The Priest's Madonna by Amy Hassinger Read Free Book Online

Cathars, and who, in the book, were more often referred to as heretics and blasphemers, liars, sodomites, savage beasts, loathsome reptiles, and angels of Satan’s light. What had prompted these vicious epithets, I could not tell.
    I knew, though, as I tried to extract some meaning from the words, that I was right to hide the book, for it was obvious that neither my mother nor M. le curé would have allowed me to read it. It sent a frisson through me each time I opened it, and I half-expected the pages to writhe with snakes. At first I wondered if Michelle was right, if Mme Laporte was a witch, but I couldn’t reconcile the idea with her kindness and her gentle demeanor.
    That book and my decision to read it marked a divergence in the path that, until that summer, Michelle and I had been walking together. I had not yet considered that Michelle and I would lead different lives. We had always talked of our futures as if they were one and the same: we was the pronoun we used, rarely I. In our afternoons on the hillside, we talked of traveling—to Paris, perhaps, as I had suggested one day, fresh from some small disagreement with my mother. “We’ll work as chambermaids,” I said. “Lots of girls do. You can make good money. Enough to be able to buy what we need and to go to the cabarets at night.”
    “Cabarets!” She laughed.
    Other days, we spoke of moving back to Espéraza together, finding two brothers to marry. “They’ll be handsome and rich. And we’ll all live together in the same house,” I planned.
    “And have babies at the same time.”
    “We’ll push their prams through the marketplace, side by side.”
    Michelle laced her arm around my waist, leaned her head on my shoulder. “We’ll be together, always.”
    That same summer, Gérard Verdié began to take an interest in Michelle. Gérard was very handsome—tall and muscular, dark curls, ruddy cheeks, and an extravagant smile. He lived in the village and worked in his father’s vineyard just outside of town. He began to walk by our door on his way home from the fields. If we happened to be outside, he would stop to chat, and though he never had very much to say—he would inevitably remark on the weather, or on how well the eggplants seemed to be growing—Michelle smiled warmly and returned his remarks with statements that made it seem as though he’d made the most astute of observations.
    Michelle began to insist on feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs at just the time when Gérard was due to pass by on his way home. Her trips to the chicken coop grew longer and longer, until on one occasion she had not returned for half an hour. This time, Mother noticed, and asked me to go find her, as the table needed to be laid.
    Michelle was not at the chicken coop, nor in the garden. I called her name softly, not wanting to draw attention to her absence, but got no response. The chickens clucked and bunched at my feet; they had not been fed. I saw to that, then ducked into the coop, gathering the eggs in my skirt, all the while wondering where Michelle was and what I was going to tell Mother. As I turned toward the house, I noticed the cellar door was ajar. I nudged it open with my foot. “Michelle?” I ventured, then descended the dark staircase.
    There was a sudden animal motion and a very male grunt. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a horrified Michelle, her hands pressed to her bare breasts, her hair slipping from its pins. Behind her, Gérard struggled to extricate his torso from the potato bin. I clapped my hands (which had been holding the edges of my skirt) to my mouth, causing the eggs to break in dull wet sounds against the dirt floor. Then I fled up the stairs, my heart pounding, blood rushing to my face, and, without thinking, ran into the house, shutting the door behind me. Mother stood at the kitchen threshold, a dripping spoon in her hand.
    “What happened?” she said.
    I stared at her, unable to think what to say.