The Blood of Lorraine Read Online Free PDF Page A

matter? Clarie had told him he was, and was laughing.
    “We’d better hurry,” she warned. “I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”
    “Right you are.” Martin picked up Clarie’s cape and wrapped it around her. After he had thoroughly shielded her against the cold, he kissed the slightly upturned tip of her long, thin nose. “Courage!” he whispered. They would both need it.
     
    Clarie prayed that no one would demonstrate any curiosity about her or her pregnant state until after dinner, when the men separated themselves from the women in order to smoke and “talk business.” The introductions in the gas-lit drawing room, to seven of Bernard’s colleagues and six of their wives, passed smoothly enough. One only had to smile politely and sip on the champagne offered by the liveried servants. But as soon as she entered the rectangular dining room, with its dark walls hung with crimson-colored embossed paper, Clarie began to feel closed in. Illuminated only by huge ornate candelabras, the room’s opulence gleamed at her from all directions: from sideboards covered with dishes filled with steaming food, to the heavily framed portraits hanging on the wall, to the long dining table, where each setting held a daunting surfeit of shining silverware and gold-rimmed plates. Worse, as first-timers, she and Bernard were given seats of honor, he by the hostess at the foot of the table, she by Charles du Manoir at its head.
    Mercifully, as the Presiding Judge of the Court at Nancy, du Manoir enjoyed holding forth and ignored her most of the time. When he did give her his attention, he proved to be a solicitous host, exchanging innocuous pleasantries, and tacitly guiding her through the proper order of things by being first to pick up the appropriate utensil for each course. Clarie began to breathe more easily as the paté, the bisque, the turbot, and the roast beef succeeded each other.
    Her particular purgatory did not ensue until the white-and-black-uniformed maids began to offer the tray of cheeses. The mistress of the house, Albertine du Manoir, could no longer suppress her curiosity.
    “So, Madame Martin,” she began, almost shouting from the opposite end of the table, “you teach?”
    “Yes,” Clarie said as she glanced at her husband through the branches of the candelabras.
    “The upper grades?” Mme du Manoir spoke even louder this time, encouraging her prey to do the same. Her neck craned upward from her portly body. Clarie could clearly see all the white curls her elderly high-born hostess had so carefully arranged around her stern, powdered face.
    “Yes, at one of the new public high schools for girls.” Clarie got it out quickly. Her heart began to pound. She had said it. She was working in a place that was “new” and “public,” certainly not the way the wife of a judge should spend her time. Perhaps all these facts run together would shock them into silence, at least for the moment.
    It did. And the silence was unnatural. The clink of silver on plate had ceased. So had the murmur of conversation. Clarie took a sip of wine; her mouth was running dry.
    “And how, my dear, did you learn to do that ?” Mme du Manoir was not about to let her off the hook.
    “I was trained at a boarding school, at Sèvres, just outside of Paris.” Clarie put down her knife and fork. She had no need for more food, and she certainly was not going to eat when all eyes were on her. If only she were sitting beside Bernard, he’d do something reassuring.
    “You went off to Paris on your own?” asked the prosecutor’s wife, who sat directly across from her. She was younger than most of the other guests, perhaps in her thirties. A pretty brunette with an oval face, which expressed surprise, but, Clarie hoped, not disapproval.
    Clarie nodded and looked down at her plate.
    “How extraordinary.”
    Clarie was not even sure who had interjected this comment, which was not meant as a compliment.
    “Yes, it was extraordinary.