“Bouge pas. Wait.... Wait,” said Blondine. She looked stricken.
“What is it? Blondine?” Rosalyn asked.
She held her hand to her mouth and breathed a shaky breath. She handed Rosalyn a paper.
“What is it?” demanded Emma, frowning.
“A list of those killed bringing in the harvest.” Blondine’s voice was flat. “Every year from nineteen fourteen to nineteen eighteen.”
“And?” Emma looked at Rosalyn, who was holding the paper tight in her hand.
She blew out a long breath, and read aloud:“‘Le seize septembre, mille neuf cent dix-huit. Sont decedés deux petits enfants: Armand-Jacques Pelletier, âgé de sept ans, et Marie-Suzanne LeFleur, âgée de dix ans. Et leur maîtresse, Lucie Maréchal, âgée de vingt-trois ans.’”
Emma sighed. “So Topette’s daughter was correct. Lucie was shot and killed by a sniper while bringing in the harvest, along with two children under her care.”
They sat in dazed silence, sharing the strange, sacred space of grief.
Blondine sniffed loudly, tears in her eyes. “I knew it was a possibility, of course. We all did, with the terrible number of casualties. It wasn’t just the soldiers who died.... One in twenty of the total population of France was killed in the war.”
“Wait. What was the date?” Emma asked.
Rosalyn looked at the photocopy. “September sixteenth, nineteen eighteen.”
“Lucie would have had her baby by then,” Emma pointed out.
“So what happened to the child?” Blondine asked.
“Was there any record of births in the caves?” Rosalyn asked.
“Good question,” said Emma. “Short answer: I don’t know. Thewar ended two months later, in November of that year. Most of the city had been destroyed, and people scattered. In all the chaos, I doubt anyone was keeping track of who went where.”
“Lucie’s mother, of course,” Blondine said. “She would have taken care of her grandbaby.”
“Except, according to the letters, Lucie’s mother wasn’t well,” said Rosalyn. “What if she couldn’t take care of the baby?”
“The orphanage,” Emma said, excitement in her voice. “I wonder if the child ended up there. One of the million French war orphans.”
“Wait,” Rosalyn said. “We know Lucie wrote to Doris and told her she was expecting Émile’s child. If Doris knew Lucie was pregnant, don’t you think...?”
“Wild horses wouldn’t have kept her away,” Emma said with a nod. “Once the war was over...”
“She would have come to help Lucie,” Rosalyn finished her thought. “Doris would have come for the child.”
Chapter Forty-seven
The next morning the trio stood out in front of Madame Bolze’s house, Vieille Ruche, leaning against the car, feeling frustrated all over again.
After their discoveries the day before, Emma had called Jeanne Bisset to ask if her mother, Topette, had ever mentioned Lucie Maréchal’s baby. According to Jeanne, her mother had referred to the child, but she did not know what had become of the infant.
“We need to look at that ledger,” Emma had said, “the one you two found in Madame Bolze’s attic, with the names of all the orphans. Let me give her a try.”
If Madame Bolze was home, she wasn’t answering her phone, so on Monday morning Blondine drove them to the Vieille Ruche. A neighbor boy informed them that Madame Bolze had left two days ago to meet with her daughter outside Tours.
“Well done, Emma,” Blondine said. “You had to convince her to reconcile with her daughternow?”
“I could hardly have foreseen this eventuality,” Emma said, thenlit a cigarette and leaned back against the car. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, looking weary. “But you’re right. It’s more than a little maddening. We’re so close.”
“Now what?” said Blondine.
