Read Online The Emperor of Paris by C. S. Richardson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. S. Richardson
Tags: Historical
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the beginning God created the hevens heavens and the earth. the the The earth was wtout without form anb void, and the bark bar darkness was uq upon upon the face of the deeq pppp Beginning Beginning Beginning
His father’s son, Madame Notre-Dame said. She handed the paper to the priest.
And a good and pleasant boy, madame. Small for his age, keeps to himself, but clever in his own way. He does very well with his sums. Shows a true gift for numbers and dates. He constantly amazes the Sisters with his memory. Historical events, battles, conquests, the reigns of kings and queens, that sort of thing. It is all most remarkable, considering.
Considering, Father?
He will never learn like other children. The boy falls further behind every day. Numbers and rote have their place but they cannot stretch a brain sodisconnected. Art, literature, philosophy—none of these will be Octavio’s. He will never lead what they call a life of the mind.
Madame’s eyes spilled over.
My dear woman, the curé said, there is no need for tears. Keep your faith in the Lord. Like all our sins, the boy’s weakness is simply part of a greater plan.
Madame groped at her sleeves for a handkerchief. Father, when I met my husband I was content with what heaven had in store. My Emile’s stories were charming; they made me laugh, they made me fall in love. I did not care that he could not read. In fact I loved him all the more. He was not ashamed of—what did you call it—his weakness. How then could I be? He said the Notre-Dames were always too busy working to be reading books. So God gave me my proud Emile and I accepted him as he was. With all my heart. Is that not faithful enough?
One does not bargain with one’s duty to God, madame.
All I wanted in return, Father, was that the Lord bless me—bless Emile and I—with a child. It seemed so little to ask. To be given as you give. Are children not a gift from God? I knew the risks and I told Gabriel as much. I knew a child might inherit his father’s fate, as Emile had inherited his. And I have tried with everywaking moment since to be a good mother. But now for my selfishness my boy is to be punished. To have no mother at all and now to be sent away. You must not do this, Father. None of this is his sin, it is mine.
Madame, I am certain you are a fine mother and that you only want what is best for your son. Then trust us to do this for him. Octavio will do better to stay at home. When he comes of age he will take up your husband’s trade and no doubt do it proud. Be assured that Gabriel has heard you. He knows what you have done. It is up to us to see His plan through. We need only give Octavio a situation with, shall we say, less intellect. The boy will thrive; I promise you. And the Lord will be pleased.
A lesson, Immacolata, to the selfish
.
Walking home, Madame thought about the marble table in the cellar of the bakery. Emile’s worried face, the last searing contraction, the sound of her child’s first murmur. Then the darkness closing in as she tried to claw out of a hole only to slide deeper. The wet earth under her fingernails.
She felt her knees giving out, she worried she would collapse on the pavement. She saw herself lying by the curb, pedestrians huddled over her. Madame gripped her son’s hand, praying for that tiny pink fistshe had seen rising from the bowl to hold her up. She wondered if Gabriel was even listening, if he had ever heard a word.
Octavio dared not complain that his mother’s grip was hurting him or that he couldn’t keep up or that he might drop his satchel or that she was frightening him. As they approached the cake-slice, she suddenly let go of his hand and stopped in the middle of the street, her shoulders heaving. Octavio stammered that he was sorry—everything was going to be all right—the other boys weren’t going to tease him anymore—she wouldn’t have to walk him to school—please stop crying—I promise promise promise to be good.
He
His father’s son, Madame Notre-Dame said. She handed the paper to the priest.
And a good and pleasant boy, madame. Small for his age, keeps to himself, but clever in his own way. He does very well with his sums. Shows a true gift for numbers and dates. He constantly amazes the Sisters with his memory. Historical events, battles, conquests, the reigns of kings and queens, that sort of thing. It is all most remarkable, considering.
Considering, Father?
He will never learn like other children. The boy falls further behind every day. Numbers and rote have their place but they cannot stretch a brain sodisconnected. Art, literature, philosophy—none of these will be Octavio’s. He will never lead what they call a life of the mind.
Madame’s eyes spilled over.
My dear woman, the curé said, there is no need for tears. Keep your faith in the Lord. Like all our sins, the boy’s weakness is simply part of a greater plan.
Madame groped at her sleeves for a handkerchief. Father, when I met my husband I was content with what heaven had in store. My Emile’s stories were charming; they made me laugh, they made me fall in love. I did not care that he could not read. In fact I loved him all the more. He was not ashamed of—what did you call it—his weakness. How then could I be? He said the Notre-Dames were always too busy working to be reading books. So God gave me my proud Emile and I accepted him as he was. With all my heart. Is that not faithful enough?
One does not bargain with one’s duty to God, madame.
All I wanted in return, Father, was that the Lord bless me—bless Emile and I—with a child. It seemed so little to ask. To be given as you give. Are children not a gift from God? I knew the risks and I told Gabriel as much. I knew a child might inherit his father’s fate, as Emile had inherited his. And I have tried with everywaking moment since to be a good mother. But now for my selfishness my boy is to be punished. To have no mother at all and now to be sent away. You must not do this, Father. None of this is his sin, it is mine.
Madame, I am certain you are a fine mother and that you only want what is best for your son. Then trust us to do this for him. Octavio will do better to stay at home. When he comes of age he will take up your husband’s trade and no doubt do it proud. Be assured that Gabriel has heard you. He knows what you have done. It is up to us to see His plan through. We need only give Octavio a situation with, shall we say, less intellect. The boy will thrive; I promise you. And the Lord will be pleased.
A lesson, Immacolata, to the selfish
.
Walking home, Madame thought about the marble table in the cellar of the bakery. Emile’s worried face, the last searing contraction, the sound of her child’s first murmur. Then the darkness closing in as she tried to claw out of a hole only to slide deeper. The wet earth under her fingernails.
She felt her knees giving out, she worried she would collapse on the pavement. She saw herself lying by the curb, pedestrians huddled over her. Madame gripped her son’s hand, praying for that tiny pink fistshe had seen rising from the bowl to hold her up. She wondered if Gabriel was even listening, if he had ever heard a word.
Octavio dared not complain that his mother’s grip was hurting him or that he couldn’t keep up or that he might drop his satchel or that she was frightening him. As they approached the cake-slice, she suddenly let go of his hand and stopped in the middle of the street, her shoulders heaving. Octavio stammered that he was sorry—everything was going to be all right—the other boys weren’t going to tease him anymore—she wouldn’t have to walk him to school—please stop crying—I promise promise promise to be good.
He
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