Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 10: Nathalie Sancoeur

May 20, 1939

     Nathalie was a slender woman, most certainly beautiful when she was younger, and still carried that ghost of beauty as she made her way into her late-forties. She was the same age as his mother— they were schooled together— and was the one who matched her with his father, so it was only natural she was made godmother to her only son. After the death of Emelie, she became motherly in a sense, though distant enough to honor a place that did not belong to her. There was a space she created, to not intrude a family that was not hers, and to keep her beloved friend's presence with her. Everyday by the garden, she stood by the statue solemnly and pondered the many woes of life.

     She was a single, lonesome widow— eerily the same as Gabriel. Informally, she was Adrien's maternal figure. But, she was not Gabriel's lover. It was an important distinction that laid out the invisible barriers in the estate, ones too dangerous if crossed. The realm of her friend-turned-boss was dark and gloomy. Adrien's room was up above, a more lenient boundary, that turned flexible when a certain girl came along. In her space, which was everywhere except those realms, is where she wandered quietly as a silent observer, unseen and looked over.

     With this unfortunate advantage, she saw and heard all that was supposed to be hidden, cleft by the darkness. The cries of a forlorn husband. The screeching of vanity drawers. The lonely piano on a new moon. The sound of infidelity and hushed kisses. The fleeting footsteps of an unfortunate mistress. All of this was known to her, even more so by the ignorant carelessness of the two lovers.

     The day she saw them in the car, together in such secluded space, had pitted this worry in her that had persisted ever since. Then, his visits to the bakery became more frequent and he came home everyday with this lovesick look on his face, like a little schoolboy, and it caused a lurching feeling in her stomach, rising and falling with every escalation he made with her. When he came back from his walk the mark of innocent friendship was replaced with something she was too afraid to admit at the time. But, he was in love with her and in all her moral turmoil, she didn't know what to do.

     And recently, he brought her into the house. She didn't think he was bold enough to do such a thing, but he did and for some guilty reason she could not blame him. When Lila looked at Adrien, she saw the high-class and the money, and her eyes dazzled like newly-coveted diamonds. But Adrien to Marinette, and Lila's counterfeit adoration could no longer compare. None of them could deceive her as she dawdled in the shadows, looking out the window longingly for a telling moment. She recalled more.

     She saw the footsteps that traced from the back door to the gates of the estate. A forgotten umbrella in the corner of the room.  Empty wine bottles and scattered lace. 

     She worked up the courage to confront him. There was a pensiveness to his face and she knew in that young mind that he was scheming something that was beyond him.

     He smiled when she came into the room and she became weak-hearted. She did not want to be the one, but only she could do it— only she knew of his best interests. 

     "I know."

     His smile faltered. "Know what?"

     "You and Marinette. I know that you've been seeing each other— not as friends."

     Adrien's face paled for just a few seconds before looking down guiltily, as if he expected her to be the first to know. In his hand, his pen fell, and he was writing a letter of some sort, addressed to his cousin over in Paris. A silence fell over them as he contemplated what to say.

     "You know what I'm going to tell you and it's for your own good—"

     "We're running away." He interjected and she became scared again, slowly backing away from the man, whose growing desire outgrew any sort of dreariness that kept him chained to the estate. "We're going to Paris, to Aunt Amelie's house."

     "What about Lila? What about your father?"

     He was a child again, looking to her desperately for an ounce of support.

     "I don't care about their blessings. I just need yours."

     She ran her hand over her face grievously and her body suddenly felt heavy and rigid. In the tense moment, it was difficult to breathe, and she pondered the way he stared at her, the beautiful gleam of youth in their eyes, the desperate lengths to escape an unfounded marriage, and she pondered and pondered—her head growing light from it all.

     She looked to him and her lips formed a straight, indignant line.

     "No."

     Looking back at it all, from her sunken chair in the midst of the sullen living room, she looked into the fireplace for a moment, the flames jumping in an entrancing way, and looked out to the cold, loveless array of flowers and brushes. Adrien had left home for two years since then, and there was a painful regret that gnawed at her insides, paralyzing her to the cushion and leaving her dwelling in sorrow.

     His expression after her reply was still freshly ingrained into her mind. He was devastated, and right there, he lost some hope in the world, as he turned away, tears rolling down his face, and he continued to write the letter to Felix.

      She should've let him go. That was the phrase that plagued her mind after his sudden departure. All she could do now was graze the faraway past with a single finger, unable to clear up the mist that had ridden it intangible. Her eyes were glued faithfully to the cloudy window, hoping one day she could outstretch her arms to the man who would soon walk through those iron gates. And if he never returned she prayed that he found his own Paris— and a smile creeped unto her face as she pictured Marinette walking by his side under the gentle, amber glow of the City of Lights.