yourself to Christ without thought of yourself and your worldly life. The world of the convent should not be an escape from a life you hate—’
‘A life I detest!’ I bit my tongue.
Père Hugo waited a moment, then said, ‘The best nuns are often those who have been happy outside, and are happy inside.’
I sat silent, my head bowed. I knew now that I had been wrong to speak like this. I should have been more patient – taken months, a year, two years to plant the seed with Père Hugo, soften him, make him agreeable. Instead I’d spoken to the priest suddenly and desperately. Of course, Père Hugo did not decide who entered Chelles – only the Abbess Catherine de Lignières had that power. But I would need my husband’s consent to become a nun, and must get powerful men to argue on my behalf. Père Hugo was one of those men.
There was one thing that might still sway Père Hugo. I smoothed my skirt and cleared my throat. ‘My dowry was substantial,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I’m sure that if I became a bride of Christ I would be able to give a portion of it to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, in thanks for the succour it has given me. If only you would speak to my husband …’ I let my voice trail away.
It was Père Hugo’s turn to be silent. While I waited I ran my finger along one of the scratches on the pew. When he spoke at last there was true regret in his voice – but whether for what he said or for the money just out of his grasp was not clear. ‘Geneviève, you know Jean Le Viste will never give his consent for you to enter a convent. He wants a wife, not a nun.’
‘You could talk to him, tell him how it would suit me to enter Chelles.’
‘Have you talked to him yourself, as I suggested the other day?’
‘No, because he doesn’t listen to me. But he would to you, I’m sure of it. What you think matters to him.’
Père Hugo snorted. ‘Your slate is clean at the moment, mon enfant. Don’t go telling lies now.’
‘He does care about the Church!’
‘The Church has not had as much influence on him as you and I might wish,’ Père Hugo said carefully. I was silent, chastened by my husband’s indifference. Would he burn in Hell for it?
‘Go home, Geneviève,’ Père Hugo said then, and did sound kind. ‘You have three lovely daughters, a fine house and a husband who is close to the King. These are blessings many women would be content with. Be a wife and mother, say your prayers, and may Our Lady smile down on you.’
‘And on my cold bed – will She smile on that as well?’
‘Go in peace, mon enfant.’ Père Hugo was already getting to his feet.
I didn’t leave immediately. I didn’t want to go back to the rue du Four, to Claude’s judging eyes or Jean’s that would not meet mine. Better to stay in the church that had become my shelter.
Saint-Germain-des-Prés is the oldest church in Paris, and I was glad when we moved so close. Its cloisters are beautiful and quiet, and the view from the church is very fine – when you stand outside it on the river side you can see straight across to the Louvre. Before the rue du Four we lived nearer to Notre Dame de Paris, but that place is too big for me – it makes me dizzy to look up. Of course Jean liked it, as he would any place grand where the King is likely to come. Now, though, we live so close to Saint-Germain-des-Prés that I don’t even need a groom to escort me to it.
My favourite place in the church is the Chapel of Sainte Geneviève, patron of Paris, who came from Nanterre and whom I am named after. It is off the apse and I went there now, after my confession to Père Hugo, telling my ladies as I knelt to leave me alone. They sat on the low step leading up to the chapel, a little way from me, and kept whispering until I turned and said, ‘You would do well to remember that this is God’s house, not a corner for gossip. Either pray or go.’ They all ducked their heads, though Béatrice fixed me with those brown eyes for a moment. I stared at her until she too bowed her head and closed her eyes. When I saw her lips move at last to form a prayer I turned back around.
I myself did not pray, but looked up at the two windows of stained glass with their scenes from the life of the Virgin. I don’t see as well as I once did, and couldn’t make out the figures but saw only the colours, the blues and reds and greens and browns. I found myself counting the yellow flowers that lined the edge of the glass and wondering what they were.
Jean has not come to my bed for months. He has always been formal with me in front of others, as befits our status. But he was once warm in bed. After Petite Geneviève was born he began to visit even more frequently, looking at last to make a son and heir. I was with child a few times but lost it early on. These last two years there has been no sign of a baby. Indeed my courses ran dry, though I did not tell him. He found out somehow, from Marie-Céleste or one of my ladies – maybe even Béatrice. No one knows what loyalty is in this house. He came to see me one night with this new knowledge, saying I had failed in the one thing expected of a wife and that he wouldn’t touch me again.
He was right. I had failed. I could see it in the faces of others – in Béatrice and my ladies, in my mother, in the people we entertained, even in Claude who is part of the failing. I remember that when she was seven years old, she came into my room after I had given birth to Petite Geneviève. She gazed down at the swaddled baby in my arms, and when she heard it wasn’t a boy she sniffed and turned on her heel. Of course she loves Petite Geneviève now but she would prefer a brother and a satisfied father.
I feel like a bird who has been wounded with an arrow and now cannot fly.
It would be a mercy to let me enter a convent. But Jean is not a merciful man. And he still needs me. Even if he despises me, he wants me next to him when he dines at home, and when we entertain or go to Court to attend the King. It would not look right for the place next to him to be empty. Besides, they would laugh at him at Court – the man whose wife runs off to a nunnery. No, I knew Père Hugo was right – Jean might not want me, but he would have me at his side still. Most men would be like that – older women joining convents are usually widows, not wives. Only a few husbands will let them go, no matter their sins.
Sometimes when I walk over to the Seine to look across at the Louvre, I think about throwing myself in. That is why the ladies keep close to me. They know. I heard one of them just now, huffing behind me from boredom. For a moment I felt sorry for them, stuck with me.
On the other hand, they have fine dresses and food and a good fire in the evenings because they are with me. Their cakes have more sugar in them, and the cook is generous with the spices – the cinnamon and nutmeg and mace and ginger – because he is cooking for nobles.
I let my rosary drop to the floor. ‘Béatrice,’ I called, ‘pick up my beads.’
Two ladies helped me to my feet as Béatrice knelt to fetch the rosary. ‘I would have a word with you, Madame,’ she said in a low voice as she handed them back to me. ‘Alone.’
It was probably something about Claude. She no longer needed a nurse to look after her like Jeanne and Petite Geneviève, but a proper lady-in-waiting. I had been lending her Béatrice to see how they got on. And I could spare her – my needs were simpler now. A woman at the start of her life has far more need of a good lady like Béatrice than I do. Béatrice still told me everything about Claude, to help me prepare her for womanhood and keep her from mischief. But one day Béatrice would go over to her new mistress and not come back.
I
