“The large bequest to La Maternite. Of course, how stupid of me,” the madam said.
They paid the bill and left, thanking the maitre d’hotel for the wonderful service.
When they arrived at La Maternite, Serafina asked to speak with Dr. Tarnier on a matter of some urgency and was disappointed. He was in Lyon for a conference, the receptionist told her. When she asked to speak with his assistant, the woman shook her head. “I’m afraid he is away as well. He returns Monday.”
Serafina thanked her and walked toward the door.
“Giving up like that?” Rosa asked.
“You’re right.”
They walked back to the desk. “I was a student here many years ago. Madame Charrier was the chief midwife.” The young woman nodded and said she’d heard the name. “May I speak with whoever is in charge?”
Serafina and Rosa were ushered into a parlor with a view of the cloisters and gardens. The grounds looked the same to Serafina, large, old, quiet, boring, and imposing. A group of students passed by, huddled together, and a young woman sat on a bench in the gardens, her head buried in a book. Serafina remembered her school days here, the ordeal of early morning classes in the cold when a thin coating of ice floated on top of the pitcher in her room. But the French led the world in compassionate and innovative birthing techniques and Serafina learned most of her midwifery skills during the six months she’d spent here.
In a while a woman dressed in fine black wool with a stiff collar and apron entered the room. She was introduced to Rosa and Serafina as the chef de la Maternite. She listened patiently while Serafina told her that their friend was missing, perhaps wrongly assumed dead, probably with child and in need of help.
“We are trying to locate Elena Loffredo. I’d like to know if she was a patient of Dr. Tarnier. His name appears in her address book. As her physician, perhaps he would know where she is.”
The woman made no response but smiled. Her blue eyes held only compassion and intellect. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“Your face, your eyes, the richness of your hair, yes, I remember you now. Don’t tell me…Charlotte… that’s it, Charlotte Clemence. You were a star and I was a foreign student, but you helped me with the language.”
“Now I go by the name Charlotte Clemence-Calle. Despite the language difficulties, you were quick to catch on.”
“And very appreciative of the skills I was taught by Madame Charrier. Such a learned woman. Small, but every bone in her body was alive and focused on helping mothers birth their babies. You were so kind to me.”
There was a pause.
“I know you can’t tell me why my friend saw Dr. Tarnier, but if you could please tell me if she is one of his patients, I’d be grateful.”
Charlotte Clemence-Calle rang a bell. “You’re correct, I can’t tell you. Privileged information. But I’ll ask a student to get his appointment book.”
While they waited, they reminisced about their time as students, the early morning hour of the lessons, the live demonstrations which Serafina found so helpful, the professional compassion of the school and hospital.
“And the fire-a terrible time,” Charlotte said. “They never discovered who caused it, but a student studying by candlelight was suspected. She was reprimanded and left in disgrace.”
Serafina started in her seat. “I remember. But she didn’t cause the fire.”
Should she say something now? What good would it do, so long after the event? She shut her eyes and recalled the flames in the middle of the night, the screams, running feet, the choking, the retching, the pushing as girls and teachers rushed to safety. The stench of smoldering wet wood was all that remained of the wing in the morning. Contained in an unused part of the building, the fire was extinguished before there were any deaths, but it was an event Serafina never forgot. She took a few deep breaths. At the time she suspected one of the custodians. She could see him behind her closed lids-horrid how his pig eyes haunted her still-the wine-colored flush of his bloated face, the rotten smell of his breath as he stood leering before her on the edge of memory. She’d gone to Madame Charrier’s office to tell her what she suspected. About to knock, she hesitated. She lost her nerve.
The realization still shamed her. That night she wrote to her parents begging them to let her leave. And they had, but the horror of the fire remained, the sudden twist of fate, an unexpected, uncontrollable force rushing in and lashing out, leaving only destruction in its wake. And worse, her weakness in not speaking her mind, in letting an innocent be reprimanded. It was a sin against the truth that remained to torture her. She would never be silent again.
When she re-focused, Charlotte Clemence-Calle was paging through a leather-bound book, no doubt skimming Dr. Tarnier’s appointments.
“She saw him at the end of March, again on April 9, and most recently on April 16.”
Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances. “The time of the appointment on April 16?”
“Two in the afternoon.”
“You’re certain of the date?”
“Of course.”
“And would Dr. Tarnier be willing to share this information with representatives of the Surete?”
“I don’t see why not.”
She hugged Madame Clemence-Calle and told her what a help she’d been. “And the custodian, a round man with dark, stringy hair, a wine-colored face and rotten teeth, he’s the one I suspected of starting the fire.”
Charlotte Clemence-Calle widened her eyes. “Our suspect, too. I cannot forget him. He insisted he was fast asleep when the blaze broke out. We couldn’t prove otherwise.”
Serafina shook her head. “I saw him standing in the garden, watching the fire, his eyes lit by the lantern he held in his hand, and the look on his face, I’ll never forget it.”
The teacher nodded slowly, then gave Serafina a Gallic shrug. “Too late now. One day soon after the Siege, the custodian disappeared. We heard he’d joined the Communards and was executed after the city was freed.”
“Proves nothing,” Rosa said on the way back to the hotel.
“Elena had an appointment with Tarnier on April 9 and April 16 in the afternoon, hours after she died and it proves nothing?”
Rosa smiled. “Very well, it proves you were right. I need a sweet.”
“After the meal you had at the brasserie?”
Chapter 21: Vefour
The maitre d’hotel met them in the lobby, a sparkling room with gilded walls, decoupage panels, and rock crystal chandeliers suspended from a high ceiling. Serafina heard the ring of crystal glasses, the muffled sounds of china on linen, the hiss of candles, and the distant clop of horses’ hooves on the narrow Rue de Beaujolais.
They were dressed in their finest garments. Serafina wore a gown recently reworked by Giulia to accommodate Serafina’s shoulder. Her fingers grazed the long strand of her mother’s pearls worn only on special occasions. Not used to such attire, she found her movements constricted, or maybe it was that Gesuzza had pulled her corset a little too tightly.
Madame Valois, a beautiful woman, wore her blonde locks in an elaborate coiffure. She chose an ultramarine gown for the occasion cut in the latest fashion with a scooped neck. When Francoise removed her cape, Serafina could see that the dress was daringly low-cut in the back. Like Serafina, she wore pearls, but in a collier.
The young people were huddled around Carmela, who had begun a conversation with them about the buildings of Paris and Haussmann’s renovations.
After introductions were made, they were taken to their cabinet with a magnificent view of the Jardin du Palais Royal.
Serafina saw Rosa whispering to the maitre d’hotel. The madam stopped when she saw Serafina staring at her. No matter, her friend was up to some trick or other, probably ordering elaborate desserts.
She was mesmerized by the style of the restaurant and the waiters passing with high-domed dishes.