It fooled Anna, anyway. She admitted Josephine and Daniel a month ago. Now I’ve got to get their father out of prison, because it was my stupidity that got him arrested. I need Travert’s help to do that . . .
Then again, he said he’d help whether I agreed to his marriage proposal or not. So why am I marrying him?
The question keeps echoing in my mind, and my answers keep changing. I’m marrying him because he can help me with forged paperwork; because his name can protect me if I get caught. Because I’m reckless and destructive and wanting to punish myself. Because Henri is never coming back; because I am lonely and tired of longing for what I can’t have. Because I’m almost twenty-seven, and not likely to get another offer. Maybe most of all because respectable married women don’t get denounced as sapphists.
Then there’s the simple fact that someone wants me, and I haven’t felt wanted by anybody in a long time . . .
I don’t want a ring. I don’t think of it as a real marriage—whatever that’s supposed to be. Just an alliance of sorts. But for the wedding, Travert is freshly barbered, eyebrows trimmed, and he’s wearing aftershave, the spicy scent of which fills the mayor’s office.
When we’re done saying our vows, our marriage certificate is duly filed by the clerk. She gives me my new identity card and stamps it with the authority of the village of Chavaniac.
I don’t want a celebration—no wedding feast or church service—so for our wedding night, Travert takes me to a nice hotel in Le Puy, a cradle of terra-cotta rooftops watched over by dramatic religious statues atop volcanic outcroppings. I want to climb the summits and study the sculptures, but it’s getting late by the time we check into the hotel room, and I tuck my borrowed suitcase under the bed, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Didn’t I always say I wasn’t the marrying kind?
Travert has arranged for supper and a bottle of iced champagne. He tips the porter too much. Then he surprises me with a small radio concealed in his own suitcase. The Germans confiscate radios now, but maybe there are exceptions made for the gendarmes. Whatever the case, he sets it up and tunes in music, and lifts the silver domes, revealing our meal. It’s quite a spread. Cassoulet, bread, a week’s ration of butter. “Hungry?”
My mouth should be watering, but it’s like I’ve swallowed cotton balls. “Not yet, but don’t let me stop you.”
Travert quietly covers the food again, then joins me at the window, digging his hands into his pockets. “Ah, a view of the big city. You might have trouble getting used to my house in the little hamlet after this . . .”
“I won’t be at your house much,” I remind him, because he knows I’m not a girl to cook, sew, or darn socks. We’ve agreed I can keep my job teaching at the preventorium—and that I’ll stay at the castle five nights a week.
Now he points out a bronze statue of Lafayette standing near the tramway, a Revolutionary tricolor cockade in hand. “Your favorite general.”
“Can’t seem to get away from him . . .”
“Be nice. I think he’s here to give away the bride!”
I snap the curtains shut. Meanwhile, the groom tugs open his black tie. “Should I pour you a glass of champagne, Madame Travert?”
“I’d rather guzzle the whole bottle,” I reply—because it’s the first time anyone has ever called me Madame Travert, and it’s starting to sink in that I’ve really gone through with it.
“You’re having second thoughts.”
Second thoughts, third, fourth—I’ve lost count. But Travert didn’t force me into this marriage, and it’s not fair to treat him like he did. “Just jitters.”
“It’s normal.” He pops the cork, then starts to pour. “We don’t know each other well, but a little mystery is good, no?”
Travert hands me a glass of champagne, and I’m reminded of Henri and the night he proposed. I’m even wearing the same dress, and it is bringing back painful memories . . .
Travert clinks his glass against mine. “Getting to know each other better gives us something to talk about.”
I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to be in this dress. And I definitely don’t want to remember. So I knock back the champagne, then reach behind me and yank the zipper. The gown falls to my feet in a heap, and then I’m standing in a strapless longline brassiere and panty girdle.
Youthful fumblings with Henri were always in the dark. I’d have been too nervous to get undressed with the lights—too worried he wouldn’t like my figure or the pale peach fuzz on my thighs. Happily, I don’t care much what Travert thinks.