Maëlle slips in through a side door, heading to her room. Though it has been many days since they arrived, Maëlle still feels like an intruder in the halls of the great château. She hurries down the corridors as quietly as she can, hoping not to be noticed.
“Maëlle,” comes Madame Clement’s voice.
“Oui, madame?” she says, turning toward her. “May I do something for you?”
“Guess what I have?Chouchenn!” she says, holding aloft a bottle of Breton-style mead.
“Pardon?”
“Come, have a drink with me?”
“Madame, I—”
“Please, call me Josephine,” she says with a laugh. “I think I can’t be more than a year or two older than you. And we are all Bretons here, are we not?”
Maëlle feels at a loss for words. Her father always used to preach to her, as Léon does, that no person was better than another, no matter how wealthy or influential.We are all created equal,he declared, recitingslogans from the French Revolution. Maëlle had turned the argument to her favor, using the same logic on him when insisting that she be allowed to carve: If no one person is better than another, then why can’t a woman have ambitions just like a man?
But now, facing Madame Clement’s—Josephine’s—fashionable, lace-covered dress, her pearl earrings and finely coiffed hair, Maëlle feels unsure. Lesser. Naive in the ways of the world.
Josephine’s manner is easygoing, friendly. But Maëlle still finds it hard to meet her eyes, to chat as though she were with a friend. Is it typical for the lady of the manor to ask an artisan to join her for a drink?
“Y-your husband is not here?” Maëlle stammers.
“He goes to bed very early and gets up before dawn. We have opposite schedules; I’m afraid I’m a night owl. When we were first married I tried to wake at the same time as he, but I found myself sleeping away the afternoons! So now I appreciate having the evenings to my thoughts, while he awakens early to work in his darkroom.”
“I’m sorry, I feel very ignorant. But what is a ‘darkroom’?”
“You’re not ignorant at all. It has to do with the art of photography. The film must be developed in the dark, and then special chemical baths are used to make the pictures appear. It’s quite an intricate process.”
“Oh,” says Maëlle. She can’t think of anything else to say.
They are still standing, awkwardly, in the wide paneled hallway that leads to the room of books, and on to the stairway to Maëlle’s room. She yearns for the white linen softness of that bed after a very long day of labor.
On the other hand, her days are spent exclusively in the company of men, and the idea of feminine conversation appeals. And in any case, Monsieur Bayol’s words come back to her: She must keep the clients happy. Who is Maëlle Tanguy to refuse a drink with a lady like Josephine Clement?
“So, won’t you join me?” Josephine repeats. “I’m sure it seems...forward, perhaps, or strange. But I am surrounded every day by men—as are you! In Quimper I had many friends, but not here. And I would love to hear more about your work, and how you learned to carve. You fascinate me: a woman artist!”
“Thank you,” Maëlle says, blushing. “Yes, of course, I would be honored to join you for a drink.”
“Wonderful! Follow me.” Josephine leads the way down the corridor to a small sitting room, its heavy wooden furniture brightened by a cheery fire. They take seats at a small table near the hearth, and Josephine pours a bit of the mead into two aperitif glasses from a set perched atop a nearby shelf.
“Yec-hed mat!”she says, holding up her glass and uttering a traditional Breton toast.
An hour, then two, pass as they sip thechouchennand reminisce about their homeland: They speak of the stiff white lace caps traditionally worn by women in Breton, calledcoiffes, and the striped shirts, calledmarinières, of the navy and fishermen—the stripes make them easier to see in the waves in case they fall overboard. They speak of the fishing boats going out to sea in the mornings, the ruggedness of their rocky coastline. The blush-colored stone and sands of the pink granite coast.
“You miss it, then?” asks Maëlle. “Even living here, in such a grand home?”
Josephine looks around the room at the rich paneling and the long brocade drapes, the fine wood furniture. “I’m very lucky, I know. And Yves is very good to me. Although... it is true that things are harder these days than before. The lands aren’t producing as they once did....”
Maëlle thinks about what Léon said, about the signs of things slipping.
Josephine waves it off. “But never mind that. We are still lucky, are we not? And Provence is beautiful; the vegetation is stark, but I’ve grown used to it. And the winds carry the most amazing scents, have you noticed?”
“I do! I notice it every morning when I open my window. Herbs, and lavender.”
Josephine nods. “And I don’t miss wearing thecoiffe Bretagne! My mother was very traditional, and she insisted that I wear it. I hear fewer people are donning it these days.”
Maëlle smiles. Her mother used to make a fuss as well, but Maëlle didn’t listen. She preferred to wear a Parisian-style hat or nothing at all. Not that she had many choices.
