Voyage of Malice

by Paul C R Monk

  ‘But for the vast majority it does not seem to be working, my Lord,’ said the syndic, remaining wedged in his armchair.

  ‘That is beside the point,’ said the resident, pouting his lips and striding away from the desk toward the tall window draped in blue velvet curtains, neatly retained either side by braided tie-backs with golden tassels. ‘They have been banished as enemies of the state, a punishment which, I might add, they have brought upon themselves. And I may add that it is working . . . to a certain extent.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ said the syndic, whose heavy jowls drooped with his doleful smile, ‘but the extent to which it is not working far outweighs the extent to which it is.’

  ‘Some have abjured,’ said the resident, turning in defence. ‘I receive demands every day from people desirous to return to France. And indeed, the king has generously welcomed them back into his fold. What is more, they have even recovered their fortunes and estates without incurring any penalty.’

  ‘And yet there are tens, hundreds of incoming fugitives, my Lord.’

  ‘And you have been invited time again to rid this city of the king’s disloyal subjects, especially those who have been here for many months.’

  ‘I take it you are referring to the poor who have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Yes. Along with the profiteers and the beggars who have taken advantage of your bourse to obtain free meals and money on a daily basis.’

  ‘If you could provide us with a list, my Lord, of those who have wintered here along with their address, then we shall be able to cooperate as we have always done.’

  ‘I gave you a list the other day.’

  ‘We expelled every one of them, my Lord.’

  ‘Then why am I told they are back again?’

  ‘Are you certain it is the same people, my Lord?’

  ‘Why, yes, my people tell me so.’

  ‘Then we shall act again. However, as you well know, we have not the resources to check every person who walks through the city gates; it would hinder trade. And if that happened, we would have a revolution on our hands!’

  ‘I could ask the king to send a battalion of soldiers,’ said the resident eagerly.

  ‘I would rather not, my Lord. If we did, the gentlemen of Bern would not be amused. They would certainly attack our city, or defend it, depending on how you stand. It would lead to war, which would not sit well with the king, I am sure, what with the Dutch threat on his northern borders, you know.’

  The resident found himself at an impasse, and it was all the king’s fault. It now struck him how much he hated his royal posting, and the wretched city with all the harassment and jeering behind his back, especially from the in-laws. With searching eyes, he said: ‘Then, I repeat, what am I supposed to tell the king?’

  The syndic had seen it happen before to other men. Roland Dupré had put up a good fight, but Gallatin could now clearly see the resident was near his wit’s end. With a reassuring smile, and in his deep voice of reason, he said, ‘That we are doing everything we can to oblige his subjects to leave Geneva, except, of course, those of noble birth he has expelled, who might want time to ponder whether they should return to their homeland.’

  ‘Good Lord, I shall be glad to see the back of this place of perdition!’

  ‘We are doing our best, my Lord,’ said the syndic contritely.

  A quarter of an hour later, alone in his study, Roland Dupré poured himself a strong cordial. Blasted Genevans, he thought to himself, blasted king, blasted de Croissy. It was like being caught between a rock and a hard place. He had had enough of this farce; the whole matter was becoming like a scene in a play from that Moliere fellow. And whatever had gotten into him, he, the king’s representative, marrying a local Protestant girl? She had converted, yes, and he still did love her, but you could not convert the in-laws, could you? It was the king’s fault for sending him to such a hapless place in the first place, where there were no Catholic ladies.

  He had tried so very hard to play the tyrant, firm against adversity, but how long was one person able to row against the current? More and more, he found himself longing to flee, as much from his in-laws as from the city itself. The floorboards creaked under foot as he advanced to the tall window. To think, he had been a young man insouciant, full of spirit and ambition, and with a full head of hair, when he first entered that great courtyard door all those years ago. His stance had since acquired a slight stoop, his clothing had become heavier, and his periwig had grown higher and thicker, as like his king, he had moved into middle age. As he watched the fat syndic ambling towards the great wooden door, he hoped to God, for the sake of his sanity and his half Protestant children, that he would not be refused the commission in Florence.

  EIGHT

  ‘Where are they all headed?’ said Paul, standing with his mother at the open window of their first-floor accommodation on Molard Square. Behind them, Jean Fleuret, Ginette’s husband, was fitting a new beater to Jeanne’s loom.

  She was gazing at the crowd waiting at the port quayside, at the far end of the square. Judging by the agitation, the flat-bottomed ship was now ready to take on board another load of fugitives, mostly country folk by the look of their garb and their stance, and a few ladies and gentlemen of quality.

  These first days of April sunshine had prompted a new surge of mass departures, and for the past week passenger numbers had swollen, which in turn had increased the morning hullabaloo rising from the market below Jeanne’s window. She did not mind the noise. On the contrary, the proximity of her lodgings to the port never ceased to give her reassurance. The hundred or so refugees began to board with their bundles and baskets, bags and pouches, but no heavy chests. Jeanne wondered how they would all fit aboard.

  ‘Further north,’ she said to her son at last, ‘Lausanne, Bern, perhaps as far as Berlin.’

  ‘There’s some that goes as far as Holland too,’ said Jean Fleuret, punctuating his words with another tap of the mallet. ‘There,’ he said, ‘that should hold good and proper this time, Madame Delpech.’

  Pulling herself back from her window view, Jeanne thanked him and moved back to her loom.

  He said, ‘I’ve replaced the whole beam part this time, good as new now.’

  Jean Fleuret had kept his word which he had given when he, his son Pierre, and Paul found Jeanne depleted in a chair in her room with her loom in pieces. He had made makeshift repairs at first and then replaced each splintered part over the ensuing weeks.

  ‘I can’t wait to try it,’ said Jeanne, pulling up her stool. ‘And how is your work at the Bourse?’ She had put in a word for him when the deacon had mentioned they were lacking a woodworker.

  ‘What with the spring and more and more people flooding through the city gates, there’s every day more deceased to bury. Be they dead from accident or disease, their next of kin bring ’em here, see? I s’pose they can’t very well bury ’em along the wayside, can they? Consequently, I spend a good deal of my time putting coffins together. That’s where the wood for the beam came from. And at this rate there’ll be hardly any room left in the cemetery for the residents, let alone fleeing Huguenots!’

  ‘Have you decided upon your plans?’

  ‘Aye, we reckon we don’t wanna be outstaying our welcome now that spring is well in full bloom. And what with the king’s resident, I doubt very much I’ll be able to get a proper job of my trade here anyway. So we’re definitely planning on pushing north.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘Will you and Paul be coming, Madame?’ said young Pierre, who liked to talk as an adult now that he was on the cusp of adolescence.

  ‘I cannot say yet, dear Pierre,’ said Jeanne, with a motherly smile.

  ‘Any news of your husband?’ continued Jeannot Fleuret.

  ‘Alas, none.’

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘Neither. But I shall wait here if I am able to.’

  ‘You do so much, you deserve something back. Let us pray good news is on
its way, Madame Jeanne. As for us lot, I reckon we’ll be leaving in a few weeks, soon as the nights become less chilly. My Ginette does hate the cold, she does. And I’ve said it before, you and the boy are more than welcome to join us. The more the merrier, that’s what we say, don’t we Pierrot, me boy?’ The boy gave a resolute nod.

  Jeanne did not want to go further north; it would mean moving further away from her children who were taken from her in France. But deep inside, she knew she might soon have no choice, whether her sister had arrived or not, for the authorities were becoming more insistent for refugees who had wintered in Geneva to move on. And if it came to it, she would rather go with humble people she knew, people who had been of mutual support, than with a crowd of passing strangers, even those pertaining to her former social rank. How she had changed, she thought. So she was glad to hear that the Fleurets would not be leaving just yet. It would give her time, time to receive news from Jacob, time, she hoped, for her sister, her brother-in-law, and her children to join her in Geneva. However, for them to arrive in May would mean they would have left in late March, early April latest, which was probably hoping for the impossible. Then again, Robert had means. They would be travelling by carriage, stopping at inns.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I reckon it’ll be hard going, mind.’

  ‘I know. Some people prefer to return to France, even if it means abjuring.’

  ‘How I see it is as soon as folk see that Geneva i’nt so much a haven as a stopover, they realise life ain’t so easy in exile, and travelling ain’t gonna be no Sunday stroll neither!’

  Jeanne knew full well what the carpenter meant. Though a welcome refuge, Geneva was not a viable place to settle, not without guild approbation—unlikely for a Huguenot, let alone a woman. She herself had already paid the price for stepping over the line. Since the incident of her loom, she had not returned to the master tailor’s boutique. She did not want to see the employees gloat; it would only make her mad, and she would not be able to hold her tongue. So, she had not started a successful enterprise. No, instead, she had kept to making fabric exclusively for fellow Huguenots and poor fugitives—fabric which she either delivered to Ginette or to Monsieur Binet, the official relief fund tailor.

  Jeannot Fleuret gathered his tools into a leather shoulder pouch, and under his arm he tucked a roll of Montauban cloth which Jeanne had handed him for his wife to perform her magic on. He then took his leave with Pierre. She told Paul he could go with them as far as the fountain on the square in order to fill the leather water bottle, but then he must come straight back up without dawdling with the vendors’ children.

  ‘Don’t worry, Madame Delpech, I’ll see him back,’ said Pierre as the three passed through to the landing.

  Jeanne returned to the window to view her son, Pierre, and Jean Fleuret emerging from the street door by the bakery, and heading for the fountain among the market crowd. She glanced to her left, where the last migrants were boarding the ship, and where a family was scurrying, each with a sack, to join the end of the queue. In all the months she had been residing above the bakery on Molard Square, she had never seen a vessel loaded with so many people. Hardly could she see a flat surface unoccupied. It was quite frightening, and to think that this was just the beginning of the season.

  A good thing the wind is soft and the weather clement, she thought to herself as she recovered her seat at her loom. To think of all those people in the same boat, courageously moving to a new life, carrying the same grief of never seeing their hometown again, put her own remorse into perspective. Images came of the peachy brick buildings of Montauban, the clear view from the Quercy ridge over the flat, fertile plain that reached all the way to the foothills of the Pyrenees. Then she pictured her children playing at their country house in summer. But she pinched the bridge of her nose to halt the subsequent flood of misgivings, then began threading to give herself something tangible to focus on.

  A short while later, she found herself hoping again that Jacob would be among the released Huguenots from the king’s prisons, and wondered with excitement what life would be like in London, Brandenburg, or Amsterdam. In this way, she was able to weave her sorrows and joys together, and alleviate the ache in her heart.

  A familiar knock at the door interrupted her escapade into the future. She pulled down the beater of the loom and went to the door.

  ‘Pastor Duvaux. I was lost in my thoughts; I didn’t hear you coming,’ she said after opening the door.

  ‘I have a letter for you, Madame Delpech.’

  Jeanne let him into the room and offered him a seat at the small wooden table. She knew he was as eager as she was to know the contents of the letter, and he did not look as though he was ready to let her open it in her own time. But it was only fair, she conceded. He deserved as much as anyone to know her fate, after all he had done to make her comfortable, and the lengths to which he had gone to integrate her into Genevan society, insisting every Sunday that she join him with his Sunday guests at his table. And they had after all formed quite a robust partnership, organising accommodation, food, and clothing for the newly arrived and the needy. He was entitled to sit down at her table now, as a partner, a friend, and her pastor.

  She sat down on the other side of the table where he had placed the letter. She briefly examined the handwriting and opened the folded sheet of paper.

  ‘I was hoping it would be from Jacob,’ she said out loud. The pastor kept his silence as she proceeded in reading her sister’s note to herself.

  My dear sister,

  I send you news which I will develop further in a subsequent letter, but I want to get this off to you as quickly as I can, for I am told the messenger is shortly to take to the saddle. R has been taken ill. I know this will come as a terrible blow to you, but I cannot express it any other way: I fear we will not be able to travel. I cannot leave him on his own. I am so very sorry, my dear sister.

  It will bring you no solace to know that Lizzy still refuses to leave Montauban. She says she will not leave her sister’s grave unattended, so it may be just as well we cannot travel.

  Before becoming bed-ridden, R found out that J did embark for the Americas, either for Martinique or Saint-Domingue, we believe.

  My darling sister, I will write with details of R’s ailment later, but I do fear for his life. I pray to God every day that you and my nephew have found a safe haven. Your darling baby brings us much joy; the first thing she does in the morning is go to your portrait. My dear sister, you will not be forgotten.

  Remember me to the pastor.

  Your loving sister

  Jeanne sat gazing into mid-distance, her eyes glazed over. She was not conscious of how long she was staring like this and was only brought out of it by the pastor’s gentle insistence.

  ‘Madame Delpech, Madame Delpech . . .’ She felt a hand touch her forearm, and at last she acknowledged his presence. He was standing, pouring out a glass of fine from a bottle he had brought with him. ‘Drink this,’ he said, handing her the drink. ‘It will bring you back to yourself.’

  She raised the earthen beaker to her lips and took a sip of the liquid, which stung her tongue and then her eyes, but then left a warming glow in the region of her chest.

  ‘Madame Delpech,’ said the pastor, sitting back down opposite her. He wanted to reach out to the lady, but he could only touch her with his words. She looked suddenly frail, her brow pleated, her eyes searching. What did she see when she looked back at him? he wondered. He continued. ‘Madame Delpech, whatever your troubles, please know you will not be alone here in Geneva. There is a way for you to remain here.’

  She read the discomfort in his expression, and she saw he knew full well she had understood the meaning between his words. She gave a short nod, her eyes expressing gratitude for his caring. She knew too that his heart was sincere. The implicit insistence to remain in Geneva did not shock her either. In fact, it gave her some comfort. Her mouth twitched into a fleeting smile
, the frail smile of a vulnerable woman who knew not which way to turn should her husband never be seen in this world again.

  Bolstered by her faint encouragement—the encouragement testified by her non-remonstrance—the pastor decided to venture further onto a terrain he had often visited in his dreams, ever since Jeanne Delpech first sat down at his table, like it was her rightful place, in his deceased wife’s chair by the tiled stove.

  ‘Jeanne, please do not think me too forward or inappropriate. But if for any reason your husband became . . . lost . . . then I want you to know that I would be honoured if you would become my wife. No, wait, please.’ He held out his hands gently as if to ward off any reproach. Now that he was in train, he had to go all the way. ‘I do say it with honourable intentions, Madame. It would simply mean that you and your dear boy would have a home here in Geneva. It would mean that one day, you might be able to welcome your other children here. And it would mean that I would have a ready-made family to cherish, that my dear late wife was unable to give me.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Pastor Duvaux,’ said Jeanne, breaking eye contact. An awkward silence followed, neither of them quite knowing how to conclude. Then, seconds later, they were rescued by Paul clomping up the stairs with a pouch full of water. She rose to her feet.

  The pastor had put forward his point, and the lady had not shown outrage or disgust, only slight embarrassment now that her son was on his way up. He knew enough about human nature to see she was reassured. Now he could leave her in the peace of her thoughts, and in the secret hope that—should Monsieur Jacob Delpech de Castanet not live through his terrible ordeal—he would stand every chance of taking care of the merchant’s widow and children, whom he would cherish as his own.

  That afternoon, Jeanne sat at her loom, weaving yarn recovered from used clothes. The act of weaving carried her away from her deepest fears for her husband, and threaded them into the fabric of a new pattern of thoughts. The new, albeit sad, notion that at least she would be saved from becoming a homeless wretch softened the pain of her sister’s news.