by Perrat, Liza
As he slapped a palm on his thigh, the first cries reached us, and the streets thickened with people running, shouting and brandishing stones, clubs and pikes.
‘Whatever is happening?’ Monsieur Jefferson said, as the knot of angry, shouting people forced the coach to a complete halt.
‘I have no idea.’ The smell of smoke grew stronger, the noise of rising shouts, and a growing unease pulsed through me. ‘But I am going to find out.’
‘No.’ Monsieur Jefferson laid a hand on my arm in gentle restraint. ‘It may be dangerous to leave the carriage.’
I shrugged him off. ‘Don’t worry for me, monsieur, I just want to know what’s going on.’ I stepped down into the furious mob.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked a young man with wild hair and unkempt clothes.
‘The people are rioting, madame,’ he said. ‘The King has banished the Parliament of Paris, because the judges refused to register his corn trade edict. They knew it would only bring about even more taxes!’
‘Come back inside,’ Mr Jefferson said, his voice urgent, as more and more people carrying rudimentary weapons squeezed past the coach, shrieking and charging towards the Pont Neuf to join the commotion. The horses pawed and snorted, their soft brown eyes filling with panic.
The crowd became so thick we reached an impasse. ‘We’ll have to continue on foot,’ I said. ‘We have no choice.’
‘Well hurry then,’ Monsieur Jefferson said, as the angry crowd swept us along. ‘The French Guards will soon be here. We don’t want to get caught between the police guns and the rioters.’
We rounded a corner and it only got worse as we came upon a square, thick with choking smoke, the noise of a heaving mob deafening. We began coughing, and clamped our handkerchiefs over our faces.
Monsieur Jefferson pointed to the blazing effigy. ‘Who are they are burning?’
‘Madame de Polignac I think, despised favourite of the Queen and governess of her children,’ I said, trying to push away from the confusion. ‘New pamphlets have been printed these last few days, even more virulent than usual, against the Queen. I’m certain it’s Marie Antoinette they really wish to burn.’
‘Come away, quickly.’ Monsieur Jefferson started to drag me through the seething crowd, as the first shots rang out. The French Guards must have arrived.
I jumped at the sound of more gunshot, louder, closer, and a hot numbness stopped me.
I felt nothing, apart from a slow trickle from my left shoulder. I glanced down and saw the gaping rip in the cloth of my muslin dress. From a small, dark hole, blood flowed down my front, quickly drenching my dress. The strength drained from my legs, and the pain came, lancing me with its ferocity.
‘My God!’ Monsieur Jefferson’s eyes widened. ‘A l’aide, à l’aide!’ he shouted. ‘She’s been shot.’
As I sank to the cobblestones, a vision of the Marquis stained my mind. I thought it odd his face was the last thing I would see. He’d never found me, with my clever disguise. On the other hand, nor had I been able to stop his abuse.
‘Mademoiselle Charpentier, stay with us, keep your eyes open,’ Monsieur Jefferson was saying. I opened my eyes to slits, felt him pressing on my shoulder and I saw his hands were stained red and shaking violently.
People hovered over me and through a gap in the circle of faces, the blue sky turned a dirty grey. I wanted to tell them to move back; that I couldn’t breathe with them all crowded around me, but no words came.
I couldn’t get any air in. I started gasping. The voices became fainter. They faded to silence. The ring of faces was a blur, and gone.
The sky turned black.
35
My eyelids hung heavy, as if insistent fingers were tugging on them. Drenched in a quiet peace, the room smelt like a mixture of wood, lemon and polish. The edges of the dark furniture, the wide, crowded bookshelves and the cream drapes were smudgy, as in a dream. I had no idea where I was.
I turned to the window. A girl with skin the same dark colour as the turbaned men I’d seen at the Palais-Royal, sat in a chair, sewing cloth by the light. As I squinted through the window beyond her, onto what looked like a great expanse of land, a knife-like pain rippled through my shoulder.
The girl stood and smiled. ‘You’re awake now, ma’am. Don’t be afraid, I is Sally, Massa Jefferson’s slave girl, and this is his home, the Hôtel de Langeac.’
The girl’s English was quite different from Monsieur Jefferson’s — more the slow, sad lyrics of a ballad, the words rising and falling with the heave of her breast.
‘Rest, ma’am, you is safe now,’ she said, patting the bed covers.
I glanced down and saw a wad of cloth covered my shoulder and it streamed back — the riot, the smoke, the blazing effigy, the crack of a pistol.
I summoned my rudimentary English skills. ‘Where is Monsieur Jefferson?’
‘Massa negotiating good prices for whale-oil and salted fish. He tell me you to stay put in bed while I is goin’ to market.’
I felt giddy, and rested my head back on the pillows.
As the girl left the room, I tapped my fingertips over the wound dressing. My hand froze. The prison brand! Monsieur Jefferson must have seen it, when he pressed on the wound to staunch the bleeding. He would know he’d been frequenting a branded killer.
My mind worked fast, like a rising scream. He’d realise I had escaped from a prison — murderesses either die in custody, or are executed.
I felt the panic mount, the sensation of being snagged in a net. The ambassador had always been amiable, and the politest of men, but he was also fiercely law-abiding. He would never let an escaped prisoner remain on the loose. That’s probably where he was now, telling the police.
I had to get away before the maid returned. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My gaze blurred, the wound smarted, and I lay back on the pillows. I still felt giddy, and the furniture and the window frame stayed hazy. They must have given me something to calm me, and the pain. Laudanum, perhaps.
I eased myself upright again, casting about for my clothes. I couldn’t see my robe anywhere; besides, part of it must be ripped to shreds. Perhaps that’s what the dark girl was sewing. I looked around again. Draped over a tapestry chair was a muslin dress similar to mine, in pastel green. A sash of a darker green lay beside it, with my straw bonnet.
I slid from the bed. Wincing against the bolts of pain, I used my right arm to drag the dress over my chemise. I slid my shoes on and crossed to the window, hoping I might recognise something. The room looked out onto a well-tended garden of plants, flowers and some strange-looking corn ears. They must be from the seeds Monsieur Jefferson told me he’d had sent from America — his beloved American corn he couldn’t find in France.
There seemed to be nobody around, but still I crept from the bedroom. Apart from some distant clanging of pots, there was not a sound. I eased down the staircase, gripping the rail both for support and to stop myself shaking. Elegant paintings graced the walls, and through a doorway, I glimpsed a pianoforte and a music stand. I opened the front door, cringing as it creaked. I looked about me. Still nobody. I skittered, as fast as my ungainly legs could bear, across the pristine courtyard, and out of the huge iron pavilion gates.
It was still early but already hot, the Boulevard trees drooping, the sun blinding me as I stepped into the street. Once outside, I saw Monsieur Jefferson’s residence was located about halfway up the Champs-Elysées, adjoining the Grille de Chaillot. A little further along, I recognised the toll gate under construction, soon to replace the Grille de Chaillot as one of the city limits. At least I knew where I was.
I hurried away on shaky legs, my head swivelling from left to right, scanning the street for a tall man or a small dark girl. It was, indeed, only a short distance back to the rue Saint-Honoré, but I had no energy, and soon my head started spinning. I licked my dry lips, regretting not having drunk something in my haste to leave.
As I reached the stables of the Comte
d’Artois, which were being built on the corner of the rue de Berri and the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I began to lurch like a drunkard. I kept stopping, leaning against a wall to get my breath and clear my head. The pain seared through me like a burn, and a spot of blood blossomed on my left shoulder. Despite the heat, I shivered, and sweat slid down my back.
Everything around me — trees, people, buildings — seemed suspended in fog. I feared I would pass out, and as I stumbled into the courtyard of the townhouse, never could I recall feeling so relieved to be home.
‘Mon Dieu, what’s happened to you, Rubie? You’re so pale.’ Aurore took my arm, helped me into the parlour and onto a chair. ‘I’ve been worried, no news for two days, and I had not the slightest idea where to look for you.’
She placed a glass of water on the table beside me, which I gulped down.
‘I was shot.’
Aurore’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no! The Marquis?’
I looked up sharply. I’d always suspected she knew about that monster.
‘No, not him. At least I don’t think so. I’m fairly certain this scarlet hair is enough to deceive such a stupid oaf. I was caught in the cross-fire of the riot the other evening.’
‘I was there,’ Aurore said. ‘And we’ve not finished rioting, Rubie! Now you lie down and let me take care of you. Sick and weak as you are, you’ll be no help for our fight.’
***
Two days later, a messenger arrived at the apartment with a sealed note.
My fingers fumbled with the seal as I recognised the shaky scrawl of Monsieur Jefferson.
My dear Mademoiselle Charpentier,
I was both shocked and surprised to learn you had left the Hôtel de Langeac in your delicate condition. I know nothing of your circumstances but I think I am a good judge of character, and believe you to be an intelligent and honest woman. I can only surmise you had good reason to flee my hospitality, the privacy of which I will respect.
I coaxed your address from your actress friend, Aurore, at the theatre. Please don’t be harsh on her, she was quite reticent to divulge any information, but I assured her I meant you no harm and merely wanted to ask after your health.
After the shooting, when you lapsed into unconsciousness, I was fortunately able to stop the bleeding, transport you to my home and call the barber-surgeon.
He said you were lucky, that the bullet only nicked your shoulder. He says the wound is large, and thus you will have quite a scar. However, I’m certain you’ll not be too dispirited about such a scar, given your life was spared. I only hope your injury heals without complication.
I hope once you are recovered, we can continue our mutual language lessons. My French writing slowly improves (as you can see!) though nothing as remarkable as your progress in the English language.
Not wishing to trust the post office, where every spy reads one’s letters, I have placed this note into the trusty palm of a personal messenger.
Take great care, Mademoiselle Charpentier, in these troubled times.
Your most obedient and humble servant,
Monsieur Thomas Jefferson
I took a fresh sheet of paper, dipped my plume into the ink and replied to Monsieur Jefferson, expressing my interest in continuing our lessons. I apologised too, for fleeing his hospitality, excusing my hasty flight as some laudanum-induced confusion, which had manifested in inexplicable panic.
When I’d finished writing, I sat back and smiled. I patted my heavily-padded injury — the pistol brand that, in baring my flesh to the world, had effectively camouflaged the old one.
36
My dear Madame Collier,
Please excuse the hiatus in correspondence. Unfortunately I was shot during the Paris riots, which, as you might know, lasted from August until October last year. I consider myself fortunate the wound healed without complication, thanks to our mutual friend, who nursed me back to health. Beneath that tempestuous, wildcat exterior, she truly is a sweet, nurturing girl. I am as proud as you must be, to know her.
By some quirk of chance, the wound has completely covered the unsightly birthmark you recall I had on my left shoulder. Next summer, and for all the summers to come, I am finally free to wear daring dresses with plunging shoulders and neckline!
We are glad spring has arrived because winter was the coldest any living person could recall. I did not venture out much, preferring to stay warm inside, continuing both my studies of the books you recommended, and my script writing.
The Seine was a solid sheet of ice. What a novelty, at first, with all the children skating about like mad things, but the gaiety didn’t last. With the ships impaled on the ice, the grain rotting in their holds, goods could not enter the city — no cloth to be dyed, no skins to be tanned, no corn.
The price of a loaf of bread rose to fourteen sous and all the vagrants hung around the markets in the late afternoons for the free bread, though they had to fight off the fierce housewives first.
People wandered aimlessly, looking more and more starved, mainly the lower class Savoyard labourers. As you know, these people make up more than a quarter of the population, so you can imagine the atmosphere of misery and desperation.
Even the rich seemed dislocated. When they stepped down from their carriages, over the frozen corpses littering their fashionable streets, they’d pull their cloaks about their faces, to keep both the stinging cold from their cheeks, and the miserable sights from their eyes.
I believe I would not stay in Paris if I weren’t passionate for the commoners’ cause. Despite my hesitation in returning to Lucie, I constantly feel the tug of my childhood village; the pull of my daughter. But I know my place is, for now, here in the capital.
Did you hear that in January, the Parliament complained to the King about his lettres de cachet? It is likely they will be banned. I imagine all those people having such letters out against them with be sighing with relief.
I know your affairs keep you in London for now, but sometimes I think how wonderful it would be to have you visit, especially as we are about to witness the birth of a new nation. Only four days in the diligence, and you could be here!
Lessons with Monsieur Jefferson continue; he remains both a scholarly and amusing acquaintance. He also frequents the theatres of the Palais-Royal, and I don’t know how he managed it, but he had my script submitted to the reading committee of one of the companies. I was so excited when they accepted it, and it won the approval of the censor. Roles were cast, work began immediately and the premiere is next week! I can hardly believe my good fortune. Our mutual friend will play the leading part. Of course, I wrote it with her in mind. As you know, she generally plays minor roles — maids, slaves, and the like — so this may be a great chance to advance her career.
I have the honour to be your friend,
Mademoiselle Rubie Charpentier
***
Snug against the chill spring evening in her lioness costume, Aurore paced the length of her cage, her hips jutting in erotic thrusts with each languid step. Her chocolate brown eyes — devoted and sensual — never left her master’s face.
In the first act of Les Barreaux de la Liberté, my audience travelled to an exotic jungle, and witnessed the capture of wild beasts most had never seen — monkeys, gaily-coloured birds, a zebra, a rhinoceros, even a condor.
In Act II, the audience swayed and rocked with the animals as they took a torturous boat trip to France. The audience were sad when the condor died of starvation and was thrown overboard, and when the ship’s crew roasted three of the monkeys for dinner, they booed and hissed.
Now, in Act III, the surviving monkeys, the birds, the zebra, even the rhino, were performing backflips, cartwheels and walking on their hands across the stage to entertain their owner, Lord Frisson, who had brought them to his château ten leagues south of Paris.
The audience laughed at the beasts’ antics, and Lord Frisson and his aristocratic entourage twittered and whispered from their seats on the rig
ht-hand side of the stage. Left-stage, at the back, Aurore the lioness kept pacing, gazing in rapture at Lord Frisson.
The audience shrieked with laughter as the monkeys stopped their acrobatics, darted at Lord Frisson’s group, jumped on their heads and ripped their powdered wigs off. They dissolved in tears of mirth as the monkeys began shitting on the nobles’ heads.
Monkey excreta sliding down his face, Lord Frisson leapt from his throne-like chair and chased the monkeys, yelling and waving his fist, and trying to stamp on them with his great hunting boots. The monkeys shrieked, darting back and forth across the stage.
‘Free me from this cage, my Lord,’ the lioness called. ‘I’ll save you from those disgusting monkeys. I shall rip them apart for you.’
‘But you are a wild and dangerous beast,’ Lord Frisson said. ‘How do I know you’ll not devour me?’
The lioness gave a sensual thrust of her head. ‘Haven’t I proved to be his Lordship’s most loyal, entertaining companion, since our arrival here?’
The monkeys were still charging about like mad things, ripping the clothes from Lord Frisson’s friends, who stood trembling in their undergarments.
Lord Frisson turned to the audience. ‘Can I trust my lovely lioness?’
‘Oui, oui, let her out!’ the audience cried.
With a melodramatic gesture, Lord Frisson swept Aurore’s cage open and, with a giant leap, the lioness’s great jaws clamped around Lord Frisson’s head. Her teeth began tearing him apart and Lord Frisson crumpled in a bloody heap to the stage.
As the curtain fell at the end of the first week of my debut play — Les Barreaux de la Liberté — the audience stood, cheering, clapping and stamping their feet.
I felt I’d been holding my breath in anticipation the whole way through. Naturally, I was aware the playwright whose works were performed on Parisian stages required a thick skin to survive the catcalls and whistles of the parterre, or the gibes of the critics and reviews. I breathed out with relief, the apprehension seeping from me the louder they cheered.
The actors removed the head section of their costumes and bowed low and long, the audience even cheering the shat-upon “nobles”. I couldn’t stop beaming, and my smile was especially wide for Aurore.
