Although her husband continued working odd jobs and earning little, the three of them were very happy together. Béatrice used some of her family connections to help establish a small school for teaching young pupils how to play the harpsichord, but when her parents found out about it, they ensured that business dried up completely. Realizing that earning money on her own would be futile, she stayed home and tried to economize wherever possible. Four months ago, her husband had begun complaining of pains in his stomach. At first they assumed it was just indigestion, but as the pain wore on and grew worse, they summoned a doctor, using the last of their savings. He assessed at once that Alexandre was suffering from a serious case of gall stones and required surgery to remove them. Terrified not only of a potentially barbaric surgical procedure, but his ability to pay for it, Béatrice’s husband insisted he would recover on his own. He died in bed a month later, delirious.
After a pauper’s burial, Béatrice solicited her husband’s family for help. Most of them felt she should return to her own wealthy family, and were reluctant to help her. Those who would help would only do so for a short time, and made it quickly apparent that they were not interested in sponsoring a poor wretch and her daughter. At one desperate point, she even went back to her parents’ home, but when her mother opened the door her eyes narrowed into little points, and she slammed the door loudly in her only daughter’s face. The glimpse she got of little Marguerite was her first meeting with her granddaughter. Defeated, Béatrice returned to her lodgings with her brother-in-law, and then yesterday received the not-too-subtle hint on her bed.
Claudette told Béatrice of her family’s doll shop in Paris, now just a hull of debris. Béatrice expressed surprise that dollmaking was a profitable enterprise, assuming, as many people did, that dolls were typically crude, homemade items hastily thrown together by servants for their children.
Claudette’s grief tumbled out as she explained how her father’s business had evolved from his humble beginnings as a carpenter’s apprentice to his uncle, to a highly respected dollmaker who had customers among members of the nobility. She had shared her father’s love for wood and wax, and in time became his apprentice and heir, since her parents had no other children. Her papa had always told her that she herself would be a formidable dollmaker one day. Claudette’s voice cracked as she thought about her father’s dreams for herself and the doll shop, now just a rain-soaked heap of ashes.
With her heart sunk into the deepest recesses of her chest, Claudette also shared her love for Jean-Philippe with her new friend, and held out the chain that still firmly possessed her betrothal ring.
In May 1779, a month after Claudette turned fourteen, she and Jean-Philippe met again after not seeing each other for nearly twelve weeks during the winter. Claudette was startled by how broad Jean-Philippe’s shoulders had become. She could even see slight stubble where perhaps he had started shaving. His coltish gait even had a bit of swagger to it. What, she wondered, did he think of her?
They strolled together as they always had, hand in hand as they started their trip back to the Renaud home. Jean-Philippe reached down and pulled a clump of wild irises for Claudette. Instead of directly depositing them into her hand as usual, he pulled one out of the bunch and playfully batted her across the nose with it.
“Jean-Philippe, stop!” she protested, laughing.
“Do you remember, Claudette, when we saw the Dauphine out at St. Denis?”
“Of course. We were little children. You nearly got me into unspeakable trouble. Fortunately we met the new Dauphine, which distracted my parents from our reckless behavior. I also remember”—she scrunched her nose at him—“that you referred to me as a baby!”
“What I remember most about that day was the matted mass of posies you were holding. Not a single stem with a decent flower on it left by the time you offered it to the Dauphine. And most of it stayed behind in your hand.”
“I was very young.”
“You were very pretty. You are still…still…”
“I am still what, Jean-Philippe?”
The two teenagers had by this time turned down an alleyway behind a cluster of shops. It was quieter here, and their discussion became more serious. Jean-Philippe stopped Claudette under a stone arch that divided two sets of buildings.
He trailed a bloom along her jawline, the other stems now shoved into his pocket. His face was a breath away from hers. His dark eyes stared intently into her blue ones. “You are still…no…you have become…very beautiful, Claudette. You remind me of the sweet white dove we once saved.” He dropped the flower, and pushed a tendril of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. He kept his face close to hers.
Why did she feel like she could not breathe? Her heart was pounding inexplicably. Was this what Mama meant when she said that the world seemed to stop when she was falling in love with Papa? Am I in love? she wondered.
Jean-Philippe brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “Claudette, I am almost a man now. My apprenticeship will end in a few years, and then I will be free. You are my best friend in all the world, and I would have you for my wife when that day comes.”
Claudette was paralyzed, torn between joy and the uncertainty of what would come next. Mama had not explained much about being in love, beyond the fact that the stars in the sky would cease movement in order to shine down heavenly approval on lovers. Claudette remained silent.
“Claudette, do you hear me? I love you.” Jean-Philippe gently kissed her ear, then her cheek, and briefly pressed his lips to hers. For all of his mature talk, he was as inexperienced as she. He was also unsure what came next.
A prostitute and her customer came laughing down the alleyway, the customer clearly drunk, the prostitute pretending to be. She laughed uproariously at something slurred and unintelligible the customer said. He had his arm around her shoulder, trying to reach her breast, at the same time applying sloppy kisses to the side of her face. The prostitute was supporting the customer and keeping him from falling. As they neared the teenage couple, the customer made an offhand comment about the young boy also being in the market for a good time. The prostitute’s ringing laughter and teasing remonstrations diverted the man’s attention back to her.
Jean-Philippe hid Claudette’s head against his shoulder until they had passed. He tilted her face back up to him and said, “Claudette, you have my heart. I will forever cherish and adore you.”
He brought his lips back down to hers, this time more inquiringly. Claudette responded by putting her arms around his neck.
Mama had forgotten to tell her that not only did the earth stop moving, the sun and moon directed their rays down only on those in love.
But had both celestial orbs completely abandoned her?
As Claudette concluded, Béatrice reached her hand across the table and gripped Claudette’s in silent sympathy. Claudette noticed a peculiar reddening of her new friend’s face. It engulfed her entire forehead and cheeks, cheeks which seemed to have their own emotions as they pulsated nervously under the redness.
“Oh, Claudette, tu es ma meilleure amie. I have no one else in the world now but you and Marguerite. Let us promise to stay together once we reach England. If we do not, what shall I do? I’m just a poor widow with a child and no resources.”
Attracted to the