Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  *

  It was not yet eleven o’clock when Jeanne pushed the glass door and sailed into the spacious room of the master tailor’s workshop. The conversation with Claire had allowed her not to dwell on the meeting with Maître Bordarier. But now, inside the muted room where cut cloth and an assortment of garments were hung up on rails, she suddenly became conscious of her nervousness. Claire followed her to the light-wood counter that stood eight yards into the boutique.

  On the other side of it, three young seamstresses, who had glanced up at the pleasant ping of the doorbell, again buried their heads in their needlework. They were seated cross-legged on cushions, darning and sewing, on a very large table in front of the rear window that faced them. A well-endowed lady approaching middle-age, sitting on a stool by the stove, put down her work. Getting to her feet, she gave a professional smile and approached the counter. While passing her eyes from Jeanne’s waist, up her shawl that had seen better days, and to her simple coif, in a superior voice she said, ‘Madame?’

  Jeanne knew full well the woman recognised her from a previous visit. Nothing put fire in her veins like being treated with scorn, and her apprehension quickly turned to steely determination. Holding her head high, she said, ‘Madame. I have an appointment with Maître Bordarier.’

  Jeanne had become acquainted with the master tailor after delivering fabric, made for a gentleman churchgoer for the master tailor to turn into a long coat and breeches to match. One thing leading to another, Bordarier, who appreciated the quality of Jeanne’s weaving, asked her if she would care to produce the cotton fabric that was all the rage in Europe, including France, where it had been forbidden by French customs. This meant that there was a fortune to be made there with the right network.

  Bordarier, a spindly, clean-shaven fifty-year-old, was busy measuring a gentleman from shoulder to thigh with the aid of his assistant, a certain Michel Chaulet. Chaulet, in his early thirties, stole a sly glance at the French ladies as Jeanne turned to face the tailor. She had noticed the young man’s hard stare before when she once dropped off a roll of caddis, a coarse but robust fabric, from which the tailor had agreed to make capes for the poor. But this time she thought she saw the young man almost gloating, which sent a shudder down her spine. She knew full well from her church client that Chaulet’s brother-in-law was also a weaver. But Jeanne had no intention of pinching someone else’s work. She had agreed to produce the sample as a thank-you gift for the tailor’s help with producing clothes for poor Huguenots at a discount which, nonetheless, also gave him access to their wealthier co-religionists.

  On hearing Jeanne’s voice, Maître Bordarier looked over his shoulder. Peering over his pince-nez, he called out, ‘Ah, Madame Delpech.’ He then left his customer in the hands of Chaulet so he could join her at the counter. ‘Thank you, Madame Laborde.’ The big-bosomed lady waddled back to her stool near the stove.

  ‘This is what I came up with, Monsieur,’ said Jeanne, spreading the square piece of fabric over the smooth surface of the counter, while trying not to let her words slip into her throat. She had spent hours threading the loom. But that was no reason to be nervous about the tailor’s judgement, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she owed him anything.

  Perhaps it was not the thought of his judgement but the prospect of his approbation that made her nervous. And perhaps, though she expected nothing in return, she nurtured a secret hope—the hope of a woman bordering on poverty.

  Claire, standing beside her, let out a gasp of admiration at the shimmering blue fabric. The tailor adjusted his pince-nez on the bridge of his nose, then touched the fabric with his open palm, spreading out his fingers wide to fully appreciate the texture. Jeanne was suddenly anxious about being found out that she was no more a weaver than Claire was a fishwife, or Ginette a countess.

  She was suddenly fearful of being found out, of being labelled an impostor. How could she for one second dare to consider herself as good as a trained weaver, a seamstress, or even a spinner? The tailor glanced up with a raised eyebrow. She was regretting having accepted the offer to show off her handicraft. Surely any master tailor would see straight through her, she thought, as he now held up the cloth to the light to see how the threads interwove, and how evenly they were beaten.

  He placed the cloth back down on the table, whipped off his pince-nez, and blinked at the French lady standing before him, oblivious to the turmoil going on inside her. He said, ‘You are gifted, Madame.’ Jeanne said nothing, instead emptied her mind of any thought that would cause her eyes to fill up. ‘I should like to place an order, for twelve yards to begin with. Then we shall see how we can proceed.’

  The woman on the stool, who had pricked up her ears, could not resist a secret smile from pleating the corners of her mouth. For a moment Jeanne thought she had maybe misread the woman’s jealousy. Yet, it seemed so out of character.

  *

  ‘Why did you say you would think about it?’ said Claire once they were back in the street, and had walked out of earshot from the boutique.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I am very flattered, but it puts me in a predicament. You see, if I refuse, the tailor might be offended. He might accuse me of only wanting to work with French Huguenots, and of remaining in my clan. And that is precisely what we do not want.’

  ‘All the more reason to accept, then. It will put an end to your money worries. It might even be the debut of a successful business. That is how the Turrettinis made their fortune, you know.’

  ‘Don’t tease. Besides, if I accept, I will have the whole guild of weavers upon me.’

  ‘Not if you don’t tell them.’

  ‘They are bound to find out sooner than later, especially in the present climate.’

  ‘I know. Why don’t you make a deal with a local weaver?’

  ‘Actually, that is what I was thinking. But I do not know whether a weaver would take on a woman. I have to find out how to go about it first.’

  ‘I dare say, if you bring profit . . .’ said Claire, clapping her hands. ‘Oh, Jeanne, how exciting for you!’ They made their way across the cathedral square towards the Madeleine district, where Claire resided with Etienne and her great uncle. In her enthusiasm, she must have dropped her handkerchief along the way, and with nothing to hand, she now had the choice of either swallowing a mouthful of frothy saliva or discreetly spitting it out. ‘Oh, my gosh, look away!’

  ‘Claire!’ said Jeanne with mirth in her eyes as the young woman spat out a blob of spittle onto the cobbles like a trooper.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said in guilty giggles, and she brought out a spare white-lace handkerchief with which she wiped strands of drool from her mouth. ‘I didn’t see that coming.’

  The ladies hurried along arm in arm into Rue de L’Eveché, cheerfully leaving their improper conduct behind.

  ‘But wouldn’t it be formidable?’ said Claire.

  ‘It is true, I would be able to put some money aside for when I recover my other children,’ said Jeanne. Then in a lower voice, she said, ‘Keep this under your bonnet, but my sister plans to leave France with her husband at the end of spring.’ The instant her secret was out, she almost regretted divulging it. But she was glad to tell someone about the long-awaited letter she had received the day before, which Pastor Duvaux had passed on to her. Besides, she knew Claire would keep the news to herself. The two women had developed a trusting relationship, and Jeanne would be sorry to see her go.

  ‘Jeanne, how doubly wonderful!’ said Claire, who did not need to be told that it meant they would bring Jeanne’s children with them.

  ‘Shh.’

  ‘So you must accept the tailor’s offer. He did say you were gifted.’

  ‘I had good teachers,’ said Jeanne.

  Claire knew from previous confidences that Jeanne was referring to her maid and a weaver in whose workshop she had hidden for a year and a half in France to escape imprisonment. ‘I foresee a bright future for you.’

  ‘I am not sure a
bout that, but the extra will definitely not do any harm.’

  ‘It is surely a godsend, Jeanne.’

  ‘Is it, though? For I shall nonetheless be an illegal worker. Sometimes the difficulty is in knowing whether a thing is a godsend or a lure of the devil, is it not?’

  ‘I do know what you mean,’ said Claire with a sigh. ‘Choices.’ They had stopped before the large door of a tall, elegant building made of fine masonry.

  Jeanne touched the younger woman’s arm and said, ‘Listen, Claire, as long as you do not overstretch yourself, there is no reason why you should not go on that journey. You are not ill.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Claire, emptying her mouth again into her damp handkerchief, ‘you are right.’

  ‘He will need your support; they all do. Our position, my dear, is to endear them to common sense. Otherwise there would be even less of it in this mad world, would there not!’

  Jeanne declined Claire’s offer to ask Etienne to accompany her back to her rooms. ‘As I told Pastor Duvaux, I am perfectly capable of walking the streets on my own,’ she said with a smile. ‘And I want to stop off at the butcher’s for a surprise lunch for Paul,’ she said, hinting at the money the tailor had given her for her sample.

  Jeanne left Claire to pass through the tall door and then wended her way back to Rue du Perron. She liked taking this route which sloped down steeply from Saint Pierre’s hill into the lower town. From the top she could see the blue, shimmering water of Lake Geneva. Its proximity gave her comfort. For in the event of hostilities, she would only have to board a boat to flee to the northern Swiss cantons.

  She was glad to be able to walk on her own and think everything through. How could she turn down such a lucrative offer? Could it really be pennies from heaven? However, her mind would soon be made up for her.

  FIVE

  ‘The king of France sees no harm in your reinforcing your fortifications, as long as you do not employ Swiss soldiers to do so,’ said Monsieur Roman Dupré in his usual courteous, albeit condescending manner.

  The French resident was sitting in his sumptuous office with the fat syndic, Monsieur Ezéchiel Gallatin, whose large buttocks comfortably filled the low, wide armchair on the other side of the ministerial desk.

  Monsieur Dupré continued. ‘Why, it would be defeating the object, for you would have your potential enemy inside the city walls even before hostilities began!’

  ‘With all due respect, my Lord,’ said Gallatin, ‘our Swiss allies offered their support because they were afraid that His Majesty would invade Geneva and the republic.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Dupré with a dry laugh, ‘mere fabricated rumours!’

  Gently patting the edge of the polished desktop with his large, chubby fingers, the syndic said, ‘Monsieur de Croissy did warn he would take action if we continued to harbour Huguenots, did he not?’

  ‘A reaction of the moment, and I might add, only to be expected. They are, after all, the king’s subjects, are they not?’ said the resident with a courteous, thin smile—a facial technique honed in Versailles which subtly suggested he had urgent business to attend to and had no time for pettiness.

  However, the seasoned syndic, having often rubbed shoulders with the elite on missions to Paris, was not to be intimidated. For sure, his rotund appearance lacked the physical elegance of his French counterpart, but he had personality, patience, and a deceivingly smart sense of business—and what is more, any verbal blows seemed to bounce off him like little cherub fists punching into a bloated pig’s bladder. So, remaining solidly seated, he said, ‘We could hardly throw them out in the middle of winter, my Lord. As you are well aware, we make a point in Geneva of putting up any subjects of His Gracious Majesty, in spite of the cost.’

  ‘I assure you we do understand the predicament, Monsieur the Syndic. And I am all the more pleased to inform you that His Majesty has found a means of dropping the tithe case lodged against you.’ Gallatin gave a slow nod of his large head as a sign of deep gratitude. Dupré continued. ‘It is thus hoped that our mutual understanding shall be rewarded, and that the tithes from the region of Gex will serve to replenish your coffers, emptied by the king’s subjects who are outstaying their welcome.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. My colleagues, indeed the population of Geneva, are most grateful for your intervention in the matter.’ He was referring to an attempt by the authorities of Gex to recover a tithe which was customarily paid to Geneva.

  ‘What is more, His Majesty extends his affection to the people of Geneva and promises to provide continued protection against enemy invasion. And he insists, my dear Sir, that he had no intention of invading. Fabricated rumours, that is all.’

  ‘I am sure, my Lord.’

  ‘However, he does advise you to be henceforth more cautious regarding the good intentions of your Swiss neighbours. For it is evident that Bern and Zurich are trying to lull you into letting their soldiers enter the city without any resistance at all, God forbid. His Majesty therefore warns you, with love and fervour, not to fall victim to their malicious ploy.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Otherwise he will have no choice but to take action in your defence. I am sure you will understand, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. Rest assured, as I said, the Council of Geneva are most grateful for our illustrious ally’s continued support and protection.’

  The resident gave another thin smile and got to his feet, which this time obliged the syndic to do likewise. The resident grinned condescendingly at Gallatin who, because of his cumbersome weight, did not wear heels, unlike Dupré, who was consequently able to tower over the fat syndic as he said, ‘And you must keep your word regarding the Huguenots! And this time please remember to send them south, not north.’

  ‘My Lord,’ said Gallatin, bowing on the other side of the desk, ‘you have our reassurances that they will be asked to leave come spring, as agreed. Moreover, it will ease our relief fund, which has been a bit stretched lately, as you well know.’

  The resident showed the syndic to his door, both men satisfied with what they had achieved. The Genevans had gained the king’s assurance his army would not invade, plus the unhoped-for tithes of Gex; they had also gained precious time, something the Genevans were inherently good at. The French had gained the imminent banishment of Huguenots from Geneva.

  *

  Five minutes later, the resident was standing in his private chamber, accessed by a door set in the panelling of his vast study. He was gloating over the mahogany serving table stacked with savoury dossiers, each contributing to his grand project—the exclusion of Huguenots from Geneva, thus removing one major route into Germany and Holland.

  Roland Dupré had built his reputation on his diplomatic ability, and also on his methodical mindset that gave him the intellectual agility to pursue several channels of intelligence simultaneously. He had learnt from experience that it would be unwise, indeed counterproductive, to bank solely on the action of the magistrates for the success of his project. For magistrates in a republic required the driving voice of the people—in other words, bourgeois, merchants, and guilds. So he had been painstakingly building up a network of agents to fan the fire of discontent among the population.

  It is something His Excellence, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Monsieur Colbert de Croissy, surely failed to fully grasp, keen as he was to please the king. One had to coax the Genevans into submission on their own terms; any precipitation would inevitably backfire. And what in God’s name had got into the minister to waive the threat of invasion? wondered Dupré. Now they were capable of bringing Bern and Zurich soldiers inside the very city, which would be awkward, to say the least, what with the Dutch crisis. No, he thought, gently does it with the Genevans, and that takes time, a good network, and a table full of dossiers.

  He picked up the one concerning the trade guild which was slowly but surely being fired up against refugee carpenters taking work from the tax-paying native. Then there was the housing dossier which was
coming along nicely, what with refugees pushing up the prices, which was a paradox because the weavers were complaining about illegal cheap labour driving the prices down. He had the situation in hand. All he had to do was to keep gently pushing, and the magistrates would have no choice but to carry out the terms of their agreement.

  A scratching at the door brought Roland Dupré out of his projections. Without looking up from his desk, ‘Entrez!’ he said.

  ‘My Lord, a message,’ said the valet. Dupré held out his hand, eyes still glued to his table of dossiers. He brought the sealed letter into his field of view. He would normally lay it down at this point, but this one rumpled his brow.

  ‘That will be all,’ he said, taking a cutter to the seal.

  He opened the message and read: Job done, lady in for a surprise.

  With a smile of satisfaction, Roland Dupré placed the message in the dossier titled “Weavers.”

  *

  Today, more than any other day, Jeanne Delpech enjoyed descending into the Rues Basses of the lower town. She now felt that she knew them as well as the alleyways of her natal Montauban. She admired the Genevan love for things well made, and their practical approach borne of necessity: the sheltered stalls on one side of the thoroughfare, the central carriageway for horse-drawn traffic, and the convenient dômes—protruding roofs or upper floors that advanced over the street, providing shelter to pedestrians come rain, shine, or snow.

  The blue patches of sky put smiles on faces and joviality into banter despite the nip in the air. Jeanne too felt that a cloud was being lifted from over her. She had received professional approbation of her work; she would no longer feel embarrassed or unqualified about asking the small price she charged for her cloth. It even occurred to her that she could increase it in par with market rates. If Maître Bordarier thought her good enough to provide him with cloth, there was no reason why she could not aspire to become a fully-fledged weaver in the eyes of the guild, even if it meant working for a master weaver. Pity the council still would not authorise Huguenots to work for a living, she thought to herself with an inward sigh.