by Perrat, Liza
‘Champagne,’ said a woman in a great plumed hat.
From the kitchen of Le Faisan Doré I listened to them all snapping orders at the waiters.
I glanced out from time to time at the habitual customers: well-dressed men from the Paris Mint on the Quai de Conti, business papers overflowing from their pockets, ladies gossiping over wine, their wide skirts spilling beyond the chair edges. The stock-exchange dealers were there too — those men who came thrice daily to sit in their private room to drink brandy and gamble their money away. I could tell immediately whether they won or lost, from their expressions.
There were the circles of men too, who sat all day reading the public papers, all of which could be found in the restaurant. They judged the latest plays and argued loudly about the actors. Amidst one such group debating the current news, a pastime that occupied many throughout the day, I finally saw him.
With his rose-coloured satin suit embroidered in silver, his hooked nose and the small scar on his left temple, I could never have mistaken the Marquis de Barberon.
The hatred filled me as swiftly as a drunkard fills his beaker with cheap ale. I froze in the doorway, clutching my apron, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
As I backed out of sight, I saw it all as clear as the Vionne River in spring — why Jeanne had sent me to the Palais-Royal. As the Marquis chatted and laughed, vaunting his gleaming porcelain teeth as he took pinches of snuff from his decorated box, the coldness vanished and warmth swept in.
The rising heat gripped me and a hundred thoughts collided in my brain. Laudanum — remedy people relied on for wasp stings, menstrual cramps, insomnia and all other ailments — seemed my only option. A few drops in his meal, but how many?
I recalled our dismal failure when Jeanne and I attempted to drug the asylum guards. As for the dose large enough to kill a man, I had no idea.
There was the risk too, the Marquis might detect some odd, bitter aftertaste. If he suspected anything was amiss with his food and discovered me, they would whip me, and hang or burn my body or break me on the wheel.
No, I didn’t want my revenge on the Marquis in such a fashion. As I prepared the veal dish scented with saffron, for the afternoon meal, I knew I wanted him to see me; to know the identity of his aggressor and why he was facing such an agonising death, however that might be. I had to see regret in those red-rimmed eyes, to smell the terror on his breath, to watch him drop to his knees and plead for his life, as he pissed all over his satin breeches. Something such as this required careful planning; I could not be caught.
Quaking with nerves, with terror, and delight, I could hardly cook that afternoon. My mind chopped over my revenge — mixing, basting and stirring until it rose perfectly, and tasted far sweeter than the meringues and lemon pie I prepared for the diners of the Le Faisan Doré restaurant.
31
I’d been gone from la Salpêtrière a month when spring flung her freshness across Paris. Even though the sun warmed my cheeks as I waited in the Palais-Royal gardens for Claudine, I hunched my shoulders against the snap of breeze.
I stood in the thin shade of a chestnut tree from where I could observe people approaching the fountain. I almost took my freedom for granted now, but still I couldn’t help assuming the role of watcher.
Well-dressed ladies bustled in and out of arcade shops, buying silks and muslins. Men strode from others that boasted surgical and astronomy instruments, and toys whose fashion would be dead by the end of the day. There were no sounds of the blacksmith’s anvil, the clog-maker’s or tinker’s hammer, for the Palais-Royal was an elegant, expensive place, its prices triple that of elsewhere. But people still flocked, those who loved having everything they desired under one roof.
As short and round as I remembered her, Claudine approached me, her smile spreading as wide as her arms.
‘Finally we meet, my child.’ She kissed me easily, lavishly, like a true Parisian. ‘How lovely you are still.’ She cupped a palm under a wad of my wavy shoulder-length hair, which I wore in the latest style of loose ringlets, adorned with ribbons.
‘I knew it was you, in your note,’ she said. ‘But why the secrecy, why do you call yourself Rubie? And what of Armand and his son, Léon, and your children?’
I hooked my arm through Claudine’s. ‘I work in a restaurant here at the Palais-Royal now, so why don’t we walk somewhere else, away from prying ears, and I’ll tell you everything.’
We left the fancy palace crowd, and its aromas streaming from the cafés and coffee-roasters, and strolled along the rue Saint-Honoré.
‘Losing Armand was a catastrophe,’ I said. ‘I had grown to love and respect my husband, and what he meant for my life as a free woman. When he died, la mélancolie came upon me, so slowly at first I barely noticed, until it choked me like some malignant disease. Then it was too late.’ I took a breath. ‘Finances too, became so dismal we had to close the inn.’
Claudine squeezed my arm. ‘Poor child, I have heard la mélancolie is an evil thing once it comes on you.’
I nodded. ‘So evil that I cannot even recall the terrible day la Vionne violente stole my little Blandine and Gustave.’
‘The twins drowned? Quelle tragédie!’
I glanced away so she might not see the pain in my eyes. ‘Worse. They claimed I drowned them. They sent me to la Salpêtrière.’ I waved an arm eastward, across the river, in the direction of the asylum.
‘Someone as good and God-fearing as you could not commit such a crime. I will never believe it.’ Her probing eyes studied me. ‘But you are quite sane now, my child?’
‘Oh yes, lucid enough even to escape la Salpêtrière.’ I held up a palm and dropped my voice to a whisper. ‘Don’t ask me how; it is safer you know nothing.’
‘Escaped la Salpêtrière! But nobody … nobody besides the necklace conwoman has escaped that place,’ Claudine said. ‘Aren’t you afraid somebody will see you, have you arrested and sent back? You know we Parisians are a curious lot, and quite suspicious.’
‘I was terrified at first,’ I said, ‘but I barely even glance over my shoulder now. People are too busy with their lives to bother with me.’
‘Well I am relieved you are safe,’ she said, patting my arm.
‘Let’s walk along the riverbank,’ I said, steering Claudine away from the grimy, outstretched palms of beggars.
We continued along the right bank, the breeze snapping at my ankles as we paused on the Notre Dame bridge, watching rafts float firewood down the murky Seine.
‘Wood,’ Claudine said, shaking her head, as men waded into the muddy water, unloaded the precious fuel and carried it ashore on their backs. ‘One of the most extravagant things in Paris these days, my child. Twelve sous for a log no longer or thicker than a man’s arm. Can you imagine that?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard,’ I said. ‘Everything is so expensive these days.’
‘So, tell me about this restaurant position of yours,’ Claudine said, hooking her arm through mine as we moved off towards the working class faubourg of Saint-Antoine.
‘Thanks to your culinary skills I’ve become quite the renowned cook at Le Faisan Doré,’ I said. ‘I am appreciated for my — your — buttery potage au cresson, sautéed veal in Madeira sauce and, of course, haricots verts au vinaigre.
Claudine puffed up at my compliments. ‘I am surprised you are working in Le Faisan Doré. Why would you return to the Palais-Royal when you know too well the Marquis frequents that place more than his own home?’
‘He stole my innocence.’ My voice was tight and low, as a cluster of cloud obscured the sun and the chill seized me.
‘Ha! As I suspected, my child. You return to the Palais-Royal with your mind full of revenge.’ Claudine’s eyes grew wide. ‘You should banish this foolish idea. The Marquis knows people in high government places; you’ll be in the pillory in no time.’
‘I must do it for Rubie, for myself, for all those other girls, to stop hi — ’
‘Speakin
g of those other girls,’ Claudine said. ‘I had not planned to mention this, as I wanted to preserve your sensitivity, but I believe now it is my duty to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Of the tragedy.’ She took a breath. ‘Our latest scullery girl — Margot, poor sweet child — was a victim too, of the Marquis. When Margot’s child was born she tried to get money from the Marquis.’ She rubbed her fleshy arms. ‘Naturally that didn’t work so Margot wanted revenge, as you do. And now, this very afternoon, they will execute her. You must come with me.’
‘But I’m not like most people, Claudine. I cannot bear to watch innocent people treated with such brutality. I loathe public punishment, and flee those macabre spectacles. Why should I go?’
‘Firstly, it will ease my suffering to have your company on such a painful occasion,’ Claudine said, ‘but I hope it will also serve to chase these silly ideas from your mind, Victoire.’
‘All right, I’ll come with you,’ I said, glancing around. ‘But please call me Rubie now.’
‘Thank you, your presence will console me.’
Claudine took my arm again as we walked down the rue Saint-Antoine, passed the glassworks that made mirrors. ‘And please, my child, no more talk of vengeance. It only blackens the soul. Besides you don’t want to end up in the Bastille.’ She pointed at the black shapes of the walls and turrets of the fortress, which towered the three-arched Saint-Antoine city gate.
‘The cells underground run with water, and are alive with rats,’ she said. ‘If you’re poor, that is.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Of course, the rich can pay for beds with proper curtains, and bring their cats in to keep the vermin down.’
Lucky prisoners like Jeanne de Valois, and their personal maids. A nervous hum stirred within me, at this talk of prisons, and as the sun broke through the clouds my feet began to ache.
I glanced about for a street vendor or a decent café, and chose a clean, well-lit, but unpretentious establishment opening onto the Boulevard, from where pedlars showed off their wares.
As Claudine and I enjoyed our simple, but tasty meal of cheese, liver pâté and salad, a man climbed onto a crate and began addressing the patrons in a clear voice.
‘In this spring of 1787, our country — twenty six million citizens — has reached the brink of the most profound revolution of modern times. The royal government has fallen into dire financial crisis. The only feasible alternative for Finance Minister Calonne was to raise taxes.’
The speaker paused for breath, the crowd of diners silent, all eyes fixed on him.
‘At the opening session of the Assembly of Notables last month, Calonne proposed a uniform tax across the kingdom — a fiscal policy that would apply to all equally.’ He punched his fist in the air.
‘No more tax exemption for the clergy and the nobility!’ a man shouted.
‘Hear, hear, equality for all!’ I cried, along with the others.
Claudine stared at me as if shocked at my outburst.
‘But our King claims the divine right to govern, and has refused to yield any of his authority,’ the orator continued. ‘Public affairs are at an impasse. Urban and rural workers feel trapped in poverty. The cost of rent and basic commodities rises, while their incomes remain static, or decline even.’ As he shuffled his orator’s pose, I thought of my father narrating his tales.
‘And now they are building that loathed Farmers-General wall to collect royal taxes,’ cried another café patron. ‘With rich tax farmers pointing their guns at our heads while they search us, and imprison uncooperative citizens in a flash. Those rich bastards should be the ones in prison!’
‘Hear, hear!’ I cried again, and that time Claudine joined in.
‘The savants are predicting a bloody cataclysm, a Pandora’s box of grievances about to burst open!’ the orator concluded, jumping down from the crate.
As the crowd whistled and applauded, I felt a lust budding inside me — the shoot of that seed sown in my childhood. Nourished and nurtured on unjust tragedies, it pushed itself from its dormant earthy bed and flourished now, in the light of day.
‘Our commoners’ battle is fast approaching, Claudine,’ I said, ‘hammering on sides of the hated Farmers-General wall.’
***
The church bells pealed out the hour, and as Claudine and I neared the Hôtel de Ville, I could smell the excitement of the crowd gathered on la place de Grève for Margot’s execution.
‘Day after day they come, vying for the best spots,’ I said, motioning at the people — parents with children, sedan-chair carriers, cobblers and mud-brushers. ‘You’d think they had better things to do.’
‘Ah, it is their only entertainment, my child.’ Claudine’s words came out in broken-up whispers.
‘Here she comes!’ cried a rough-faced woman who stank of fish.
A roar rose as a cart rumbled onto la place de Grève carrying Margot — a thin girl in a brown smock girdled at the waist. Her hair had been savagely cropped, her arms secured behind her back. I didn’t understand why they’d tied her hands, she was hardly about to run off. Margot stared straight ahead at the stake, her eyes rigid with terror, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
I held Claudine’s hand, felt her start to shake, and my own limbs trembled. ‘Are you certain you want to stay and witness this terrible murder, of an innocent girl?’
‘I promised Margot I would come and pray for her soul,’ she said with a curt nod.
‘What’s the girl done?’ someone asked.
‘Killed her bastard,’ said a fishwife woman standing nearby. ‘Girl’s a scullery maid at the house of a noble. Claims the lord was the bastard’s father and asked for money. Course, the lady of the house threw her and her bastard into the street.’
The poissarde seemed to be enjoying her rapt audience, and raised her voice. ‘So what did the silly girl do? Cut the baby’s throat, the little murderess!’
‘The poor girl had no choice!’ I shouted to the people about me, the blood fizzing in my veins. ‘She’s the victim. You should be sorry for her, and angry that we can do nothing to fight these nobles!’
‘What would you know?’ the woman snarled, looking me up and down. ‘You don’t look like no poor girl to me.’
‘Stop, Vic-Rubie,’ Claudine said her hand tight on my arm. ‘We didn’t come here to argue with the likes of poissardes.’
‘Whatever the reason, she must’ve been mad to kill her child,’ another woman said.
Mad to kill her child. Kill her child.
Images filled my mind, of a fast flowing river sweeping away everything in its murderous path — twigs, leaves, dead animals, and small, screaming children.
As they tied Margot to a beam and the priest stood before her, brandishing a crucifix, I felt the heat of rising fury, as if it would explode from me. As the darkly-clad executioner pulled a hood over her terrified face, and tied it around her neck, I wanted to shove the people aside and push my way up onto the platform, and free the girl. Amidst the murmur swelling from hundreds of throats, and rising to a hideous bellow, I felt faint. People pushed and shoved me, straining their necks as they clamoured for the first glimpse of the flames.
My mother’s words echoed across the years.
Watch, Victoire, this will teach you a lesson.
Yes, Maman, I yearned to tell her — the lesson that there is no justice; commoners are powerless against the mighty aristocracy.
As the executioner lit the kindling beneath Margot, the repugnance ignited inside me, spreading like an uncontrollable blaze.
‘Come on, Claudine, you don’t want to stay any longer, surely?’
‘See what will happen to you, my child, if you insist on this idea of revenge,’ Claudine said, as we hurried away from the leaping flames and the frenzied cries of the crowd.
‘The Marquis cannot get away with what he does,’ I said. ‘But you don’t have worry for me, the asylum taught me to be shrewd and sly. They’ll never burn me at
the stake.’
Claudine and I walked back to the Quai des Tuileries without a word, for I could not find words for how bereft, and enraged, I felt.
Night had fallen when I kissed Claudine goodbye, and she stepped into a cabriolet to return to Saint-Germain. I waved at the disappearing vehicle and my gaze turned to the rising moon — a slim waxing crescent above the city dust. The bells of Saint-Roch Church struck the hour, a madman’s shriek punctuating the low drone of a day’s end.
As I turned into a dark narrow street to reach the rue Saint-Honoré, a soft, croaking noise seemed to rise straight from the dank cobbles. I stopped still as if struck, tremors of fear rippling through me.
I knew that sound, the sad croak of the Night Washerwoman who’d killed her infants. Now I knew the tale was simply a means to incite children to hurry home after dark, yet my pulse galloped. Perhaps it was the execution unsettling me still, or was it something that plunged deeper — that day on the Vionne with Blandine and Gustave?
I looked around for a lantern-man, not only to light the way to my door, but to protect me against the thieves and muggers skulking in the darkness. It was too early for the lantern-men though, who didn’t come out until after ten, supplementing the hanging street lanterns with their welcome cries of, ‘Here’s your light.’ I quickened my pace through the blackness.
The croaking noise grew louder, and I stumbled over the prone figure of a man. I cried out, and stared at the motionless man, whisky vapours hot on his rasping breaths.
I almost laughed with relief as I hurried away from the drunkard, though my pulse quickened again, as the fog closed in on me. Relieved to be home, I almost ran into the townhouse courtyard. An ominous sort of quiet, though, hung over the stone walls, the creeping ivy-like fingers reaching blindly into the darkness.
No welcome candlelight shone from the second floor. Aurore was not home, which was usual, with the late theatre hours she kept — the girl whose friendship and cheeky smile continued to comfort me beyond those first lonely weeks out of captivity.
I hurried up the steps, lit a candle and immediately saw the letter lying on the small parlour table, addressed to Mademoiselle Rubie Charpentier.
