“Izette, I must get to Versailles! I have to warn André. See, I had this awful dream, except it wasn’t a dream, it was a warning. His head … his head was on a pike.”
“It was what you seen yesterday,” she said easily. “Goujon warned me. After they get out of Secret, he said, they gets nightmares, and worse. But you’re going to be fine, just fine.”
“It was a warning, I tell you!”
“He’s quite in love with you, the big gawk,” Izette said. “Now eat.”
Inexorably, she raised a spoonful coated with melted butter.
The gruel was wheat, my old favorite. Now the smell nauseated me. As at first the Bastille’s repulsive, wormy fare had sickened me, so now the odor of good food was unendurable. Anxiety clenched my stomach. I gagged.
“You’re so wasted,” she sighed. “Come on, ma’am, try to eat.”
“How can I? When something terrible’s going to happen to André?” For a moment I saw his various expressions: that look of caring, that poetic brooding, the way his dark eyes half closed as he looked at me with love. “Don’t you understand? I’m telling you he must be warned! Now! Otherwise—otherwise something awful will happen!” My voice rose.
“Don’t you worry none about Égalité,” she soothed. “As one of the Assembly, no soldier’d dare harm him. And he’s just about the most popular deputy there is, so the people’s really on his side. Nothing can harm him.”
“Then why’d I have this omen?”
“Because,” she explained patiently, “you was by yourself too long. It hurts the mind. Ma’am, your mind is sick. Now listen to me. It ain’t safe for you to go out. There’s men with guns prowling.”
“André needs me!”
“Calm down,” she said, holding up that sickening spoonful. “Here’s some good news. Fido’s employed. Last night the innkeeper’s varlet ran off, so they need more hands in the kitchen. No brains, just hands.”
“I’m glad for him,” I said. “Oh, Izette, why won’t you help me?”
“Because you ain’t talking from reason but from sickness. Now, try to eat your breakfast. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“First, to tell Monsieur Sancerre I can’t work today.” After Aunt Thérèse had died, the gown designer had hired Izette to do his pressing. “Then to get you some powders for your nerves.” She paused, adding mysteriously, quite at variance with her usual straightforward manner, “And to … well, you’ll see soon enough. But, ma’am, I want you to remember that Égalité is safe, absolutely safe.”
She slipped out the door.
Shoving aside the gruel, I began pacing six steps up, six back. My weakened body streamed with perspiration. It never occurred to me that Izette might be right, that André was safe. My panic increased with every step. Cold ripples of fear radiated through my stomach. The nightmare throbbed in my head.
I paused at the window. In the mean, narrow street below, two aged women inched along together. There was nobody else about. So much, I thought, for Izette’s armed men!
I pulled the black shawl over my shining, fresh-washed hair. For a moment I gazed in the mirror. My face was pale, and so thin that my cheekbones stood out below my huge green eyes. How could Izette say I was beautiful? Still, the shawl covering me, I decided I looked inconspicuous, except for my bare feet. Well, I told myself, there’s barefoot beggars aplenty. The narrow corridor sagged toward narrow stairs. Months of tramping up and down the stones of my cell in worn-out soles had toughened my feet and the splintered steps didn’t bother me. But seeing a pair of clogs in the courtyard, I sat down to pack them with straw so they’d stay on my feet.
The idiot shambled up behind me, his forearms and hands dripping with dishwater. He smiled emptily at me.
“Good morning, Monsieur Fido,” I said. “How goes your work?”
He lifted a finger to his lips.
“I’ll see you later,” I said, and hurried into the street, dodging as some woman opened a third-floor window to empty a chamber pot. My straw-packed clogs chafed. Fido shuffled after me.
“Go back,” I called.
He kept following. I raised my palm, gesturing to him to return. Head down, he shuffled dejectedly back to the inn.
I hurried south to the quays, for the river Seine would lead me across Paris to Porte de St. Cloud, the gate leading to Versailles.
I had gone a short distance when I heard the rise and fall of many voices, and this frightened me, yet I kept on in their direction, for it was the direction of the quay. I must warn André A mule-drawn wagon rattled between the tall, mean lodging houses, forcing me into a doorway. The wagon was piled with sacks, and the ragged driver lashed at his thin mule so the animal lurched forward, splattering my borrowed shawl with mud. Two children jerked in the wagon, holding onto a sack from which spilled corn.
I rounded a corner, coming upon a stream of people. One old man pushed three sacks on a wheelbarrow. Two children staggered under the weight of a sack they carried between them. An old woman held up her apron with grain streaming from it. Men and women and children, all dirty-faced and starving-looking, hurried past me. I didn’t understand what this meant. The noise and people terrified me. I was back in an unreal nightmare world.
The tangle of people thickened. I found myself at a market warehouse surrounded by dragoons who strained and sweated to haul sacks out to the waiting crowd. Soldiers not guarding property but distributing it!
While I was in the Bastille, Franch indeed had turned upside down.
“Here,” a stout dragoon shouted to me. “Here, our sister.”
I sagged under a heavy corn sack. I dragged it through the crowd. My empty stomach rebelled at the odors of unwashed flesh. The voices pierced my eardrums. Hauling the corn after me, I turned into a quiet cul-de-sac.
The houses here were large. I sank onto a carriage block, easing my scratched feet from the straw-filled clogs.
A fat carter stood over me.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked, nodding at the corn sack.
“It was given to me,” I murmured.
“What? Speak up.”
His cart and horse blocked the alley. I was trapped. Shaking all over, I replied. “Soldiers at the market warehouse gave it to me.”
“I’ll bet,” he said.
“They did. But you can have the whole sack if you’ll drive me to Versailles.”
“The punishment for looting is death.”
“I’m looking for my … my betrothed. He’s a deputy to the Assembly. His name is Égalité.”
“Égalité!” The fat body shook with laughter. “Your betrothed is Égalité! Tell me, are you also bride to the Dauphin?” He leaned forward, gripping my chin, forcing my face upward so he could look at me. The shawl fell from my head. “What hair. What lips. Sane or insane, you’re a lovely wench.”
“Will you take me to Versailles?”
“I won’t turn you in for looting,” he said, leering. “That is, if you’re nice to me.” He glanced at the sedate ivy-covered houses. “We best get in the cart.”
“Don’t you understand? I must hurry to Versailles. Égalité’s life depends on it!” I was screaming.
“Keep quiet,” he said, reaching for my arm.
I pulled away, the shawl dropped. He saw I wore only a night shift, and began to pant, jerking me to his full belly, wrapping his arms around me, grasping my buttocks, kneading. His roughness reminded me of my initiation into Secret. In my terror I thought that not only did he plan to rape me, but also to lock me back in the Bastille. I twisted. Kicked. Hit. My strength was the strength of madness. He punched me hard between my breasts.
I fell. My head crashed onto the carriage block.
Darkness tunneled by me.
When I came to, he was pressing me onto the cobbles, raising the homespun night shift around my thighs. “Wench, let a real man cure your madness for you. We best get into the cart.” He bit a kiss on my mouth. I was barely c
onscious enough to feel it. He stood, hefting the corn on one shoulder, jerking me to my feet, leading me, dazed and shoeless, toward his cart.
Easily he tossed the sack over the rail. And, equally easily, he lifted me into the wagon.
And then, just as senseless as anything else on this day, André was coming toward us. He was soberly yet properly dressed in a brown tailcoat, knee breeches, dark silk stockings. His black unpowdered hair was clubbed back. His head was securely attached to his shoulders.
His expression was bewildered, as if he didn’t believe that he saw me. I, on the other hand, was lightheaded enough to accept anything. Of course André should walk up this particular street at this moment. Why not?
The carter’s palm clamped over my mouth, his stout bicep pressed on my neck, and this stranglehold forced me to the wagon’s dirty boards. The smell of cedar mingled with the heavy feral odor of fresh cowhide. I could see nothing.
“Where are you taking that woman?” André’s voice.
“Home. It’s my wife. She gets spells. And then she wanders.”
“If she’s your wife, you shouldn’t have to hold her down.”
“I told you,” the carter blustered, “the poor woman has spells.”
“She looks like a—my friend. Let me see her.”
“She’s my wife.”
“Release her!”
“Can’t a man tend to his own wife in peace?”
There was no reply. Suddenly the pressure on me was released. Drawing a free breath, I rolled to peer over the rails. Something was wrong with my vision. Details blurred and jumbled. André and the obese carter were hitting each other, but with my accentuated hearing, I heard the blows rather than saw them. Though the carter appeared blubbery, he was strong, and in that first minute his fists pounded viciously. Then André squared off, gripping him by the collar. I opened my eyes wide. André’s muscles, under his brown jacket, tensed to a bunch as he aimed his fist at the carter’s belly. With a grunt, the fat man lurched, making a half-circle to fall backward against the cart. He hunched over. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard, clearly, his pained groans.
Swiftly André leaned over the rail, examining me. His gray eyes filled with horrified pity before his expression darkened. I’d never yet known André in one of his hot spurts of anger, and momentarily my vision cleared and I could see his fury. In my numbed state I forgot how much he hated killing, and was positive he would murder my attacker. I tried to call out. No sound came from my dry throat. With a rage that I can only describe as splendid, André clutched the fleshy throat, shaking the great pile of blubber. He flung the man to the street. The carter knelt, gasping, his round face crimson.
André climbed on the wheel spoke to lift me from the wagon. “Manon. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look so … dazed.”
As we’d touched, a thrill had coursed through me, and weak and shaken as I was, the thrill was so vital I could think of naught else.
André reached for the huge black shawl, wrapping it around me. “Darling,” he asked huskily, “aren’t you meant to be at the Inn of St. Antoine, safe in bed?”
“I …” My voice faded. “I was coming to see you.”
“How did you know I was inside the warehouse? Nobody knew I was organizing the grain distribution. Izette just found me a couple of minutes ago. She told me you’d been in the Bastille all this time, and were very weak. In bed. When I saw you I didn’t believe it.” He kissed my forehead. “I was on my way to you.” His voice receded and grew louder, but his touch was gentle, his lips on my forehead were warm.
“Oh, André,” I was whispering, “you’re all right. You’re safe.”
Neither of us noticed a group of soldiers turn onto the street.
The carter had regained himself. “Over here, quick!” he shouted. “I’ve captured a looter. The wench.”
The soldiers marched smartly toward us. André moved me to the wagon, stepping in front of me, protective.
The corporal said, “Stand aside.”
“She’s no looter,” André said coolly.
“See for yourself,” the carter retorted. “That sack of corn in the wagon is hers. She told me so. But it’s clearly marked with the King’s stamp.”
“It was given to me by the dragoons,” I whispered from behind André’s back.
“A likely story,” said the corporal, climbing on the wagon, turning the sack to see the royal crown. To André, he said, “Move. She’s under arrest. There’s been reports of looting hereabouts, and our orders are to prevent it, by shooting if necessary.”
A soft moan escaped me. I wasn’t afraid, André would protect me, yet I felt as if I were drifting away in an oarless boat.
André stretched his arms in front of me. “There’s been no looting,” he replied. “The warehouse has been opened. Paris has had famine long enough. The Assembly has taken the problem upon itself. In every poor section like St. Antoine the dragoons are handing out grain. From this day on the people are to have bread.” André’s tone was fervent and open. Later, when my senses cleared, I would realize that the Comte gained obedience by his commanding authority, Goujon got his way by virtue of his size and animal shrewdness, André convinced others because he spoke the truth.
The corporal shuffled his boots uneasily. “Nobody told me of such orders,” he said.
“Very well,” André replied. “Now you’ve been told.”
“By whom?”
“Deputy Égalité,” André said. “I am he.”
The carter drew a sharp breath.
“Take your men,” André was saying. “Hurry to the grainery.”
“The woman’s my wife,” the carter muttered.
The corporal said, “You just told me she’s a looter. Which is it?”
“Both. We’ve been married a year, near, and she’s a fine wench. That is, until she gets her spells of dishonesty. A good punishment’ll set her to rights. Take her to Salpêtière Prison for a while.”
André said, “She was released from the Bastille yesterday.”
“Do you believe a woman’s husband, or a stranger?” the carter asked, but his stubborn bravado had faded to a whine.
The soldiers’ tall red hats blurred and danced behind André’s shoulders.
“The man’s a liar,” I heard André say. “Had the crowd chanced along to find him mistreating a released Bastille prisoner, he’d be a corpse.”
My vision was worse, and my head seemed to be draining of blood. I held onto André’s arm.
After a second the corporal was asking, “Deputy, shall we shoot him?”
Something whimpered.
“Of course not,” André said. “Now. The dragoons need your help at the warehouse.”
I began to slip. André turned to me. “Oh my darling,” he whispered. “Your head’s bleeding.”
It was the first time I’d been ill.
Even in the icy, dank prison, inadequately fed and clothed, I’d never been ill. Now, in my delirium I feared others would die. In my lucid moments I knew I might die.
The carter, with his considerable strength, had punched me to the carriage block, and the granite had cracked the base of my skull. Each time I moved, demons prodded inside my head. To eat even thin gruel caused spears of agony, and when I vomited, the pain was so intense that I sometimes passed out. My fever would shoot up. Death waited behind red curtains.
By day Izette sat by my bed, pressing cool, damp rags to my burning face. Was she or I ill? I wasn’t quite sure. Sometimes I was in the toolshed sponging her fevered, oozing body, sometimes she was tending me.
At night André stayed at my bedside, holding me, making death recede. Or was he really with me? Was I dreaming?
In my worst moments I wanted the Comte. Except the Comte wasn’t my lover, he was my father, the surrogate father my own father had bestowed on me. The Comte was stronger and more clever than anyone, more powerful. He alone could release me, for wasn’t i
t he who had started my endless punishment? My sick mind raged at him. Yet eternally he was opening that gate to the paupers’ burial ground. He was at the same time my father and the father of my child, and thus our lives were inextricably tangled. I screamed for him, and the words came out a whisper.
“Delirious again,” Izette said. “Better send for Égalité.”
Day or night it was always dark and I never was quite positive who was ill, me or Izette, but I knew I couldn’t let her die in Hôtel-Dieu.
Sunlight fell through the window onto the bed. André, without his coat, sprawled sleeping on top of the coverlet. In sleep his expression of brooding idealism was gone. He looked relaxed, young.
No demons hammered inside my skull. My body ached, but these aches were normal, as if I’d been riding a horse too long.
André, sensing my gaze on him, stirred. Abruptly he sat.
“So you really were here,” I said. My voice was weak.
“I take the night watch.” He smiled. “I must’ve dozed.” He touched his lips to my forehead. “You’re cool. It’s the first time since I carried you back that you’ve been cool. The fever’s broken.”
“Was I ill several days?”
“A month,” he replied.
“That long?”
“Don’t try to talk.”
“But I’m better.”
“You need to rest,” he said. “Get well and strong, darling, so we can be happy together.”
“I’ll be fragile as long as I can. It’s nice having you protect me against overweight carters and all manner of evil. I like having you sleep on the bed next to me.” A note of wonder came into my weakened voice. “André, we have the rest of our lives to be happy together.”
What a fool I was! But then, how could I have known the Comte’s reaction to my freedom? And was there any way I could have foreseen that all our lives would be sucked, bobbling straws, into the vast, bloody whirlpool of the Reign of Terror?
Chapter Eight
The following day I was able to sit, propped by pillows. André spoon-fed me beef broth, then held my hand, telling me how he’d spent the months I’d been in the Bastille.
He’d been in the country around Orléans, going furtively from hut to cottage, listing the peasants’ grievances. In January, when the river Seine froze, he’d dared sneak back into Paris to see me. We weren’t in the house. Neither the neighbors nor the stout provincial couple who’d rented the place knew where we’d gone, so he’d risked visiting Alexine. In her pretty, stupid voice Alexine had repeated the story she’d heard: I’d run off with a lover to Martinique. André had refused to believe her. He’d endangered himself further, traveling by horse-drawn sled to Versailles, where he’d hunted out Jean-Pierre at the Royal Guard regimental headquarters. My brother had repeated that I’d disappeared with a lover, the story told to him by Old Lucien.
French Passion Page 18
