The Reinvention of Love

It seems only a moment ago that I first saw Léopoldine, that I touched her face. But my body is sore from being curled up. My face is wet from crying.
    I allow myself to be led from the room.
    “How are you able to be so strong?” I ask Madame Vacquerie as she guides me back through the drawing room.
    “I have had three days to grow accustomed to my grief,” she says. “And I’m not strong at all. But I know how you are feeling right now. I know exactly.”
    “Thank you.” It seems an entirely inadequate thing to be saying, but I say it again anyway. “Thank you.”
    We eat downstairs in the kitchen. We are served by the cook and sit at the servants’ table in the middle of the kitchen, beside each other as though we were children.
    I am unbelievably hungry. I eat the food the moment it hits my plate, although after I’ve eaten it, I can’t even remember what it was I was served.
    “Where is everyone?” It suddenly strikes me that we are alone, that Madame Vacquerie’s husband and her other children are nowhere to be seen.
    “I sent them all away,” she says. “Just for tonight. They will be back tomorrow for the burial, and we will have a reception afterwards. But for tonight I thought it would be easier for you if you could be alone with me, and if we could be alone with our children.”
    “I would like to see Charles,” I say.
    “Yes.”
    The cook comes over with a slab of cake and cream. She places it carefully in front of me. “I’m sorry, Madame Hugo,” she says. “I’m truly sorry.”
    Her kindness sets me crying again. I drench the cake with my tears, then I gulp it down.
    Charles is dressed only in a long white shirt. His skin is as pale as Léopoldine’s. His fair curly hair is as soft as a baby’s.
    “Are they pale from being under water?” I ask Madame Vacquerie. We are standing on opposite sides of the dining-room table where her son lies.
    “I think so. And the water has made their flesh a little swollen.” She gestures towards Charles’s feet and I see that they are puffy. They look soft. I cannot see the bones in them.
    “He is so beautiful,” I say.
    “My most beautiful child.” Madame Vacquerie’s voice catches.
    “I had a child before Léopoldine,” I say. “A boy. He died in infancy. We had called him Léopold, after Victor’s father. It seemed natural to call the next child after that first one, but I wonder if it was right to name my daughter after a child who died.”
    Madame Vacquerie is stroking her son’s hair. “We couldn’t have done anything to prevent this,” she says. “Even on the day it happened, I waved them off. They were only going for a sail. The weather was fair. The wind was low. Charles was a good sailor, and they were with his cousin, Arthus, and his Uncle Pierre who was a retired sea-captain and excellent on the water.”
    “They died as well?”
    “Yes, they all died.”
    “What happened?”
    “My husband thinks the boat was top-heavy with sails. It was a racing boat, had just won first prize in the Honfleur regatta. It was a fast boat. But the conditions were ideal. I don’t know. The river is very wide there and those on shore couldn’t get to them fast enough after the boat capsized. Your daughter’s heavy skirts pulled her down into the water and caused her to drown.”
    I am quiet for a moment as I imagine Léopoldine struggling in a tangle of wet petticoats. Dresses do up so snugly at the back. It would have been impossible to wriggle out of one under water.
    It is too painful to think of the moment of my daughter’s death. Every time my mind goes there, I move it forwards or backwards and away from the event itself.
    “Léopoldine would have felt very confident, going out on the water with such good sailors.”
    “Yes. She was looking forward to the afternoon.”
    Madame Vacquerie puts her hand on her son’s forehead.
    “Charles didn’t die,” she says.
    “What?”
    “He didn’t drown. He surfaced. The rescue boat was close enough to see this. He was always a good swimmer. We live so close to the water that we made sure all our children could swim. People saw him surface, look around for his wife and call her name, and when he realized she was probably dead, he dived down to find her. He was found with his arms around her. They pulled them both from the water in a fisherman’s net. He chose to drown with her rather than to live without her.”
    Charles’s face is empty of feeling. He looks more serene,