“I may not be able to. I’m leaving France as soon as possible.” Bettina fought a wince. Leonie, an arrested Madame, always asked her to become one of her “ladies.” Since the first night when a woman tried to steal Bettina’s shoes, and she’d sprung from her straw portion and screamed at her in Latin and Greek, Leonie had found her interesting.
“You’ll need money for that, ma belle.” Leonie winked and tightened her embrace. “These simple-minded sluts think you’re a witch with your foreign tongues, so you can use your witchy wiles on my customers.”
“Perhaps I will. First, prove to me you have connections.” Bettina slid from her clinch, wishing she could scrub her body clean. “Slip a note to my husband and I want one back from him.”
“And slip a message to the king from me,” the skinny woman who called herself The Countess announced. “He’ll be furious at my detainment in this fetid lodging.”
“From his grave, you idiot.” Leonie glared at The Countess, then turned her sensual smile on Bettina. “Very well, Madame Camborne.” She nodded her full-cheeked face under cropped hair tinted an unnatural gold, though several inches of dark roots poked from her scalp.
“We’ll talk again when that happens.” Bettina sighed, unable to trust the woman’s agreement. She hated being the youngest inmate in the cell and was no doubt the only true member of the ancient regime there. She stifled a yawn and scratched under her arm. Each night she slept badly on the flea-ridden straw as rats scuttled about the stone floor. Her fingers clenched; she slept with them tucked beneath her body in case a rat nibbled one off.
The cell door was unlocked and kicked open. Wooden bowls filled with unpalatable mush were pushed across the floor. A bucket of water with a ladle was set inside before the door re-locked. Beside this were the stinking buckets used as latrines, only emptied once a day.
“I want the warden!” Bettina pounded on the splintered door. “If you send a letter to Julie Bonaparte…” She pressed her face to the cool wood, her knuckles aching. The guards always laughed when she made this request. No one believed she knew the Bonapartes and she had no coin for bribes.
The women scrambled for the bowls with rattles and grunts. A sore-infested hag snatched one and howled. She stirred a finger around in the mush and held up an insect, then popped it in her mouth with a flourish.
Bettina picked up a bowl and stared at the gray contents. She suppressed her nausea and ate, trying not to taste. She must keep up her strength.
One woman picked vermin out of Leonie’s dish and handed it to her.
“First time I was here they let us eat in the refectory, with tables. Much more civilized.” Leonie nudged Bettina. “Five, six years ago, when prisoners waited not so eager for the sharp end. Comprenez-vous?” She ran a plump finger down her frayed bodice. “During the Terror they allowed the men and women to mingle, quite close in these cells.”
Bettina trembled, longing for Everett in her arms. She disliked Leonie’s attention, but appreciated the others respectful distance since the Madame had singled her out. “You’ll need to find me pen and paper…for the note.”
“Don’t worry, my educated friend. A ci-devant, I think.” Leonie traipsed around the stone floor and the women scattered to give her a wide swath. “I ran the most lavish brothel in Paris, the highest class of girls, not like these street whores. Until someone dared to snitch on me over trifling tax matters.”
“Peste, my husband was too elegant to use your foul services.” The Countess slouched in a niche probably once used for religious icons. She grinned with her rotten teeth and scratched at ragged clothes. “I never picked no one’s pocket like they said, even if the revolution ruined me.”
Leonie scrutinized Bettina. “Tell me the truth, are you a spy for England?”
“Of course I’m not. As I keep saying. My husband and I are innocent. We only want to leave France. I must reach my children.” Bettina hunched her shoulders, fighting tears. Her anger rose up again, pricking the sorrow back. “How long does it take to go to trial? I need to contact friends, to get my husband out.”
“You boast of people you know, yet here you stay, mais oui.” Leonie winked, her plump face paper dry with aging remnants of beauty. Her full-lipped smile promised delights Bettina wanted no part of. “Use your lovely face on the guards to finagle your way.”
“And you use your wiles to fetch me pen and paper and sneak off my note.”
* * * *
The door creaked open, and the guard they called “Hobble”—though not to his face—leaned in. His right leg shorter than his left, he limped down the gloomy corridors, shouting remarks into cells where monks once prayed. “Here’s a new guest, Mesdames.” He pushed in a pale, wisp of a girl in a yellow dress, who slunk off into the corner.
Bettina rushed up to his sneering visage. “You should have heard back by now, it’s been several days,” she whispered. At Leonie’s request, Hobble had promised to deliver her message to Everett and return one from him.
Hobble raked his beady gaze over her. “And what’s in it for me? I risk my job, and what do you offer me? You are pleasant enough to look at.” He touched his crotch, his tone blasé.
Bettina swallowed and clenched her fists. She forced on her seductive voice, to slide out her lies easier. “I said I’d wait for you…at Leonie’s, when I’m freed.”
“I’ll show you something special now, cheri.” A frizzy-haired street prostitute gyrated her hips and raised her filthy skirt. “If you arrange my release on these false charges.”
Leonie billowed up to them. “Half the city’s seen your special treats. Don’t waste the man’s time.” She jabbed the woman aside with her elbow. The whore staggered away, holding her stomach.
“Stop playing games. Have you heard from my husband?” Bettina snatched at Hobble’s sleeve. The unsympathetic glare in his flat face dug deep inside her.
“Leonie, mon amourette.” Hobble jerked away his sleeve and slouched in the doorway. “Too bad they don’t hold dances like they used to. We’d trot out to a gavotte tonight.”
“I’ve been to a few, me and my better ladies. Quite the brothel it was then.” Leonie smiled, as if counting past profits in her head. “What’s the news, mon ami?”
Bettina stepped even closer to Hobble. “Is my husband well? They can’t hold us in here indefinitely; we have a right to legal counsel.”
“I might have something for you.” Hobble caressed her hand then patted his waistcoat pocket. “Bribes up front might get you what you desire. Our justice moves so slow.”
Bettina recoiled from his calloused touch and rank breath.
“Dancing in a monastery, what were you imbeciles thinking?” The Countess gave a derisive sniffle. “Grâce à Dieu, the religious order was given back their home.”
“And here you are in this last wing of hospitality from our dear Directors.” Leonie snickered, then turned to Hobble. “Treat our Bettina nice, stop your teasing. She promised me to work as my top whore.”
Bettina fought down a scream. She stared at Hobble’s pocket. “Do you have a message?”
A few women stumbled forward to whine about their unfair incarceration.
“Shut up! Mon Dieu!” Bettina swiped out her arm and they backed off. Leonie smiled and nodded her head.
“You women will make me insane.” Hobble slapped the stick he always carried into the palm of his hand. A weapon he didn’t hesitate to use if anyone grew too restless. He slipped a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and dangled it before Bettina’s nose. “For any other assistance, you’ll have to drop to your knees.”
Bettina snatched the paper and hurried toward the wall, where a high, barred window provided a breath of air and light. Her note to Everett was on one side. She turned it over. Darling, I’m all right. I love you, Everett.
She pressed the
note to her mouth and kissed the familiar writing. Perhaps next time Leonie could find a way to send a message to Julie. She heard her old friend was in Paris. Her desperation poked at every sinew in her body.
The new girl in the yellow dress quivered a few feet away, huddled against the damp stones of the wall. Her eyes wide in a thin face, her hair glistened white in the weak shaft of light. Her dress shimmered, a fine silk that matched her slippers. She wasn’t the usual “guest” seen in this cell.
Bettina stuffed the scrap of paper in the bodice of her stained, wrinkled rose-colored frock.
The Countess slithered over to the newcomer. “Aren’t you the fancy one? Can I try on your shoes? Expensive, non? I owned a wardrobe of finer clothes, before they executed my husband, the esteemed count.” She stooped down. “I might put a word in to the king for you.”
The girl retreated with a whimper and cowered in the corner.
The hag ambled over, scraggly gray hair wispy over her sores. She reached out gnarled hands to pluck at the girl’s gown.
“Leave her alone, old woman.” Bettina stepped in front of the shaking girl. “Go back to your hole, the rats miss your company.” The hag scuttled away like a cockroach.
“Merci,” squeaked a timid voice. “I’m so frightened...I don’t know what to do.”
“Why are you in here, dressed like this?” Bettina turned and shouted in Latin to chase the others out of earshot. Leonie remained at the door, conversing with Hobble. Bettina looked the girl over, remembering when she’d fled France in just such inappropriate attire. “What’s your name?”
“Patrice. I was…returning from a play.” Patrice stared up with doleful eyes. “You don’t sound like you belong among these women either.”
“I don’t. Why were you arrested?” Bettina’s spirits lifted as this girl might have decent connections on the outside.
“My father...is a Royalist,” she said after a long hesitation. “He’s been in touch with the exiles in England. There’s been rioting in the streets. Many are calling for the return of the Royal family. Now the Jacobins have arrested most of the Royalists...and their relatives. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m Bettina Camborne. I’ve been arrested under mistaken circumstances, yet everyone pleads that in here.” Bettina sighed, gave an ironic chuckle and leaned against the crumbling wall. “I suppose there’s little chance the Bourbons will regain control of France. I’m not sure I’d want them to.”
“The Directors are horrid people. They’d execute their own mothers...I shouldn’t say anymore,” Patrice whispered, averting her pale-lashed eyes. “Not that I have political views either way.”
“Sadly, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were weak rulers. They lived extravagantly and did too little to improve the lot of the common people.” Bettina shifted along the rough wall, certain she felt the remnant of a breeze. The queen had once touched her face and told Bettina’s mother what a pretty child. “Of course, I don’t condone their murders.”
“Have you witnessed the executions at the Place de la Revolution?” Patrice’s eyes rounded, shimmering with tears above her translucent cheeks. “It was endless...so horridly relentless.”
Bettina sighed again, reluctant to assimilate that image. Her life was enough of a nightmare. She touched her bodice where the note nestled. “I’ve been out of the country for several years.”
“And this place had the most brutal of massacres. Those innocent priests who were clubbed to death in here in this monastery.” Patrice trembled as she spoke.
“In these very cells, ma petite amie,” Leonie said, rolling up to them like a barrel. “You can still see where their blood is splattered, over in that corner. Out in the garden, too.”
At Patrice’s whimper Leonie snorted. “Another pretty, young one. A shame you’re too feeble to join my exclusive menagerie. I still have claims on you, Bettina.” The Madam winked and lumbered off with a proprietary air.
“I let her believe what she wishes. The first rule in this cell is to always ‘pretend’ to respect Leonie.” Bettina turned to the girl. “Does your father know a good lawyer? He won’t let you rot in here, will he?”
“I hope he won’t, if he’s able to gain his own release.” Patrice’s lips quivered.
“Stay by me. I’ll do my best to protect you.” Bettina stretched and patted the girl’s arm. With Genevre’s coloring, her daughter might look similar to this young woman when she grew up. Sadness filled her; she hadn’t seen her babies in far too long. She forced a steadying breath. “Here’s more advice. Avoid the hag, and ignore the live additions—or formally alive—in your meals. Pick them out, hold your nose, and eat. If you don’t, you’ll starve...” Bettina stopped when Patrice whirled away and retched. “You’ll have to learn strength to survive, girl. I learned that years ago when I was about your age.” Bettina gripped Patrice’s shoulder. “I’ll help you, as my dear friends Maddie and Kerra once helped me.”
* * * *
Bettina braided Patrice’s silky hair after the girl braided her thick black tresses. They behaved like sisters, taking care of one another. When Bettina felt on the verge of collapse, she stiffened her resolve to appear steadfast for Patrice. Their friendship eased Bettina’s desolation over Everett’s welfare. Cajoling with Leonie and Hobble, she managed to exchange a few more notes with him. The dreary days—weeks—stumbled into one another.
Keys clicked in the lock and the cell door swung open. Hobble smacked his stick against the splintered frame.
“Attention, by authorization of the new Consuls of France, you ladies are free to go.” Hobble snorted, his expression disgruntled.
“You wouldn’t tease a lady?” Leonie asked, migrating her bulk toward him. “I don’t appreciate taunts so close after breakfast.”
Bettina grasped Patrice’s hand and stepped toward the guard, not trusting this good news. “New consuls? Are we really free?”
“After you, fair one, I’ll be around to visit.” Hobble bowed to Leonie. He leered and poked his stick at Bettina. “And you’d better be waiting for me at Leonie’s.”
“I’ll be expecting both of you. You have my address.” Leonie ran her fingers through her brassy hair and sailed like a galleon from the cell.
Several women cried and scurried out the door and down the passage. Bettina dragged Patrice out into the corridor.
“You’re all being freed in honor of forming a new government and a new constitution.” Hobble jabbed his stick and chased the hag from the cell. “The rest of you, allons-y. I don’t have all day. I have to scrub out this pigpen.”
The Countess sauntered past him. “Send someone for my baggage, won’t you? And don’t break anything. I’m off to Versailles to see the king.”
Bettina hurried with Patrice down the long corridor and out into a courtyard. She breathed in the brisk fresh air. The gate in a stone arch gaped open. A guard directed women out onto the street.
“What does this mean, new government, new constitution?” Bettina asked the gate guard, trying to sort through her confused thoughts.
“The Directors have resigned. General Bonaparte has taken over with two others after storming the Council of Five Hundred yesterday. Keep moving.” The man pointed to the street.
Bedraggled females blinked in weak sunlight, wandering about in bewilderment.
“Are the men released, too?” Bettina asked over her thumping heart. She stared around and saw only women. “Will their discharge happen later?”
“No, the men aren’t released. Too many foreigners and spies. Now go before we change our mind,” he snarled and swiped a stick similar to Hobble’s near her face. “You’re clogging up the area.”
Now Patrice dragged Bettina out through the gate. “Hurry, let’s get away from here.”
The two of them ran across the rue de Vaugirard. “Not rel
easing the men? My husband is a foreigner and accused of spying.” Bettina groaned and gritted her teeth. “I have to contact Julie. She’s married to Bonaparte’s brother. She’ll have to help me.”
More women staggered out, milling around the street, sobbing and laughing.
“I know where they live.” Patrice’s pale face flushed, she spoke in breathless excitement. “My father showed me their house once. It’s a long walk to the north, on the rue des Errancis.” Her freedom seemed to have brought a confidence to her quivering, child-like manner.
“Tres bien, we’ll go there, right now.” Bettina rubbed her arms, suddenly aware of how cold it was. They linked arms and dashed off. She felt dizzy, and fuzzy around the edges, like she’d awoken from a coma.
They rushed up the street as the other women disbursed in various directions. Passing the Luxembourg Palace on the right, Patrice told her that this grandiose structure was also used as a prison at the height of the revolution. In her youth, Bettina had visited the seventeenth century palace. A wistful memory overtook her of exploring the magnificent gardens with her parents.
Crossing the Pont Neuf over the Seine, Bettina paused to gaze at the gothic spires of Notre Dame. A man speeding by in a one-horse cabriolet nearly ran them into the river. On the Right Bank the women skirted the Louvre and reached the rue Saint- Honoré.
Bettina sagged against a building, her stomach in cramps. “I used to live on this street. Just down from the convent of the Feuillants. Do all the houses remain?” She trembled with memories—the loss of her childhood.
“You look white as a ghost,” Patrice said in earnest. “The houses are still there. Do you want to walk by your home?”
“Mais non, I must leave all that behind. Let’s keep moving.” She heaved to her feet. She didn’t care to see the condition her home might have been left in. A leaden sky already cast a pall over the city, though the breeze washed away the sink of the musty prison.
At the Palais-Royal, the building loomed stark and neglected. Bettina’s father had once strolled with her through the arcades of this once elite core of Paris to watch amusing puppet shows. Her throat tightened. Her Papa’s sweet smile, and firm, warm hand in hers. Had he realized her love for him? Had she appreciated him enough as a child?
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