The Blood of Lorraine Read Online Free PDF

Very competitive,” Bernard intervened, leaning over the table to get the attention of the diners.
    “Still, a young woman, alone, allowed to roam the city with other young women. I understand there were no restrictions on travel.” Clarie could have sworn that Mme du Manoir’s jowls were shaking in disapproval. Her large diamond earrings quivered and shimmered in the candlelight.
    “Only the restraints of a very strict morality. A Kantian morality, to be specific. I can tell you,” Bernard continued, “that I was more nervous about asking the headmistress for Clarie’s hand than her father. Mme Favre was much more exacting about who could court her students.”
    “You actually asked the headmistress’s permission?” The prosecutor’s wife smiled in amazement. Clarie’s chivalrous defender had won at least one of them over.
    “I did not drop to my knees,” Bernard paused before adding, “but let me tell you, I felt I should have.”
    This even drew appreciative titters.
    “Still,” Mme du Manoir laid her hand on Bernard’s as if to forestall more frivolity, “one wonders, what kind of woman would pursue such a difficult profession.” She stared in Clarie’s direction, waiting for an answer.
    Clarie’s felt a rush of blood spreading across her cheeks and forehead. How could any of them possibly know how difficult it was? First there was the uncertainty about finding a place. And when you found one, facing all those eager girls, expecting you to teach them everything under the sun. Staying up until the early morning hours, preparing, almost crying with fatigue. “Actually,” she said trying to keep her voice as even as possible, “the students at Sèvres come from all walks of life.”
    Mme du Manoir raised her eyebrows. “Surely not.”
    Was this the point where Clarie was supposed to admit that her own father was an immigrant and a blacksmith, and Bernard’s had been merely a clockmaker? She held her hands tight under the table to keep from trembling. She was becoming a spectacle.
    “Albertine,” Monsieur du Manoir came to Clarie’s rescue, “if our republican government has decreed that young women deserve a secondary education, who better to give it to them, a nun or someone who will become a wife and a mother?”
    “Hear! Hear! Let’s raise a glass to that!” cried out Alphonse Rocher, the senior examining magistrate, whose face was already ruddy with drink. A dozen diners, in various stages of reluctance and bewilderment, lifted their glasses. Relieved at the distraction, Clarie again refused the cheese plate. After the anemic toast, the table dissolved again into the sharp clink of silverware and the soft murmur of private conversations. Still flustered, Clarie surveyed the scene under lowered eyes. When she saw the servants arranging ices and cakes on the sideboard, she let her hands slip apart and breathed a sigh of relief. It was almost over.
     
    Martin touched the tips of Clarie’s fingers with his own as he passed her on his way to the library with the other male guests. This was his unspoken apology. He didn’t like having to leave her at the mercy of “the ladies,” but there was nothing to be done about it. As soon as he consulted with Théophile Didier, the prosecutor, Martin had every intention of getting Clarie away.
    Martin paused at the entrance to the library and took a deep breath. Unless there was some truth to Singer’s assertions, this should be easy. If the Proc refused to let him lead the investigation, then Martin would explain to Singer that he had done his best. If Didier agreed to hand the case over to Martin, a much more likely possibility, then he would begin to concentrate on formulating a plan of action. Either way, Martin told himself as he pulled down his dinner jacket and forged ahead, a definitive decision should help him get through the weekend without seeing flashes of that little corpse in his mind’s eye.
    The rest of the men were gathered