“The woman you told me about who works at the Café du Chat. Juliette says she’s a fine woman.” Catherine was silent a moment. “You…cared for her?”
“I cared for her as a friend, as a comrade, Catherine. She helped me. There were dark days and sometimes she made life brighter.”
“I see.”
“What are you thinking?” François’s hands cradled her face in his hands and forced her to look into his eyes. “You’re my love. She’s my friend. There’s a difference. Please believe me.”
“I believe you.” A thoughtful frown wrinkled her brow. “I’d like to meet her, François. Will you take me to the Café du Chat?”
“I told you—”
Her fingers on his lips stopped his words as she smiled suddenly. “I’m not angry. I may be jealous of her. I’m not sure about that yet. But I’m grateful she helped you and I think I should become acquainted with her.”
He chuckled. “You do realize your attitude is extremely unwifely?”
She settled down beside him and cuddled close to his naked strength. “I love you. I trust you. I want all that’s best for you. How can that be unwifely?”
The box measured approximately two feet by two feet and was filled to overflowing with deep green leaves and white violets just starting to bloom.
Louis Charles gently touched one fragile blossom. “It feels like velvet, like the skirt of one ofmaman’sgowns…only cooler.”
Catherine sat down at the small table. “Robert, my cousin’s gardener, says you must not water these more than every four days or they may die.”
“I’ll be careful.” He sat down beside her. “But there’s not much sunlight in here.”
“Violets like the shade. At home at Vasaro we plant them in great beds beneath the trees. Their scent is greatest in the middle of the night when it’s darkest.” Catherine drew closer. “You’ll see what I mean if you wake some night and smell the fragrance. Michel says the fragrance is the soul of the flower.”
Louis Charles’s solemn gaze was fixed in fascination on her face. “What a peculiar idea. Is he mad?”
Catherine laughed and reached out and gave him a quick hug as she might have done with Michel. “Not in the least. He just doesn’t think like anyone else.”
Louis Charles frowned thoughtfully. “You mean he doesn’t believe what people tell him to believe?”
“No.”
“It must be pleasant to be able to make up one’s own mind,” he said wistfully. He touched the blossom again. “Tell me more about this Michel.”
“Shall I tell you how I first met him? I was most unhappy about something that had happened to me and I awoke one morning and went down to the geranium field…”
It was dinnertime and Pierre Barshal was a man who had infinite respect for the joys of the palate, as was evidenced by the rolls of fat straining against his linen shirt and the rosy paunchiness of his cheeks. He sat at the counter of his apothecary shop devouring a full loafof bread and a quarter pound of cheese, and washing it down with a bottle of wine. He looked with disfavor at Dupree as he walked in the front door.
“You have it?” Dupree asked eagerly, drawing nearer to the counter, his gaze on Barshal’s plump face.
Barshal reached under the counter and drew out a small green bottle.
“How fast?”
“Half a minute, perhaps.” Barshal shrugged. “But it takes effect immediately. He won’t be able to scream, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Excellent.” Dupree handed him the money. “You’re sure it’s stoppered tightly?”
Barshal nodded. “You won’t lose a drop.”
“How much do I need to use?”
“Only a few drops. I don’t know why you ordered so much.”
“I always like to be prepared for any eventuality.” Dupree smiled with satisfaction. “You’ve done well, Citizen.”
