meant. But in 1891 she was hard at work, far from home, studying for her degree.
Tilyer did not bother to introduce Bernard or her to his wife before he led them out the door. He seemed very much in command of his family. And utterly sure of the rightness of his ideas.
Clarie slathered her sausage with hot mustard as if that would bring some taste back into her mouth. The room was quieter now. Some couples, men and women, and women together, began to dance to the singer’s sentimental love songs. Through the smoky haze, they all looked tired and sad, sagging with drink or the day’s labors. At least it was quiet enough so she wouldn’t have to shout. “You told them about the people you knew in Lille, the weavers and the miners?”
“I mentioned it, yes, to let them know that I had long been aware of how hard life was for workers and why they need unions.”
“Did you tell them about Merckx?” She sucked in a breath. Merckx was Bernard’s oldest friend, a fanatical anarchist, who had been shot and killed outside of Aix as he was trying to flee from the army. She wondered if Bernard had decided to tell them about his role in Merckx’s attempted escape, since he was no longer a judge who had broken a “bourgeois law,” since he wanted so much to be a man among the men at the Labor Exchange.
“Oh, no, never.” He seemed shocked by the question. “You are the only one who will ever know.” He took her hand and kissed it. “My brave, loyal girl.”
No longer brave, she thought. Just busy and tired. But at least she was a wife, sharing her dear husband’s darkest, most dangerous secrets. “We must go soon,” she said, taking another sip from her stein. “I work tomorrow too.”
He raised his glass again, as if to say “Eat up and enjoy,” even as he signaled his consent to her request to depart. She sat back, determined to demonstrate her enjoyment on the day of Bernard’s unexpected triumph. And then she thought of the perfect way to cap off the evening. “You know,” she said, leaning across the table, “Papa is going to be so proud of you.” Her papa, the dear “old red” down in Arles, the man Bernard loved as a second father. Yes, he would be proud. The thought of Giuseppe Falchetti made Bernard smile broadly as they lifted their glasses for their final toast.
Once outside the café, they discovered it had rained. A delightful breeze broke the early summer heat, and the wet cobblestones, cleansed by the downpour, glistened under the gas lights.
“Ah, fresh air,” Bernard sighed.
“Yes,” she murmured as she linked her arms in his. Getting away from the smoke and crowds in the café enlivened Clarie, reminding her that she, too, had some news that day. First, though, she decided to tease her husband a bit. “Are there any women at the Labor Exchange, or is it all men?”
“I don’t think you liked Joseph Tilyer. He’s a little gruff. But a good man.”
Oh, really, Clarie thought as she fingered the fringe on her fanciest shawl. Someone had made this. And undoubtedly it had been a woman. “Seriously,” she said. “Are there women?”
Martin waited until after they crossed a street glittering with puddles to answer. “Not that many,” he conceded. “Our women unionists come from factories, like the big sugar factory. A few seamstresses. But most women sew at home or work in small sweatshops or….”
“Are maids and charwomen,” Clarie murmured. “I met one today,” she began. “A woman who works at our school. An Italian immigrant. She told me a terrible story about her daughters.” Clarie hesitated to say the worst. “She thinks someone has kidnapped and killed one of them.”
By the time she finished telling Francesca’s story, they had arrived at the end of the rue Rodier. They strolled in silence for a few moments, before Bernard paused in front of their building. Clarie assumed that he did not want his voice to echo in the courtyard. He tried to reassure
Tilyer did not bother to introduce Bernard or her to his wife before he led them out the door. He seemed very much in command of his family. And utterly sure of the rightness of his ideas.
Clarie slathered her sausage with hot mustard as if that would bring some taste back into her mouth. The room was quieter now. Some couples, men and women, and women together, began to dance to the singer’s sentimental love songs. Through the smoky haze, they all looked tired and sad, sagging with drink or the day’s labors. At least it was quiet enough so she wouldn’t have to shout. “You told them about the people you knew in Lille, the weavers and the miners?”
“I mentioned it, yes, to let them know that I had long been aware of how hard life was for workers and why they need unions.”
“Did you tell them about Merckx?” She sucked in a breath. Merckx was Bernard’s oldest friend, a fanatical anarchist, who had been shot and killed outside of Aix as he was trying to flee from the army. She wondered if Bernard had decided to tell them about his role in Merckx’s attempted escape, since he was no longer a judge who had broken a “bourgeois law,” since he wanted so much to be a man among the men at the Labor Exchange.
“Oh, no, never.” He seemed shocked by the question. “You are the only one who will ever know.” He took her hand and kissed it. “My brave, loyal girl.”
No longer brave, she thought. Just busy and tired. But at least she was a wife, sharing her dear husband’s darkest, most dangerous secrets. “We must go soon,” she said, taking another sip from her stein. “I work tomorrow too.”
He raised his glass again, as if to say “Eat up and enjoy,” even as he signaled his consent to her request to depart. She sat back, determined to demonstrate her enjoyment on the day of Bernard’s unexpected triumph. And then she thought of the perfect way to cap off the evening. “You know,” she said, leaning across the table, “Papa is going to be so proud of you.” Her papa, the dear “old red” down in Arles, the man Bernard loved as a second father. Yes, he would be proud. The thought of Giuseppe Falchetti made Bernard smile broadly as they lifted their glasses for their final toast.
Once outside the café, they discovered it had rained. A delightful breeze broke the early summer heat, and the wet cobblestones, cleansed by the downpour, glistened under the gas lights.
“Ah, fresh air,” Bernard sighed.
“Yes,” she murmured as she linked her arms in his. Getting away from the smoke and crowds in the café enlivened Clarie, reminding her that she, too, had some news that day. First, though, she decided to tease her husband a bit. “Are there any women at the Labor Exchange, or is it all men?”
“I don’t think you liked Joseph Tilyer. He’s a little gruff. But a good man.”
Oh, really, Clarie thought as she fingered the fringe on her fanciest shawl. Someone had made this. And undoubtedly it had been a woman. “Seriously,” she said. “Are there women?”
Martin waited until after they crossed a street glittering with puddles to answer. “Not that many,” he conceded. “Our women unionists come from factories, like the big sugar factory. A few seamstresses. But most women sew at home or work in small sweatshops or….”
“Are maids and charwomen,” Clarie murmured. “I met one today,” she began. “A woman who works at our school. An Italian immigrant. She told me a terrible story about her daughters.” Clarie hesitated to say the worst. “She thinks someone has kidnapped and killed one of them.”
By the time she finished telling Francesca’s story, they had arrived at the end of the rue Rodier. They strolled in silence for a few moments, before Bernard paused in front of their building. Clarie assumed that he did not want his voice to echo in the courtyard. He tried to reassure
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