As the guard rattled the key ring, my heart pounded. Brace yourself for whatever you find, I told myself. My husband might have lost his senses. It might be true, as the rumors went, that in a fit of insanity he had scratched out his eyes. I dared not imagine the torments he had suffered in this terrible place.
The door creaked open and a noxious smell wafted out as my daughters and I peered into the darkened cell, our eyes racing over the chains upon the wall, a little wood bench, and there—a scarecrow of a man curled upon a mattress of dirty straw.
“Gilbert!” I cried, hurrying to him. The pale lifeless figure turned and blinked in confusion. I nearly sobbed in relief that he did have eyes—those beautiful hazel eyes, in which I had lost myself as a girl and found myself as a woman. Though, were it not for those eyes, I should scarcely have recognized him. He had grown a mustache and bushy beard. No spark of life animated his expression. He did not speak or move. He only stared until I feared his tongue was cut out or his mind gone. Surely he must know me. I held my breath, fearful. Perhaps no one could withstand such abuse for so many years and remain the same . . .
Then his parched lips cracked open and he rasped, “My dear heart.”
“Yes, yes, I am here.”
“I am dead then, or we both are?”
I took his withered hand. “No, we are here together, reunited in life.”
It was only my tears splashing upon his cheeks that seemed to convince him. With some effort, he pushed himself upright on spindly arms. Mon Dieu. What had they done to those strong arms that had been so often my pleasure and solace? Half-starved, his clothes hanging upon him, he was in a frightful state. He glanced from me, to his weeping daughters, and to me again. Had no one told him we were coming?
“Villains!” He gave a ragged shout, like a man readying for battle. “Who is responsible for imprisoning my family?”
“I am responsible,” I said, reassuring my general, who was still ready to fight injustice even when he could barely stand.
Praise God, he was not broken.
“Oh, Papa!” Virginie threw herself into his arms, and he winced at the impact but pulled Anastasie to him too, and a moment later we were all in one sobbing embrace.
When our tears were finally spent, the girls and I set straightaway to cleaning. We asked for a broom, a bucket of water, and washrags—only to be refused. The noxious smell came from some manner of sewage ditch just under the barred window. Gilbert told us, with a hint of pride, the reason for all the locks and chains and his solitary confinement in this dreadful part of the dungeon was that he had attempted an escape—and might have got away too, if he had been willing, or strong enough, to kill the guardsman with whom he had wrestled. He had somehow got upon a horse and galloped away before being captured in a village not far hence.
Now he was not trusted outside for more than a few moments. Beyond this small boast, he avoided my gaze, explaining that the people who had tried to help him escape were now in prison too—a thing that weighed heavily on his conscience, as did the fate of the people on the plantations that had been seized.
I reassured him that our son was in America, which pleased him, but not once did Gilbert ask after our loved ones. It was only after our daughters were taken to their adjoining cell for the night that he dared to look at me. “Adrienne, people have risked so much for me. Some have smuggled news. I learned of the atrocities against the king and queen; I have heard . . . of the terror . . . the bloodletting, which left me in fear you were dead.”
He broke off here with such a shudder that I feared to tell him how near I had come. He took my hands, kissing each finger in worship. “It seems a miracle to find you and my children unharmed, but I do not know the names of the victims, and I tremble to ask . . .”
I will not dwell upon the way he shattered when I named loved ones, all sacrificed to the guillotine. I will not dwell upon it because it shattered me too. Let it suffice to say that we were both cut by the shards of guilt and grief in the recitations of those names, in the vows to find their remains. In the violent emotion of our reunion, we knew these wounds would never heal. That we were, now, for each other, the only salve.
And freedom, our one remaining hope.
FIFTY-FIVE
MARTHE
Le Puy
December 24, 1943
A frosty morning wind sweeps over the statue of Lafayette, around which ropes are tied like nooses. Despite the cold, a small crowd gathers in the square to watch—with clenched teeth—as the Germans unbolt the statue from its pedestal. They’re pulling Lafayette down to melt for ammunition.