Read Online The Blood of Lorraine by Barbara Pope - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Pope
Tags: Fiction, Historical
Ads: Link
everything that happened on Wednesday afternoon and Thursday morning. Speak slowly so that Monsieur Charpentier can get it all down in the official record.” And, Martin thought, please tell the truth. All of it. Now.
Geneviève Philipon opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Please begin,” Martin said, as he clasped his hands together across his stomach and pursed his lips, making it evident that he was utterly comfortable in what was, after all, his command, and could wait her out, no matter how long it took.
The wet nurse swallowed hard before reciting a story that did not differ one iota from the account in Jacquette’s report. She had rehearsed it well. Despite his show of ease, tension rippled at the back of Martin’s neck and down his spine as she talked. She was lying. Yet from everything he had seen, Martin sensed she was incapable of making up such an elaborate story all by herself. He had to find out who had put her up to it.
The fingers in his clasped hands were gripping together so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. But his hands were below the wet nurse’s vision. All Martin hoped she saw was his stern, impassive stare. When she finally began to squirm, he pounced. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth, I swear it.” She tried to sit up straight, as if putting her rectitude on display.
Martin had seen it all before, the obvious fabrications, followed by righteous denial. But this poor woman, who for so many years had been bent over with work and cares, made only the most pitiful attempt at stubborn defiance. His body relaxed. He had her. “You must know that if you are caught lying to a judge, he can imprison you and sentence you to hard labor. For years.”
Her mouth trembled. “I…I…I….”
“Did you make up this lie? Or did someone else put you up to this? Pierre Thomas, for example?” This was Martin’s first opportunity to get at a motive behind the anti-Jewish slander.
“No, not him!” she blurted out, then covered her mouth. She had answered too quickly.
“Then was it Antoinette Thomas?” Martin shouted. He meant to frighten Geneviève Philipon, and he succeeded.
“No…Yes.” She began gasping for air again. “Maybe the two of us.”
“Why?” Martin was still shouting.
“Because,” the woman cringed, “because she was afraid to tell Pierre about what happened. She thought he would blame it on her. She wanted it to seem like he was murdered.”
“Marc-Antoine? Then he wasn’t murdered by a stranger? Is that what you are saying?” Martin lurched toward her with mock surprise.
She nodded and huddled down into the chair, as if she feared he was going to strike her.
“Then, if you have been lying, we must start all over again. With that afternoon. You must tell me everything you know about why Marc-Antoine died and why he was mutilated. Telling the truth now is the only chance you have to not go to prison for a very long time.” Martin sat back and gave himself leave to scratch the beard under his high collar. He was itching from the anxious sweating that a crucial interrogation always brought on. They were almost there.
Geneviève Philipon stared into space for a long moment, then, speaking as if she were in a trance, gave a very different account of little Marc-Antoine’s death. She had often left him in the charge of her two older daughters while she worked in the field. That afternoon, she heard cries for help. When she ran to the cottage, the seven-month-old was already blue and stiffening. Her older girls were hysterical. Their little sister was wailing in the corner. Apparently the baby had crawled over to the hearth while no one was watching and stuck a stone or piece of ash in his mouth. After ordering her children to wait inside the cottage until her return, she took the boy’s body up into the attic loft and left it where neither her cow nor pig could get at it. Then she ran to the factory to find Antoinette Thomas.
Geneviève Philipon opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Please begin,” Martin said, as he clasped his hands together across his stomach and pursed his lips, making it evident that he was utterly comfortable in what was, after all, his command, and could wait her out, no matter how long it took.
The wet nurse swallowed hard before reciting a story that did not differ one iota from the account in Jacquette’s report. She had rehearsed it well. Despite his show of ease, tension rippled at the back of Martin’s neck and down his spine as she talked. She was lying. Yet from everything he had seen, Martin sensed she was incapable of making up such an elaborate story all by herself. He had to find out who had put her up to it.
The fingers in his clasped hands were gripping together so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. But his hands were below the wet nurse’s vision. All Martin hoped she saw was his stern, impassive stare. When she finally began to squirm, he pounced. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth, I swear it.” She tried to sit up straight, as if putting her rectitude on display.
Martin had seen it all before, the obvious fabrications, followed by righteous denial. But this poor woman, who for so many years had been bent over with work and cares, made only the most pitiful attempt at stubborn defiance. His body relaxed. He had her. “You must know that if you are caught lying to a judge, he can imprison you and sentence you to hard labor. For years.”
Her mouth trembled. “I…I…I….”
“Did you make up this lie? Or did someone else put you up to this? Pierre Thomas, for example?” This was Martin’s first opportunity to get at a motive behind the anti-Jewish slander.
“No, not him!” she blurted out, then covered her mouth. She had answered too quickly.
“Then was it Antoinette Thomas?” Martin shouted. He meant to frighten Geneviève Philipon, and he succeeded.
“No…Yes.” She began gasping for air again. “Maybe the two of us.”
“Why?” Martin was still shouting.
“Because,” the woman cringed, “because she was afraid to tell Pierre about what happened. She thought he would blame it on her. She wanted it to seem like he was murdered.”
“Marc-Antoine? Then he wasn’t murdered by a stranger? Is that what you are saying?” Martin lurched toward her with mock surprise.
She nodded and huddled down into the chair, as if she feared he was going to strike her.
“Then, if you have been lying, we must start all over again. With that afternoon. You must tell me everything you know about why Marc-Antoine died and why he was mutilated. Telling the truth now is the only chance you have to not go to prison for a very long time.” Martin sat back and gave himself leave to scratch the beard under his high collar. He was itching from the anxious sweating that a crucial interrogation always brought on. They were almost there.
Geneviève Philipon stared into space for a long moment, then, speaking as if she were in a trance, gave a very different account of little Marc-Antoine’s death. She had often left him in the charge of her two older daughters while she worked in the field. That afternoon, she heard cries for help. When she ran to the cottage, the seven-month-old was already blue and stiffening. Her older girls were hysterical. Their little sister was wailing in the corner. Apparently the baby had crawled over to the hearth while no one was watching and stuck a stone or piece of ash in his mouth. After ordering her children to wait inside the cottage until her return, she took the boy’s body up into the attic loft and left it where neither her cow nor pig could get at it. Then she ran to the factory to find Antoinette Thomas.
Similar Books
