Traditions of Dead Generations

At Nohant - Pt. IV

Marie's Wish

The young woman looked into the eyes of her baby, clear blue eyes that reflected the clouds of the beautiful sky of the new spring.

"A day like today?"

"Yes, a day just like today."

She had named the child Miette after her grandmother Marguerite, a name neither confirmed nor agreed upon by anyone. They were alone, just the two of them in all the world. Oh, people came and went from her family's home: doctors and nurses, deliveries and tinkerers, even an old midwife from the village, concerned for the young woman and her new life. But these were transient people. For long hours every day, and longer hours at night, the woman paced the dry, empty halls of the chateau with Miette snuggled to her bosom, content to just live and breath the delicious smell of new baby.

"He will come home, little one," the woman whispered to her daughter, "Some day you shall meet your Papa. We need only be patient."

She had not told him nor sent any word. At first she had meant to, planning to surprise him with the news that filled her heart at exactly the right moment. But that moment was never quite right, and as her infirmary grew so did her fear. She imagined he would chastise her for waiting so long to tell him, or would accuse her of having something to hide. She worried about his family, and hers, even though they had both long since dismissed the opinions of others where their affair was concerned. 

Then, just when she knew she could wait no longer, he had left the country. To Prague first, then Budapest and Warsaw. He had invited her to join him on the road but she knew such a busy journey would be too much for her and she had made her excuses, claiming illness and a need for quiet country air. She received so many letters, and sent some of her own, but she had not told him.

"Papa will adore you," she told Miette. She had to believe that was true, but in her heart she feared the worst. She held her tiny daughter up to his portrait every night, letting the child paw at the painted nose and mustache of her father, praying that perhaps some spirit of paternal affection could be transferred through the image. Hadn't she read somewhere that a painting held some of the soul of its subject? She was not normally a superstitious woman, but alone and desperate to connect the two loves in her world, she was willing to admit a little madness.

"Mistress?" the woman was startled badly by the voice at the door of the sitting room. She turned to look and was relieved to see it was only a girl from the town, the one who brought her baskets of fresh lilacs each morning. It was bold of her to let herself in, but there was no one to have admitted her. "Mistress, my mothers sends me. Your - Monsieur is coming. He rests his horses in town, but he comes."

The woman stood up with terror in her eyes. She hardly knew what to say.

"Thank you." she breathed. The girl stood awkwardly in the door a moment longer, then turned to leave. The woman could only stand and remember how to breathe.

Rest his horses? What could have caused him to push them hard enough to need a rest? It was a foolish question, of course. Only one thing could. The woman glanced at Miette, left lying alone in a droplet of sun by the window. Pardieu, he has heard. He has heard and he races home to-?

"...Marie?"

"Yes, George. Sorry, I was -  blocked a moment."

"Perhaps this is the moment for the wish. How do you figure in this story? Marie?"

I wish, o frightful, unknowable génie, that the father comes with love in his heart. I wish he would welcome his new daughter and love this woman doubly for the gift she has given him.

"Marie!..."

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Put the lamp down, my love. Oh, darling!"