The French House

by Helen Fripp

  Nicole took it and introduced herself, captivated.

  Thérésa Tallien – the legend! Her short hair and red ribbon was called coiffure à la victime. A close shave with the guillotine indicated good breeding in Paris and the fashion was to flaunt it. Everyone knew about Napoléon’s wife, Joséphine Bonaparte, and her friend Thérésa. Queens of the Paris salons. Thérésa had scandalously divorced her second husband, and had at least eight children by about three different men. In 1794, Thérésa and Joséphine had been jailed in a filthy cell at La Petite Force for seventeen days, waiting for the guillotine. The story went that her lover, Jean-Lambert Tallien, stabbed Robespierre to death with a Spanish dagger, a gift from Thérésa. Jean-Lambert was now a national hero for the overthrow of the guillotine’s biggest advocate. Since then, Thérésa was known as ‘Notre Dame de Thermidor’, but even murder was not enough to snare this exotic butterfly. She bored of Tallien and divorced him, setting herself free to roam around with Joséphine and Napoléon in outrageous fashions, with rings on her toes. Nicole stayed put, fascinated.

  ‘Do you, darling?’ Thérésa asked.

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Deal in men, of course. What else? Don’t think I didn’t spot you, holding those poor men in your spell.’

  Nicole laughed. ‘Wine’s my trade. These men are from the tasting committee. They begrudgingly allow me to talk to them about business.’

  ‘Nonsense, you have them all enthralled.’

  Her Spanish accent rolled the words like hot coals and she had the straightest, whitest row of teeth. She pointed to Napoléon with a long fingernail. ‘He favours Moët’s champagne. Never stops talking about the fine bubbles, the taste of France. Joséphine and I must have polished off crates of it just between the two of us. It really is the only drink a lady should consider. Which is why I drink whisky.’

  Nicole spat her wine out laughing.

  François appeared at her side. ‘Spitting!’ he said proudly. ‘Not content with instructing the wine committee, I hear you have pressed your superior knowledge on our illustrious leader. I hope your harsh words won’t ruin us.’

  Thérésa gave him an intense stare. ‘Who’s this you’ve been hiding all evening? Do you know each other, because if not, I suggest you make sure you do.’

  ‘My husband, François.’ She introduced her new friend to him.

  ‘Oh, you’ve bagged him already. Well done, my dear, your impeccable taste clearly stretches beyond the vineyards. In that case, I’ll leave him to you.’

  ‘If I didn’t have to spend so much time cleaning up after my wife’s loose tongue, I’m sure I’d find the time to get to know you better, Madame Tallien.’

  ‘Next time I need someone to put Joséphine’s husband in his place, I’ll know where to send him. Nicole seems very keen on this wine business of yours, but I fear Napoléon has been a bit of an irritation to her plans.’

  ‘And mine,’ said François. ‘All our most lucrative markets abroad are closed to us.’

  ‘Then I will have to make up for my friend’s bad manners. I’ll introduce you, mes amours. There are crates of champagne sloshing around at every salon I go to in Paris. A vivacious country girl and a handsome husband, making their own champagne. They’ll adore you. I’ll send for you as soon as I can arrange it. That’s a promise.’

  ‘The Paris markets are the dream for us. We do have some contacts, but an introduction from you would be wonderful,’ smiled Nicole, slightly mesmerised by this beguiling woman. With a recommendation from the notorious, glittering Madame Tallien, their troubles could be over.

  ‘I break my marriage vows every now and then, any sensible girl should, but I never break a promise to friends. Now, I suggest you take your wife to the dance floor before she’s stolen away from under your nose.’

  The room whirled as they danced. The prospect of introductions from the queen of Paris society would be a godsend, if they could find anything in the cellars to sell. The new hope buoyed up François, who was in wild spirits.

  When Nicole was too dizzy to dance any more, they stepped outside for some air. A big orange harvest moon hung in the sky and the stars were bright and clear.

  ‘Let’s spend the night in the hut, my firefly. We can share my horse and Josette can watch Clémentine.’

  Yes, thought Nicole. With Paris secured, why not forget their cares for a while with a night at their secret hideaway?

  The horse galloped through the dusky vineyards, the moon lighting their way until they arrived at the shepherd’s hut. The room was prepared as it had been on their wedding night. All the lanterns were lit and the bed piled up with furs, the samovar bubbling and a fire in the grate.

  ‘You planned this!’

  ‘Our anniversary. Did you forget again, Babouchette? Too busy with your head in those ledgers.’

  The gifts he’d given her before the ball made sense now – how could she have forgotten?

  ‘Shut up and kiss me.’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘It’s cold.’ He turned away. ‘I’ll make us a hot toddy.’

  She took the glasses, disappointed. ‘What’s the matter? Your hands are shaking so much the glasses are clinking. Here, let me help you. Get under the covers.’

  She got in next to him, put her head on his chest and gazed up at the stars. He was ice cold, even under a pile of furs. A fixed roof would help on this derelict old place. What were they thinking, dashing here on an unseasonably cold night?

  ‘See that one, straight above? Orion, the hunter. The three vertical stars are his sword. I used to think while he was in the sky that I was protected, but I’m not so sure now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His voice was distant; something wasn’t right.

  She turned to kiss him, but he was already asleep, his breathing shallow and fitful. Clouds covered the moon and the sky turned damp grey. François shuddered in his sleep. She pulled the covers up to his chin and wished they were at home with a fire burning.

  Sleep eluded her. Nicole got up, walked out into the night air so she could think, stumbling while her eyes got used to the dark.

  They’d ploughed everything they had into the business. Regret was useless, but it caught in her throat, weighed her shoulders. Things hadn’t ever been this bad.

  She kept walking. Owls called unspoken regrets into the night. Dawn was a watery streak in a grey sky, revealing shrivelled vine leaves and dried-out grapes.

  She trudged back to the hut and touched his cheek to gently wake him. Brushing a fly from his eye, she gasped. It was wet. She bent closer. Blood! She grabbed a lantern and held it close to his face. He was crying blood! She pulled him upright. He slumped to the side. She shook him. He grunted, but didn’t wake. She dabbed the blood with her dress.

  ‘François! François, for God’s sake, wake up,’ she whispered. Then screamed. ‘Help! Someone. Help us!’

  A flock of starlings screeched overhead.

  She ran to the door. Thank God, workers were moving amongst the vines. ‘Help!’

  A figure came running, brandishing a stick. Xavier. She dragged him to François.

  ‘Christ.’ He felt for a pulse and crossed himself. ‘Jesus Christ. Holy mother of God. Stay with him. I’ll get the doctor.’

  ‘Hurry!’ she croaked.

  She warmed him with her body. Covered his hands with hers, entwined her legs with his. He didn’t move. She prayed. She cried. The embers hissed and spat. The starlings shifted direction in the sky. She knew then his soul was leaving. She pressed her body tighter against his.

  ‘Don’t go, François. Stay with me.’

  Then she saw it, on the ground next to the bed. An empty phial of rat poison.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, François.’

  She checked herself. Just a coincidence. Everyone kept rat poison somewhere on their property.

  Horses’ hooves threw up dust at the door. She shoved the phial under the bed.

  The doctor rushed in. Warm hands helped her
up.

  ‘Let me look at him, Madame.’

  He tried to rouse François, listened for his heart, felt his pulse, on one wrist, then the other. He turned to face Nicole and shook his head gravely.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her knees gave way as she tried to push past the doctor to reach his lifeless body.

  Xavier helped her up and led her gently to the fire. ‘Let him do his work.’ He kept his hand on her shoulder, bowing his head.

  The doctor pulled away the bedclothes, unbuttoned François’ waistcoat and shirt. She gasped. Black spots covered his skin.

  ‘Typhoid, Madame. A classic case.’

  She hid her face in Xavier’s jacket. He hadn’t taken the poison, she couldn’t have prevented it and he didn’t want to leave her, but what difference did it make now?

  The doctor continued, ‘The black spots, the bleeding. It’s very contagious. It’s taken half the camp of soldiers out on the plain. It’s the close quarters that spreads it. I’m so sorry, Madame Clicquot. It comes quickly. Xavier will take you home. Leave the rest to me. I will prescribe something to help you sleep.’

  ‘You’re not the usual doctor.’ Why did she care about that now when her world had just fallen apart?

  ‘Doctor Moreau. Xavier knows me and you can leave everything with me. Your family doctor is away, I’m afraid. Now sleep.’

  The sleeping powder drained her strength, but Nicole couldn’t sleep and the tears wouldn’t stop. Clémentine’s hand turned cold in hers as she muttered about heaven and a deathly reunion.

  ‘Will he come back?’ she asked, her voice quavering.

  ‘No, sweetheart. He won’t come back.’

  ‘Why do you look sad? I’m scared. I want Papa!’

  ‘Come here, Mentine. Just give me a cuddle.’

  Mentine was rigid in her arms.

  Sleep came, then went. Every time she woke, she remembered, and it broke her anew. When her parents arrived, they prised Mentine’s fingers off her, took her away and sent her to bed, tucking the sheets in tight as a grave.

  Nicole woke at dawn. François was there in the half-light. She reached out but he was gone. Shadows breathed loneliness. Among it all, a question like an alarm bell clanging inside her head.

  Rain battered down all day, lashed the windows all night. Nicole flung the sleeping powder in the bin. Useless. No powder could smudge reality. A lit candle chased away the shadows. She blew it out, in case he was there, in the darkness, needing her. The night of Moët’s ball turned to nightmares. She hadn’t noticed enough, too busy showing off to Napoléon, not seeing his suffering. God didn’t care about her prayers for sleep, and the night stretched into longing.

  The next day dawned, dragging up a weak, reluctant sun, the rain still falling in rods. She was in their grand town house – she couldn’t bear to visit their little sunlit house in Bouzy where they had been so happy – so she could slip straight into town unnoticed, and find out the answers to her burning questions. If she left now, the household would still be asleep.

  She scrabbled in her drawer for her black veil and slipped out of the back door. The rain froze her dress to her skin; her heartbeat churned in her ears. She laboured through the familiar streets, now unfamiliar, as on the day of the revolution. A new, dangerous place.

  She hurried to the side of town, where human waste ran in the gutters, and hunted down the sign, a skull and crossbones. Inside, a pockmarked girl with scarred hands emerged from behind the counter.

  ‘A bottle of rat poison, for an infestation in my daughter’s room.’

  The girl clucked in sympathy and reached to the top shelf. ‘This should do it, Madame. A few drops where they’re entering the room and a few near the droppings.’ She flicked a clean sheet of paper over on the pad and licked her pencil. ‘Address so we can clean up when they’re dead? Two francs extra. Well worth it.’

  ‘No need. My stable boy knows what to do. There is something that worries me, though: my daughter’s very young. What would happen if she ate some by mistake?’

  ‘Make sure she doesn’t, Madame, it’s horrible. I’ve seen it myself. Blood out of your eyes, the flesh on the body bruised as a plum with black marks. We advise moving out of the room during the treatment, Madame.’

  Nicole pressed a coin on the counter, took the poison and fled. Outside, she retched, poured the poison over her vomit and watched it snake into the open sewer. She fumbled for a lavender bag, choked back more bile and tears and stumbled on. Somehow she got back to the square. The stalls were out, the cathedral still there, just a normal day.

  The same symptoms. Would things have been different if she hadn’t left him in the night?

  Chapter 6

  Wax Tears

  December 1805

  Revolutionary date: Frimaire, year XIV

  The marble entrance hall of their house in town was filled with irises. He was waiting for her, with armfuls more of them, rain lashing the windows. Her heart filled, but then he was crying, tears of blood sliding down his gaunt cheeks.

  Nicole woke with a start, rolled onto his side of the bed. Dead four months. Today was his thirty-first birthday.

  Mentine was humming in the bedroom next door. When was the last time she had held her daughter? She couldn’t remember. Dragging herself out of bed, she peeped through the crack. Mentine was having a tea party in the nursery with the Russian dolls François had given her, a little cake in front of the father.

  ‘Happy birthday, Papa,’ her little daughter voiced.

  ‘You remembered! Blue and gold onions. Yum, my favourite. How did you know they tasted of sugar?’ said the papa doll.

  ‘You told me yesterday, silly, so I flew to Russia and got them in a purple field.’

  Mentine lifted the mother and child dolls and huddled them together against the father, then poured them each a cup of tea.

  When Nicole went in, Mentine slid the papa under the table and carried a cup to Nicole, face scrunched in concentration, slopping water.

  ‘We’re having a party. Tea, Madame?’

  Nicole sipped the tea. ‘Delicious. Good job I’m so little. I can fit into the Mummy’s chair.’

  ‘Would you care for cake, Madame?’

  ‘Merci, ma petite,’ said Nicole. ‘Is it someone’s birthday?’

  ‘No. Me and Josette made it for fun. It’s chocolate.’

  ‘Doesn’t Papa want some?’

  ‘He’s not at this party.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s in Russia. He’ll be back next year,’ she said firmly.

  Nicole picked up the doll from under the table and put him back in his chair.

  ‘Oh, look. He’s back now.’

  ‘No!’ Mentine flung it across the room. The doll broke in half and she stamped her foot. ‘You’ll be sad and go away and I want you to stay and play.’

  ‘I’ll stay and I won’t be sad, I promise.’ But Nicole felt that her heart would snap.

  ‘Don’t talk about Papa!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It makes you sad. I’m not allowed.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘Do you want strawberries or tomatoes and jam on your bread?’

  ‘Hmm, tomatoes and jam, I think. Sit on my knee and we’ll eat them together. I’m not sad now, am I? You make me happy.’

  Mentine cuddled in. Her warm little body felt so sweet, and Nicole stiffened against a threatening tear.

  ‘Now you’re sad. Everyone always lies to me!’

  ‘I’m sad that Papa isn’t here and so are you, but that’s all right. You can be happy and sad at the same time. The good thing is, we have all the special memories of Papa between us. Let’s make a new rule, ma petite. From now on, we start and finish each day by talking about Papa. You go first.’

  ‘He crossed his eyes and fell over and made me laugh,’ began Mentine, entering into the spirit of this new game.

  ‘He told us what all the stars in the sky were called.’
<
br />   ‘He kissed you and it was disgusting!’ Mentine giggled.

  ‘He took you riding on his fastest horse.’

  ‘He made up stories about cats.’

  ‘It’s his birthday today,’ said Nicole.

  ‘I made him a cake.’

  ‘His favourite is sweet blue and gold onions, isn’t it?’

  ‘How did you know?’ Mentine’s eyes were round with astonishment, and Nicole’s heart melted.

  ‘Of course we both know. He was your papa and my husband and he belonged to us both. Between us we can remember everything and never forget him.’

  Nicole picked up the doll, pieced it back together and replaced it at the table, swallowing a lump of grief.

  ‘See? I’m not crying. You can talk about your papa whenever you like. Sometimes we will be happy and sometimes we’ll be sad, but I’ll never go away from you again, Mentine. Now, I’ve got a good idea. Let’s go to Natasha’s and buy a real cake. We can celebrate together, just you and me, and talk about the things we remember.’

  ‘Yes please, Maman! Can I choose? Can I hold your hand all the way there? Can we skip?’

  ‘All of those things.’

  How could everything be the same? She hadn’t been to the boulangerie since François had died, but here it was, the long swirl of the brass handle polished to within an inch of its life, the big wooden door and brass step scrubbed, and a brazen display of patisseries in the window.

  ‘Bonjour, Nicole,’ Natasha said stiffly.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  She hadn’t seen her friend since the funeral. Natasha hadn’t visited once, and on one rare occasion when she had ventured out, to breathe the outside air and escape the ghosts in the house, Natasha had crossed the road to avoid her. Nicole didn’t have the strength to question Natasha on her unaccountable behaviour.

  ‘We need that one,’ said Mentine, pointing to a luscious millefeuille, the biggest cake in the shop. ‘We’re having a party.’

  ‘Oh? What’s the occasion, ma petite?’ Her demeanour completely changed and softened speaking to her daughter.