The Flood-Tide by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Author:Cynthia Harrod-Eagles [Harrod-Eagles, Cynthia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Historical
ISBN: 9780751506464
Google: Cl5lGwAACAAJ
Amazon: 075150646X
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 1985-01-02T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

He was lost, lost, utterly lost and deranged. He moved in a daze, and sometimes things impinged on him with the mad clarity of a dream, so that he seemed to be outside himself, watching himself moving in that dream. There were other people, too, coming and going inexplicably, as if emerging from a mist and disappearing again. Duncan was there, God knew how, arranging things, talking to him, though Henri could not understand the words. There was Madame Homard, looking horribly old and broken, as if some plug had been pulled inside her, and the life was draining out. There was Monsieur Homard, weeping like a child, and then rushing at Henri with his fists flailing absurdly, crying out and abusing him; and Henri could only stand and let him strike, not minding the blows, unable to tell him that he could not hear or feel him, until Duncan took him away.

There were the two old women who came to do things to Madeleine's body, and then for a moment Henri broke through the mist, and pushed them away, and tried to lift Madeleine in his arms to keep her from them. It was Duncan who restrained him, unclasped his hands, led him away and gave him brandy, talking, talking all the time but never saying anything. Neighbours came and went, and a priest, and an old priest who was Madeleine's godfather, whom Henri tried to thank, but without making any sense.

The strangeness lasted until the day of the funeral. Duncan must have arranged all that, too, for Henri knew nothing about it until he found himself inside the church with the coffin, black-palled and flower-decked, standing on a trestle before him. There was Duncan at his elbow, as always.

‘What church is this?' he asked.

‘St Germain-des-Pres,' Duncan told him, and Henri heard him, though for a moment, in his confusion, he thought of the Chateau of St Germain, and his grandmother, and he thought it was her funeral. Then he understood.

‘Madeleine,' he cried out suddenly, and Duncan held his arm.

‘Hush, the guests are arriving. Everything is all right.’

Henri tried to take hold of himself. The confusion had dispersed like mist, he knew everything, remembered everything, and the pain was terrible. Madeleine had removed the bulwark he had placed between himself and the chaos within him, and then had removed herself, leaving him alone with the knowledge of what he was. His grandmother had not needed to remind him of his shameful birth. All his life he had struggled against the knowledge that he was unlawfully got, that he had been his mother's shame and her death, his grandmother's burden, the family's dark secret, hurried away into obscurity; he was ignominy; he was an outcast. She had warned him again and again, thinking his fault was too much pride, not realizing that he had built up an edifice in which to live because the truth was too hard to bear. It had been a good façade, it had deceived everyone, even himself - everyone except Madeleine.

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