Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

They waited until the wolf turned and trotted away, leaping over the low wall, disappearing into the next field. Then Hannah moved forward again. Isabelle began to follow, then stopped and looked round, staring at the soldier and shivering. Finally she turned and approached him warily. She barely looked at him; instead she crouched next to his sword and studied it intently. Hannah waited for her, arms crossed, head bowed.

Isabelle rose abruptly.

– No blood, she said.

When they reached the woods Isabelle began calling quietly for the children. In the distance she could hear the riderless horse tearing through the trees. Presumably it reached the edge of the forest, for the sound stopped.

The children did not appear.

– They must have gone ahead, Isabelle murmured. There was no blood on the sword. Please let them have gone ahead. They have gone ahead, she repeated more loudly for Hannah's benefit.

When there was no reply she added: – Eh, Mémé? You think they have gone ahead?

Hannah only shrugged.

They began the trek across the fields to Isabelle's father's farm, listening for the soldiers, the children, the horse, anyone. They met nothing.

It was dark by the time they stumbled into the farmyard. The house was black and bolted shut, but when Isabelle knocked softly on the door and whispered, Papa, c'est moi , they were let in. The children were sitting in the dark with their grandfather. Marie jumped up and ran to her mother, pressing her face into Isabelle's side.

Henri du Moulin nodded briefly to Hannah, who looked away. He turned to Isabelle.

– Where are they?

Isabelle shook her head.

– I don't know. I think – She looked at the children and stopped.

– We will wait, her father said grimly.

– Yes.

They waited for hours, the children falling asleep one by one, the adults seated stiffly round the table in the dark. Hannah closed her eyes but sat very straight, hands clasped on the table before her. At every sound she opened her eyes and jerked her head towards the door.

Isabelle and her father were silent. She gazed around her sadly. Even in the dark it was clear the house was falling apart. When Henri du Moulin learned his twin sons were dead, he stopped keeping up the farm: fields lay fallow, roofs leaked, goats wandered away, mice nested in the grain. It was dirty and dank inside, damp even in the heat and dryness of the harvest season.

Isabelle listened to the mice rustling in the dark.

– You need a cat, she whispered.

– I had one, her father replied. It left. Nothing remains here.

Just before dawn they heard a movement in the yard, the muffled sound of a horse. Jacob sat up quickly.

– It's our horse, he said.

At first they didn't recognize Etienne. The figure swaying in the doorway had no hair left except for a few patches of singed black stubble on his scalp. His fair eyebrows and lashes were gone, making his eyes seem to float anchorless in his face. His clothes were burnt and he was dusted all over with soot.

They stood frozen except for Petit Jean, who took the figure's hand with both of his.

– Come, Papa, he said, and led Etienne to a bench at the table.

Etienne gestured behind him.

– The horse, he whispered as he sat. The horse stood patiently in the yard, hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle them. Mane and tail had been burnt off; otherwise it appeared unharmed.

When Etienne's hair grew back, a few months later and many miles away, it was grey. His eyebrows and lashes never reappeared.

Etienne and his mother sat at Henri du Moulin's table in a daze, unable to think or act. All day Isabelle and her father tried to talk to them, without success. Hannah would say nothing, and Etienne simply stated, I'm thirsty, or I'm tired, and closed his eyes.

Finally Isabelle roused them by crying in desperation: -We must leave here soon. The soldiers will be looking for us still, and eventually someone will tell them to look here.

She knew the villagers: they were loyal. Offered enough, though, or threatened enough, they would give away a secret, even to a Catholic.

– Where do we go? Etienne asked.

– You could hide in the woods until it's safe to return, Henri du Moulin suggested.

– We cannot return there, Isabelle replied. The crops are ruined, the house is gone. Without the Duc we have no protection from the Catholics. They will continue to search for us. And – she hesitated, careful to convince them with their own words – without the house, it is no longer safe.

And I do not want to return to that misery, she added silently. Etienne and his mother looked at each other.

– We could go to Alès, Isabelle continued. To join Susanne and Bertrand.

– No, Etienne said firmly. They made their choice. They left this family.

– But they – Isabelle stopped, not wanting to ruin with argument what little influence she now had. She had a sudden vision of Susanne's belly sliced open by the soldier in the field and knew they had made the right decision.

– The road to Alès will be dangerous, her father said. It could happen there, what has happened here.

The children had been listening silently. Now Marie spoke.

– Maman, where can we be safe? she demanded. Tell God we want to be safe.

Isabelle nodded.

– Calvin, she announced. We could go to Calvin. To Geneva, where it is safe. Where the Truth is free.

They waited till nightfall, hot and restless. Isabelle had the children clean the house while she baked as much bread as she could in the chimney shelf. She and her sister and mother had used that shelf daily; now she had to brush off mouse droppings and cobwebs. The hearth looked unused and she wondered what her father ate.

Henri du Moulin refused to go with them, though his connection to the Tourniers made him a target.

– This is my farm, he said roughly. No Catholic will drive me from it.

He insisted they take his cart, the only valuable possession he had left besides his plough. He brushed it out, repaired one of the wheels, set the plank in its place across the box to sit on. When darkness came he pulled it into the yard and loaded it with an axe, three blankets, two sacks.

– Chestnuts and potatoes, he explained to Isabelle.

– Potatoes?

– For the horse and for you.

Hannah overheard him and stiffened. Petit Jean, leading the horse from the barn, laughed.

– People don't eat potatoes, Grandpapa! Only poor beggars.

Isabelle's father tightened his hands into fists.

– You will be thankful enough to have them to eat, monpetit . All men are poor in the eyes of God.

When they were ready, Isabelle looked at her father closely, trying to take in every part of his face to keep in her mind always.

– Be careful, Papa, she whispered. The soldiers may come.

– I will fight for the Truth, he replied. I am not afraid. He looked at her and with a brief upward flick of his chin added: – Courage , Isabelle.

She tightened the corners of her mouth into a smile that kept back the tears, then put her hands on his shoulders and, standing on tiptoe, kissed him three times.

– Bah, you have picked up the Tournier kiss, he muttered.

– Hush, Papa. I am a Tournier now.

– But your name is still du Moulin. Don't forget that.

– No. She paused. Remember me.

Marie, who never cried, cried for an hour after they left him standing in the road.

The horse could not pull all of them. Hannah and Marie sat in the cart while the rest walked behind, with Etienne or Petit Jean leading the horse. Occasionally one of them got in to rest and the horse went on more slowly.

They took the road over Mont Lozère, the moon bright, lighting their way but making them conspicuous. Whenever they heard a strange noise they pulled off the road. They reached the Col de Finiels at the summit and hid the cart while Etienne took the horse and went in search of the shepherds. They would know the route towards Geneva.