Paris in autumn is an enchanted place. The light is exquisite, the air cool and crisp, vibrating with life and vitality. I like to stand on my balcony in the early evening hours and watch the lights come on all over the city. In my very long lifetime of trouble and travel, I have found nowhere else I would rather reside.

I had arrived home in the pre-dawn hours of a Monday and had taken a long rest. I was just rising -- the church bells from the tower were tolling 6:00-- when the phone rang. Claude handed me my seasoned coffee and I took a grateful sip while he answered the call.

“It is Madame Bertrand, Monsieur Abelard.” Hannah Robicheaux-Betrand is a professor of European literature at the university in Nancy. She is also my goddaughter.

Nodding my thanks, I took the receiver from his hand. “Hannah? How are you, my dear?”

“Is that you, Jacob?”

“Yes, but of course it is. You have just caught me. I only arrived home early this morning...”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been trying to reach you for the past two days. I didn’t want to leave a message with Claude or your answering service.”

“You could have called your father, Hannah. He always has my schedule and my cell phone number.”

“Uncle Jacob.…” There was a pause and I went still, clutching the coffee cup. Hannah had not called me “uncle” in many years.

“What is it, Hannah? What is wrong?”

“Oh, Uncle Jacob, it’s... Papa. He’s dead.”

I was not prepared for that. Louis, dead? Impossible. I had spoken with him only two weeks ago. He was getting quite elderly and I could have accepted that he was taken seriously ill, yes. Dying, possibly. But dead? No. Louis could not be dead. The delicate china cup snapped between my fingers and tumbled to the carpet. My fingers were wet and I looked down absently at the coffee that had spilled all over them. No blood.

Claude left and came back with a damp cloth to wipe my hands, then set about to clean up the mess, working silently around my feet as I tried to absorb the news.

“Uncle Jacob? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Hannah. I’m here.” Not quite the answer to her question. Claude left the room again. “When did this happen, Hannah? How?”

“Saturday. He was on his way home from that café he frequented. You know the one, Les Deux Lapines. It was late afternoon, starting to get dark. It seems he was struck by a car. The police say he never saw it coming and died instantly. Oh, Uncle Jacob.…” For a moment, she could not go on. No one would have ever accused Hannah of being overly emotional, but she was... had been... very attached to her father.

“Hannah, my dear, I am so sorry. What can I do? When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow evening. Eugenie wanted to schedule the wake for this morning and the funeral for tomorrow afternoon, but the boys and I objected strenuously. Said we would take it to our solicitor if we had to.”

I did not comment, but Hannah and I knew that Louis’s widow had attempted to keep me from attending the funeral of my dearest friend. There was no love lost between Eugenie and myself. “So, you have rescheduled?”

“Yes, Jacob. The wake is tonight 8.00 to 10.00. There is another viewing tomorrow afternoon -- I am sorry, but she does have some rights -- and then the funeral mass is tomorrow evening at 8:00. The internment is in the Père Lachaise. With mama in the hero’s corner. We feel honored. There aren’t too many spaces left.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so.”

“You will come tonight, Jacob? It is not too soon for you?”

“Hannah, dear, I will be there, of course. How I wish I had been home only a few days earlier.”

“Under such circumstances, Uncle Jacob, I am certain there was nothing you -- or any of us -- could have done for him.”

But I was not so certain.

We arranged that I would go directly to the funeral home and meet Hannah and the rest of the family there. I hung up the phone and stared for a few moments out of the window at the city to compose my thoughts. Then I gave quick instructions to Claude to run my bath, and to call and get directions to the funeral home.

“Yes, monsieur. I am sorry to hear about Monsieur Robicheaux. Madame Bertrand did not contact me.…”
“No. No, there was no way you could have known. Thank you, Claude. Have a flower arrangement sent to the funeral home, make certain they put a tri-color ribbon on it.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Lay out my black Armani and the white collarless jacquard shirt. I’ll need the car around at 7:45.”

He nodded and turned to leave the room. I called him back. “Claude. I want you to put my medals on the lapel of my suit. All of them. And I will need to dine well. Please see to it.”

He inclined his head. “Yes, monsieur.”

* * * * *

The evening was cool, but clear. A lovely autumn night. Soon enough winter would be upon us. My busiest time of year. I was too distressed by my personal loss to contemplate that with any pleasure or anticipation. Then, too, I had dined heavily and was feeling a bit distracted.

Claude pulled the car in front of the funeral home. “Do you wish me to wait, Monsieur Abelard? Or return for you at ten o’clock?”

“Neither. I will walk at least part of the way home. Go on and take the evening off.”

“Thank you, sir. But first, would you mind if I went and paid my respects to Monsieur Robicheaux? He was a great gentleman and a hero of the War.”

“No, I do not mind. I think it very kind of you. I will wait with the car.”

I sat in the car, thinking my own thoughts about Louis and our friendship, for the fifteen minutes or so that it took Claude to view the body and salute a departed hero of the Resistance. Claude had fought the war in Indochina as a very young man. He had great admiration for those soldiers of the previous war. He was a rare breed these days.

“Well?” I asked when he returned.

“It is very well attended, monsieur. Though it is mostly family, some business associates, and friends of the children. The widow had a small crowd with her also. But not so well-attended as Jean Montressor’s funeral.”

“That was seven years ago,” I reminded him. “There were more of his generation still around then. And you paid your respects?”

“Yes, monsieur. Madame Bertrand and the twins were most gracious. And most of the grandchildren know me, of course.”

“And the widow?”

“She was not so gracious, monsieur.” He shrugged; it was expected considering his employer. “But I saluted Monsieur Robicheaux and wished him a good journey.”

“Much appreciated, I am sure. Well.…” I sighed. “I shall go in then.”

“You are certain you do not need me to wait, monsieur?”

“I am certain.” I got out of the car and bent down to his window. “Bon soir, Claude. I shall leave word when to wake me tomorrow.”

He nodded and drove the car away. I checked my watch and then felt in my pocket for the mass card I had acquired on the way over. I had overcome the reluctance of the church secretary by phoning ahead and arranging a very generous donation towards a year’s worth of high masses to be said for the repose of the soul of Louis Robicheaux. Not that I believed it meant anything. But he would have appreciated the irony of my obtaining it. Straightening my jacket, I adjusted my medals, smoothed back my hair and flicked away a miniscule piece of lint from my sleeve. Then I went inside.

* * * * *

It’s the smell that always assails me first. I am very sensitive to smells. I find funeral homes an overpowering mix of perfume and corruption, preservatives and flowers -- and human emotions. Grief, guilt and greed.

A man almost as tall as myself appeared from a side door. His black suit was simple -- not the best quality, nor the worst -- but it fit him properly. White shirt, dark tie -- not black. The undertaker, no doubt. “May I help you, monsieur?”

“The Robicheaux funeral, please.”

He started. My voice often has that effect on people when they first hear it. I am not certain what quality causes it to be so startling. It is deep and, I’ve been told, rather sonorous but other men have deep voices. My French is quite good -- flawless really. And yet, there are some who can detect other traces beneath my accent. Echoes of a language I have not used in a lifetime. And shadings in my timbre that those of my kind often possess.

Taking a step away from me, the man quickly recovered. He gestured, indicating that I should go ahead of him. “Of course. This way, sir.”

Funeral homes these days attempt to actually give the appearance of someone’s home. All they manage to achieve is the effect of a bland middle-class abode with taste purchased directly from the furniture showroom. Very depressing I find it. When I was in my youth -- and for many, many years after that -- wakes were actually held in the home of the deceased. Death as part of life. When did the lines separate so completely? When did this substitution for the warmth and love of your family, the service of your community, become the norm, instead of the exception? So short a time ago it seemed. Less than one hundred years. And yet, I could barely recall it being otherwise. I live so much in the present.

There was a low murmur of voices behind the door marked with a sign that said: “L. Robicheaux.” Such a hum marks the presence of wife, children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews and their children and even, in some instances, their grandchildren. As Claude had noted, there would, however, be very few of Louis’s contemporaries to say farewell. Each year, fewer old soldiers were around to mark the passing of one of their own. Indeed, Louis had lived longer than most. It was often remarked upon that those of our Resistance group who had survived the War managed to live well and healthy beyond their 70s and 80s. It was an oddity that was so noted a reporter had once come asking questions of the old men and women as to why they thought this might be. “Clean living and a righteous cause,” Louis had told the young man, laughing. I had, of course, declined the interview when he contacted me.

Entering the room, I could see the coffin but did not look at Louis’s body. I wanted a few more moments of him in my mind as he had been. The lively, gentle man with a zest for living. The prosperous businessman, the community leader, the loving husband and father. And I remembered the young, vital Louis of the war years, when I had first met him. Filled with the fire of patriotism, the bitterness of having his country betrayed, and a passion for justice. Persuading others to accept me -- to welcome me, even -- into their small and fragile community. Louis had looked past what I was, to what I shared with him. “What does it matter what he is?” he’d railed at his companions. “He has lost as much as we have. He has money. He has resources. And he will fight for France!” And I felt again those bonds that had kept us friends for more than fifty years after the war had ended.

As my gaze sought to settle anywhere but on the coffin, I caught the eye of Eugenie, the widow, seated at the front of the room. She quickly crossed herself and turned away to speak to the woman beside her. I gave a little mental shrug. Eugenie was Louis’s second wife. His first, Marie Celeste Couret, had died almost ten years ago in another accident. She had been made of sterner and more tolerant stuff. But then, she had lived through the Occupation and fought with our unit. She and Louis married three days after the Allies liberated Paris and had lived together almost fifty years with those shared experiences and memories. Whereas, Eugenie was much younger, and had come to the city after the War. She ran a shop near Louis’s home that sold cheese and bread. He’d married her from loneliness. I doubt if she cured it.

“Uncle Jacob?” I turned to see Louis’s sons, the twins, Georges and Michel. “The boys,” as I always thought of them, even though they were now stocky and gray haired and in their fifties. They approached me, as they did most things, together. “It was so good of you to come on such short notice!” They embraced me together, then in turn, kissing both my cheeks. I was touched by their affection and returned their embraces. For the first time since I’d received the news, I felt a thickness in my throat. But I had not cried in many years.

“How could I not have come? I am devastated. Your father was my dearest friend. I appreciate the courtesy of scheduling evening services.” My eyes flicked towards the widow.

The identical frowns the twins gave were almost amusing. “We apologize for any discourtesy shown to you Uncle Jacob.” I knew they were not overly fond of their stepmother, but they were good, polite boys.

They shook their heads and led me further into the room. “We have missed you these many months and had hoped to see you in happier circumstances. Poor Father, to live such a long life and to die in such a way.”

“How could he not have seen the motor?”

“We don’t know. The bastard never stopped for him. And there seems to have been no witnesses to the accident. A woman found him lying in the street and set up a shout. Some of his friends from the café ran out and they called for an ambulance, but he was dead before he arrived at hospital. Ah, here’s Hannah.”

I turned to see Hannah coming towards me with outstretched arms. We embraced silently. I caught her warm and familiar scent and the light trace of the fleur d’lys fragrance she had used since I’d given her a bottle for her twelfth birthday. Hannah was very special to me. Named after my own mother, she was the only godchild I’d ever had. Or was ever likely to have. Ten years younger than the boys, it was still hard for me to think of her as anything other than a little girl, even though she was now in her forties, a wife and mother, and a respected university scholar and lecturer.

I held her at arms’ length to get a better look at her. She looked tired of course, and very sad, but otherwise in good health. She had never been a classic beauty -- whatever that may be -- but her large dark eyes shone with intelligence and humor, and her soft, warm mouth made her very attractive. I noted that she was a little grayer at the temples then when I had seen her last. A little plumper too. I was glad. I detest the hard, dried-out look of middle-aged women these days. As if all the juice of life were squeezed out of them, leaving only the tight, desiccated shells. I find it most... unappetizing.

“Uncle Jacob,” Hannah kissed both my cheeks. “I am so glad to see you. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Such nonsense. Where else would I be? I am pleased to see you looking so well, under the circumstances. It is hard to believe you will soon be a grandmother.”

“Of twins, no less. Lenore is as big as a house, you will see. You look very good too, Jacob. You’ve hardly aged a day. But then, you never do.”

Her brothers frowned at Hannah’s show of dry wit, but I was glad of it. I smiled at her to show the boys my approval. “And I hear that you have been named to the Zola Chair at your university.”

“Ah, yes! But how did you know?”

“Your father told me when last we spoke.” For a moment we were all silent.

Then I said, “I suppose I should speak to Eugenie. Get it out of the way.”

With Hannah on my arm and the boys behind me, I approached the widow. Dressed in a simple black dress, an old-fashioned lace mantilla on her head, she was not an unattractive woman, I suppose. Maybe fifteen years younger than Louis, she had light brown hair and dark blue eyes, a nice complexion. Some thought her a pretty woman, but I was not one of them. Her hair was dyed and stiff with lacquer, and her blue eyes were cold and she smelled of cheese. And of ignorance. Eugenie was basically a peasant, with a peasant’s suspicions and narrow mindedness.

She flinched when she saw me. Superstitious fool. I bowed to her as politely as if she were a countess. “Madame Robicheaux.” She had never been the kind to invite first name intimacy. Nor did I desire it. I offered my hand, but she glanced at it and pointedly did not touch me. I ignored the slight. “I am sorry for your loss. It is my loss too.”

“Why are you here?” She asked through stiff lips. “What do you want?”

“Louis was my oldest friend, madame,” I replied. “Where else should I be?”

“We would not be having this service at this unnatural time if not for you.” Her sharp tone caught the attention of several other people around us. Most of them were not of my acquaintance.

“It is only just past 8.00 in the evening,” I kept my voice low and my tone mild.

Georges and Michel were beside me. “Compose yourself, madame,” they scolded. “My father would have wanted Uncle Jacob here.”

“The way you all behave towards him! Embracing him. Even kissing and hugging him! It is disgusting. It is unholy! The priest will not allow him to come to the mass.”

Hannah frowned at her. “What should he say? That my father’s oldest friend should not attend his funeral?”

“Old!” Eugenie barked. “Hah! Look at him. Just look! He is unnatural.”

Others did turn to look. There was a hush in the room now. I told myself that I was not embarrassed. That I had long ago removed myself from such emotions. Still, it was... awkward. I smoothed my hair back from my temple -- a nervous gesture I have never quite learned to control.

Hannah and the boys flanked me and I felt a bit more comfortable, but also a bit more conspicuous. There was no one of Louis’s generation to speak for me. It was up to Louis’s children; they were now the senior generation. How difficult and sad that must be for them. Yet, they rose to the occasion.

“Do not be any more of a fool than you can help, madame.” So Hannah must speak to her denser students, I supposed. “Jacob Abelard has known my family far longer than you have. In fact, we consider him part of our family and you will not insult him. If you don’t like his presence, feel free to leave.”

“I will not leave!” Her tone rose. “I am Louis’s widow. I know my rights!”

“Oh yes, you know your rights.” Hannah’s tone was pure steel now. “And you shall have them. But in the meanwhile, do not expose your ignorance by speaking of things you don’t understand.” She tugged at my hand, just as she had as a child when she wanted my attention. “Come away, Uncle Jacob. Let us go see my father.”

* * * * *

We stepped up to the coffin. There was a small pre dieu there for a visitor to kneel upon before the body. I did not kneel. I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them to look down at the face of my friend. For an instant I almost did not recognize him. A few months ago, just before I had left Paris, Louis and I had dinner together. He had been alert and healthy, even a little rotund, and had eaten his meal with gusto. This small, silent, still figure bore no more resemblance to my friend Louis than a doll. He looked so... old. I could sense nothing of my friend. I could feel almost nothing. But I could smell the preservatives and chemicals and makeup that were used in the so-called “undertaker’s art.” The taste lingered in the back of my throat and nauseated me slightly.

“I cannot believe that he’s gone,” Hannah sighed beside me. “And in such a way. First Mama in that fall down the stairs, now Papa. I should be grateful we had him as long as we did. Mostly thanks to you, Uncle Jacob. But still,” she patted Louis’s hand, “I wish he could have left us in a more peaceful way. And he had been so agitated for the last few weeks.”

“Agitated? What do you mean?” I looked at her, glad to have an excuse to pull my eyes -- and my sense of smell -- away from the little dried apricot figure in the coffin.

Hannah frowned. “I don’t know. The change might have been very gradual. I only get… got... to see him once a month or so. But on my last visit -- about three weeks ago -- he seemed anxious and even a little uncertain. He jumped whenever the phone rang and looked through the glass to see who was at the door. It was only the postman -- the same one that came every day for the past ten years. That was so unlike Papa. When I asked what was wrong, he told me that he had started seeing people from his past. Then he laughed a bit and said he was getting to be an old man with flights of fancy. But Papa was not exactly.…” She hesitated.

“Imaginative?” I supplied.

Hannah smiled slightly. “Yes, exactly. So something must have happened. He must have seen someone or something, don’t you think?”

“I honestly do not know, Hannah. I spoke to him only two weeks ago, and he didn’t mention anything. Not at all.” I looked again at Louis’s face, but it revealed nothing now. Neither fear, nor peace, nor love. Just... nothing.

I stood in quiet contemplation of my friend for several minutes, aware that there were those in the room observing me, watching my moves. I could sense their attraction and repulsion, smell the fear and the curiosity. With a heavy sigh, I smoothed Louis’s hair and fingered his medals. I leaned over the body and I felt more than heard the horrified gasps behind me. Idiots! What did they think I would do to a dead body -- and the dead body of my dearest friend besides?

Then the whispers started to circle the room, beginning with the widow. The rustling syllabance echoed around the coffin, around me.

Vampire... Unnatural… Vampire... Vampire... Unclean... Unholy.

Vampire.

The widow’s cadre shifted restlessly, uncertain if they should attempt to forcibly remove me from the coffin.

I gently and sadly kissed my old friend Louis on the cold, smooth forehead and then took my time straightening up before turning to face the room. With great care and deliberation I adjusted my medals -- especially the Military Medal of the Resistance -- before stepping away to take Hannah’s hand. We made our way slowly up the aisle, heading towards the outer room.

* * * * *

“That was a nice touch with the medals,” Hannah murmured to me.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered back.

As we moved back through the room, we were surrounded by Louis’s progeny; the children and grandchildren of Hannah and George and Michel, who came to greet me with greater and lesser degrees of enthusiasm. Some shook my hand, others, like Hannah’s son Jean-Louis and his very pregnant wife, Lenore, kissed me. Donna and Ronit, the boys’ wives, spoke to me for a moment and Alain, Hannah’s husband, gripped my hand and arm for a little longer than mere politeness dictated. Adults held up their children, or brought them forward to politely shake my hand. But several of the cousins of Hannah and the boys averted their eyes, or turned away in order not to acknowledge me, pulling their children after them.

Georges and Michel gestured across the room to another man, who joined us. His appearance was familiar to me: strong features, dark curling hair – barely shot through with gray and very thick -- fell over his brow. His swarthy skin and dark moustache made his light gray eyes very startling.

“You must be Monsieur Henri Boscoe,” I greeted him. “Although I have not seen you since you were a child, you look so much like your father, I knew you immediately.”

“Yes, Monsieur Abelard, you are correct. I saw you last when I was fifteen, just going off to school.” He flashed strong white teeth from a full mouth, topped by a neat dark moustache. “I remember you well and my father spoke of you often. I am honored to meet with you again.”

“And how is your father?” I looked around the room expectantly, hoping to see Dominic Boscoe as well. Dominic had been the youngest of our group -- barely into his twenties when the war had ended -- and he surely would not fail to come to the funeral of one of his old comrades. But I did not see him and realized, with a sense of unease, that I had not heard from Dominic Boscoe in several years. I turned back to Henri. “Does your father still live?”

“He does, Monsieur Abelard.” His smile turned bitter. “But it might be better if he did not. He is completely senile now.”

“Senile?” For the second time in the day, I was shocked. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, for almost two years now. It was very sudden. Most likely a stroke, we’ve been told.” A shadow dimmed Henri Boscoe’s brilliant eyes -- exactly like those of his father -- and he suddenly smelled of sadness and fear, with a top note of resignation. Looking at this occasion, he must have realized what lay ahead for his father in the not too distant future. I wondered if there were anything I could do for Dominic, and resolved to call Henri Boscoe later in the week.

Then Henri’s eyes cleared and he looked at me again. “Will you be attending the mass, Monsieur Abelard?”

“You must call me Jacob,” I said. “Indeed, I fully intend to.”

“Perhaps you would care to ride with me in my car? I would like to speak to you afterwards.”

“Why don’t you join me in mine?” I suggested. “Claude shall drive us. He would wish to attend in any event.”

“Thank you, I would be pleased to accept. I will meet you tomorrow at the church then. If you will excuse me... Jacob... I must have a word with Madame Eugenie.”

“Of course, Henri.” Giving a courteous nod, he moved away.

* * * * *

I decided to step outside of the building and take a break for a moment. The evening air had a pleasantly cool tang to it and was refreshing after the closeness of that room full of too many memories and little unhappinesses. I watched strangers whose joys and sorrows were of no interest to me walk by. Inside, there were too many smells mingling and clashing. Out here, the people were too far off to smell of anything other than the faint, warm trace of life and blood.

The little room held too many ghosts. While on the street.... My drifting thoughts came to a crashing halt.

I do not, of course, believe in actual ghosts. But for a stunned moment I thought it was Marie Celeste, Louis’s first wife -- his true wife -- come to claim him and carry him over to the other side.

As the small, dark haired woman came closer, my thoughts steadied and slowed to their normal rate.

“Madeleine Claire!” Hannah’s voice greeted the new arrival warmly as she came through the doorway behind me. “I had just come out to look for you, ma cheri, afraid you could not find your way.”

“I took a cab, Hannah. Not to worry.” The two women kissed cheeks. Then Hannah turned to me.

“Ah, Madeleine, you have not yet met Jacob Abelard. He is my father’s oldest and dearest friend, and my godfather. Jacob Abelard, Madeleine Claire McKenna.”

“Monsieur Abelard.” Her eyes weighed me through the frame of her glasses and then she held out her hand. I shook it very lightly. My touch can be startlingly chill if one is not prepared. But Madeleine’s return grip was firm, if brief. She looked at me, then at Hannah curiously, wondering (I was certain) how I could be Hannah’s godfather.
I studied her in turn. The woman before me was not really a double of Marie Celeste. But there had been something in her walk, her carriage and her dark hair that had tricked my eye.

Madeleine’s hair was the same dark color as Marie Celeste’s and, though cut in a modern no nonsense style, it still managed to float soft and cloud-like around her face, as Marie Celeste’s had always done, no matter how she had pinned it. Behind the frame of her glasses, Madeleine’s eyes were hazel, not dark brown, and she was a bit taller. Still in all, Madeline looked more like Marie Celeste’s daughter than did Hannah, who favored her father’s family. But her smell was unique -- nothing like Marie Celeste’s except in its fullness of flavor. Madeleine wore no perfume other than a mild soap that enhanced her own natural scent: warm with health and vigor, rich and citrusy, like the sensual nights in Tuscany when lemon trees are heavy with fruit. Sharp top notes of intellect and a bottom note of... something else. Something harder to define.

“I have heard Uncle Louis speak of you, Monsieur Abelard, of course,” she continued. Her French was excellent, comfortable even, but with the precision of grammar and pronunciation that is the sure sign of a non-native speaker. “But I was told you were in the war with Uncle Louis and Tante Marie Celeste. You seem very .... uhm..” Her eyes showed further doubt. Then they came to rest upon my medals, the Legion of Honor and the medal of the Hero of the Resistance.

Sensing her confusion, Hannah took the young woman’s arm and we reluctantly returned inside the building. Lingering in the hallway just outside the viewing room, Hannah said, “Madeleine is from America. She is the daughter of Jeanette, my mother’s youngest sister, who went to America after the war when she was just sixteen. So Madeleine -- though quite a bit younger than me -- is actually my first cousin,” Hannah explained the relationship in her concise way. “She is studying now at the Sorbonne.”

“Ah, yes?” I nodded. “What is your area of study?”

At the sound of my voice, Madeleine’s pupils dilated a bit, and she inclined her head, looking at me for a moment. Then she said simply, “I’m working on my doctorate in history.”

Hannah smiled, then she glanced at me and her eyes widened a little with remembrance. “Madeleine spent several weeks talking to Papa this past summer while you were away, Jacob. She even stayed with him for a little while until her flat was ready.”

“Yes,” Madeleine nodded. “He was very kind and interesting, too.” Glancing across the room, her mouth set a little and I could detect mild distaste gently wafting through the otherwise wonderful scent natural to her. “I suppose I should speak with Madame Robicheaux,” she said reluctantly. “She was my hostess, after all. Excuse me please, Hannah. Monsieur Abelard.”

When the girl had walked away, Hannah turned to me. “I should have remembered that Madeleine had spent more time with Papa over the past few weeks than I had. I should ask her if there was something troubling him.”

“Let it pass for the moment, Hannah,” I pressed her shoulder. “You have enough to think about just now. And none of it can matter. I have noticed that Lenore is tired and looking a bit pale and I don’t see Jean-Louis. Perhaps she could use some water.” At once Hannah was full of maternal concern, and bustled away to attend to her daughter-in-law. I did not mention that I fully intended to speak with Mademoiselle Madeleine McKenna on the subject of Louis’s state of mind.

Mademoiselle McKenna returned in short order. “Uncle Louis was a fascinating man,” she immediately picked up our conversation where it had broken off. “I specialize in the history and psychology of resistance movements and guerilla warfare. Of course, my current research is into the maquisard of the French Resistance. Uncle Louis had said he would introduce me to you, Monsieur Abelard. Perhaps when it is possible -- and appropriate -- you could spare me some time for an interview on your part in the Resistance.” Blunt, like so many Americans.

I was saved from an immediate answer. Hannah had returned to my side and lightly touched my arm. “The priest is coming. Father Claussen.”

He was not a priest I knew -- not that I knew very many. From Eugenie’s church, no doubt. Middle-aged, and sleek with it, wearing a cassock and carrying a small leather briefcase. Otherwise, he was non-descript; brown hair, brown eyes. He smelled -- very lightly -- of incense and laundry soap. And more strongly of a top note of obstinacy and, as a bottom note, uncertainty.

Upon seeing the three of us talking in the hallway, he paused for a moment. Nodding to Madeleine, he ignored me (keeping a firm grip upon his crucifix) and addressed himself to Hannah. “Hannah.” He took her hand as if to pat it, but my goddaughter smoothly twisted her wrist so that she could shake his hand. Politely, but briefly. The priest quickly withdrew his hand. “How are you doing, my dear?”

“I’m fine,” Her reply was as brief as her handshake. I could sense that she was in no mood for comforting. “I am sure Madame Robicheaux is awaiting you inside.”

“Of course, of course. I am going in to speak with her right now. We will hold the service until you -- and this young lady, of course -- are in with us.”

“That is kind, but we shall be along shortly. You will not need to wait on our account,” Hannah said blandly, her hand still on my arm. The priest’s eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head, still avoiding my eyes, and went into the viewing room.

“Ah,” Madeleine Claire’s glance followed the priest into the room. “I have missed something interesting, I fear.”

“Not at all, Madeleine,” Hannah said firmly in her best teacher’s voice and turned to me. “Do not feel you have to come inside, Uncle Jacob. You have nothing to prove to any family members. Nor to anyone else.”

“Only to myself, cheri,” I said. “And possibly to Father Claussen. He seems to fear that I will bite him.” Hannah and I smiled and Madeleine looked from one to the other of us.

When we re-entered the room, the priest was still talking to the widow, who was clinging to his arm with one hand, and sniffling into her handkerchief with the other. Hannah rolled her eyes at me, then went to join her husband and son. The priest glanced up and his eyes searched the room, finding me, standing by the doorway. A low tremor and faint odor of anticipation went around the room. Bending again to Eugenie, he nodded his head and opened his briefcase to remove his breviary and rosary, a small vial of holy water. I nodded to him and he fingered his prayer book. Rather nervously, I thought. Making a sign of the cross, he then turned to the address the room at large.

“Let us pray.”

A rustle of clothing and the slight clittering of jewelry as most of the room took out their rosaries and crossed themselves in various styles. Some, following the priest’s example, slowly and deliberately; some as if they were brushing away a fly. Hannah, I noted, did not cross herself. Nor, of course, did I. Father Claussen began the service.

* * * * *

As the litany droned on -- the priest had no style or flare sufficient to hold my attention -- I let my mind and eyes drift. Across the room, Hannah and her husband and children were sitting quietly together, but none of them seemed particularly absorbed in prayer. The twins were praying with the priest, but quietly. The widow was praying loudly and those of her group were joining with her. There were some in the room watching me with interest, to see if the prayers affected me in some way. (Except for boredom, they did not.) When my eyes met those of the curious, their glances quickly slid away.

A soft, slight movement and the hint of citrus, Madeleine Claire was at my side; looking around with quiet interest, not participating in the service. She met my eyes but said nothing.

When the prayers were over, people began saying their farewells. Some went to the coffin again to kneel and some to give a quick glance and cross themselves. Others spoke with Eugenie and gave her their Mass cards. I remembered I still had mine in my pocket. Hannah and her brothers were talking to several other people quietly in a corner. I took my card and went to the front of the room.

“Madame Robicheaux.” Again I bowed and then presented the plain white envelope to her. She did not move, looking at the envelope as if I were offering her a serpent. With a slight lift of my shoulders, I handed the envelope to the priest. He took it as if amazed that I did not collapse from the effect of having a blessed object in my hands. “I will see you tomorrow evening then, Madame.” Brushing off their glares like lint from my sleeve, I took my leave of her.

After a difficult and emotional few moments with the boys and Hannah, I refused their offers of a ride home, or a drink and coffee. Hannah looked exhausted and I knew her brood were all staying with Alain’s parents in the Vicennes and would not want to arrive at the house too late in the evening. The boys were taking their wives and children home to the large houses situated side by side in Compiègne, a good twenty minute drive away. The widow had invited none of the children or their families to stay. And none of Louis’ children seemed too concerned with Eugenie getting home, but then, the flat she had shared with Louis was only a few minutes away, and her friends were with her.

With promises to each other to be in touch throughout the following day, the children got into their cars and drove off, leaving me alone on the sidewalk outside of the funeral home.

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