The wedding was set to take place a month later in the village church. Monique, of course, was to be the maid of honor.
At five o’clock Friday afternoon, Teresa spoke to Raoul for the last time. At twelve-thirty Saturday, standing in the church vestry waiting for Raoul, who was thirty minutes late, Teresa was approached by the priest. He took her arm and led her aside, and she wondered at his agitation. Her heart began to pound.
“What is it? Is something wrong? Has anything happened to Raoul?”
“Oh, my dear,” the priest said. “My poor, dear Teresa.”
She was beginning to panic. “What is it, Father? Tell me!”
“I—I just received word a moment ago. Raoul—”
“Is it an accident? Was he hurt?”
“—Giradot left town early this morning.”
“He what? Then some emergency must have come up to make him—”
“He left with your sister. They were seen taking the train to Paris.”
The room began to whirl. No, Teresa thought. I mustn’t faint. I mustn’t embarrass myself in front of God.
She had only a hazy memory of the events that followed. From a far distance she heard the priest make an announcement to the wedding party, and she dimly heard the uproar in the church.
Teresa’s mother put her arms around her daughter and said, “My poor Teresa. That your own sister could be so cruel. I’m so sorry.”
But Teresa was suddenly calm. She knew how to make everything all right.
“Don’t worry, Mama. I don’t blame Raoul for falling in love with Monique. Any man would. I should have known that no man could ever love me.”
“You’re wrong,” her father cried. “You’re worth ten of Monique.”
But his compassion came years too late.
“I would like to go home now, please.”
They made their way through the crowd. The guests at the church moved aside to let them pass, staring silently after them.
When they returned to the chateau, Teresa said quietly, “Please don’t worry about me. I promise you that everything is going to be fine.”
Then she went up to her father’s room, took out his razor, and slashed her wrists.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Teresa opened her eyes, the family doctor and the village priest were standing alongside her bed.
“No!” she screamed. “I don’t want to come back. Let me die. Let me die!”
The priest said, “Suicide is a mortal sin. God gave you life, Teresa. Only He may decide when it is finished. You are young. You have a whole lifetime ahead of you.”
“To do what?” Teresa sobbed. “Suffer more? I can’t stand the pain I’m in. I can’t stand it!”
He said gently, “Jesus stood the pain and died for the rest of us. Don’t turn your back on Him.”
The doctor finished examining Teresa. “You need to rest. I’ve told your mother to put you on a light diet for a while.” He wagged a finger at her. “That does not include razor blades.”
The following morning Teresa dragged herself out of bed. When she walked into the drawing room, her mother said in alarm, “What are you doing up? The doctor told you—”
Teresa said hoarsely, “I have to go to church. I have to talk to God.”
Her mother hesitated. “I’ll go with you.”
“No. I must go alone.”
“But—”
Her father nodded. “Let her go.”
They watched the dispirited figure walk out of the house.
“What’s going to happen to her?” Teresa’s mother moaned.
“God only knows.”
She entered the familiar church, walked up to the altar, and knelt.
“I’ve come to Your house to tell You something, God. I despise You. I despise You for letting me be born ugly. I despise You for letting my sister be born beautiful. I despise You for letting her take away the only man I ever loved. I spit on You.”
Her last words were so loud that people turned to stare at her as she rose and stumbled out of the church.
Teresa had never believed there could be such pain. It was unbearable. It was impossible for her to think of anything else. She was unable to eat or sleep. The world seemed muffled and far away. Memories kept flashing into her mind, like scenes from a movie.