Paris, France
May 1817
Ordinary Katie Leighton stood on the Quai d’Orsay looking out toward the River Seine. Halfway across the world from her rugged home in Bangor, Maine, she could scarcely believe she was in Paris, the most romantic city on earth.
Arched stone bridges bisected the wide river at even intervals all along its curved length. If she looked eastward to her right, she saw the Pont Royal and just made out the delicate spire of the Sainte Chapelle and, looming behind it, the square towers of the massive Notre Dame cathedral.
These churches—so different from her customary places of worship back home—had withstood the vicissitudes of man and the ravages of nature since the Middle Ages. Most recently, they had barely escaped the fury of the revolutionaries.
If she turned to look across the bridge in front of her, she saw the wide Place Louis XV. It was hard to believe just over twenty years ago, it had run with the blood of the hundreds beheaded upon the guillotine.
A tug on the leash broke Katie’s somber contemplation. Her newly acquired dog broke free of her loose hold and dashed off down the quay, fleeing toward the Esplanade of Les Invalides, his brand new leash trailing after him.
“Come back here, Brioche, you naughty dog!” With an exasperated sigh, Katie lifted her skirts and broke into a run after the scruffy-haired mutt, whose white fur still looked dingy, no matter how many times she bathed him.
Panting more heavily than her dog, she ran under the leafy chestnut trees planted on either side of one of the avenues of the spacious, grassy esplanade which sloped towards the river, her feet feeling every tiny stone through her thin leather soles. Brioche showed no signs of slowing down, when abruptly, he veered to the left under some trees.
Oh, dear, no! He was heading straight for one of the poor veterans from the old soldiers’ home out to take the sun! Katie’s hand flew to her mouth in horror, and she stepped up her pace despite the stitch in her side. Surely Brioche wouldn’t knock the old man’s wheeled chair over!
But Brioche seemed intent on something else. He stopped right before the soldier and began sniffing the grass at his feet.
Katie arrived at the spot thoroughly winded. She could hardly get the words out, “Oh, par—don—nez-moi, m—mon—sieur. Je suis desolée—” The apology in French was hardly intelligible even to her own ears.
The man was not listening and continued leaning forward in his chair, groping the grass before him.
Katie gasped. The man was blind! Her heart contracted in immediate pity, for he was no old veteran. Under a shock of untidy black hair, a young, unlined face swung toward her—deep-set dark eyes fixed unseeing in her direction, black eyebrows drawn together in a scowl.
He must have been wounded in the recent war. Poor, poor dear!
“Qui est là?” came the sharp, peremptory words.
“Pardonnez, monsieur,” she repeated, fumbling for the proper words in French. “It was only my dog. He got away from me—”
Reminded of Brioche’s presence, the soldier thrust out his hand. “Va-t’en, mauvais chien!”
“He’s not a bad dog,” she hastened to reassure him as she grasped Brioche’s collar and pulled her pet out of the way. The dog, his attention still on the grass, whined.
“Be still, Brioche. Sit,” she commanded in vain. The dog continued tugging on his leash, intent on the object on the ground.
Seeing a spot of color, she stooped down and picked it up. “How beautiful.” It was a small oval brooch, its surface a minute rose cross-stitched in shades of pink and red. “Here you go, monsieur.” As she spoke, she turned over the soldier’s hand, which lay limply on his knee, and placed it in his palm.
He flinched when she touched him. “It’s what you were searching for, what held my dog’s attention. You must have dropped it.”
His fingers slowly closed around the oval. “Oui...merci.” The words were stilted, as if it were not easy for him to give thanks.
She didn’t remove her hand immediately, wanting above all to reassure him that Brioche had meant no harm and that his object was safe. The man’s hand felt cold. Maybe it was chilly there, in the shade of the trees. Although the May day was bright and sunny, bringing sparkles to the dark River Seine, the soldier did not look well, the skin drawn sharply over his cheekbones, his bony wrists jutting out of his frayed cuffs.
As soon as the brooch was out of sight, Brioche lost interest and lay down beside the thick tree trunk.
“Who are you?” the soldier demanded.
“No one,” she replied, softly, letting his hand go and slowly straightening. “The embroidery is very pretty.” How awful it must be to live in a dark, immobile world, for the man was not only blind but lame as well. Poor, poor dear! “Is it a keepsake?”
“It is the only thing I have to remind me of my former life.”
“Oh!” she hadn’t expected such a reply. It was like a glimpse into the loneliness and despair engulfing his heart. Dear Lord, she prayed silently, Help me to know what to say. “Was it...did it belong to a sweetheart?”
He shook his head. “It was my mother’s.”
“Oh.” Was. “I’m sorry.”
“French clearly is not your mother tongue.” All traces of weakness erased, his tone once again assumed an arrogant note.
“Non, monsieur,” she replied to his question in halting French. “It is true, I speak your language quite poorly.”
He did not contradict her. As he continued facing her, Katie studied him more closely. His raven black hair was badly cut and falling over his forehead and collar. His cheeks were nicked here and there, as if someone had shaved him with a clumsy hand. His dark green uniform jacket appeared well-worn, even dirty, a couple of its tarnished brass buttons missing. With all this, he had a proud demeanor, and she could imagine him as an officer, issuing orders to his troops.
“You are English?” He jabbed a finger at her, as if he expected an immediate response.
“Yes—I mean, no, monsieur. I’m American.”
Once more he frowned, bringing his black eyebrows together over his dark brown eyes. “Americaine?”
“Yes—oui,” she stuttered, not sure which language he would continue in.
“What brings you to Paris?” he asked in accented English.
Relieved that his English was fluent enough to carry on a conversation, she replied, “I am traveling with my sister and brother-in-law. We arrived but a fortnight ago, so I am still finding my way about your beautiful city—and language,” she added with a nervous laugh.
He continued staring at her with his unseeing look. “And where is this sister and brother-in-law now? Are they not accompanying you?”
She shook her head then realizing he couldn’t see her, said, “No, not at this moment.”
“You are unescorted?” His voice resumed its accusatory tone. “It is not safe for a young lady to be out alone on the streets of Paris.”
“Well, actually I’m not quite alone. I have my—” She looked around for Brioche and grew alarmed when he was no longer nearby. “Oh, where did you go off to this time, Brioche?”
His lips twisted. “Brioche? What kind of name is that for a dog?”
She took exception at his disdain and raised her chin. “We happened to be passing a bakery and I saw a sign advertising those delicious rich breads you serve at breakfast here in France. He looked so hungry at the time that I bought him one, which he gobbled up immediately.”
As she spoke, she looked around worriedly. “I am still training him. He is accustomed to being on his own and frequently wanders off. Excuse me a moment.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned and stuck two fingers in her mouth and issued a piercing whistle. It had certainly worked back in the Maine Territory to summon her father’s hounds.
A second later Brioche came bounding toward her from behind a tree trunk. He reached her, panting and wagging his grayish white tail. She bent down and rubbed his head and neck. “There you are, that’s a good boy. Good dog.” She dug a hard biscuit out of her pocket and gave it to him. “Here you go for being such an obedient dog.”
His teeth crunched on the treat and as soon as he had swallowed it, he nuzzled her hand for more. “No, you may not have another one or you’ll get too fat. Now—” she straightened and turned back to the gentleman, “I want to present you to Monsieur—” She waited, but when the soldier said nothing, she asked in French, “Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not know your name.”
“I understood you perfectly in English; I just did not choose to fulfill your curiosity for the sake of a dog.”
She didn’t know whether to be irritated or amused at his tone of disdain. “I beg your pardon, monsieur. I meant no offense. You see, I’ve been training Brioche to give his paw and shake hands. I just wanted to demonstrate since he wanted another treat so badly, and he must learn that treats are earned.”
The man began to shake his head, a begrudging smile tugging at his lips. The smile erased the lines of discontent and suffering, transforming the lean, harsh features. The smile slowly died before it had fully formed. “What is the matter?”
“Oh—” she realized he had been waiting for her to speak. “Nothing, monsieur, I’m sorry, I was staring—”
His mouth became a drawn line once again. “I suppose you find me an oddity.”
She shook her head, sending her curls bouncing, and again realizing he couldn’t see her, stammered, “Oh, n—no, it wasn’t that at all. I was just astonished when you smiled just now. It quite changed your appearance.”
“I have little reason to smile these days.”
She looked down, ashamed of herself. “I beg your pardon, monsieur. You were...wounded...in the war?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she was afraid she had offended him once again.
“Yes.” The curt reply cut off any further questions in that direction.
She took the moment to gaze around her. “What a pleasant spot this is. It is not a place the tourists come to, is it? You are comfortable, monsieur, not too cold here in the shade?”
He waved aside her solicitude with an impatient gesture of his hand. “I am fine. Pierre parks me here every day unless it rains. I am used to it. Tell me instead what you see. Give me a vision of Paris through your eyes, as a visitor to our city.”
“Very well. My dear brother-in-law has made certain we have been out almost every day in a comfortable carriage seeing all the many sights. We’ve seen many grand monuments and churches, but I think what I like best are the older quarters with their narrow streets and iron-railed balconies. I love to imagine the lives that go on behind the tiny walled gardens. And I love peering into small shop windows—the boulangerie—your baker—and the charcuterie with all the different types of sausages hanging from strings in the window and the many crocks of pâtés lined up behind the counter. Each one seems to be the specialty of a different province of France.”
Katie watched the young man as she spoke. He seemed intent on her words, so she tried to describe the things that most drew her. She gave not only a visual image, but filled in the pictures with the sounds and smells of his city. Trying to imagine what it was like to be blind, she gave small details that someone else might take for granted. A cat licking up the last remnants from a saucer of milk, a falling trellis of wisteria cascading over a dark balcony rail, a woman sewing on a button behind a shop glass...
As she drew breath, a middle-aged man came up behind her. Giving her a curious look from under his dark eyebrows, he approached the younger man and began straightening the blanket around his legs. “Time to go in,” he said in a rapid French Katie found hard to follow. But she did recognize the last words, Monsieur le Comte. Her eyes widened at the title of “count.” But the tone had none of the deference she’d imagine a servant would use with his master. Instead, it sounded rough and derisive. But perhaps her command of the language misled her.
The young man pushed away the older man’s hands and answered in French to leave off. The man ignored him and continued with his arrangements. Katie waited quietly, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye.
The soldier was awfully thin, and tall, by the outline of his legs beneath the thin, moth-eaten blanket. Poor man, after fighting for his country, to be so neglected. She glanced behind her toward the end of the long esplanade to the massive sandstone-walled complex known as Les Invalides, a home for pensioned and infirm veterans of France’s wars. What must it be like to be shut up behind its high walls, dependent on someone to take one out a few moments each day?
“Mademoiselle, are you there? Have you left?”
Katie turned back at the soldier’s sharp, almost panicked, tone. He moved his head from left to right as if searching for her. She stepped up to him and held out her hand, grasping his. “I’m here.”
He stilled. “Ah.” He took a deep breath, calming. “I was afraid you and your dog had left when Pierre here intruded. He is my manservant, but a ruder servant I have seldom seen.”
Embarrassed to be talking about the man who was standing on the other side of the wheeled chair, she remained silent.
The soldier didn’t seem to notice. “You must forgive Pierre. I sometimes believe he thinks he owns me because I am at the mercy of others. It was not always so. You see what happens when one becomes useless.”
She didn’t know what to say though her heart went out to the young soldier.
Then his face cleared and he smiled again—a genuine smile this time, and she could picture what he must have been—a dashing officer addressing her in a salon. “Pardon me, I did not give you an opportunity to introduce yourself, nor did I give you my name.” He held out his hand. “Etienne Santerre, at your service, however limited that may be.”
She allowed his hand to enfold hers as she wondered at the short simplicity of the name. Perhaps she had not heard correctly.
Her hand felt embarrassingly moist and warm from her walk, but Monsieur Santerre didn’t seem to notice. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur le Comte.” She decided to give him the courtesy of the title, just in case.
He flinched. “Why did you call me that?”
“I beg your pardon. I thought your manservant addressed you as such. Perhaps I misunderstood. My French—”
“No,” he said grimly, “your understanding was correct. Pierre uses the title to mock me. They call me ‘Monsieur le Comte’ within the walls of Les Invalides.”
She tilted her head, puzzled. “Why do they do that?”
“To destroy any pretensions I might have had of being a gentleman.”
She gasped. “How cruel.”
He waved aside her words of sympathy. “Enough about that. I am simply Monsieur Santerre. Now, what shall I call you?”
“My name is Katie Leighton, monsieur.”
“Katie?” It sounded different on his lips, almost like Keh-tee with the emphasis on the ‘tee’.
“It’s short for Katherine.”
“Ah, Katerine.” He smiled again. “Katie.”
She returned his smile, even though she knew he couldn’t see it, but maybe he could hear it in her voice. “Yes, Katie.”
“Well, as you can see, my guard has come to take me back to my prison.” He cleared his throat. “Will you...will you be here with your dog—Brioche—tomorrow at this time?”
Her smile deepened. He’d remembered her pet’s name. She never planned her walks, everything in Paris was still too new. “Yes,” she said decisively.
He inclined his head in a magisterial way. “Then perhaps we shall meet again.”
“I’d like that.” And she meant it, vowing she would be there on the morrow.
Lord, let him see Your light through me, she prayed. If the young soldier’s world had been so severely limited by the brutality of war, she would do her best to show him God had not forgotten his existence.
“A bientôt, then.” He gave his manservant a sign with his hand, and in that moment she was convinced he must be a gentleman of high birth. Everything about him from the moment she’d met him conveyed authority and arrogance.
Pierre took hold of the handles of his chair and pushed it forward.
“A bientôt, Monsieur Santerre,” she called after them.
She stood still, her hand on Brioche’s leash, her ears listening to the slight squeak of the iron wheels as the chair moved away.
The manservant guided the invalid down the alleyway, straight toward the thick plaster walls of Les Invalides.
My prison. The soldier’s words for it. Was he truly imprisoned behind its walls?
The words of Jesus came to her. I have come to set the captives free.
* * *
Etienne was deliberately silent on his ride home, knowing Pierre would be curious about the young woman. How did he know she was young? She must be if her sweet, melodious voice was any indication. He fumed at Pierre’s untimely interruption. He’d hardly had a chance to speak to the young lady—for lady she must be by her speech. Thankfully, he’d found out her name. Katie Leighton. He smiled, saying the syllables to himself. And she came from America. At least she wasn’t British. His lips turned down in derision. Nation of shopkeepers, as Emperor Napoléon had been fond of saying.
“Cold, Monsieur le Comte?” Pierre asked from behind him. “Or pining for your lady love already? A pity you cannot see. Ah...for one with eyes to describe the lady who deigned to speak to a blind cripple.” Coarse laughter followed.
Etienne clenched his fists, but forced himself to remain silent. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of showing him his barbs hurt. His lips twisted. Pierre must be dying to know who the young lady was. No one ever stopped to chat with the pensioners of Les Invalides. Old, forgotten soldiers, taken out to the esplanade for a bit of sun by the river in summer as they waited around to die. “It is more than you can say for yourself, you dirty pig. Not even a maid would notice you.”
In reply, Pierre jostled his chair over a rough spot in the path, causing it to sway. Etienne’s hands shot out to the chair arms.
“Ah...for someone to come and speak a kind word to me,” Pierre continued with an exaggerated sigh, “a poor, lowly servant, but all I do is wait on an ungrateful ultra whose family should have been guillotined...”
Dirty sans-culotte! Pierre was incapable of understanding that the Count St. Honoré had been a fervent republican, not a royalist. No one had worked harder for reform and democracy than Etienne’s father.
No one had been a more vocal proponent of the revolution. And no one had been more disenchanted when the radicals had taken over and plunged France into its most disgraceful hour, the Reign of Terror.
But all that had been over twenty years ago, when Etienne was still an infant. Etienne returned to his conjectures about the lady. He analyzed each word of Pierre’s with the thoroughness of a scientist. Pierre had said “lady love.” Etienne banged his fist upon his chair arm in triumph. Didn’t that prove the woman was young? Could that soft voice belong to an old woman? Voices were misleading, he knew. But still...he banged his fist once more, frustrated by his inability to pierce the darkness surrounding him.
“You will break your chair if you continue showing such violence. What is the matter—angry at your inability to run after the damsel?”
There it was again—damsel. She was young! Etienne’s heart sang but he kept his voice noncommittal. Two could play at this game of cat and mouse. “Why should I run after someone who comes to me willingly?”
“Out of pity, no doubt. No pretty young lady comes of her own free will to talk to a dirty cripple with no eyes.”
Ignoring Pierre’s insults, Etienne smiled, glad the man couldn’t see his face. The fool had given away the information he sought, no doubt without even realizing it. Pretty young lady.
But no sooner had he satisfied himself on that score that he longed to know more. A brunette or fair-haired? Tall or petite, slim or plump? He pressed his lips together, determined not to ask Pierre. The man would not tell him the truth anyway.
He strove to remember every word he’d exchanged with the young lady—for at least in that he could be assured. How had it suddenly come about? His life had been a living abyss of despair and tedium for almost two years—a world of darkness and immobility where he was dependent on the largesse of others, a world which had taught him the cruel pettiness of his fellow man the same way war had taught him the larger horrors of man’s barbarity. In the midst of this darkness, he had heard an angel’s voice.
And all because of a dog! A dog with a droll name. Brioche. He couldn’t help smiling. When next she came, he would be friendlier to her furred companion.
When next she came. Would she come? He drew in a sharp breath at the thought of never hearing her sweet voice again. She’d said she would. But would she? He’d hardly had a chance to find out anything about her. Where was she staying? Would her brother-in-law and sister let her out alone again? Would she be able to find him if she did indeed return to l’Esplanade des Invalides?
Suddenly his chair hit a bump and jarred his whole body. “Can’t you see where you are going, you clumsy oaf?”
In reply Pierre only shoved the chair forward through a series of shallow ditches in the graveled path. Etienne bit back a series of oaths. A loss of temper would only make Pierre taunt him with his helplessness. He’d have gotten rid of the louse long ago if he’d been capable in the least way of looking after himself.
He must satisfy himself with the fact that he had hidden his interest in Mademoiselle Katie—what an adorable name!—from his worthless manservant. The very thought of him should not be held anywhere near the memory of his angel.
He would guard the memory like a mouse hoarding his crumbs deep in a dark hole.
He could tell by the sounds around him when they were back within the walls of Les Invalides. The wooden door banged shut behind him and Pierre called out a greeting to the doorkeeper.
Every day it was the same routine. A short stint sitting in his wheeled chair out of doors if the weather was good. And only if Pierre had a mind to take him out. Otherwise, he would park his chair in the glare of the sun in the largest courtyard in the sprawling complex of the royal Hôtel des Invalides, the Residence of the Invalids.
When he’d been a young soldier, Etienne had scarcely given the place a thought. Built by Louis the Fourteenth to take care of old and infirm veterans, it was named the Hospital for Invalids. His mouth twisted at the apt term to describe him. Never had he imagined he would end his days here—he the only son of Armand d’Arblay, Count St. Honoré, with a landed château in the Loire Valley and an hôtel that took up an entire block in the fashionable Faubourg St. Germain, only blocks from where he sat now.
Instead, here he was, wounded, blinded, penniless and living under an alias, in the resting place of fellow soldiers with no recourse but the government’s small pension—the likes of which Etienne never saw, since Pierre pocketed the amount as his due.
Pierre wheeled him back to his small room in one of the side wings of the complex. The sounds of other soldiers, the footfall of boots against stone floors, the whisk of a broom faded as Pierre opened his door and thrust his chair inside.
“Enjoy your thoughts of the pretty demoiselle—since that’s all you’ll ever have of her!” With a final rude laugh, Pierre left him by his bed, banging the door shut behind him.
In the silence that reigned around him, Etienne dragged himself using his arms onto the iron bedstead.
After nearly two years, he knew every rod of the headboard, every nick and scratch in the metal, every lump in the thin mattress, every fiber of the smelly, woolen blanket. The small table with the uneven legs, which shook each time his hand groped its surface, held no books or lamp, since he needed none of those things for the night hours. Only a chipped cup and pitcher and a comb with broken teeth.
He didn’t place his mother’s tiny embroidered brooch there, not trusting Pierre. The greedy manservant wouldn’t be able to resist laying hold of it with his grubby fingers. He tucked it under his pillow and rubbed its surface, as he often did when he was agitated. He remembered Mlle. Leighton’s kindness in returning it to him...the feel of her soft hand as she put the brooch in his palm.
It had been a long time since he’d experienced the physical contact of another human being except Pierre’s, whose touch was rough and deliberately clumsy, Etienne suspected, as he manhandled him in and out of his chair or helped him on and off with his clothes.
Etienne shifted his body sideways and let his arm fall, his fingertips resting on the cool stone floor, feeling the familiar curves where it was worn down by countless footsteps. How many men had paced its small confines to relieve their boredom?
He could tell the time, thanks to the bell tower clock in the courtyard. At least he could count the hours until it was time to go back outside tomorrow afternoon after the midday meal.
* * *
Etienne spent an endless night hearing the mournful toll of the bell with each passing hour. The more his body wasted away, the more frenzied his thoughts grew, it seemed, until he wondered if he wasn’t truly mad, as those around him believed. At least he was no longer the raving lunatic he’d been the first few weeks of his arrival at Les Invalides. To wake up from a fever to find himself imprisoned by his own body, in a world devoid of all light—who would not have gone mad?
Why hadn’t he died on the battlefield? The question had tortured him for weeks until, receiving no answer, he fell into a listless gloom. The weeks had turned into months—he no longer knew exactly how much time had passed since that fateful eighteenth day of June of 1815, when the artillery wagon had exploded.
He only knew by the warm air against his cheeks that it was once again summer. Thus, at least two years had passed, leaving him a useless wreck of the man he’d once been.
The other residents of Les Invalides left him alone, referring to him in derisive pity as le Comte. The count without a name, without family, without an estate.
Morning finally arrived, and after the noonday meal, Pierre parked him in the courtyard to listen to the cooing pigeons and wait for his return.
But as the afternoon waned, the scoundrel remained absent. Each time Etienne heard footsteps, he called out, “Pierre!” Instead, a masculine voice chuckled and replied, “No, it’s not your valet, but I, Michel, or Jacques, or Dominique,” or whoever else happened to be passing by. They would always add some joking remark, “Where is that man of yours? Asleep somewhere no doubt, or off on a rendezvous in an alley beyond these walls?” Suggestive laughter would follow.
Confound the brute! Etienne knew Pierre was paying him back for his silence yesterday. The more he fumed, the more the strike of the clock tower mocked him with each passing hour.