A young, masked man handed Jake a Bible.
Citizen Bouche spoke, “That is the Ostervald translation, published in ‘44 by Abraham Boyve and Company. It is widely available anywhere French is spoken.”
“What is this for, Citizen Director?”
“You can carry it anywhere, even in plain view, and no one will be the wiser. Now listen very carefully. The code is simple, but it must be accurate.”
Jake listened. It wasn’t really simple at all, and would take ages to communicate a short message, but it would definitely work.
More importantly, it would arose no suspicion.
Estelle, 1785
Chapter 14
Estelle, sitting next to her father in the packed chapel of the Abbey of Saint-Florent for high mass, had only seen the stained wood of the pew directly in front of her, when her eyes were open at all. A finger was firmly tamped in each ear, so she could not hear.
She was a young woman, and she was in love. Her feelings overwhelmed her. Sometimes, when she was taken with them, she could feel her heartbeat drumming through her eyes, and her breath would come raggedly, as if she had run up a hill. She was sick to her stomach and her pounding blood wanted to slush through parts of her body she would rather not contemplate. Estelle felt like a sinner unable to hide - a sorcerous green-burning fire on a moonless night. What made it infinitely worse was that she enjoyed the feeling as much as she hated it.
Her brother had sent her a letter. She tried to focus on the memory of reading it -which was difficult since it was not in front of her.
Dear Estelle,
Do you remember the brook near our little cottage when we lived in the mountains? We used its water for everything, and it sang us to sleep every night. I didn’t think too much upon that stream when we were there, but when we left I felt its loss very keenly. I still dream about our little creek. Sometimes I just dream the sound. I think you are like that brook. I didn’t know how much you meant to me, and how much I relied on you, until I left. I very sincerely miss you. We have been through a lot together, you and I. There are things no one understands but us. You are really an amazing person, Estelle. I felt good around you - you brightened every place. I’m glad I don’t dream about you, as I did the brook, for you are horrifically ugly and troll-like, and the nightmares would scare me, and destroy my ability to ingest food the next day. Ha-ha!
Please excuse the paper this is written on. Paper is quite expensive, so I tear down news flyers and posters from the walls. If you soak them carefully, you can get the ink out, although the paper is thereafter an odd color, and tears easily. I have enclosed several sheets for you so you can write back. PS - if you have no ink, just use beet juice, it works just as well. So does charcoal, if you add water and crush it until it is of uniform consistency and will stick on the quill. Mud does not work, nor wet clay.
Raphaël says hello! Can you believe such a thing! I am so happy that my friend is back in my life. It’s like he’s been resurrected. It takes something akin to six months for my letters to arrive. I always make a copy, for I do not need to be told that the journey is perilous, and some letters may be lost. So far, all is well, however. I write him constantly and he writes me. We are playing a game over mail, and I must wait six months before writing my next move. We are hashing out the rules in the meantime. I have told him all about you, and he says he wants to marry you. I told him he’s mad, but he is very serious. I will continue to try to dissuade him. His last letter was dictated, and written by Monsieur Pinceau. I’m not sure why. What do you think? It vexes me.
Grenoble is so beautiful. It isn’t as big as Nantes, maybe not even Angers - perhaps Le Cap. It is an ancient, walled city on the Isère river. We are surrounded by snow-capped peaks, and it is breathtaking. The city is so dense, all big buildings and narrow alleys, but they are all very winsome. The French like to live right on top of each other. If Le Cap was like this, everyone would boil on the stones. But it is nice and cool here, so I suppose they have a need to keep heat, and not dissipate it as in Saint-Domingue. Everyone here seems to be in the glove business. That is a very strange thing to say for a town, but there it is. At least Grenoble is not beset by ironworkers banging on anvils. Can you imagine the noise ringing out over such a place? The sound of sewing needles I can bear gladly, for there really is none.
I’m starting to make some friends, but it’s hard. Everyone in my class was at school several years before I arrived. The University is ancient. Everything is old. I guess Grenoble was a crossroads of sorts, for armies and trade moving into northern Italy, Vienna and so on. They consider themselves the capital city of the Alps. The Alps could do worse!
I have come upon a strange thing, Estelle. I will try to explain: there is nothing I learned from Maman, Papa, or Saint-Domingue in general, that has any kind of relevance here. For example, when someone crossed Papa, he became angry or threatening, and then he promptly got his way because people were scared he would hurt them. Neither the students, professors, or townspeople act this way. Sometimes they raise their voices in agitation, but that is all. Perhaps it is different when they are in their cups, or dishonored or something, but on a day-to-day basis, you never see anyone - anyone - act like Papa. That is only one example. What I am beginning to realize is that Papa, Maman, and Saint-Domingue are more a part of me than I’d like to admit. Sometimes when I see a student or professor, I say to myself, “He is soft!” or “Someone will steal that boy’s clothes, and leave him naked in the street.” But, of course, no one does. I am some sort of hybrid creature belonging to nowhere, and feel as if everything I’ve ever learned has no worth whatsoever here. It vexes me greatly, Estelle. I do not act in a fashion conducive to social interaction, not naturally. In fact, I would say I completely lack social instinct for successful interaction. I have no skills pertaining to people, and feel my inadequacy keenly. In addition, in my categorization, I am neither this nor that, straight down the column of possible identities. Am I Saint-Domingue? I should hope not. Anjou, Saint-Florent-le-Vieil? By what right? Grenoble? Not a chance. Am I tough, soft, physical, intellectual, white, black, fierce, or calm? I am altogether confused, that is what I am. I do not believe in God, yet I attend mass… a metaphor for every aspect of my life! I beat a classmate with my fists. The other students looked at me as if I was a savage, wild beast. My reputation still hasn’t recovered. In Saint-Domingue, I would have gained status. It was a terrible mistake. It hurts me that people I respect and like so much, do not respect or like me.
Which brings us to the oddest thing about Grenoble. They are madly in love with dolphins here. I don’t know why. Dolphin images, statues, whatnot, are everywhere here - even on the flag. In fact, the whole province, Dauphiné, is named after dolphins. There are no real dolphins anywhere here, nowhere in the entire province. You can’t find a dolphin for leagues and leagues - not until you reach the sea. We are in the damné mountains here, Estelle! What makes it worse is that an old king of Grenoble, who merged Dauphiné with France, did so on one condition: that the heir to the French throne be ever after called the Dauphin. So, the princes of France are dolphins, too - because of dolphin-crazy Grenoble! Madness.
Things are not quite how they are in Anjou, when it comes to the people of the city. It is more like Saint-Domingue. The gap between rich and poor is the space between the bottom of the sea and the clouds in the sky. The farmers and such are very poor, really actually wretched, some of them. I see them at the market, and they are mostly barefoot in the snow. The priests who perform the sacraments (I have to go to mass, more’s the pity), are the usual sort with holes in their vestments, shivering in their thin cloth on cold days. But all the rest, the higher priests and such (you would know titles better than I) you can’t tell from a noble. They dress like marquis, ride around in coaches, live in mansions, and the bishops even call themselves “The Princes of Grenoble.” All the café gossip centers around the brawl between the nobles and the clergy for power, women, and successful
court litigation. Disgusting! I have studied the Middle Ages, and I know all about how nothing was ever achieved in France except by the Estates General - composed of the three estates, the elected nobles, clergy and commoners. That was out of order - second estate, first, and third, that was. Did I tell you about this already? I have never really seen these “three estates” in action, so to speak, and had no frame of reference. Here the struggle between these classes is as real as Roman concrete, and everyone seems to strongly identify with their caste. It is odd to see, and playing out so plainly to boot. There is such animosity. The least of it seems to come from the poor peasants, who probably have the most to be angry about, but somehow are not. The middle-class townspeople are the ones who are frothing at the mouth, like street dogs in Le Cap - so are our professors, who are mostly poor priests. I suppose if I was some glove maker, worked hard, and had expectations about my life - as in, I walk to the bakery, and there is bread, much less bread I can afford - I would be angry if they were not met as well. The glove makers are taxed to the gills, treated like milk cows for government, and when the grain harvest is ruined by rain or cold, they starve regardless of how much coin is in their pocket. Sometimes I think half of France would do better in Le Cap, where plants can bloom on the raindrops before they hit the ground… then I remember everyone here is white, and would probably not last a year. What a curse, to be stuck in a place with such a swing between dearth and plenty. I am fairly disgusted with the nobles here and the upper clergy, having seen better examples of them in Anjou and Le Cap. They mostly try to run people over with their coaches and bark insults or commands, if they even notice you at all. I feel sorry for their peacock servants, who must take their merde like cheerful chamber pots. From what I am learning, this country has always been a coach at speed - with the wheels not properly attached to the axles. It has always been a mess, and probably always will be. There have been many times when the wheels fell off this national coach, and open war has broken out in the streets. There have been six legitimate wars this century already, and probably as many riots and rebellions. If war breaks out roughly every ten years, it seems we are due, at least for another riot or rebellion. Who knows? I suppose a little bit of blood on the cobblestones would break up the monotony of school work, we’ll see.
Miss you dearly,
Guillaume
PS - Now that I think upon it, the troubles here might have something to do with the fact that everyone can read. That may seem like a strange thing to say, but I will explain. There are pamphlets, leaflets, posters, and newspapers everywhere. You simply cannot escape information. It is a million times worse than Le Cap, and you know I never lacked for paper soldiers there. Everyone in Grenoble is bombarded with information. Everyone knows what goes on, but depending on what you read, you get a different version of it! If things get bad, there are wholesale lies being told everywhere from every viewpoint imaginable. Some of them are quite ridiculous and unbelievable, but you would be amazed at what people can accept. It is as if widespread education has led to a whole new level of ignorance. The unavoidable, constant exposure to the printing press has put people in a fever pitch state regarding nearly everything in the political sphere. One never knows what to believe. Perhaps that is why the peasants are the happiest - they can’t read the lies. Much love!
Guillaume had an ambivalent relationship with violence. The scales tipped with his unhappiness and anger, and it was always directed toward men. His young friend from Saint-Domingue was dying, but Estelle did not want to be the one who reminded Guillaume of Raphaël’s illness. It distressed her that Guillaume had not found friends. Guillaume was a full-scholarship student, which made him a rare species at the University school. He had no money at all, and wrote on used posters, and was probably close to starving most of the time, which made him an uncommon race of that rare species. He was also a feral Mamelouk from Saint-Domingue. Although there were plenty of colored from Saint-Domingue going to school in France, all of them were the sons of planters: rich, connected and aristocratic. Even they would have little in common with him, his friendship with Raphaël notwithstanding. Raphaël, like Guillaume, was a unicorn. In any case, friendships were rarely struck outside of social class, but hopefully things would look up for him. Overall, he seemed to be in a good temper.
Estelle, through the corner of her eye, saw the three young Nicolas daughters staring at her. One of them made a motion - Why do you plug your ears? Estelle immediately put her hands in her lap. She must have looked utterly ridiculous. It would not do. The young girls were watching her, because young girls are always curious about older girls. Estelle straightened in the pew to a normal posture.
And there he was. Father Jonathan Courgeon stood at the pulpit for his sermon. He wasn’t speaking. He was simply staring into her eyes. Estelle could do nothing but what came naturally - and what came naturally was to smile, for she delighted in his being. When she smiled at him, his face lit as if hit by a ray of light. And that was the problem - and that was why Estelle had not attended church in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil for over six months.
She had traveled to La Chapelle-Saint-Florent, the parish bordering Saint-Florent-le-Vieil to the southwest, and had started a conversation with a young lady on the street. The girl she chose looked a bit awkward and was alone, and perhaps in need of a friend – and that is precisely why Estelle chose her. Her name was Solange Guigou, and she was indeed all three. She was thin and tall, possessed of long, stringy light brown hair, and grey eyes. Her features were not unpleasant, but plain. She was of average intelligence, displayed no special abilities or skills, but was a kind, good-hearted sort who possessed an abundant supply of patience and selflessness, especially around children and infants. Estelle did not particularly identify with Solange, or have interests in common with her. But she showered Solange with love and affection, and was very attentive of her, and soon Estelle was the best, and only, friend of Solange Guigou.
Estelle found that Solange was the seventh child of eleven, and had been given more responsibility than attention, being nearly a second mother of the family. But she loved her family very much, though she was unappreciated. She had no graces, no knowledge of beauty, and was overlooked by the boys.
Solange soon loved Estelle like a sister. Estelle had a fondness for Solange, but nothing more. She kindled the friendship for one reason, and one reason only: to find a legitimate excuse, that would arouse no suspicion, as to why she no longer attended mass in Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. If her best friend was Solange Guigou, it made sense that she attended mass in Chapelle-Saint-Florent. Despite Estelle’s motives, she was a good friend to Solange, and helped her do better things with her hair, dress more attentively, and look at herself as an honorable woman worthy of attention and love. She even tried to teach her to read, but was not successful.
Unfortunately for Estelle, her friendship opened Solange like a budding flower. She began to wear a smile, to talk more, and to be more open with her neighbors. Her relationship with her family and parish changed nearly overnight. Soon Estelle’s time with Solange was spent with a growing group of her friends. Again, Estelle really had nothing in common with any of them. But Estelle was giving, kind and attentive, a good listener and empathetic, and all of Solange’s friends adored her. The problem came when suitors started to arrive as well. Estelle’s heart fell, but she helped Solange as best she could. Estelle explained that these new arrivals found Solange attractive, and her manner pleasing. Solange was dumbstruck and excited. Estelle explained that she must be patient: it was up to Solange to discover the true temper of these men, and whether they were compatible with her own innermost self. She had to discover whether they could provide for Solange, and care for her future children in a good Christian manner.
The young men certainly took a liking to Estelle as well - but always in a brotherly fashion. She did share many qualities with the young women of the parish: she was faithful, honorable, self-sufficient, hard-working and good with plants and
animals. But there was something altogether different about Estelle - nothing objectionable, simply alien and otherworldly, and she was sometimes a bit aloof. She was wise beyond her years, educated, well-travelled and intelligent.
Estelle thought of herself as the most boring person in Christendom. How she could now be perceived as some kind of Turkish princess was a complete mystery to her, but somehow, in Chapelle-Saint-Florent, she was as exotic as a veil dance.
To Estelle’s dismay, Solange was soon betrothed. The young man was named Jean Vanier, and he was completely unobjectionable. In fact, he was perfect for Solange, and worshipped the very ground she walked on. Solange and Jean were soon married, with Estelle being the maid of honor, and being mentioned at the wedding nearly as much as the bride and groom. The problem was that Jean Vanier lived with his family in La Boissière-sur-Èvre, the parish just to the southwest of Chapelle-Saint-Florent, in a little place known as La Colle, which was in the very southwest of the parish. For Estelle, it would be more than a fourteen-mile round trip to attend mass with Solange after the wedding. She could no longer plausibly justify her absence from Saint-Florent-le-Vieil. But it had been a long time since she had seen Father Jonathan, she thought, and perhaps things were different.
Father Jonathan, for his part, was also considered to be a bit exotic by the people he met day to day, being a man of the cloth. He was also intellectually curious, delving into science, mathematics and philosophy. These subjects brought up questions regarding the nature of the universe. Father Jonathan eagerly tried to solve them – and delighted in the fact that every answer he found brought him back to God. Like most priests between the Loire and the Vendée, he was born a neighbor to his congregation. However different, he was, ultimately, one of them - they knew his family, and they certainly knew him. Everyone realized he was destined to be a priest from a young age, for he was whip-smart, ethereally-minded and moral, and he was treated differently by his peers and their parents alike. His duties were worthy of his talents, but he felt alone, even being always surrounded by people. There were nine other brothers at the abbey, but they were all much older, and had no interest in discussions of faith or philosophy which involved inquisition or change. They were Black Monks - Benedictines - who had taken oaths of conversatio morum, and were dedicated to a routine of prayer, worship and study. It was Father Jonathan’s job to interface with the community at large. The monks appreciated Father Jonathan, for he did precisely what he was supposed to do, and did it well - but they did not understand him as a person or priest, nor the intellectual curiosity of his age. Jonathan enjoyed the company of the Marquis de Bonchamps and the Marquise, but the Marquis was often away with the regiment, and the Marquise had an increasing obligation to her growing family as she had more children.
The Crimson Heirlooms Page 26
