Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  ‘But, Sir, please,’ said Mademoiselle Duvivier, taking a resolute step forward. She had more important things on her mind than the shame of her appearance. Besides, if she could face the embarrassment and humiliation of crossing the ocean with no privacy at all, she could jolly well stand up, albeit in rags, to a frilly-sleeved middle-aged nobleman. She said, ‘We saw a ship wrecked on the rocks last week as we came into sight of this island. Our captain said it was too dangerous for him to investigate. We should very much like to know whether or not La Concorde has come safely to port, Sir.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle,’ said the governor, with a pinch of impatience, ‘I have no such information to impart to prisoners of His Highness.’

  ‘But, Sir, please,’ insisted the girl. ‘My grandmother was on le Concorde!’

  The governor calmly and in a lordly manner held up a hand, as one who was used to wielding authority and negotiating with rebels, slaves, and savages. ‘If you desire the assistance of a king’s officer,’ he said with an indulgent, almost paternal smile, ‘it goes without saying you must be a friend of the French state.’

  The governor’s time was counted, his mind crowded by a multitude of other concerns. The interview was thus curtailed with elegance, but curtailed all the same. He nodded to Captain de Beauguy, standing at the capstan for him to give the order to weigh anchor. Then he retired to his cabin.

  FOUR

  ‘Don’t thank me, Madame Fleuret,’ said Jeanne Delpech, handing the roll of fabric to the carpenter’s wife. ‘The loom does all the clever work!’

  ‘True enough, but it wouldn’t work at all without Madame’s deft fingers and keen eye, and a good head on her shoulders, would it? my word!’

  Jeanne smiled without reserve at Ginette Fleuret’s way with words, typical of southern French folk and reminiscent of her own hometown. She was nonetheless glad that Madame Fleuret had learnt to lower the volume to a level more suited to Genevan manners—more restrained, more concise, and less exuberant than in the Mediterranean walled city of Aigues-Mortes. That being said, given her talent for dressmaking, few minded her Mediterranean vociferations, for Ginette would willingly fit out woman and child without taking a single kreutzer piece for her toil, provided she was given the fabric. And together, Jeanne and Ginette had made an unlikely match.

  They were standing in Saint-Germain’s church under the fine carved pulpit which, true to Calvinist tradition, was situated midway down the nave on one side. The church—whose interior walls presented remnants of colour and empty statuette niches that bore witness to its Catholic past—was peopled mostly with women of all ages and rank, some chatting in clusters, some sipping hot soup around trestle tables. This was the midweek get-together where Huguenot refugees and local parishioners could exchange news and views, offer mutual assistance, and sing psalms together. Numbers had swollen since Jeanne’s first visit in October, and these days French Protestants by far outnumbered Genevans.

  The church had become an assembly point as much for establishing contacts as for bolstering faith. It was a favourite place for Jeanne where she could encounter God, refugees, and her customers all under the same roof. Here she could distribute her rolls of fabric to French fugitives who were able to pay, and to the needy who could not. People travelled great distances in harsh conditions to reach the walled city of Geneva, and more often than not, their first requirement, after food and lodging, was a new set of clothes. Ginette had unreservedly volunteered to help those without dressmaking skills. In this way, the mutual aid had brought people closer together, and their church had become a happy sanctuary—the ringing of laughter during such meetings bore testimony—despite its austere interior.

  ‘How is your husband faring now?’ said Jeanne, placing her empty earthenware beaker on the trestle table.

  ‘He says he misses his bouillabaisse, which means he’s recovered his appetite. Otherwise he’s happy as a clam at high water now that he’s helping down at the sawmill.’

  Ginette Fleuret lived down near the river with her husband and three children. It was damp and penetratingly cold, but they had all recovered from their winter fevers, and they were not unhappy. Their lives might have radically changed in this colder climate, but now at least they were at one with their conscience. Wasn’t that worth all the sun in the French Midi?

  ‘Good. But we’ll have to find you somewhere away from the damp.’

  ‘Couldn’t do that, Madame Delpech. We’d be all at sea if we didn’t at least have a view over the water, my word; never lived without it. Anyway, I shall crack on with this little lot with Madame Lachaume.’

  ‘I am so glad you were able to make space for her little family. It is becoming increasingly difficult to find accommodation within the city walls.’

  ‘Difficult? Ironic, I’d say. Ironic, my word! My Jeannot volunteered to help build up the new floors on Taconnerie Square, but the guild won’t have it, not without a work permit. Result, they’ve got too much on their hands, and my Jeannot ain’t got enough. I don’t know what we’d live on without the relief fund, I’m sure. So I’m only too glad to pay something back, Madame Delpech. Puts me on a level pegging, see? But if things don’t move forward by the time the warm weather comes along, then we’ll have to be moving on to pastures greener, where we are wanted!’

  ‘You might have to be patient, dear Madame Fleuret. The Genevans do have a penchant for things done well, and unfortunately, that takes time . . .’

  ‘Well, I call it stalling. Most of us would be working by now if it weren’t for their licences for this and their permits for that.’

  Jeanne had grown used to Ginette’s little rants and was not offended by what could have been taken as blatant ingratitude. After all, it wasn’t the fault of Genevans if they were on the French king’s doorstep. But there again, Ginette was only voicing what everyone else thought deep down. This was the centre of Protestantism, after all, and they deserved to be treated as all God’s children, did they not?

  ‘I’ll leave you to your ponderings, Madame Fleuret, I am expected at the tailor’s,’ said Jeanne. ‘Which reminds me, my coat. Where’s my coat?’ Jeanne stared blankly at the empty pew in front of her, where she had been sitting during the service. Her coat was there a minute earlier. For the first time, Ginette read anxiety in Jeanne’s eyes. However, looking past Jeanne’s shoulder, she saw the ragged-looking man whom she secretly called the pauper, walking up behind her.

  ‘Madame Delpech, I believe this is yours,’ said the ragged-looking man.

  His name was Cephas Crespin. Of average height, in his mid-thirties, he usually helped the vicar out with putting away tables and chairs and such like. His distinguishing feature was mutilated thumbs, which he claimed had been placed in thumbscrews to persuade him to abjure.

  Every time he went to a church service, Cephas Crespin felt amusement mixed with anger, but he kept it to himself. There he was amidst the niceties, trying to start over again, on par with everyone else, but try as he would, he could not get the coarseness out of his voice. It was just unfair. Any attempt at fancy language and fine manners just made him stick out, and whose fault was it if he had been earmarked from birth? Didn’t God put paupers on the earth to test rich people’s conscience? He never wanted to be a Lazarus, though, made to feed on leftovers. Yet when you were born as common as muck, that was all you could expect. However, at least the after-service soup made him feel better again. There was nothing better than a hot bowl of soup for spiritual comfort and peace within.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Crespin,’ said Jeanne, relieved to find her coat folded over the pauper’s arm, though she tried not to show it.

  ‘Let me hold it for you, Madame Delpech,’ said Cephas, ‘so you can put it on.’ Cephas liked to hold coats for the ladies; the clumsiness caused by his disability always brought a smile of pity. As the pauper held out Jeanne’s coat, his expression changed from one of polite obedience to one indicating an alarming realisation.

  ‘Feel
s like you’ve got the family jewels in there, Madame Delpech, ha ha,’ he joked.

  ‘Ha ha, no, no,’ said Jeanne with a level smile. ‘I’ve weighted the hem with pebbles, Monsieur Crespin, that is all. It helps keep it from flapping in the wind, and I like to feel the benefit of the weight on my shoulders.’ She remained high-minded, unflappable. But the pauper could have sworn it was a different kind of stone she had sewn inside the lining. He said no more about it as Jeanne’s gaze turned to her nine-year-old son, running up to her with another boy, slightly older, southern-skinned with a forthright smile. Young Pierre, who most people called Pierrot, was a practical lad and clever with his hands.

  ‘Mama,’ said Paul, ‘can I stay with Pierrot till lunchtime?’

  ‘I am sure his mother has enough on her plate,’ said Jeanne, who hated to see her son leave her side for five minutes, let alone a few hours.

  ‘Get away, woman, he’ll be no trouble,’ said Ginette. ‘They can help gather offcuts down at the mill for our fire!’

  ‘Please, I never go anywhere,’ said the boy. Jeanne could not dismiss the fact that he needed some leash after being cooped up in a room all winter long. Besides going to church, his only outings without her had been to fetch up water from the Molard Square fountain below their rooms, and even that he accomplished under her watchful eye.

  ‘Youngsters do need their running-around time,’ said Ginette, with a wink to the lads.

  ‘I’ll look after him, Madame, promise,’ said Pierrot, who was a head taller than Paul.

  ‘And I’ll get Jeannot to walk him home safe and sound in time for his lunch.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jeanne, trying her best not to sound too put out. ‘I shall be off to the tailor’s on my own then.’ She could not resist the impulse of trying to make her son feel guilty for his momentary freedom. It was not envy but fear that put the words into her mouth. She had lost him once. She was petrified of losing him again.

  ‘Then I shall accompany you!’ said a mirthful voice.

  Jeanne twisted her torso. ‘Claire! I thought it was you I saw earlier,’ she said as Ginette’s boy tugged Paul’s sleeve with a wink, and the lads shot off across the crowded church before Paul’s mother could change her mind.

  *

  Wrapped up in woollen layers, booted and shawled for the season, the two ladies stepped into the sharp March morning from the vestry door. Despite the jaw-trembling cold, the sky seemed to be lifting, and patches of clear icy blue were widening. They walked briskly at first, to distance themselves from the stench of the noblemen’s stables that stood opposite the church building.

  Jeanne knew that Claire had some trouble on her mind, that she wanted a word in private. Why else would she have turned up late at church in her condition, only to leave ten minutes later? The young lady with whom Jeanne had escaped out of France now had a double hoop ring on her finger and a baby in her belly, having been sworn into wedlock shortly after her arrival in Geneva. Her cheeks were already fuller and her bump, despite the amplitude of her robes, was becoming visible. And she needed her mother. In her absence, Claire often sought guidance from Jeanne, who tacitly complied.

  ‘Has the sickness passed at all?’ she said as they emerged from the narrow passage that led into the busy Grand-Rue, lined with boutiques. The puddles that only yesterday crunched under foot now splashed muddy slurry which speckled ladies’ hems and gentlemen’s stockings.

  ‘Yes. No, not quite, but I do feel less queasy,’ said Claire, with an anxious but brave smile. ‘I do not mind the sickness so much. It is the salivating I cannot abide. I keep wanting to empty my mouth. Now I know why a pregnant market woman I once saw kept spitting all the time like a trooper; I well recall how it verily put me off my purchases. I understand now how she must have felt. I cannot go anywhere without a pile of handkerchiefs.’

  ‘It will pass, my dear Claire, or you will have to get Etienne to follow you about with a pillowcase!’ Claire let out a jovial laugh and swiped her mouth with her handkerchief again. Jeanne continued. ‘Unless you learn to spit like your market lady!’

  ‘Oh, no, I could not do that,’ said Claire, laughing mirthfully and momentarily losing her look of anxiety.

  ‘How is Etienne progressing with his plans?’

  ‘He is not,’ said Claire, her face now etched anew with lines of worry. ‘Formalities, endless formalities.’

  ‘For a man of means, it is surely only a question of time,’ said Jeanne, thinking to herself how impatient and demanding the younger generation were becoming. ‘Once he has his licence and has been admitted into the guild, he will be settled for many years to come. For from what I gather, decisions made here are meant to last. It is why they take so long in making them.’

  ‘But what about the resident?’

  ‘Monsieur Dupré thankfully has no executive power here. This is not France.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘They cannot invade. If they try, the northern cantons will declare war.’

  ‘The mere thought makes me shudder.’

  ‘And Geneva is a republic. Besides that, the king’s resident is not loved in Genevan circles, I can assure you.’

  ‘Perhaps, but he can keep up the pressure to prevent us from being able to earn a livelihood.’

  ‘Fear not, my dear Claire. You have enough to worry about with your baby.’

  ‘That is the problem. I do wonder where I am going to have it, and who will be with me.’

  ‘I shall, of course.’

  In a more sombre tone, Claire said, ‘Etienne is worried that he will not be allowed a permit to work. He wonders if we are wasting our time here.’

  ‘He wants to move on?’

  ‘Further away from France. We are seriously considering leaving next week, Jeanne.’

  ‘I see.’

  They turned right onto Rue du Soleil-Levant, a wide, well-to-do cobbled street of the upper town, where well-heeled ladies and gentlemen purchased their provisions and clothing. The tailor’s boutique was at the top of the street. Remaining on the sunny side, they mutually slowed their pace to time their arrival with the end of their conversation.

  Claire’s announcement had roused Jeanne’s own fears. In truth, she too had been anxious about residing in Geneva ever since she learnt about the French king’s attempts, through the resident, to oblige Geneva magistrates to expel Huguenots from the republic, and send them packing back to their Catholic sovereign. Thankfully, the Swiss cantons of Bern and Zurich had responded by offering military support in case of imminent hostilities. And Geneva authorities had found pretext to reinforce the city’s medieval fortifications. Consequently, Louis had tempered his tone, although his intentions towards fleeing French Protestants remained unchanged.

  Prompted by false rumours—rumours spread by malevolent souls—tension in the crowded walled city was growing of late. More and more, Jeanne noticed hard stares from market wives, and ladies pursing their lips and flaring their nostrils as she passed them by. She overheard quips about Huguenots bringing the menace of war, complaints about the rise of the cost of living, and protests of the price of building more living space within the city walls by adding extra floors to the tall buildings of entire districts. The resident’s strategy was worming its way slowly but surely into the thoughts of the population of the republican city. His informants and agents were doing a good job.

  Jeanne’s greater burden, however, was knowingly working illegally, even though half of her weaving was destined for the poor. The other half, which went to the moneyed church acquaintances, allowed her to pay her own way. She was not wronging local weavers, though; she did not poach on their clientele. And if she ceased to operate her loom, she would only constitute another strain on the already stretched Bourse Française, the Geneva refugee relief fund, which granted the poor two batzen a day to live on.

  No, until she knew where in the world Jacob was, she would have to keep quashing her fears and stay put. Moreover, every step further north woul
d be another step away from her children, taken away from her and now living in Montauban. Here, at least, she could receive news from her sister who, having converted to Catholicism, had been able to take them into her care.

  ‘Etienne is keen to leave before the spring rush,’ said Claire.

  ‘Does he really think, despite having means, he would fail to secure a permit?’

  ‘He is not sure, but both he and my uncle agree that the king has too strong a hold over Geneva. They believe the magistrates will not be able to stave off his demands forever. Then what would become of us? Etienne feels we would be safer and better off in the Duchy of Prussia where the grand elector is calling for Huguenot tradesmen to settle in Brandenburg.’

  ‘But should you not wait till the baby is born?’ said Jeanne.

  ‘If the baby is born in October, we should not be able to leave until next spring. That means another year’s wait,’ said Claire, catching saliva from her mouth again with her handkerchief.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Etienne says he does not mind going ahead without me first, and then fetching me once he is settled. I know not what to do, Jeanne.’

  The two ladies were now standing at the roadside, letting an elegant carriage rattle by. Jeanne placed a gloved hand on the younger woman’s forearm and said, ‘He is a kind and considerate young man. But no, my dear Claire, you must not let him go without you. You must stay together for better and for worse. He will love you all the more for it.’

  Claire laid her free mittened hand upon Jeanne’s, and the two ladies crossed over the Rue du Soleil-Levant.