Page 73 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Sinclair glanced about him, his pleasure in the day, the city life teeming about him, suddenly gone. He wondered if the time would come when he would never want to come back to Paris, loathing it with the same bitter memories as Belle.
Thirteen
Belle walked alongside Jean-Claude, her silence as rigid as his, two stiff figures jostled by the gay crowd that flocked over the bridge. Hawkers displayed their wares to pretty ladies shaded beneath parasols. Artists dabbled with oils upon their canvases. Street singers warbled their tunes, offering for sale the new sheet music.
It was strange, Belle thought. Only a moment ago with Sinclair, she had felt so much a part of all this color, this gaiety. Now once more she had the sensation of being removed, as though in the carnival of faces pressing past her, life itself were passing her by.
She glanced at Jean-Claude, wondering if he could feel that, too, but the stony set of his profile told her nothing, only the deep-set misery of his eyes. Why? She wanted to shout at him. He had made it clear at the reception he could never forgive her, that he could scarce bear the sight of her. Then why did he choose to seek her out again, subject them both to an interview that would only cause them fresh pain?
They had not even passed by the second arch of the bridge when she halted. “I think we have come far enough, Jean-Claude,” she said. “What did you wish?—”
“No, not here. Please, Isabelle. The noise.” He nodded upward toward La Samarataine, the huge hydraulic pump rising three stories above the bridge, its facade adorned with gilded figures of Christ receiving water from the Good Samaritan. The pump shuddered with activity as it sped a water supply to the Louvre and the Tuileries.
“Let us go just a little farther,” he pleaded.
Belle found the clatter of the pump somehow more bearable as a backdrop than the happy chatter and laughter of the Pont Neuf’s other occupants, but she fell into step beside Jean-Claude once more.
They continued on until they reached the next half moon embrasure, one of the bridge’s many stone bays which jutted out over the Seine. The semicircular seat was unoccupied. Belle settled herself upon it, and Jean-Claude sank down beside her, taking great care to keep a decorous distance between them.
Still, he seemed unable to break the silence, his gloved hands fidgeting nervously with the silver-tipped handle of his walking cane. Once even for all his coldness, his rigid anger, Belle would have given much to have him seated thus by her side. Now she was surprised to discover she felt nothing but impatience. Certainly she had no desire to make this any easier for him, or to offer him any encouragement.
She stared out across the sluggish waters of the Seine watching the ferry boats and the flat-bottomed barges laden with their cargoes.
Jean-Claude cleared his throat. “There seems to be more river traffic than I recall.”
“Is that why you have been following me all this time?” Belle asked. “To discuss the number of barges on the Seine?”
“Non.” She heard him draw in a tremulous breath. After a long moment of hesitation, his hand reached out and tentatively covered hers where it rested upon the balustrade of the bay.
Startled by the gesture, her gaze flew up to meet his. He said, “I sought you out to tell you that I am sorry for my behavior at the reception the other night.”
Belle blinked, almost unable to assimilate the meaning of his words. Apologizing? He was actually apologizing to her for his hurtful remarks, for attempting to ignore her.
“My manners were atrocious, my words certainly not those of a gentleman.”
“Not at all, sir.” Belle slid her hand from beneath his. “You were ever the gentleman.” Even when Jean-Claude had been demanding the divorce, he had been so unbearably civil, so damnably polite.
“Truly, Isabelle,” he continued, sounding more earnest. “I am sorry. I didn’t want to offend you or wound you. It is just that it was so hard for me seeing you again.”
“It was not precisely easy for me, either.”
But he stared at her with that wistful look in his eyes. She had never been proof against it.
“Let us simply forget the quarrel,” she said with a weary sigh. “I am not so easily wounded these days. I survived the incident.” She reflected that this was true. In these last few days she had given little thought to the ugly scene with Jean-Claude. Sinclair had had a great deal to do with that.
“I am glad,” Jean-Claude said. “It is a great relief to know you are not angry with me.”
“And you?” she asked. “Does this mean you have forgiven me at last?”
“I am trying very hard. I wish more than anything that we could both simply forget the past.”
“Forget the past? Do you truly believe that’s possible?”
“Perhaps not. But maybe we could learn to recall only the good. There were some good times, were there not, Isabelle?”
She had always thought so, but she had believed his own memory of them erased the day he had learned the secret of her birth.
A soft light came into his gray eyes. “We often used to stroll upon this bridge together that first summer in Paris. Do you recall?”
