Maëlle
Other than the trip from her coastal village to Angers, Maëlle has never ridden the train, and she has certainly never crossed all of France. Though she is excited, the jocular teasing of the workmen, released from the civilizing influences of the master and Monsieur Maréchal, puts Maëlle on edge. Her nerves make her queasy; or perhaps it is the persistent rocking of the too-hot train. She did not have this reaction when she first left home. She prays she is not coming down with ague, or whatever has afflicted young Philippe.
Léon reaches out one long leg and nudges her ankle from across the aisle. She glances up at him, and he winks. A thrill runs through her. She feels a tingly sense of anticipation, like the bubbles in the glass of champagne he had once bought for her.
Maëlle thinks back to that day, several weeks ago, when she was walking listlessly through the intricate gardens in Angers’s former castle moat. It was Sunday, and the factory was closed. She had attended church in the morning, but the rest of the long day yawned out in front of her; all she wanted to do was to carve, but Monsieur Bayol forbade his crew to work on the Sabbath.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”said a familiar voice. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
She turned and saw Léon. Her heart pounded, her cheeks flushed. She glanced around to see whether anyone else accompanied him. He was alone.
“But... what are you doing here?”
“I am appreciating the Renaissance gardens, same as you,” he said with a smile. Then he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “And this way that old cow, Madame Bayol, won’t have an opinion.”
Maëlle pretended to laugh, but although Madame Bayol is stern, she had taken Maëlle in, allowed her to live in her home. Maëlle felt uneasy about anyone speaking ill of her only female friend.
But this was Léon.
Léon. And the two of them were alone, for once, without the eyes of all upon them.
They walked silently through the carefully laid-out gardens, with topiary shaped like cones and balls, and box hedges cut into curlicues, framing bright plantings of geraniums and pansies. Maëlle tried her best to act casual, but though they weren’t touching she could almost feel the warmth of his skin; he is a flame, and she the moth, drawn to his heat and light.
When they stopped to admire the tinkling of a fountain—a cherub pouring a never-ending stream of water from an ewer—Léon leaned toward her.
“Mademoiselle—or may I call you Maëlle?”
“Of course,” she replied, breathless.
“Maëlle,” he repeated, as though he liked the feeling of the letters on his lips and tongue. His sea-colored eyes studied her for a very long time, seeming to drink in every aspect of her face, every detail. Maëlle wished fervently that she had taken more time that morning with her toilette; she wondered whether her hair was smooth, whether he liked what he saw.
“Sweet, talented Maëlle. You are... unique, so very special. Do you know that? I have never met a woman like you. I have asked youmany times, and you have always said no. But now, with no witnesses except God, I ask you again: Won’t you please ease my heart, and join me for a drink?”
He held out his hand. It was long-fingered and scarred, like the hands of every sculptor she knew. When she clasped it, it was as fresh and warm and welcome as the first day of spring.
Later, he drank absinthe and ordered a glass of champagne for Maëlle. It was her first.
• • •
The trip is an odyssey. Everything must be transferred in Paris. As much as Maëlle likes to think herself the equal of men, she is glad she does not have to negotiate the crowds on the platform in order to move the shipping containers onto the train bound for Avignon.
She had thought Angers was big, but it is nothing compared to Paris. There are more people than she has ever seen in one place. Maëlle tries to take in all she can, but she cannot glimpse the Eiffel Tower from her position on the train, or on the platform. There is no time to leave the station in search of it, though Léon disappears for half an hour while the others are working. Maëlle is in charge of the paperwork, making sure that each carefully numbered box gets shifted from one train car to the next.
She smells absinthe on Léon’s breath when he returns. She feels like pouting, annoyed that she can’t see the Tour Eiffel, irritated at Léon’s frequent disappearances, and mostly irked at the thought that as a man Léon can go where he wants while she is forced to stay with the carousel. Léon teases her and whispers that on the return trip, perhaps they will disappear in Paris for a few days, losing themselves in the famous cafés and cabarets and alleyways of the City of Light.
The possibility takes her breath away. She knows it is impossible, and wrong... but it takes her breath away.
For the rest of the ride, he makes eyes at her, trying to make her blush in front of the others. She finds it annoying and yet irresistible;all she can think about is the feeling of his lips on hers. The first time they shared a kiss it was... transformative. Surely she was not the same person after a kiss like that; it felt as if her soul had met its mate and surged up through their lips. She felt whole. She felt wild and passionate and daring, able to take on the world.
It was akin to the sensation she felt right after her brother had helped her onto the train to Angers: reckless and free and so very, completely,alive.
So now the merest glance, the brush of a hand as they pass, simply being close enough to him to breathe in his scent, sends her into paroxysms of joy and desire, a sensation of being thoroughly, and finally, a woman.
When, at long last, they arrive at the Avignon station, Maëlle hates to admit that she is so tired she could sleep for days. Monsieur Bayol has arranged for a steam traction engine to haul the pieces of the salon and the carousel on the final leg of the journey.
While the men are packing the engine, Léon slips into a café.
“C’est la fée verte,”says the apprentice named Romain, noticing Maëlle’s eyes following Léon as he disappears behind the façade of the restaurant.
