“I love you too, Marie-Ange,” he said, wishing she could stay in Iowa forever. But it wouldn't have been fair to her, and he knew that. She had a chance for so much more now.
He stood and waved at the plane until it was a speck in the sky, and then she was gone. And he drove slowly back to the farm in his new red car, crying for all that she had been to him, and never would be.
Chapter 7
The plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle at four A.M., and with her single bag, it only took Marie-Ange a few minutes to go through customs. And it felt strange suddenly to hear people speaking French everywhere, and it made her smile as she thought of Billy and how well he had learned it.
She took a cab to a small hotel one of the stewardesses had recommended to her. It was on the Left Bank, and it was safe and clean, and after she had washed her face, and unpacked her bag, it was time for breakfast. She decided to walk around outside and found a little café where she ordered croissants and coffee. And just for the sheer joy of it, she made herself a canard in the cup of steaming café au lait, and thought of Robert. It brought back so many memories, she could hardly bear it. Afterward, she walked for hours, looking at people, enjoying the scene, relishing the feeling of being in France again. She didn't go back to her hotel for hours, and when she did, she was exhausted.
She had dinner in a little bistro, and cried in her bed in the hotel that night, for her brother and her parents, and the years she had lost, and then she cried for the friend she had left in Iowa. But in spite of her sadness, she loved being in Paris. She went to the Sorbonne the next day, and took some brochures with her about the classes they offered. And the following morning, she rented a car, and made her way to Marmouton. It took her all day to get there. And she could feel her heart pound, as she drove slowly through the village, and on a whim, she stopped at the bakery she had loved as a child, and stared in disbelief when she saw the same old woman behind the counter. She had been a close friend of Sophie's.
Marie-Ange spoke to her cautiously, and explained who she was, and the old woman began to cry the moment she recognized her.
“My God, you are so beautiful, and so grown-up! Sophie would have been so proud of you,” she said as she embraced her.
“What happened to her?” Marie-Ange asked as the woman handed her a brioche across the counter.
“She died last year,” the woman at the bakery said sadly.
“I wrote to her so often, and she never answered. Was she ill for a long time?” Perhaps she'd had a stroke, Marie-Ange thought, as soon as she'd left her. It was the only possible explanation for her silence.
“No, she went to live with her daughter when you left, and she came to visit me every few years. We always talked about you. She said she wrote to you nearly a hundred times the first year, and all her letters came back unopened. She gave up after that, she thought maybe she had the wrong address, but your father's lawyer told her it was the right one. Perhaps someone didn't want you to see her letters.” Marie-Ange felt her words like a blow to her heart, as she realized that Aunt Carole must have returned Sophie's letters to her, and thrown Marie-Ange's letters away, to sever her ties with her past. It was just the kind of thing Carole would do. It was yet another act of cruelty, but so needless and so unkind, and now Sophie was gone forever. She felt her loss now as though it had just happened. “I'm sorry,” the woman added, seeing the young girl's face, and the pain etched on it.
“Who lives at the chateau now?” Marie-Ange asked quietly. It was not easy coming back here, it was full of bittersweet memories for her, and she knew it would break her heart when she saw the chateau again, but she felt she had to, to pay homage to the past, to touch a part of her family again, as though if she returned, she would find them, but of course she knew she wouldn't.
“A count owns it. The Comte de Beauchamp. He lives in Paris, and no one ever sees him. He rarely comes here. But you can take a look if you want. The gates are always open. He has a caretaker, perhaps you remember him. Madame Fournier's grandson.” Marie-Ange remembered him well from the farm at Marmouton, he was only a few years older than she was, and they had played together once in a while as children. He had helped her climb a tree once, and Sophie had scolded them both and forced them to come down. She wondered if he remembered it as clearly as she did.
She thanked the woman at the bakery and left, promising to return, and she drove slowly the rest of the way to the chateau, and when she reached it, she found, as the woman had said, that the gates were open, which surprised her, particularly if the owner was more often than not absent.
Marie-Ange parked her rented car outside the grounds, and walked slowly through the gates, as though she were reentering Paradise and was afraid that someone would stop her. But no one came, there was no sound, no sign of life. And Alain Fournier was nowhere in sight. The chateau looked abandoned. The shutters were closed, the grounds were somewhat overgrown, there was a sad look to the place now, and she could see that part of the roof was in disrepair. And beyond the house, she saw the familiar fields and trees, woods and orchards. It was precisely as she had remembered. It was as though, just seeing it, she was a child again, and Sophie would come looking for her at any moment. Her brother would still be there, and her parents would come home from their activities in time for dinner. And as she stood very still, she could hear birds, and wished that she could climb a tree again. The air was cool, and the place, even in its disrepair, was more beautiful than ever. For a moment, she wished that Billy could see it. It was exactly as she had described it to him.
She walked out into the fields, with her head bowed, thinking of the family she'd lost, the years she'd been away, the life she had loved so much and that had ended so abruptly. And now she was back, and it belonged to someone else. It made her heart ache to know that. She sat on a rock in the fields, reliving a thousand tender memories, and then as night fell slowly in the cool October air, she began to walk back slowly toward the courtyard. She had just passed the kitchen door, when a sports car pulled in at full speed, and stopped near her. The man behind the wheel looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then smiled at her and got out. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and green eyes, and he looked very aristocratic. She wondered instantly if he was the Comte de Beauchamp.
“Are you lost? Do you need help?” he asked pleasantly, and she noticed the gold crest ring on his finger, indicating that he was noble.
“No, I'm sorry. I'm trespassing,” she said, thinking of how her great-aunt had fired her shotgun the first time Billy came to visit. But this man's manners were a great deal better than her Aunt Carole's.
“It's a pretty place, isn't it?” he said with a smile. “I wish I spent more time here.”
“It's beautiful,” she said with a sad smile, as another car came through the gate and stopped near them, and as a young man got out, she saw that it was his caretaker, Alain Fournier. “Alain?” she said, before she could stop herself. He was short and powerful and had the same pleasant face he had had as a child when they played together. And he recognized her immediately, although her hair was long and no longer in curls, but it was the same golden color it always had been. And although she had grown up, she hadn't changed much.
“Marie-Ange?” he said with a look of amazement.
“Are you friends?” the count said with a look of amusement.