Page 19 of The Priest

Groaning, I head south. My hands ache from the weight of the bags and my legs grow stiff. Why did I plan so poorly? Why must I always be so impetuous? I’m the one who got us captured in Paris once before. I’m the one who led Edouard astray. I’m the one who never thought to insist we use some kind of protection, though I’m not even sure what we could have used since it’s illegal. I set my bags down and press a hand to my stomach. “Sorry,” I whisper, as if our child has heard my thoughts. “I don’t regret you. I don’t regret any of it. I’m just tired.”

The sun has set by the time I reach the Place du Bastille and I still have no idea where, precisely, this church is. I stop for dinner, spending money I really don’t have on food. I think the meal will rejuvenate me but when it’s through I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.

I ask directions from the waiter and am told the church is another five blocks away. I pick up my aching feet and begin to move again, more slowly now. I want to weep with relief when it finally comes into sight, but arriving also reminds me that I’m no closer to finding Edouard than I was when I left this morning. Suddenly it feels as if I don’t have the energy to walk the last thirty yards. I want to sink to the ground and weep like a child.

I picture my mother here. It will all be better in the morning, she would say, the way she used to when I was young and overwrought. My eyes sting at the memory of her. What would she have to say about me now, wandering Paris alone, pregnant with the child of the village priest? It’s not the glorious future she saw for me, I’m sure.

A hand wraps around my elbow. “Can I help you, miss? You look lost.”

The words are inoffensive, but the man’s eyes are beady and his grip is rough. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He doesn’t relinquish my arm. “Come with me. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be wandering at this hour.”

I pull but he holds fast. “Please let go of my arm. I’m not in need of assistance.”

“I’ll decide what you need,” he says, stepping closer. “Come now. No need to make a fuss. I’m just trying to help you.”

He tugs me in the direction opposite the church, and I panic. Already I’m thinking of the months Amelie and I were held captive, and though I know I’m not reliving it and I know I can escape from him if necessary, I panic.

“Let me go!” I scream. I stomp on his foot and he raises a fist.

Before it can land, a large hand is wrapped around the man’s neck.

It takes me a moment to realize my rescuer is Edouard.

“How dare you?” Edouard roars. His fist hits the man square in the jaw, and my assailant stumbles and then runs.

It’s only then that Edouard turns to me then, his eyes wide and shocked. “Thank God I found you,” he groans. He reaches out, as if he will wrap his arms around me, and then stops himself.

His hand lands on my upper arm, the way it might an old friend’s. That’s when I finally take in his black shirt, his white priest’s collar, the strain on his face. My stomach dives as I realize he doesn’t want to be seen holding me. The priesthood still comes first, even here in Paris where no one knows us.

Henri was right. He always could have left. He just chose not to .

“Still a priest, I see.” My voice trembles.

He flinches. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk without being seen.”

I give the smallest shake of my head. If he’s chosen the priesthood, that’s really all I need to know and I’m not sure I will survive hearing apologies fall from his lips. “How did you find me?”

“Someone in the monsignor’s office called to say a woman from Saint Antoine was looking for me, and she thought you might be here. But God, Marie, what were you thinking? You shouldn’t have come.”

It feels like I’ve been hit. My hand closes around the sharp pain in my throat, the urge to cry. “You’re right. I should not have come. I see that now.” I take a step backward.

His teeth sink into his lip. “Marie, I think you misunderstand me,” he says softly, urgently. “Come with me and I’ll explain.”

He flags down a cab and we ride in strained silence. The driver’s eyes flicker to his mirror every other second. A handsome young priest and a pretty girl on the cusp of tears are enough to pique anyone’s interest, I imagine. But out of view, Edouard’s hand slides over mine.

I don’t know what to make of any of this. He came for me – was he just worried I might damage his reputation? But then he defended me. Edouard, who doesn’t believe in violence, punched someone on my behalf, which must mean he cares. But then he refused to touch me afterward, which must mean he intends to remain a priest.

I’ve longed for him and now I only want to be alone, to weep and weep until I have no more tears left. I pull my hand away and let my head press to the window, taking small shallow breaths to hold myself together.

I should not have come. He doesn’t need to know about the baby. I’ll go on to England and raise the child there. Given the war, no one will question a young widow with a small child.

“I’m going home.” I lean toward the driver. “We will pass Gare du Nord, yes?” I ask him. “Can you drop me there?”

“No,” says Edouard, more forcefully than he’s ever spoken to me or anyone else. “Go directly to St. Ambrose.”

The driver looks at us both in the mirror and nods. Like any good Frenchman, he’s unable to deny a priest.