“I love it,” the other woman said in a whisper, gazing around, and Juliette felt her own shoulders sag in relief.
“Thank you. Now sit, sit. I’ll send my husband out to retrieve Docteur Babin, and in the meantime, Claude will fetch you some water.” Her older son raced off immediately toward the door in the back, the one that led to the family’s apartment behind the store. A split second later, Paul emerged from the same door, glancing first at Madame LeClair, and then at Juliette.
“What’s all this, my love?” he asked, approaching and kissing her, a full second longer than what might be considered obligatory. She loved that whenever she was gone, even for an hour or two, he always greeted her return with the same relief and happiness. She loved him more each day, and he her; she could feel it in the heat of his gaze, the way he touched her, the way he kissed her.
“This is my new friend Madame LeClair,” Juliette said brightly, nodding at the other woman, who looked embarrassed. “I was hoping you might go fetch Docteur Babin, my dear. Madame LeClair is just fine, I think, but she was feeling a bit unwell, and it’s better to be cautious.”
“Yes, of course. A pleasure to meet you, Madame LeClair. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He cast a worried look at Juliette, who nodded her encouragement. He hurried out the front door of the shop just as Claude emerged from the door that led to their apartment, carrying a glass of water he’d filled to the top. He handed it to Elise carefully, spilling a few drops on her dress, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said, smiling kindly at him, but a few seconds later, it was clear that another wave of pain was traveling through her body; she set the water down and clenched her teeth, looking away.
Her concern growing, Juliette lifted Alphonse from his carriage, ruffled his curls, and asked Claude to take him to the children’s section to play. Claude headed off, clutching Alphonse’s hand as he pulled the unsteady toddler behind him. “Will this be your first?” Juliette asked.
The other woman smiled shakily. “Yes. And I’m certain he’ll be all right. I think I was just winded.”
Juliette accepted this with a nod, though they both knew one didn’t get winded simply from sitting on a park bench. “You think he’s a boy, then? Your child?”
“My husband is certain of it.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think—I don’t know yet.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid a daughter would disappoint him.”
“Nonsense.” Juliette reached over and squeezed Madame LeClair’s hand, which was cold and trembling. “Fathers fall immediately in love with their little girls.” She had to blink back tears for a second as she thought of Paul’s face when he first saw Antoinette, tiny and quiet. Claude, their firstborn, had come out screaming; Antoinette had emerged like a startled butterfly not yet ready to leave the cocoon.
Madame LeClair gazed around the store, and then another wave of pain seemed to hit her. Her face went white, as she bent to cradle her belly once more.
“They’re getting worse, aren’t they?” Juliette asked as calmly as she could, looking toward the front window, praying that Paul would return with the doctor soon.
“I’ll manage,” Madame LeClair rasped, straightening back up again.
“Well, of course you will. But you’re about to be a mother, and soon, you’ll realize that mothers need all the help they can get.” Juliette took Madame LeClair’s hand again. “Being a mother is well worth it, of course, but it can be difficult,” she added, glancing toward the children’s section, where Claude was playing quietly with Alphonse, their heads bent conspiratorially together. She felt guilty saying the words aloud, for her children were a great blessing, and she knew she’d found her place in the world, but in becoming a mother, she’d lost so much of herself, too.
“More difficult than being a wife?” Madame LeClair gave her a wan smile, and Juliette swallowed a lump of unease in her throat. Juliette couldn’t imagine thinking that being a wife was difficult, but she also understood that not everyone had what she and Paul had. That kind of love came along but once in a lifetime.
“I think that love is always difficult, because it requires us to lose a bit of ourselves to gain so much more,” Juliette said at last. “But I believe that whatever we give up is worth it in the end, if we give those pieces to someone who loves us back just as fiercely.” She meant the words as a comfort, but they seemed to trouble Madame LeClair, who looked quickly away.
CHAPTER THREE
Where was she? This bookstore, La Librairie des Rêves, felt like something out of a dream, making its name seem all the more appropriate. The shelves towered around them, chaotic and beautiful, and even from her perch near the front of the store, Elise had already spotted a few of her favorite titles, including La Condition Humaine by André Malraux, to whom Olivier had introduced her once; they knew each other through their work with the now-defunct left-wing Front Populaire. It was one of the few books on which she and Olivier agreed.
Elise used to read all the time, and she’d loved it, for doing so always transported her to worlds far away. When had she stopped? It had been sometime after she’d married Olivier, who wanted her to read the books he was reading so they could discuss them over long, wine-fueled dinners, and so she’d be conversant with his friends and their wives. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want that; she longed to be a part of his world, to have him look at her the way she’d seen Monsieur Foulon gaze at his wife. It was just that she had little interest in the books he gave her, books written by socialists such as Marx and Cabet. They felt like assignments she was bound to fail, not least of all because she didn’t agree with the things they said.
At parties, Olivier was fond of explaining to people that true art was found in life’s difficulties, but as she looked around now—at this perfectly imperfect shop overflowing with stories, at the two brothers playing together quietly among the shelves, and at Juliette, a woman who didn’t know her but had gone out of her way to care for her—she wondered, not for the first time, if perhaps life didn’t have to be hard to be beautiful.
But the thought was lost in another wave of pain, and the bookstore spun around her as she clutched her belly. All that mattered was the new baby, who might be coming into the world far too soon.
By the time her vision cleared, Monsieur Foulon was hurrying back through the front door with a balding, bespectacled middle-aged man in tow. He had evidently summoned the man in the middle of his lunch; there was a large crumb hanging conspicuously from the left corner of his lip, and he still had a napkin half tucked into his collar.
“Madame LeClair, this is Docteur Babin.” Monsieur Foulon was breathing heavily as he made his introduction.
“Bonjour, Docteur.” What if this was nothing, if she’d interrupted Madame Foulon’s day in the park and this poor man’s lunch for no reason at all? “Thank you for coming, but I’m certain I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that you’re certain, Madame LeClair.” The doctor’s eyes were kind as he bent beside her. “But perhaps you should let me be the judge of that. Otherwise, those years at medical college would be quite a waste. Now, shall we take a look?”
Elise let Monsieur Foulon help her up, and she leaned into him for support as he led her through the store’s back door into an apartment with a kitchen and small sitting room on the ground floor and a stairway leading up. “The rest of our apartment is upstairs,” he said conversationally, guiding her first around a pile of blocks, and then past a toy bunny with one ear ripped off. “But as you can see, the boys bring their toys down here. You’ll have to excuse the mess.”
“It’s no mess at all,” Elise said. “It’s beautiful.”
Monsieur Foulon smiled as he helped Elise settle down on a small settee. “I’m not sure I’d call it beautiful, madame, but it’s a nice thought.” Then he backed out, gesturing to the doctor, who had trailed behind them. “Let us know if you need anything, Docteur Babin.”
“Certainly.”
The doctor knelt beside her as Monsieur Foulon retreated to the bookstore. His hand was warm, even through the cotton of her dress, as he palpated her belly, pressing first on her lower right side, then her left. “When was your last contraction, madame?”
Elise struggled to sit up, propping herself on her elbows, as her heart thudded. “Contractions? Is that what these are? I can’t have the baby, you see. It’s far too early.”
He looked calm, which reassured her slightly. “I suspect these are false contractions, but let’s check. When did they begin?”
“About an hour ago. In the park.”
“And how many have you had since then?”
She thought about this. “Five, I think. Every ten minutes or so.”
“They’re not coming closer together?”
“No. I don’t think they are.”