simply being polite.

“Tout va mal.” Madame Clement smiled while she held up the teapot.

“Yes, but things could be worse,” Emma said. “We’re alive and we have our families and friends.”

“Worse . . . ? Yes, that reminds me,” Virginie said. “A telegram arrived from John Harvey. He is visiting Paris again—much too soon as far as I’m concerned.”

“On what business?” Emma asked. “Did he say?”

“No. Only that he will be here. He is of no concern to me.”

“Virginie, you should really bury the hatchet with John. We say that in America. Do you know the expression?”

“Yes, and I would be happy to bury the hatchet—in his head.”

Emma and Virginie laughed. Hassan and Madame Clement looked at each other and then joined in because of the contagious mood.

Emma suppressed a final chuckle and said, “You should be kind to John. He’s a great resource, and could be a wonderful reference for us all, regardless of where we end up.”

“What do you mean?” Madame Clement asked.

Emma thought for a moment and said, “Well, Virginie might aid John with research in England. You and Hassan might join him.”

“Jamais,” Madame Clement and Virginie said in unison. They all laughed again, but the levity was broken by Madame Clement nodding at Virginie.

“Maintenant?” Virginie asked.

“Oui,” Madame Clement answered.

“There is one thing,” Virginie said. “Since you left . . .”

Emma looked at her assistant, waiting for the news.

“. . . Madame Clement has asked me to tell you—she’s seen Private Darser on rue Monge. He pretends not to see her, but he appears to be watching us.”

Emma remembered the soldier she’d seen briefly as she and Richard were leaving for Toul, whom she’d suspected might be Private Darser.

“Is she certain?” Emma asked.

Virginie nodded and drank her tea.

“Why would he be spying on us?”

“There was bitterness between you,” Virginie said. “I remember—when he arrived for the final fitting.”

Virginie was correct about the tense meeting with the soldier: the accusation Emma levied that he had abandoned her years ago; his blithe denial.

“Perhaps I’ll take a walk at lunch,” Emma said.

Madame Clement shook her head. “Non,” she objected, “dans la nuit.”

“He walks at night,” Virginie said.

Emma put her teacup on the table. “Have you been talking to Richard?”

“Madame?” Virginie looked down, as a blush spread across her half-concealed face.

“Richard used the same words when he drove me to Toul. He was speaking of another business entirely.”

“Richard and I are friends,” Virginie said, “but, no, we have not spoken of Private Darser—”

“Or of anyone else?” Emma asked.

“Non, Madame,” Virginie said emphatically. “I never speak of our patients. Private Darser walks in the dark because he has something to hide.”

A shiver skittered over her. Something to hide? Some injured soldiers work at night because their faces are less noticeable. Perhaps he’s such a soldier—not as brusque or confident as he seems. All swagger, but little else. He’s so full of himself. But then another thought struck her. What about Tom? What other secrets has he hidden from me? Why does he “walk at night”?

“Then I’ll take a walk after our appointments—after the sun has set,” Emma said. “I’ll watch for our friend.”

* * *

That night, Emma bundled up in her coat, scarf, and gloves, and buttressing herself against the chill turned onto rue Monge. Approaching winter had diminished the Parisian activities of spring and summer. Most shops, except for a few, were closed because of shortages and the early nightfall. Few people were on the street, most were on their way home from work. Two businessmen passed her, tipping their hats and muttering, “Bonsoir.” Emma nodded and continued her stroll down the street.

She walked at a moderate pace until she neared the towering church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. To her right, the Pantheon’s columned dome, like an immense bell, jutted into the sky. However, the cathedral’s dark stones were nearer, looming over her, the solemn façade forcing its heavy weight upon her. The church’s windows absorbed the darkness—no light, electric or candle, escaped the structure. Hounded by the night air, Emma stepped inside, a safer and warmer sanctuary than the street, her first visit to a Paris church since her arrival, a thought not lost upon her as she pulled on the heavy wooden doors.

The cathedral lay shrouded in