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

once again at this, and I might have joined in had I not been so shocked—the idea of marrying Dr. Castanier, whose nostrils sprouted hairs, was indeed laughable. But I was quiet. All of this was beyond my understanding.
    “The thing is,” she began again, “he plans to move. To Carcassonne. He has an offer there for a position that will earn a higher salary. And what will I do then, so far away from you and Claude and maman and papa ?” She began to cry again, and this time, I put my arm around her shoulders and held her, for I knew her grief was sincere, and I saw that it would be mine as well.
    M. Marcel came that night and spoke to Father while the rest of us—excepting Bérenger, who was out—waited outside. Claude whittled while Mother, Michelle, and I sat in anxious silence on the bench by the front door. When Father came to call us back in, he laughed. “You look like you’re in line for the guillotine! This is a happy occasion!” he bellowed. “Let’s have some smiles, some joy!”
    Inside, M. Marcel sat at the dining table looking as nervous as we were. His hat was off, revealing the thinning hair at his crown. His face was kind and pleasant, though his chin was small and receded too quickly into his neck. When we entered, he stood and bowed his head solemnly, then made his way around the table to pull out Michelle’s chair. He made quite a show of it, and had we been in a different state of mind, we would surely have teased him, for he appeared so painfully earnest. But we simply took our seats. Then my father formally announced that M. Marcel had offered to take Michelle’s hand in marriage, and that he approved of the match. “You don’t know each other well yet, this is true. But this is what an engagement is for. You find out you don’t like each other, you call it off. It’s practical.”
    M. Marcel nodded seriously, his brow creased in strenuous agreement.
    “ Maman and I had only met once when I proposed. And look at us—how happy we’ve been. Eh, my piglet?” (This was my father’s pet name for my mother, whose nose turned up just slightly.) They clasped hands across the table and regarded each other so amorously that I had to look away.
    He turned to Michelle, his eyes wet with affection, and, leaning forward, said, “ Chérie, it is for you to decide.”
    I thought Michelle would surely burst into tears at this, for she had always been sentimental when it came to my father, whom she regarded as her savior. But she kept her wits and, turning to M. Marcel, she bowed her head and said, “I accept.”
    A few minutes later, Bérenger returned, and as he removed his hat, Claude shouted out, “Michelle’s getting married!”
    Bérenger took in the scene—all of us at the table, Michelle smiling demurely, M. Marcel sitting anxiously upright—and strode over to kiss both of them on the cheeks. “Congratulations!” he roared. “What wonderful news! Let’s drink to your health, shall we?”
    Mother got the wine and Father poured us each a full glass. Standing, he held his aloft. We all followed suit. “To Michelle and Joseph. May they live long and bear me many grandchildren.”
    “ Papa! ” Michelle scolded. Father laughed. M. Marcel sipped from his glass, his cheeks already rosy, his eyes shiny with glee.
    “Marie will be next!” Claude teased.
    “Yes, ma chérie, ” Father added. “Who will come calling for you?”
    I stared into my wine, avoiding Bérenger’s eyes.
    “Gérard, I’ll bet,” said Claude. “He lost one sister, why not try the next?”
    “Shut up,” I said.
    “Leave the poor girl alone,” my mother said. “You’re not too far behind anyway, Claude,” she added. “A working man, you are.”
    “I’ll never get married. Who needs a wife? She’ll only take my money.”
    “Oh, now,” my mother said.
    As they bantered, I stole a glance at Bérenger. To my surprise, I found him watching me with a startling intensity, as if he were trying to discern