June 24th, 1892
Dear Maman,
I hope you are well and the garden is still full of roses. Do they bloom now? I used to smell them from the East Wing window when it rained, remember? I miss that smell. The air here smells like shoes and old books and soup that doesn't taste like anything.
I wanted to write to you because I got here safely. The carriage was bumpy and the man who drove it didn't say much. I tried to talk to him about the trees, because there were a lot, but he only grunted. His hat looked like it was too small for his head and he had a big red nose like in the stories.
When we passed a lake, I thought I saw swans, but maybe they were just white rocks. I told them goodbye anyway, just in case.
The school is very big and gray and cold inside. There are high ceilings and everything echoes. The other boys don't really talk to me yet. One of them looked at me funny when I dropped my handkerchief. I picked it up fast so he wouldn't think I was stupid.
There are a lot of doors that stay locked. I think it's to keep us from getting lost, but some of the boys say it's because of the basement. They say something is down there. I heard a scream last night. It sounded like a real scream, not a pretend one. It made my tummy feel sick. I put the blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes closed like when there's thunder. I think the scream stopped, but I couldn't be sure.
One boy, Lucien, said that the school used to be something else before—a hospital, or a jail. He said the bad boys go to the basement. I don't think I'm a bad boy, but it made my hands sweat.
I've been trying to be very good. I say "yes, sir" and "thank you" and I don't cry even when the bed feels like it's made of stone. If I'm good for a long time, maybe I can come back home. You'll tell them, right? That I've changed?
I miss you very much, Maman. I miss your perfume. I used to smell it through the door when you walked by. I liked when you hummed, even when I couldn't see you. It made me feel like I had a real mother, not just a picture in my mind.
Do you still wear that blue dress with the little buttons? The one I saw once when I was small. You looked like a lady in a painting. I used to imagine you brushing my hair with your soft hands.
I hope you aren't mad at me for what happened to the servant. I didn't do anything. I promise. I was just standing there and he looked at me and then he fell. Maybe his heart was tired. Mine feels tired too, but I keep it beating. For you.
Please write back if you can. Or maybe you can send Athan to say hello. Even just for a minute. I'll be good. I promise.
I miss you.
I love you.
I'm trying.
Your son,
Lou
P.S. If I come back, can we have tea together? Just once?
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July 1st, 1892
Château de Vervenne
My dear Louis,
Your letter arrived and I have read it with care. I am pleased to hear that you have arrived safely and that you are doing your best to behave well. That is important, and I encourage you to continue.
You must understand that your new environment is for your benefit. The school has a long-standing reputation for structure and discipline. Many young men have grown strong and capable there, and I expect no less from you.
It is natural to feel uneasy when adjusting to a new place. I would caution you not to listen to idle stories from other boys—children often invent nonsense to frighten one another. Focus instead on your studies, your conduct, and your health.
You ask if you will come home. That is not a question I can answer now. These decisions are made with care, and only time and your progress will determine what is best. For the moment, your place is there.
Athan is doing well. He has been taking his lessons seriously and has been quite helpful around the estate. I will let him know you are thinking of him.
I trust that you will continue to write when you are able. I will read your letters. Please do not expect a reply to each one; the household is busy and my time limited. But I will be informed.
Yours,
Mother
P.S. I have kept the blue dress. It is for formal occasions.
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July 5th, 1892
Dear Maman,
Thank you for writing me back. I read your letter under my blanket with a candle one of the kitchen boys gave me. I was very careful, I promise. I didn't let it drip.
I showed Emile the part where you said the school is for my benefit. He said that was a fancy word for "because they don't want you." But I told him no, that's not true, because you wrote me back and you said you read my letters with care. That means you still think about me.
You said I might not come back. I didn't understand that part. I thought if I was very, very good, I could. Like a reward. That's what you said before when I had to sit quietly in the East Wing. That if I stayed still and behaved, I could earn things. But how long do I have to be good this time? Do you think a year is enough? Or two?
I think about home a lot. I try to picture the sunlight on the walls. I don't really remember the feeling of it anymore. Here, everything is gray. Sometimes I press my face to the window to feel warm air, but it's mostly just wind.
Last night I heard the screaming again. This time it was louder, and it went on longer. Some boys think it's punishment. Some think it's something worse. I don't ask questions because the teachers here don't like it when we ask. They look at you like you're a stain.
I keep trying to remember your perfume. It's hard now. I think I might be remembering it wrong. But I still pretend you're near when I close my eyes. I imagine you in your blue dress, holding my hand, even if I never really remember you doing that.
I'll keep writing. Even if you don't always answer. I'll still try.
Love,
Lou
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July 10th, 1892
Dear Maman,
It's raining here today. The windows shake when the wind hits them, and the sky looks the same color as the stone floors. I watched the drops crawl down the glass for a long time. It made me think of the East Wing, when I used to count the raindrops on the window and pretend they were racing.
I wanted to ask you something, because I don't know who else to ask. What do you do when you feel scared but you can't show it? What do you do when your hands won't stop shaking even if you sit very still?
Sometimes, after lights out, we hear things. Not just screams. Footsteps too. Heavy ones, like someone walking where they shouldn't be. One night I heard something dragging across the floor. Emile said it was probably a mop. But it didn't sound like a mop.
They moved a boy from our dormitory. Jules. Nobody says where he went. His bed is still made but he never came back.
I've been good, I promise. I always say "yes, sir" and I eat everything even when it tastes like wet chalk. I fold my things. I wash my face. I don't talk too much. I even smiled at the teacher I don't like.
But I still feel like something is watching me.
I thought maybe if I wrote to you, you could tell me what to do. You always knew the rules. You always looked so sure. Even when you didn't talk much to me, I knew you were thinking about important things.
Please write back soon. I don't need a long letter. Just one line. Just something to tell me I'm doing alright.
I miss home. I miss Athan. I miss your voice.
Love,
Lou
P.S. Today I found a feather in the courtyard. I kept it in my book so I could show you when I come home.