“It was only a performance to amuse the queen,” I said in my husband’s defense. “The king’s own brothers took part.”
They too had stood upon tavern stools to parody stodgy old nobles. Yet it was Gilbert who had unexpectedly stolen the show with his impersonation of a mean-spirited judge, skewering the judicial system in France that sent peasants to be tortured, broken, or burned alive.
The queen had been as surprised as she was delighted by his audacity, for she thought the performance to be a clever mockery of the Paris Parlement which, in royal opinion, got above themselves. Yet when the word got out, the judges understood my husband to be criticizing the system itself, and now my father ranted, “I cannot rouse my son-in-law to impress important men at court who matter. No, when I need Lafayette to speak, his tongue is tied. Yet he makes a spectacle of himself to amuse the Austrian wench—”
“Jean,” my mother said sharply, daring to interrupt. “Gilbert is trying.”
How grateful I was that Maman took up for my husband. “Father, you have always said there can be no more important opinion than the king’s, and when the king heard about this, he laughed.”
This my father could not deny. Instead he strode away, and having never got the better of my father in an argument before, I felt the need to make amends. Thereafter, I encouraged my husband to join the sleighing parties, to play billiards in the royal chambers, to drink with the king’s courtiers—but to stay silent on matters of politics.
On Christmas Eve, Lafayette had to be carried back to the house by servants. “Tell the vicomte de Noailles how much I drank!” he shouted, then promptly vomited in a washbasin. I knew then how desperate he was to be accepted. Almost as desperate as I was for my father’s approval.
Riddled with guilt, I wiped his brow with a cool cloth. And like a dying man yearning for home, Lafayette groaned, “I want to go to Chavaniac.”
“I imagine it’s dreadfully cold there this time of year,” I said.
“Yes, but it’s the best time. We slaughter a pig, and on Christmas Eve the family gathers round a loaf of brioche on a pretty table—”
“Only one loaf?” How poor even the nobles of Auvergne must be!
“It’s our custom. The brioche is more candleholder than bread. From oldest to youngest, everyone takes a turn lighting the candle, making the sign of the cross, then snuffing it out.”
I couldn’t imagine it. Such a ceremony would last days at court. “Why snuff it out?”
Drifting to a drunken sleep, Lafayette closed his eyes. “Because the world always snuffs out fire, and every generation must bring light from darkness again.”
SIX
MARTHE
Chavaniac-Lafayette
December 24, 1940
“It’s your turn, Marthe,” the baroness says with an impatient glance at her watch. Hovering over her daughter’s chair, she’s eager to move our Christmas Eve along. We’ve already fed the children, tucked them in bed, and taken midnight mass at the village church.
Now, with hymns playing on the radio, it’s finally time for the staff to eat our modest wartime réveillon of rutabagas, mashed Jerusalem artichoke, and green lentils with ham. But first, the annual ritual in the gilded salon under the watchful eyes of philosophers’ busts.
The candle is melted down by the time it comes to my hands. For many years, I was the youngest at the orphanage, so it came to me last, and I sometimes needed Henri’s help to keep from spilling hot wax on the brioche. The memory of his boyhood hand steadying mine makes my stomach knot, and I want to pray for him, ask God to keep him warm in his POW camp. But when I cross myself with the candle, I find only comfort in the ritual, not faith. Then I hand the candle to Anna, who crosses herself with what seems like true reverence.
This year our loaf is made with potato flour and filled with chestnut cream, because the Nazis are taking our food. Of course, everyone knows you can’t make a good brioche without butter, sugar, eggs, milk, or flour, so the baron calls it Système D Cake as he cuts the abomination into slices. “Système D?” Anna asks, smoothing a napkin over the green satin dress she wore to midnight mass.
“Système débrouiller,” the baron replies. A system of improvisation.
“Système démerder,” I whisper, and Anna covers a laugh at my slang for improvising our way out of shit.
The cake is terrible, but we eat every crumb, because it’s a bleak winter, bitter cold. Too cold even, on Christmas Day, for sledding or treks on snowshoes. The children are still sleeping in their clothes, because it’s impossible to keep the castle and its outbuildings heated; the water pipes are frozen, so bathing the little ones is an ordeal. We’re all wearing coats and mittens all day inside. And we’re veritable shut-ins.