Geneviève entered the dark, cavernous room. Diffused light from gaps in the curtain were too feeble to reach the high vaulted ceiling or the far corners of the large and stately room. The cherrywood panels and deep maroon wall and bed coverings brought more gloom upon the somber chamber. The silence hummed and Geneviève tiptoed into it, having no care to disturb it.
As she neared the bed, she spied the small mound of her aunt beneath the heavy covers and the large form of the black-gowned physician propped in the chair beside her. The bitter scent of illness mingled with the aroma of herbs in the stifling room in dire need of an airing out. Surely, a tiny bit of fresh spring air would do the dying woman no harm, Geneviève thought as she neared her aunt, but she kept such thoughts to herself. She gave the doctor a nod and he returned her solemn greeting with a silent, seated bow.
Geneviève approached the bedside and leaned forward, thighs brushing against the hard mattress upon which her aunt lay. The woman’s sharp features were hidden in the dimness, but as Gene-viève’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, the familiar pointy nose and jutting chin became visible. Though death marched near, there was little softness to the bony face, as if the woman greeted it with the same stony demeanor in which she had spent her life. Thin gray strands of hair lay on the pillow and thin, papery lids lay closed over her eyes.
Lengthy minutes ticked by but the woman remained motionless. Believing her asleep, Geneviève began to creep backward to the door.
“Leave us, monsieur.” The warbled voice both startled and commanded.
The large man rose from his chair and left the room without aword, passing Geneviève, rooted to her place. It had been a test, yet another; she should have known. Her whole life had been a test, one administered by this woman with a cold, stern hand.
“Are you ready? Has everything been taken care of?”
“Oui¸ ma tante. It is all prepared as instructed.”
“Bon, bon. As it should be.”
With tremendous effort, the feeble woman lifted her head off her pillow, thin arms pushing at the mattress as she tried to raise herself up. Geneviève rushed over, taking her aunt by the shoulders and boosting the frail woman up, pulling the pillows into a heap to support her. With a sideward glance that was neither grateful nor pleased, Elaine acknowledged her niece’s assistance.
Geneviève felt her teeth grind, then released the reaction. All her life, she had tried so hard to please this woman. From her earliest memories, she had done everything asked of her. No matter how difficult, no matter how heinous, she had done it all in the hopes of eliciting some affection, any sign of tenderness, from the only mother she had ever known. But even now, as they were about to part for what may well be the last time, there was no offer of affection, not a morsel of sentiment extended from the woman who had raised her.
“In the table, there.” Elaine pointed one bony finger at the cre-denza along the mullioned windows. “Open the top drawer and bring me what you find.”
Geneviève did as instructed, retrieving a large velvet pouch, and placed it upon her aunt’s lap.
Untying the satin cord, Elaine reached in. “These are for you.”
The first item drawn from the bag was a book, bound in Moroccan leather with gold embossed letters on its spine: Pantagruel, François Rabelais. Geneviève accepted the book and opened it, turning the whisper-thin pages tipped in gold.
“He is the man’s favorite author, and this the most popular work of the moment. No one will question that you carry it with you always, and you must never let it out of your possession. This book holds the key. Comprenez-vous, oui?”
“I understand, ma tante, of course I understand.”
Through the long hours of lessons, of learning the languages and the ciphers, Madame Elaine had been a hard taskmaster, never once responding to the child’s
As she neared the bed, she spied the small mound of her aunt beneath the heavy covers and the large form of the black-gowned physician propped in the chair beside her. The bitter scent of illness mingled with the aroma of herbs in the stifling room in dire need of an airing out. Surely, a tiny bit of fresh spring air would do the dying woman no harm, Geneviève thought as she neared her aunt, but she kept such thoughts to herself. She gave the doctor a nod and he returned her solemn greeting with a silent, seated bow.
Geneviève approached the bedside and leaned forward, thighs brushing against the hard mattress upon which her aunt lay. The woman’s sharp features were hidden in the dimness, but as Gene-viève’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, the familiar pointy nose and jutting chin became visible. Though death marched near, there was little softness to the bony face, as if the woman greeted it with the same stony demeanor in which she had spent her life. Thin gray strands of hair lay on the pillow and thin, papery lids lay closed over her eyes.
Lengthy minutes ticked by but the woman remained motionless. Believing her asleep, Geneviève began to creep backward to the door.
“Leave us, monsieur.” The warbled voice both startled and commanded.
The large man rose from his chair and left the room without aword, passing Geneviève, rooted to her place. It had been a test, yet another; she should have known. Her whole life had been a test, one administered by this woman with a cold, stern hand.
“Are you ready? Has everything been taken care of?”
“Oui¸ ma tante. It is all prepared as instructed.”
“Bon, bon. As it should be.”
With tremendous effort, the feeble woman lifted her head off her pillow, thin arms pushing at the mattress as she tried to raise herself up. Geneviève rushed over, taking her aunt by the shoulders and boosting the frail woman up, pulling the pillows into a heap to support her. With a sideward glance that was neither grateful nor pleased, Elaine acknowledged her niece’s assistance.
Geneviève felt her teeth grind, then released the reaction. All her life, she had tried so hard to please this woman. From her earliest memories, she had done everything asked of her. No matter how difficult, no matter how heinous, she had done it all in the hopes of eliciting some affection, any sign of tenderness, from the only mother she had ever known. But even now, as they were about to part for what may well be the last time, there was no offer of affection, not a morsel of sentiment extended from the woman who had raised her.
“In the table, there.” Elaine pointed one bony finger at the cre-denza along the mullioned windows. “Open the top drawer and bring me what you find.”
Geneviève did as instructed, retrieving a large velvet pouch, and placed it upon her aunt’s lap.
Untying the satin cord, Elaine reached in. “These are for you.”
The first item drawn from the bag was a book, bound in Moroccan leather with gold embossed letters on its spine: Pantagruel, François Rabelais. Geneviève accepted the book and opened it, turning the whisper-thin pages tipped in gold.
“He is the man’s favorite author, and this the most popular work of the moment. No one will question that you carry it with you always, and you must never let it out of your possession. This book holds the key. Comprenez-vous, oui?”
“I understand, ma tante, of course I understand.”
Through the long hours of lessons, of learning the languages and the ciphers, Madame Elaine had been a hard taskmaster, never once responding to the child’s