“Ten years of freedom,” I say.
“And thirty-four precious years of marriage, during which you have charmed, blessed, and honored my life.”
He is worried. He wants for me to rest and get well. He barks at anyone who disturbs me. When next I wake, I am certain that I must be in childbed, for Gilbert is giving me spoonfuls of warmed wine and getting ready to light the candle for our Christmas Eve tradition. Christmas Eve, I think. Our son’s birthday. “I’ve finally given you a boy,” I say, wanting to hold our baby in my arms.
Then I realize Georges is a grown man now . . .
And that I am dying.
I say as much to Lafayette, who will not hear of it.
But Christmas Eve is a good day to die. I don’t fear it; I know a heavenly reunion awaits. Today I will see Maman, Louise, Grand-mère . . .
I spent nearly four years traversing France, often on foot, to reclaim our inheritances, settle debts, and negotiate for friends and loved ones to be removed from the list of banished émigrés. All the while, I searched for the remains of my family. And with the help of Pauline and Rosalie, I finally found where their guillotined bodies had been dumped during the Revolution. Men, women, children, priests, nuns, nobles, and peasants . . .
There, on the spot, my sisters and I founded Picpus Cemetery, where they might be venerated perpetually. And I—who contributed to the circumstances that led to their deaths—wish to reside eternally by their side.
I am not in pain as my life ebbs away, and I tell my husband so. I despair only to be parted from my loved ones. I am enough a heretic that even heaven will not console me for leaving Gilbert. I sense he has more yet to do for the cause of mankind in this world, but I want desperately for us to be together again in the next.
“You’re not a Christian, are you?” I ask it softly, and seeing he is tempted to lie, I am ashamed, for freedom of religious scruple is sacred. “Ah, but I know what you are. You are a Fayettist!”
He puffs in mock indignation, wiping tears. “You must think me quite vain.” Then, for my sake, a glint of the old mischief enters his countenance. “But are you not something of a Fayettist yourself, my dear?”
“Oh, indeed, sir,” I say. “With all my soul, that is a sect for which I would gladly die.”
These words break him, and he pleads with me, repressing sobs. “Say no more of death. Stay with me. Think only of how much I love you. That you are fused into my life such that I cannot distinguish you from my own existence.”
Then I will live on, with him here, even after I die. There is no part of me I withhold from him anymore. No old grudge or pain, no wish or hope to have lived any other life. For ours, together, was glorious. “And I am all yours,” I whisper, finding the last of my strength to raise my arms, draw his head to mine, and press him against my heart, where between us, I feel a single pulse.
EPILOGUE
MARTHE
New York City
March 1945
My first plane ride.
My first trip to America.
My first semester at Parsons School of Design, courtesy of an art scholarship awarded on the basis of my wartime portfolio—not only sketches, but sculptures combining styles and eras.
My first days in New York are spent dodging taxicabs and getting neck strain from staring up at skyscrapers like a rube. Having lived my whole life in rural France, the noise, the lights, and the hustle of New York streets make it hard to think.
Madame Beatrice says that might be part of the charm . . .
She lured me here with both the art scholarship and an ulterior motive. Now, leaning on her cane in the entryway of a stylish Manhattan shop, she says, “Darling, when going to war, one should begin with a new hat!”
She has me try on a black satin pillbox with dotted veil, but when I choose a beret, she pats my cheek with an age-spotted hand and says, “How French, darling. Very fitting. I do believe the committee will hang on your every word.”
She’s now vice chairperson of the National Citizens Committee in Aid of the United Nations War Crimes Commission. She’s pressuring President Franklin Delano Roosevelt to maintain serious cooperation with the Allied war crimes commission in bringing Nazi war criminals to justice.
Eleanor’s husband is sympathetic, she explained. But like all presidents, he needs to be prodded!
She always calls the president Eleanor’s husband and rattles off the first names of congressmen and ambassadors who are personal friends. As she does so, I’m all nerves. I’m having second thoughts about appearing before her committee, and I tell her so.