Трейси Шевалье - The Virgin Blue

The man did something Isabelle never would have expected from such a man in such a place: he laughed.

– You are very brave, ma pauvre , he said to Marie, but a little foolish. I would like you to be my daughter.

Isabelle clutched Marie's hand and the man laughed again.

– But why would I want a girl? he chuckled. What use are they?

He jerked his head at the others and extinguished the torch. All of them disappeared into the woods.

They waited for a long time; no one returned. Finally Etienne clicked his tongue and the horse continued, more slowly than before.

In the morning Isabelle found the first strand of red in Marie's hair. She pulled it out and burned it.

Iran back to the office, clutching a postcard of the Tournier painting. Rick was sitting on a high stool at his drawing board, a Tensor lamp picking out his cheekbones and the arrow of his jaw. Though he was staring at the sketch in front of him, his mind had clearly moved beyond the paper. He often sat for hours, visualizing in detail what he had just designed: fixtures, electrical systems, plumbing, windows, ventilation. He imagined the whole thing and held it in his head, walking through it, sitting in it, living in it, combing through it for faults.

I watched him, then stuffed the postcard in my bag and sat down, my elation ebbing. Suddenly I didn't want to share my discovery with him.

But I should tell him, I argued with myself. I will tell him.

Rick looked up from the board and smiled. ‘Hey there,’ he said.

‘Hey yourself. Everything OK? Structure sound?’

‘Structure sound so far. And good news.’ He waved a fax. ‘A German firm wants me to present to them in a week or two. If it comes off we'll get a huge contract. This office will be busy for years.’

‘Really? What a star you are!’ I smiled and let him talk on about it for a few minutes.

‘Listen, Rick,’ I began when he had finished, ‘I found something at a museum nearby. Look.’ I pulled out the card and handed it to him. He held it under the spotlight.

‘That's the blue you were telling me about, right?’

‘Yes.’ I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around his neck. He stiffened momentarily; I checked to make sure none of the psoriasis was touching his skin.

‘Guess who it's by?’ I rested my chin on his shoulder.

He started to turn the card over but I stopped him. ‘Guess.’

Rick chuckled. ‘C'mon, babe, you know I don't know anything about painting.’ He studied it. ‘One of those Italian Renaissance painters, I guess.’

‘Nope. He's French.’

‘Oh, well, one of your ancestors, then.’

‘Rick!’ I punched him on the arm. ‘You looked!’

‘No, I didn't! I was just joking.’ He turned the card over. ‘This really is one of your relatives?’

‘Yeah. Something makes me think so.’

‘That's great!’

‘It is, isn't it?’ I grinned at him. Rick slid an arm around my waist and kissed me while reaching around to unzip my dress. He had peeled it down to my waist before I realized he was serious. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I gasped. ‘Let's wait till we get home!’

He laughed and grabbed a stapler. ‘What, you don't like my stapler? How about my straight-edge?’ He twisted the Tensor spot so the light bounced off the ceiling. ‘My mood lighting doesn't turn you on?’

I kissed him and zipped up my dress. ‘It's not that. I just think we should – maybe this isn't a good time to talk about it, but I've been thinking I'm not so sure about the baby thing. Maybe we should wait a little longer before we try.’

He looked surprised. ‘But we made a decision.’ Rick liked to stick to decisions.

‘Yeah, but it's been more traumatic than I'd expected.’

‘Traumatic?’

‘Maybe that's too strong a word.’ Wait a minute, Ella, I thought, it has been traumatic. Why are you trying to shelter him from this?

Rick was waiting for me to say something else. When I didn't he sighed. ‘OK, Ella, if you feel that way.’ He began to gather up his drawing pens. ‘I don't want you going through with it unless you're sure.’

We drove home in a funny mood, both of us excited for different reasons, both chastened by my bad timing. We had just passed the square in Lisle when Rick stopped the car. ‘Hang on a second,’ he said. He jumped out and disappeared round the corner. When he returned a minute later he tossed something into my lap. I began to laugh. ‘You didn't,’ I said.

‘I did.’ He smiled mischievously. We'd often joked about the forlorn condom machine on one of the main streets and the kinds of emergencies that would make anyone use it.

That night we made love and slept soundly.

The day Jean-Paul returned from Paris I was so distracted at my French lesson that Madame Sentier began to tease me.

‘ Vous êtes dans la lune ,’ she taught me. In turn I taught her, ‘The light's on but nobody's home.’ It took some explaining, but once she got it she laughed and went on about my drôle American humour.

‘I never know what you will say next,’ she said. ‘But at least your accent is improving.’

Finally she dismissed me, assigning extra homework to make up for the wasted lesson.

I hurried to catch the train back to Lisle. When I got to the square and looked across at the hôtel de ville , though, I was suddenly reluctant to see him, like the feeling you get when throwing a party and an hour before the guests arrive you want to back out of it. I made myself walk across the square, enter the building, climb the stairs, open the door.

Several people were waiting for help from the two librarians. They both looked up, and Jean-Paul nodded politely. I sat down at a desk, disconcerted. I hadn't expected to have to wait, to tell him with so many people around. I began working on Madame Sentier's assignment halfheartedly.

After fifteen minutes the library cleared a little and Jean-Paul came over. ‘May I help you, Madame?’ he asked quietly in English, leaning over, one hand on my desk. I'd never been so close to him and as I looked up, caught the particular smell of him, of sun on skin, and stared at his jaw line peppered with stubble, I thought, Oh no. No, not this. This is not what I came here for. A quivery panic rose in my stomach.

I shook myself and whispered, ‘Yes, Jean-Paul, I have -’ A slight movement of his head stopped me. ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ I corrected myself. ‘I have something to show you.’ I gave him the postcard. He glanced at it, turned it over and nodded. ‘Ah, the Musée des Augustins. You saw the Romanesque sculpture, yes?’

‘No, no, look at the name! The name of the painter!’

He read aloud in a low voice, ‘Nicolas Tournier, 1590 to 1639.’ He looked at me and smiled.

‘Look at the blue,’ I whispered, touching the card. ‘It's that blue. And you know the dream I told you about? I figured out even before I saw this that I was dreaming of a dress. A blue dress. That blue.’

‘Ah, the blue of the Renaissance. You know there is lapis lazuli in this blue. It was so expensive they could only use it for important things like the Virgin's robe.’

Always a lecture ready.

‘Don't you see? He's my ancestor!’

Jean-Paul glanced around, shifted on the desk, looked at the card again.

‘Why do you think this painter is your ancestor?’

‘Because of the name, obviously, and the dates, but mostly because of the blue. It matches perfectly with the dream. Not just the colour itself, but the feeling around it. That look on her face.’

‘You did not see this painting before you had the dream?’

‘No.’

‘But your family was in Switzerland by that time. This Tournier is French, yes?’