But then she had spoken and revealed the true reason why she had cast him aside, and Hector realized with horror that this perfect love he’d built in his heart was ugly and grim. Had he known Valérie was difficult? Yes. Had they fought before? Yes. He had, nevertheless, failed to understand her cruelty.
It was his fault alone. Other men were happy enough, living with their feet firmly planted on the ground. Hector had wanted more. He wanted the thrill of passion, the feelings people sang about in operas. Theatrics, but then hadn’t he made a career for himself on a stage?
The glass Hector was holding in his hands caught the rays of the sun, sparkling. He set it down against the table and frowned, watching the countryside.
He tried to recall what Valérie had been like when they met. He had vivid images of her, of the exact details that made her. The dimples in her cheeks and the white ribbon in her hair. She had been elegant, proud, exact in manners and words, quarrelsome at times and harsh far too often, spiteful and beautiful, passionate in her affections. But in the end, she had given nothing true to him. Despite her lovely words and her kisses, she had remained veiled and sealed off.
He’d been a heedless boy who had turned into a man full of rancor and discontent, sensing that life had betrayed him, stolen from him what he ought to have possessed. He had thought the missing piece was Valérie—and he had been right, but not in the manner he expected.
He crossed his arms and pressed his forehead against the window.
And then he saw the river flowing not far off and he thought of Nina Beaulieu, who had not wronged him in any way and whom he’d hurt nonetheless.
At that moment, Luc Lémy rose and excused himself, loudly proclaiming he was heading back to their compartment since everyone was terribly glum.
Once they were alone, Étienne folded the newspaper he had picked up at the station. “Now that he is gone, shall we talk or do you intend to travel to Bosegnan in absolute silence?” Étienne asked.
“Silence would be good.”
“Silence when you are drunk is fine, but sober it chips at your mind. You had a row. How bad was it, truly?”
“Terrible. She saw me and Valérie kiss.”
“Dear God, Hector.”
“Hush,” Hector said, raising a hand, palm open. “I realize how idiotic I was.”
Étienne refilled his glass of wine and he grabbed Hector’s glass and refilled that one, too. Hector needed stronger liquor, a drink that would burn his throat and blot his thoughts. It had been years and years since he’d been roaring drunk, not since the days when he would visit taverns with Étienne, but he dearly wished he could attempt this sport again for a single day.
“Does anyone else know about this? Aside from Valérie, Nina, and you.”
“No. I imagine she would have told her mother already if she cared to tell—she had plenty of time to speak her mind to her before we left. Not that it matters.”
“Perhaps you are right and she’s decided to be magnanimous. But, Hector, what a fine mess this is. And Valérie, you and she—”
“Nothing,” Hector said. “There is no ‘Valérie and I.’”
He had been riddled with the disease of love, but Valérie had operated on him and finally, brutally, cut out the putrefied flesh. Hector lifted his glass and did not drink. His hands, used to performing tricks and juggling objects in the air, seemed to fail him and had grown weak.
“I am sorry about that even if I could have predicted something like this would happen. I know the extent of your feelings for her,” Étienne said. “I’m also sorry about the girl. You appeared to get along well enough.”
“Yes.”
Étienne waited for him to elaborate but instead Hector drank his wine. Étienne, understanding there would be no more conversation, slowly unfolded his paper and began reading it again. But then Hector changed his mind and spoke.
“I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“Like Valérie? Ah, I admit she’s easy on the eyes, but hard like a diamond,” Étienne said, shaking his head.
“Like Antonina,” Hector replied.
He recalled when she’d told him about Bosegnan and how, even though he did not really care to visit the city, he grew interested in it because she liked it. He had wanted to look at it so he could tell her about it later, sharing his impressions. He did not understand many of the other things she fancied, like her precious insects, but he did enjoy when she spoke about them. He missed her already.
“I think she wanted nothing from me,” Hector added, “nothing at all but to let her love me.”
Étienne raised his eyebrows at that, but as usual he had a perfect reply. “It’s a damn tragedy. Now, drink up. Let us not mention any women for the remainder of the trip,” Étienne said. “Once we reach Bosegnan, we can have champagne and ask Luc to take us to meet his friends. He’ll find a party somewhere, he always knows someone no matter where he goes. We shall be merry and we shall be young again.”
Hector nodded but he knew it was a lie, that they’d never be young. He couldn’t be like Luc, he’d never been like Luc in the first place. But it was fine, he’d be fine. He’d press the memory of Valérie away, like a precious, dry flower. In time perhaps he might even be able to make amends to Antonina Beaulieu.
But then he thought of her face when he’d last seen her, her eyes pained. And he knew that despite whatever he might want to tell himself, he could not heal her shattered heart.
CHAPTER 21
She took her meals in her room and did not venture outside, despite her mother’s pleas. Gaétan arrived in Oldhouse for his annual summer visit, but even he could not persuade her to come out. When Gaétan and Valérie left, she was relieved.
At first, when Nina lay upon her bed and curled up under the covers, she could summon no proper thoughts. She made the books tumble from the bookcases many times over, the unintentional expression of her anger. One evening the box of cards Hector had gifted her fell upon the floor, the cards scattering all around her, and Nina thought she was about to cry again.
She’d cried far too often.
But she did not weep, instead gathering the cards with her thoughts and shuffling them. He’d taught her this, at least the principles of it. She shuffled the cards once and muttered his name, then she shuffled them again, and again she said his name.
She was struck with the idea that if she did this enough times, if she said his name out loud, it would eventually lose its meaning. She sat on the floor, in her nightgown with her arms wrapped around her knees, and she said “Hector Auvray” half a dozen times while she attempted to shuffle the cards without making a mistake.
She did it every day from then on. Sometimes she lost control of the cards and she had to start again, and she did not shuffle them well at first. But every evening she worked on this trick.
When she felt she had mastered it, she began to work on another.
Slowly she sought the books that until then she had forgotten, content only to dash them across the room. She ran her hands over the pictures of the butterflies, which had given her pleasure, their colors bright upon the page.