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not right to speak of such things with her.
‘Why are you lighting the fire, Marie-Céleste?’ I asked instead, even though I knew already.
She looked up at me. There was a smudge of ash on her forehead, as if it were still Ash Wednesday. She always was a messy girl. ‘Visitors coming, Mademoiselle,’ she answered. ‘For your father.’
The wood was beginning to smoke, with flames licking here and there. Marie-Céleste grabbed onto a chair and hauled herself to her feet with a grunt. Her face looked fatter than before. In fact — I gazed at her body in growing horror. ‘Marie-Céleste, are you with child?’
The girl hung her head. It was strange — all those songs she had sung about maids getting caught, and she must never have thought it would happen to her. Of course every woman wants a child, but not like that, with no husband.
‘You silly thing!’ I scolded. ‘Who is he?’
Marie-Céleste waved her hand as if batting away the question.
‘Does he work here?’
She shook her head.
‘ Alors , will he marry you?’
Marie-Céleste scowled. ‘No.’
‘But what will you do?’
‘Don't know, Mademoiselle.’
‘Maman will be furious. Has she seen you?’
‘I keep away from her, Mademoiselle.’
‘She'll find out soon enough. You should wear a cloak at least to hide it.’
‘Maids don't wear cloaks, Mademoiselle — can't work in a cloak.’
‘You won't be able to work soon anyway, by the look of you. You'll have to go back to your family. Attends , you must tell Maman something. I know — tell her your mother's ill and you must tend to her. Then you can come back after the baby's born.’
‘Can't go to the mistress looking like this, Mademoiselle — she'll know straight away what's wrong.’
‘I'll tell her, then, when she comes back from Nanterre.’ I did feel sorry for Marie-Céleste and wanted to help her.
Marie-Célestebrightened. ‘Oh, thankyou, Mademoiselle. That is good of you!’
‘You'd best be off as soon as you can.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Thank you. I'll see you when I come back.’ She turned to go, then turned back again. ‘If it's a girl I'll name her after you.’
‘That would be nice. If it's a boy will you name it after the father?’
Marie-Céleste narrowed her eyes. ‘Never,’ she sneered. ‘He don't want nothing to do with it, so I don't want nothing to do with him!’
After she left I had a look around Papa's chamber. It is not a comfortable room. The oak chairs have no cushions on them, and they creak when you shift about. I think Papa has them made like that so no one will meet with him for long. I've noticed that Oncle Léon always stands when he comes to see Papa. The walls are lined with maps of his properties — the Château d'Arcy, our house on the rue du Four, the Le Viste family house in Lyons — as well as maps of disputes Papa is working on for the King. The books he owns are kept here in a locked case.
There are two tables in the room — one that Papa writes at, and a bigger one where he spreads maps and papers for meetings. Usually that table is bare, but today some large sheets of paper had been left there. I looked down at the top one and stepped back in surprise. It was a drawing, and it was of me. I was standing between a lion and a unicorn, holding a parakeet on my gloved finger. I was wearing a beautiful dress and necklace, with a simple headscarf that left my hair loose. I was glancing sideways at the unicorn and smiling as if I were thinking of a secret. The unicorn was handsome, plump and white and rearing up on his hind legs, with a long spiralling horn. He had turned his head from me, as if trying not to become spellbound by my beauty. He was wearing a little cloak with the Le Viste arms on it, and the wind seem to whip through the drawing, blowing out his cloak and the roaring lion's as well, and my headscarf and the Le Viste standard held by the lion.
I gazed at the drawing for a long time. I couldn't take my eyes from it or move it to see