The Virgin Blue. Tracy Chevalier

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ chestnuts long since dried, when she saw the grey shadow emerge skittishly from the trees to stand in the path.

      —Sainte Vierge, aide-moi, she prayed automatically. She watched the wolf watching her, its yellow eyes bright despite the gloom. When it began to move towards her, Isabelle heard a voice in her head:— Don’t let this happen to you too.

      She crouched and picked up a large branch. The wolf stopped. She stood up and advanced, waving the stick and shouting. The wolf began to move backwards, and when Isabelle pretended to throw the branch, it turned and skittered sideways, disappearing into the trees.

      Isabelle ran from the woods and across a field, rye cutting into her calves. She reached the rock shaped like a mushroom that marked the bottom of the Tourniers’ kitchen garden and stopped to catch her breath. Her fear of Etienne’s mother was gone.

      —Thank you, Maman, she said softly. I won’t forget.

      Jean, Hannah and Etienne were sitting by the fire while Susanne cleared the last of their bajanas, the same chestnut soup Isabelle had served her father earlier, and dark, sweet-smelling bread. All four froze when Isabelle entered.

      —What is it, La Rousse? Jean Tournier asked as she stood in the middle of the room, her hand once more resting on the table as if to secure her a place among them.

      Isabelle said nothing but looked steadily at Etienne. At last he stood up and moved to her side. She nodded and he turned to face his parents.

      The room was silent. Hannah’s face looked like granite.

      —Isabelle is going to have a child, Etienne said in a low voice. With your permission we would like to marry.

      It was the first time he had ever used Isabelle’s name.

      Hannah’s voice pierced.

      —You carry whose child, La Rousse? Not Etienne’s.

      —It is Etienne’s child.

      —No!

      Jean Tournier put his hands on the table and stood up. His silver hair was smooth like a cap against his skull, his face gaunt. He said nothing, but his wife stopped speaking and sat back. He looked at Etienne. There was a long pause before Etienne spoke.

      —It is my child. We will marry anyway when I am twenty-five. Soon.

      Jean and Hannah exchanged glances.

      —What does your father say? Jean asked Isabelle.

      —He has given his permission and will provide the dowry. She said nothing about his hatred.

      —Go and wait outside, La Rousse, Jean said quietly. You go with her, Susanne.

      The girls sat side by side on the door bench. They had seen little of each other since they were children. Many years ago, even before Isabelle’s hair turned red, Susanne had played with Marie, helping with the haying, the goats, splashing in the river.

      For a while they sat, looking out over the valley.

      —I saw a wolf out by the cleda, Isabelle said suddenly.

      Susanne stared, brown eyes wide. She had the thin face and pointed chin of her father.

      —What did you do?

      —Chased it with a stick. She smiled, pleased with herself.

      —Isabelle—

      —What is it?

      —I know Maman is upset, but I am glad you will live with us. I never believed what they said about you, about your hair and— She stopped. Isabelle did not ask.

      —And you will be safe here. This house is safe, protected by—

      She stopped again, glanced at the door, bowed her head. Isabelle let her eyes rest on the shadowy humps of the hills in the distance.

      It will always be like this, she thought. Silence in this house.

      The door opened and Jean and Etienne emerged with a flickering torch and an axe.

      —We will take you back, La Rousse, Jean said. I must speak with your father.

      He handed a piece of bread to Etienne.

      —Take this bread together and give her your hand.

      Etienne tore the bread in two and gave the smaller piece to Isabelle. She put it in her mouth and placed her hand in his. His fingers were cold. The bread stuck in the back of her throat like a whisper.

      Petit Jean was born in blood and was a fearless child.

      Jacob was born blue. He was a quiet child: even when Hannah smacked his back to start his breath he did not scream.

      Isabelle lay in the river again, many summers later. There were marks on her body from the two boys, and another child pushing her belly above the water. The baby kicked. She cupped the mound with her hands.

      —Please let the Virgin make it a girl, she prayed. And when she is born I will name her after you, after my sister. Marie. I will fight everyone to name her that.

      This time there were no warnings at all, no bells, no sense of eyes on her. He was just there, sitting on his heels on the river bank. She sat up and looked at him. She did not cover her breasts. He looked the same, a little older, with a long scar down the right side of his face, from his cheekbone to his chin, touching the corner of his mouth. This time she would have smiled back at him if he had smiled. The shepherd did not smile. He simply nodded at her, cupped his hands, splashed water on his face, then turned and walked in the direction of the river’s source.

      Marie was born in a flood of clear liquid, her eyes open. She was a hopeful child.

      

      When Rick and I moved to France, I figured my life would change a little. I just didn’t know how.

      To begin with, the new country was a banquet where we were ready to try every dish. Our first week there, while Rick was sharpening his pencils at his new office, I knocked the rust from my high-school French and set out to explore the countryside surrounding Toulouse and to find us a place to live. A small town was what we wanted; an interesting town. I sped along little roads in a new grey Renault, driving fast through long lines of sycamores. Occasionally when I wasn’t paying attention I thought I was in Ohio or Indiana, but the landscape snapped back into itself the moment I saw a house with a red tile roof, green shutters, window boxes full of geraniums. Everywhere farmers in bright blue work pants stood in fields dusted with pale April green and watched my car pass across their horizon. I smiled and waved; sometimes they waved back, hesitantly. ‘Who was that?’ they were probably asking themselves.

      I saw a lot of towns and rejected them all, sometimes for frivolous reasons, but ultimately because I was looking for a place that would sing to me, СКАЧАТЬ