Victor, doesn’t she? The lovely hair, and the cheekbones already so prominent. Striking on such a young child.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, watching as she studied the picture. “I’m glad you were able to meet her, too. And that she was polite. Sadly, the only thing Lucie inherited from me are my dark eyes. Pity, considering Victor’s.”
“Oh, she’ll survive,” said Marcelle, fluttering her lashes over her own hazel ones.
“That picture was taken last year,” I said. “She was photographed by Henri Cartier-Bresson, a good friend of Victor’s mother, when we were on a trip to Marseille. He had just returned from the Ivory Coast and was recuperating from something or other. But he was good company. He’s quite in demand in Paris now. The photo was a present from Victor’s mother to Lucie for her seventh birthday, not long before we left for Indochine. It should really be in her room, but I’m very fond of it.”
“I see why,” Marcelle said. “And looks change. Perhaps she will look more like you in her next portrait.”
“Perhaps,” I said, leaning back on the bed, the strange memories of the morning receding. Marcelle was light and witty, two things that Victor wasn’t particularly. He was thoughtful and smart, which I appreciated, but I needed a counterbalance every now and then.
“Do you and Victor plan to have more children?” Marcelle asked brightly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, feeling a flash of panic, as I always did when asked that question. “Perhaps. But we are happy just with Lucie at the moment.”
“But you said you’re thirty-one, didn’t you? Is there much time left?” she asked, turning toward me.
“I hope so,” I said, my rote answer.
“Was it difficult for you to have your daughter?” Marcelle pursued, turning around to put the picture back. “Is that why you only have one?”
“No, with Lucie, we had no problem conceiving,” I said. Marcelle turned back around and looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to go on. I didn’t.
“That’s good to hear,” she said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve heard some terrifying stories of giving birth. And then after birth, when the doctors and nurses are gone—I’ve been told that can be even worse.”
“After birth?” I said, my stomach lurching.
Marcelle nodded and came to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her hands, her thin arms rigid behind her, as if we were two young girls gossiping in boarding school.
“My mother had problems after the birth of her first child, my oldest sister,” she said. “She explained to me when I married Arnaud that things can be difficult once a baby is born. How a woman can lose a bit of herself, start to feel more sadness than usual. In the worst instances, a mother’s sanity can completely go. There was a horrible story last summer that was even printed in the newspapers here. A woman in Lyon killed her two-week-old baby, strangled her when she wouldn’t stop crying. Infanticide, they called it. Do you remember that?”
I shook my head no. “Did it happen to your mother? Some sort of difficulty like that?” I asked, my voice too soft, overcompensating for the level of panic I suddenly felt. This was a very different feeling from the emotion of the morning.
“Not to that extreme, but she did feel an overwhelming sadness,” Marcelle said breezily. “That’s what she called it. But it happened only with her first child, my sister Alice, and only for a month or so. Of course, she had four more of us after Alice, poor lamb, so that probably affected her sanity permanently. But you just have the one, and she seems quite manageable, so no wonder you’re doing fine.”
“Yes, thankfully,” I said, trying my best to smile. “I am the oldest of eight, so I am in no hurry to have a large family.”
“I can imagine,” said Marcelle, looking at me and smiling sweetly.
I moved my thumb to my index finger, but my ring wasn’t on. I reached up and touched my ears. My earrings had been taken out, too. Trieu must have removed everything while I was asleep. I glanced quickly at my nightstand and saw that she had placed all the jewelry there on a little porcelain tray. I grabbed the ring and put it on my finger, feeling Marcelle’s eyes on me.
“I don’t like to take it off,” I said, putting the small earrings on, too. “I will have to explain that to Trieu. My servant.”