The Virgin Blue (18 page)

Abruptly Pascale left Isabelle's side and disappeared behind the church. How can Gaspard not see that something is wrong with his daughter? Isabelle thought as Gaspard continued to talk and laugh.

After a moment she went to find her. Pascale had been sick and was leaning against the wall, wiping her mouth shakily. Isabelle noted her paleness and pinched eyes and nodded to herself. Three months along, she said to herself. And she has no husband.

— Isabelle, you were a midwife, yes? Pascale said at last. Isabelle shook her head.

— My mother taught me, but Etienne – his family would not let me continue when we married.

— But you know about – about babies, and —

— Yes.

— What if – what if the baby vanishes, do you know about that too?

— You mean if God wills the baby to disappear?

— I – yes, that is what I mean. If God wills it.

— Yes, I know about that.

— Is there something – a special prayer? Isabelle thought for a moment.

— Meet me in two days at the gorge and we will pray together.

Pascale hesitated.

— It was in Lyons, she blurted out. When we tried to leave. They had drunk so much. Papa doesn't know about —

— And he won't know.

Isabelle went deep into the woods to find the juniper and rue. When Pascale met her two days later, among the rocks at the top of the gorge, Isabelle gave her a paste to eat, then knelt on the ground with her and prayed to Saint Margaret until the ground was red with blood.

That was the first secret of her new life.

Their first Christmas in Moutier Isabelle discovered that the Virgin had been waiting for her.

There were two churches. Followers of Calvin had taken over the Catholic church of Saint Pierre, burned the images of the saints and reversed the altar. The canons had fled, closing the abbey that had been there for hundreds of years, witness of many miracles. The chapel attached to the abbey, l'Eglise de Chalières, was now used for the parish of Perrefitte, the tiny hamlet next to Moutier. Four times a year, on the festival days, the Moutier villagers attended morning services at Saint Pierre and afternoon services at Chalières.

That first Christmas, dressed in black clothes lent to them by Pascale and Gaspard, the Tourniers pushed into the tiny chapel. It was so crowded that Isabelle stood on her toes to try to see the minister. She soon gave up and looked above him at the murals in green and red and yellow and brown covering the choir walls, of Christ holding the Book of Life on the curved ceiling, the twelve Apostles in panels below him. She had not seen decoration in a church since the coloured glass and the statue of the Virgin and Child of her childhood.

On her toes again to look at the figures painted at eye level, she stifled a gasp. To the minister's right was a faint image of the Virgin, staring sadly into the distance. Though Isabelle's eyes filled with tears, she kept her expression dull. She watched the minister, now and then her glance darting to the mural.

The Virgin looked at her and smiled for a moment before resuming her mournful expression. No one saw but Isabelle.

That was the second secret.

After that she always hurried to Chalières on festival days to stand as near to the Virgin as possible.

Spring sun brought the third secret. Overnight the snow melted, forming waterfalls that plummeted from the surrounding mountains and flooded the river. The sun reappeared, the sky turned blue, grass sprang up. They could leave the door and windows open, the children and the smoke escaping outside, Etienne stretching in the sun like a cat and smiling briefly at Isabelle. His grey hair made him look old.

Isabelle welcomed the sun, but it also made her vigilant. Every day she took Marie to the woods and inspected her hair, pulling out any red strands. Marie stood patiently and never cried out at each spark of pain. She asked her mother to let her keep the hair, hiding the growing ball in a hole in a nearby tree.

One day Marie ran to Isabelle and buried her head in her lap.

— My hair is gone, she whispered through tears, even then understanding that she should say nothing to the others. Isabelle glanced at Etienne, Hannah and the boys. Except for Hannah's sour expression, nothing in their faces suggested suspicion.

She was helping Marie search the tree again when she looked up and saw a bird's nest glinting in the sun.

— There! she pointed. Marie laughed and began to clap her hands.

— Take it! she cried to the birds, holding her hair up by the ends and letting it drop in a slow cascade. Take it, it's yours! Now I will always know where it is.

She spun in a circle and fell to the ground laughing.

The high-pitched whistle rose and fell before ending in a bird-like trill. It was heard all the way along the valley. After a time the rattles and jingles and creaks of a cart could be heard, bouncing off the rocks high above to reach them in the fields they were planting with flax. Etienne sent Jacob to find out what was coming. When he returned he took Isabelle's hand and led her, the rest of the family following, along the path to the edge of the village. There the cart had stopped, surrounded by a crowd.

The pedlar was short and dark, with a beard and a long moustache curled into elabourate whorls, and a red and yellow striped cap shaped like an upside-down bucket pulled over his ears. He perched high above them on a cart heaped with goods, swinging and climbing over it with the assuredness of a man who knows every toehold and hand-grip. As he climbed he talked non-stop over his shoulder in a strange singing accent that made Isabelle smile and Etienne stare.

— Oranges! Oranges! I show you oranges, olives, lemons from Sevilla! Here is your beautiful copper pot. And here your leather bag. And here your buckles. You want buckles on those shoes, fair lady? Yes, you do! And I give you buttons to match! And your thread, and your lace here, yes, your finest lace. Come, come! Come look, come touch, don't be afraid.
Ah, Jacques La Barbe, bonjour encore!
Your brother says he comes from Geneva soon, but your sister he says stays near Lyons. Why she does not join you here in this lovely place? Never mind. And Abraham Rougemont, there is a horse for you ready in Bienne. A good buy, I saw it with these my eyes. You give that pretty daughter of yours a ride around the village. And
Monsieur le régent
, I meet your son —

On and on he talked, passing on messages while selling his goods. People laughed and teased him; he was a familiar and welcome sight, arriving every year after the worst of the winter and again during the harvest festival.

In the middle of the excitement he leaned over to Isabelle.

—
Che bella
, I have not seen you before! he cried. You come and look at my things? He patted the rolls of cloth next to him. Come look!

Isabelle smiled shyly and bowed her head; Etienne frowned. They had nothing to trade with, less than nothing, for they owed favours to everyone in Moutier. On their arrival they had been given two goats, a small sack each of flax and hemp seeds, blankets, clothes. There was no need to pay anyone back, but they were expected to be as generous when the next refugees arrived with nothing. They stood for a long time watching the purchases, admiring the lace, the new harness, the white linen smocks.

Isabelle heard the pedlar mention Alès.

— He might know, she whispered to Etienne.

— Don't ask, he hissed.

He doesn't want to know, she thought. But I do.

She waited until Etienne and Hannah had left, and Petit Jean and Marie had tired of running round and round the cart and had gone off to the river, before she approached him.

— Please, Monsieur, she whispered.

— Ah,
Bella
, you want to look! Come, come! She shook her head.

— No, I want to ask – you have been to Alès?

— At Christmas, yes. Why, you have a message for me?

— My sister-in-law and her husband are there – might be there. Susanne Tournier and Bertrand Bouleaux. They have a daughter, Deborah, and maybe a baby, if God wills.

For the first time the pedlar was quiet, thinking. He seemed to be searching through all the faces and names he had seen and heard in his travels and stored in his memory.

— No, he said at last, I have not seen them. But I look for them for you. In Alès. And your name?

— Isabelle. Isabelle du Moulin. And my husband, Etienne Tournier.

— Isabella,
che bella
. A perfect name I will not forget! He smiled at her. And for you I show you the perfect thing I have, the special thing. He lowered his voice.
Très cher
–I do not show this to most people.

He led Isabelle round his cart and began to dig among bundles of cloth until he pulled out a bale of white linen. Jacob appeared at Isabelle's side and the pedlar motioned to him.

— Come, come, you like to look at things! I see your eyes looking. Now look at this.

He stood over them and shook out the white cloth. Out fell the fourth secret, the colour Isabelle had thought she would never see again. She cried out, then reached over and rubbed the cloth between her fingers. It was a soft wool, dyed very deep. She bowed her head and touched the cloth to her cheek.

The pedlar nodded.

— You know this blue, he said with satisfaction. I knew you know this blue. The blue of the Virgin of Saint Zaccaria.

— Where is that? Isabelle smoothed the cloth.

— Ah, a beautiful church in Venezia. There is a story to this blue, you know. The weaver who made this cloth modelled it after the robe of the Virgin who is in a painting in Saint Zaccaria. This was so to thank her for the miracle.

— What miracle? Jacob stared at the pedlar with wide brown eyes.

— The weaver had a little daughter he loved, and one day she disappeared, as children often do in Venezia. They fall into the canals, you see, and they drown. The pedlar crossed himself.

— So the little daughter did not come home and the weaver, he went to Saint Zaccaria to pray for her soul. He prayed to the Virgin for hours. And when he goes home he finds his daughter there, all alive! And in thanks he makes this cloth, this special blue, you see, for his daughter to wear and live safely forever in the Virgin's care. Others have tried to copy it but no one can. There is a secret in the dye, you see, and only his son knows now. A family secret.

Isabelle stared at the cloth, then looked up at the pedlar, tears in her eyes.

— I have nothing, she said.

— For you, then,
Bella
, I give you a little something. A gift of blue.

He bent over the cloth and from a frayed end pulled off a piece of thread the length of her finger. With a deep bow he presented it to her.

Isabelle often thought about the blue cloth. She had no way of buying it; even if she did Etienne and Hannah would not allow it in the house.

— Catholic cloth! Hannah would mutter if she could speak.

She hid the thread in the hem of her dress and brought it out only when she was alone or with Jacob, who used words sparingly and would say nothing about the bit of colour they shared.

Then one of their goats had a hidden kid and Isabelle had one last secret to keep.

The goat had given birth to two kids, licked them clean, nursed them, slept with them pushed against her swollen udder. When Isabelle left the fields to check on her she noticed the red membrane of another head pushing out. She pulled out the tiny body, saw that it was alive and set it in front of the goat to clean. As the new kid fed Isabelle sat and watched it and thought. Her secrets were making her bold.