22 | Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid

                                    

                                          
Celeste
"MY SWEETEST ANGEL, what would you like to break our fast? Perhaps un croissant, un café, or une pomme?" Jacques appeals lovingly, with a brief squeeze of my hand. "You deserve the grandest feast in the world, after all." 
Lying in his arms, I feel safe from the ghosts of my past. 
Now that I am a married woman, I understand perfectly what poets and novelists describe as pure love. The feeling of being held and cherished by the one you love most in the world is an indescribable but remarkable feeling. Possessing the knowledge that they will be yours forever and you will be theirs is magical. Whatever troubles we may face in this life, we will face together. There is nothing like it.
Jacques's eyes graze mine, sending shivers up my spine. 
I do not know if I will ever tire of my husband's playful smile, his boyish jokes or his expressive green eyes.
"And later, some mousse with fraises?" He continues, disregarding my reverie. 
I have rarely tasted anything close to what he is describing, except for once, when André indulged me in du chocolat, an expensive delicacy only served at court and the finest restaurants in Paris. He had purchased it for me after one of father's violent tirades. 
Remembering the anecdote, I realize how little I have thought of my old friend André since I fell in love with my husband. But the love I share with Jacques is far superior to anything I may have felt for André. 
"Jacques, you know you are not a wealthy nobleman. Even if we were in Paris, we would surely be left on the streets, begging for scraps of bread," I tease, running my hands along the remarkable contours of his face.
I doubt I will ever grow tired of Jacques's beautiful face, either. 
His laughing green eyes always seem to captivate and trap me spellbound, no matter how many times I look into them, much like a favourite song or book. 
He returns my affectionate touch with an overpowering kiss, leaving me out of breath and longing for another.
I want to enjoy our time together, though I cannot banish the image of the wretched slave owner Alan Bouchard from my memory. Imani's warning remains inseparable from my thoughts, and I worry ceaselessly that one day the slave owner will disturb our newfound domestic tranquility. Besides, Imani has to endure a painstaking voyage to reach her family—and I may never know how she fares.
Jacques pulls my attention back to him by tickling the base of my neck. "I know, but we are in love, are we not? Who says we aren't strolling hand in hand in île Saint-Louis? Or, eating pine nut candies cross from la Seine? You know what they say, the French are the most romantic people in the world. Consider the poets Marot, Labé and Scève. They and countless others have created love and romance out of thin air. So we also can make a romance for ourselves here amid this colony."
I am more surprised by Jacques every hour I know him. He is intelligent and educated despite his rank, and could have been one of the great poets or intellectuals he speaks of. 
"Oh Jacques," I sigh, as he cradles my head in his chest. 
I feel a peculiar combination of comfort and nostalgia encompass my innermost feeling for a moment. 
I remember strolling by the Seine with Papa. It was when I was still small and rather optimistic, when Papa's absences lasted for no longer than a day or two, and his disappointments expressed only in hurtful remarks. He would return with gifts and a lack of money, but as he was before he left, cheerful and quick to promise things I knew would never be fulfilled.