Isabelle Rossignol Character Analysis

If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.

“Ah. Consequences,” Madame said. “Perhaps now you will see that they should be considered.”

“I’m just tired of the war talk. And it’s a fact that women are useless in war. Your job is to wait for our return.”

“Something like that. But like I said, a nice girl like you wouldn’t know anything about survival.”

“You’d be surprised the things I know, Gaëtan, There is more than one kind of prison.

The smell preceded them. Human sweat and filth and body odor. As they neared, the miasma of black separated, peeled into forms. She saw people on the road and in the fields, walking, limping, coming toward her. Some were pushing bicycles or prams or dragging wagons. Dogs barked, babies cried. There was coughing, throat clearing, whining. They came forward, through the field and up the road, relentlessly moving close, pushing one another aside, their voices rising.

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.”

She felt conspicuous in her ragged, snagged brown pants and woolen coat. Her cheeks were windburned and scratched and her lips were chapped and dry. But the real changes were within. The pride of what she’d accomplished in the Pyrenees had changed her, matured her. For the first time in her life, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She was wiser than she’d been before. Now she knew how fragile life and love were. Maybe she would love him for only this day, or maybe for only the next week or maybe until she was an old, old woman. Maybe he would be the love of her life . . . or her love for the duration of this war . . . or maybe he would only be her first love. All she really knew was that in this terrible, frightening world, she had stumbled into something unexpected.

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.

If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are.

“Ah. Consequences,” Madame said. “Perhaps now you will see that they should be considered.”

“I’m just tired of the war talk. And it’s a fact that women are useless in war. Your job is to wait for our return.”

“Something like that. But like I said, a nice girl like you wouldn’t know anything about survival.”

“You’d be surprised the things I know, Gaëtan, There is more than one kind of prison.

The smell preceded them. Human sweat and filth and body odor. As they neared, the miasma of black separated, peeled into forms. She saw people on the road and in the fields, walking, limping, coming toward her. Some were pushing bicycles or prams or dragging wagons. Dogs barked, babies cried. There was coughing, throat clearing, whining. They came forward, through the field and up the road, relentlessly moving close, pushing one another aside, their voices rising.

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.”

She felt conspicuous in her ragged, snagged brown pants and woolen coat. Her cheeks were windburned and scratched and her lips were chapped and dry. But the real changes were within. The pride of what she’d accomplished in the Pyrenees had changed her, matured her. For the first time in her life, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

She was wiser than she’d been before. Now she knew how fragile life and love were. Maybe she would love him for only this day, or maybe for only the next week or maybe until she was an old, old woman. Maybe he would be the love of her life . . . or her love for the duration of this war . . . or maybe he would only be her first love. All she really knew was that in this terrible, frightening world, she had stumbled into something unexpected.

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.