Julien Rossignol Character Analysis

If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I’d like to be known.

Vianne had been so helpless after Maman’s death. When Papa had sent them away, to live in this small town, beneath the cold, stern eyes of a woman who had shown the girls no love, Vianne had . . . wilted.

In another time, she might have shared with Isabelle what they had in common, how undone she’d been by Maman’s death, how Papa’s rejection had broken her heart.

“Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you [. . .] Isabelle will have her crisis of faith in this, too. As will we all. I have been here before, in the Great War. I know the hardships are just beginning. You must stay strong.”

“You are a foolish girl. Thank God your maman did not live to see who you have become.”

Isabelle hated how deeply that hurt her. “Or you Papa,” she said. “Or you.”

It was all Vianne could do not to say, I’m different now, Papa. I am helping to hide Jewish children. She wanted to see herself reflected in his gaze, wanted just once to make him proud of her.

Vianne heard the confession that lay beneath. He was telling her his own story in the only way he could, cloaked in Isabelle’s. He was saying that he had worried about his choice to join the army in the Great War, that he had agonized over what his fighting had done to his family. He knew how changed he’d been on his return, and instead of pain drawing him closer to his children and wife, it had separated them.

Don’t forget me, Isabelle thought. She wished she had the strength to say it out loud.

“Did Dad know?” Julien asks.

“Your father . . .” I pause, draw in a breath. Your father. And there it is, the secret that made me bury it all.

If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen me instead of a dependable ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I’d like to be known.

Vianne had been so helpless after Maman’s death. When Papa had sent them away, to live in this small town, beneath the cold, stern eyes of a woman who had shown the girls no love, Vianne had . . . wilted.

In another time, she might have shared with Isabelle what they had in common, how undone she’d been by Maman’s death, how Papa’s rejection had broken her heart.

“Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you [. . .] Isabelle will have her crisis of faith in this, too. As will we all. I have been here before, in the Great War. I know the hardships are just beginning. You must stay strong.”

“You are a foolish girl. Thank God your maman did not live to see who you have become.”

Isabelle hated how deeply that hurt her. “Or you Papa,” she said. “Or you.”

It was all Vianne could do not to say, I’m different now, Papa. I am helping to hide Jewish children. She wanted to see herself reflected in his gaze, wanted just once to make him proud of her.

Vianne heard the confession that lay beneath. He was telling her his own story in the only way he could, cloaked in Isabelle’s. He was saying that he had worried about his choice to join the army in the Great War, that he had agonized over what his fighting had done to his family. He knew how changed he’d been on his return, and instead of pain drawing him closer to his children and wife, it had separated them.

Don’t forget me, Isabelle thought. She wished she had the strength to say it out loud.

“Did Dad know?” Julien asks.

“Your father . . .” I pause, draw in a breath. Your father. And there it is, the secret that made me bury it all.