A Second Life
Chapter 1
Philippe waited until his daughter left the house. She would not want him to do this. She would want him to stay in bed. He thought, “She is worse than an army general.” He knew that he would have to disobey her orders. It was time.
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He sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and gazed across the fertile land that had for so long been the life, and soul, of the Marchand family. He thought, “This is the land that I, and my father, and my father’s father, tilled. This life is ending, as is my life.” He took a deep breath and began the task that he had been dreading.
He did not bother to get dressed. He limped to the hall area, reached for the rope, pulled down the access ladder that led up to the attic, and climbed the stairs. He stopped halfway up to catch his breath. He, then, pulled himself to the floor of the attic, rested again, turned on the light and looked around. He spotted the small leather suitcase.
The last time he had opened the suit case was when he replaced the chess set - it seemed like an eternity ago – when Robert was here with Madeleine – it was, in fact, twenty-two years.
His fading memory became vivid. He recalled the time when he and a surprise visitor, Robert, had enjoyed their time playing chess. He remembered how happy his daughter was. He had hoped that Robert would have returned to be with Madeleine. He had wondered why Madeleine did not inform Robert that he was a father of a beautiful son. But she, for her own good reason, did not do that. Philippe had admonished her - before he went to heaven, (Philippe was a man of deep faith and this was the expression that he used to describe his passing), “When I go to heaven, take your son to meet his father in America.”
He lifted the lid of the suitcase, took out the chess set, dusted it off and looked for the book. He found it under some papers, retrieved it, dusted it off, crawled back to the attic entrance and turned out the light. He rolled over on his stomach, secured his foot on the top rung of the ladder and slowly climbed down. He released the ladder to return it to a position not quite flush with the ceiling.
Philippe carried the book and the chess set to the kitchen table. He placed the chess set aside and opened the book. Then he rested his head on his hands. The parchment pages had turned yellow. He read the writing on the first page: Louis Marchand, 1822, Thomas Marchand, 1865, Raymond Marchand, 1905, and finally, his own name, Philippe Marchand, 1950, each written in their own handwriting. He began to read the writing of Louis Marchand.
His breathing was heavy. He felt a pressure to his chest; he was not worried; he had experienced the chest pain quite often recently. But then the pain grew worse. Fear came over him. He managed to get to the kitchen counter where he found a note pad and a pen. He returned to the table and scribbled two notes. He called out in desperation for his daughter, “Madeleine, Madeleine.” He clutched at his chest and then fell - his arms reached out over the table, his hands covering the book, as if to protect the secrets within. Finally, Philippe Marchand, the peasant farmer, the last male descendant of Louis Marchand, aide to Napoleon, took his last breath.
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Madeleine returned home from her errand. She started, “Papa, do you…” She did not complete the sentence. Philippe Marchand was slumped over the table. Madeleine walked over to him; ran her fingers through his hair and thought, “He always had nice hair.” She continued, “Papa, do you want coffee?” Tears streamed down her face as she poured two cups of coffee, as she always did, both black as he liked it. She sat at the table, sipped her coffee – and thought, “He’s with Mama now.”
Thus, with this event - the end of the life of Philippe Marchand, a story that had been waiting impatiently, was allowed to be told.