What good was looking backward when life stretched before you, when there were so many beautiful things to reach for, to strive for? When she cracked and allowed herself a moment of grief, she always wondered if this would be the time she’d break, if she’d be swept away by the deep and swirling current of sadness that lived within her, the one that tried, from time to time, to pull her under.
The walk to the cemetery, near the spot where the Seine curved to cradle the southern end of Boulogne-Billancourt, took twenty minutes, but Juliette was lost in her own thoughts, her own memories, and so it seemed she arrived in no time.
Entering through the gates, she could feel a tightening in her chest. In her everyday life, she could set aside her failure as a mother. But here, it was all she could think of, the way she had not done enough to keep her daughter safe and well. How could a mother live with that?
As she rounded the corner past the mausoleum that sat just beside her own modest family plot, Juliette stopped in her tracks. There was already someone there, standing over Antoinette’s grave. “Paul,” she said, and her husband turned, his eyes bloodshot, his face damp with tears. He swiped at his cheeks and tried to rearrange his features, but then his face crumpled.
“I—I thought you were coming later,” he said.
She approached, and he put his arm around her, pulling her close. “Why didn’t you tell me you would be here, my love?” she asked.
He was silent for a few seconds before speaking. “I didn’t want you to see me in pain. I must be strong for you.”
Seeing Paul this way shook Juliette, but not because she needed his strength. It was because she hadn’t realized he’d been feeling this way, too. She hadn’t seen him shed a tear over Antoinette after the week they’d lost her. She’d assumed he’d put it all behind him in a way she hadn’t been capable of. “You needn’t be strong. I only want you to be you.”
She looked up at him, and then, as they stared into each other’s eyes, the rest of their conversation unfolded without a word.
Later, leaning into Paul as they headed back toward the bookstore along the winding paths of the cemetery, Juliette put a hand to her belly and made a silent promise to the baby that she would protect her, always, whatever it took.
“If war comes to France,” she said after a few minutes, and Paul pulled her closer, “what will we do? How will we keep the children safe?”
He stopped short, bringing her to a halt with him. The sea of people on the sidewalk, laden with holiday presents and bent against the snow, parted around them as Paul moved his hands to cup Juliette’s face. His gloves were cold, but somehow, his touch warmed her. “I won’t let anything happen to you, my love. I would fight with my last breath for you and the children.”
“But what if…?” She could hardly bring herself to complete the sentence. “What if something happened anyhow? How would we bear it if we lost another child, Paul?”
“We would break on the inside,” Paul said at last, his hands falling helplessly to his sides. “We would shatter, wouldn’t we? But we would do our best to mend the broken pieces. We would put one foot in front of the other until we learned to walk again. And then we would go where the road took us. There is no other way forward in life, Juliette. We must play the hand we are dealt. But, my love, the children will always be here, and I will always be by your side. I promise.”
Tears welled in Juliette’s eyes. She knew as well as Paul did that he was making a vow he might not be able to keep. But she couldn’t say that. Instead, she whispered, “How did I get so lucky?”
“I’m the lucky one, my Juliette,” Paul replied. He gazed into her eyes once more and then leaned down to touch his lips to hers. The snow drifted down and they stood frozen in time, clinging to each other, until finally they pulled apart and headed for the bookstore, where Alphonse and Claude—their reasons for living—were waiting.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elise went into labor on the first day of 1940 and delivered her baby twenty-four hours later, on the second of January. To her surprise, Juliette had been right; it was a girl after all. Olivier’s dark eyes twitched, his eyebrows pitching together in the middle when he held his daughter for the first time, and Elise could feel the weight of his disappointment.
“Mathilde,” she said from her bed in the Le Belvédère clinic as he inspected the baby, as if checking for flaws. Elise already knew their daughter was perfect. “Let’s name her Mathilde. It means strength.”
“You’ve thought about girls’ names,” Olivier said, and she could hear the accusation in his voice, as though she’d borne a daughter rather than a son simply to spite him.
But she was too exhausted to engage, and so she simply nodded and held out her arms, already missing the tiny weight of her daughter. Olivier handed the baby back and took a quick step away.
“Mathilde will do,” he said. “When you are well enough, Elise, we will try for a boy.”
“Such romantic words of seduction, my darling,” she said under her breath, but if he heard her, he gave no indication. Instead, muttering that he needed to tend to some matters, he gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and, without looking at his daughter again, headed for the door.
Elise gazed down at the newborn in her arms, her limbs still red from the exertion of her entrance into the world, her skin loose like the folds of a puppy’s neck. She was no larger than a loaf of bread, and much more delicate, and though Elise had seen very young babies before, she had never held one, never realized how simultaneously light and heavy a newborn would feel in her arms. If she moved incorrectly, would she hurt her daughter? What if she dropped her? The thought paralyzed her at first, but as the baby blinked up at her with clear blue eyes, she gradually relaxed. She was this child’s mother. She would keep her safe, always.
“Mathilde,” she murmured. “Welcome to the world.”
But what sort of world was she welcoming her daughter into? The future was suspended in air like a feather on the breeze, slowly, slowly drifting down.
“I will keep you safe, little one,” she murmured, kissing her daughter’s forehead. “I swear it.” She inhaled deeply, filling herself with the scent of her child, and when the midwife came in and offered to take the baby so that Elise could get some rest, Elise refused to let go. No, the only way to protect Mathilde against whatever was coming was to hold her tight for as long as she could.
* * *
Three weeks later, Elise bundled little Mathilde into her wicker bassinet carriage, which had been a gift from Constant Bouet, the smarmy, well-dressed art dealer Olivier sold most of his work to. She didn’t care for him—she had never understood how Olivier couldn’t see that he oozed disingenuousness—but she had to admit that he had good taste in presents. She took the rickety lift down to the ground floor and walked out into a blustery January day, heading west. Mathilde began crying immediately, but Elise tucked the blankets around her more tightly, and the infant gazed up at her, soothed.
“It’s all right, my sweet girl,” she said, bending to kiss her daughter on the cheek. “We are going for a short walk to meet a friend.”
Twenty-five minutes later, she pushed through the door of the Librairie des Rêves bookshop and was thrilled to find Juliette behind the counter, cradling a tiny baby the same size as Mathilde.
“Oh, she’s perfect!” Elise said, pushing the carriage over to the counter and reaching for Juliette’s newborn daughter. Juliette had sent word two weeks earlier that she’d given birth to a healthy baby girl she’d named Lucie. Juliette handed the baby over without hesitation, smiling as she reached into the bassinet to carefully pick up Mathilde.
“Lucie, meet Mathilde,” Juliette said, holding up Elise’s daughter as she supported her warm head with the crook of her elbow. “Mathilde, this is Lucie.”
“My goodness, they could be sisters,” Elise said, stroking Lucie’s dark hair, as soft as peach fuzz.
“Is it terrible of me that I think all babies look rather the same at first?” Juliette asked with a small smile, touching one of Mathilde’s cheeks. “They don’t really become themselves until they’re older, do they?”
After a while, they each took their daughters back and went to sit in the two armchairs in the children’s section. Claude and Alphonse ran over to get a look at Mathilde before returning to the puzzle they were putting together. “I don’t get it,” Elise heard the older boy mutter to his brother. “They just look like babies. Big deal.”
“He’s jealous,” Juliette said, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she looked pointedly at Claude, who was grumbling at the puzzle pieces now. Alphonse had picked one up and was gnawing on it. “It was the same when Alphonse was born. It’s an adjustment to have another sibling.”
“Olivier is hoping we’ll have another as soon as possible,” Elise said after a pause. “He wishes for a boy.”
“Men and their sons. Don’t worry. He’ll fall in love with his daughter soon enough.”