April 29, 1926

I dare not speak of my husband’s abuse. Not anymore, not after the last time I broke my arm tumbling down the stairs, silly me!

I’m not sure how many people I managed to convince. I would have made a terrible actress, I believe.

But our dear neighbor Madame Chappelle said she would be delighted to take my little boy, Peter, with her to the country to visit her sister’s family. Madame Chappelle also has a niece that is just about Peter’s age, though I’m not sure how well they will get along. Peter can be a bit rough, but I hope a nice, calm month out in the country will do him good. The clean air will help his bruises heal, and the near-solitude will help to heal the pain his father has inflicted.

Monsieur Brunet did not want him to go, on the basis that he would miss far too much schooling, but dear Madame Chappelle spoke up and assured him that her niece’s tutor would be more than willing to assist Peter with his studies.

May 8, 1926

I received a darling letter from Peter just this morning—apparently he is quite taken with a Monsieur Monet that has been visiting Madame Chappelle. Monsieur Monet is an artist, he says, and even though his paintings aren’t so interesting, “on account of their being full to the brim with poppies and the like,” (How very like the little boy I know and love!) Monsieur Monet tells the most enthralling war stories. Of course, Madame Chappelle assures me that not only are they fallacies, but she is keeping a close eye on Peter to ensure that he does not take them to heart and do anything foolish.

May 17, 1926

I received more letters from John and Madame Chappelle several days ago, but my own Monsieur Brunet deigned to keep them from me until I proved myself to him. Sometimes I long to leave and never return, and other times I wish I could strike him over the head with a lamp, however barbaric it may seem. These past few days have invoked some of the more barbaric tendencies within me, but I have managed to resist and hold my tongue these long days. Just tonight, Monsieur Cooper announced that I was, once again, the perfect wife and will be receiving the letters in the morning.

My weekly visits to the confessional have become biweekly, I’m sorry to say. I dislike it so when he hurts me, but I dare not show any emotion, lest he take it as disrespect. Only with Father Joseph can I release my frustrations and tears.

May 19, 1926

Yesterday Monsieur Brunet changed his mind about giving me the letters, but this morning he finally handed them to me. I waited until he’d forgotten about them, then excused myself and found a quiet room in which to open them and read in peace.

Monsieur Monet is painting a picture, and my Peter is to be in it! Peter is not nearly as excited about it as Madame Chappelle and I are, and finds the whole thing rather dull. He would much rather spend the time by the creek or playing with his toy soldiers. But he and Madame Chappelle stand in the foreground, in the middle of a delightful poppy field behind the house, and Madame Chappelle’s sister and niece hover in the background, at the top of a small hill that is covered in marvelous red flowers.

I do hope I’ll be able to see it.