She spared the candle and let the room be lit by the torches in the street below, having no need to see anything more clearly. She could not read any of the pamphlets stacked untidily beneath the table, had nothing to stitch, nothing to do. Nowhere to go.
“My own little Bastille,” she joked once when he came home one night at an hour close to morning.
“Not so,” he said, stripping off his sour clothes and tugging at her own. “Those poor souls are all alone. You are not alone.” He trailed kisses down her neck, then came up to her lips, tasting of salt. “And they spend their days and nights in chains. You are free to go at any time. Do you want to go?”
Sometimes, she thought, but said, “Non.” Gagnon, too, always told her she was free to leave, and she’d ended up here. Where else was there to go?
She looked down into the street, the hour early enough for the crowds to move in solid masses. A gaggle of women shrieked over each other, locked in battle for a greenish piece of meat one held loftily over their heads. Others walked singly in the street, shouting for their husbands.
“Jacques Demeure!”
“Jacques Fontaine!”
“Jacques Montrose!”
So that was how a true Parisienne brought her husband home at night. Not by hiding within a window, wishing him across the threshold. Those were the true lionnes, patrolling the jungle for their mates. But Laurette was no more a Parisienne than she was a wife. Her feet would never grow accustomed to the feel of hot bricks and sharp stones; her lungs would never be satisfied breathing the air exhaled by a thousand strangers. And yet, her body would respond to Marcel’s touch, her heart would cling to his words, even when the words denied over and over that they would ever be truly married.
“There’s no God to please, and only a corrupt government to sanction,” he’d say whenever she broached the subject. “I promise myself to you, for all the days that we are together. And I ask nothing more of you.”
She could shout out the window, “Jacques Moreau!” and scan to see which of the dozens of red caps tilted to look her way, but it was still too early for him to be out among them. No, somewhere—and he was always careful to be vague in direction and detail—he gathered with others around a table much as he had in Le Cochon Gros. Only here, she suspected, he did not lead the conversation. He listened, just as she did on the rare occasion when she accompanied him to the dark taverns and rented rooms. He spoke little in the company of others, but repeated it all when she became the sole audience.
“The monarchy must be brought to their knees. To their death, even better. The citizens of France have no hope to seize a destiny so long as their futures are clutched in the greedy hands of the king.”
The speech never changed, but the anger increased. Murderous intent framed every word, and Laurette made every effort to distance herself from that strain of Marcel’s passion. Let him have his weapons, his blades and bullets and endless tirades. She didn’t steal Girard’s horse and ride with bandits to Paris with the intent to rebel against anybody but Gagnon. Whatever the squalor, whatever the acts of petty crime she witnessed and aided—all was worth it to keep her from facing Gagnon in the clear light of morning.
A familiar gait turned the corner, and Marcel looked up to find her in the window. Unbidden, her heart raced in the exact way it had since she was a young, young girl—her very existence rewarded by his smile. He held up a small canvas sack and yelled, “Supper!” above the street’s din, then motioned for her to come down and join him.
Laurette shook her head. He no doubt wanted to go to some public house, entreat a fellow to trade a cup of wine for a portion of whatever food was contained in the sack, and ignore her for the rest of the evening. Instead, she leaned over and out as far as she dared. “Non! Come up. I have a surprise.”
From here she could tell his dark brows danced up. “What surprise?”
She laughed. “I’m not going to shout our business from the window. Come, bring me supper!”
He disappeared into the building, and she knew to the second how long it would take for him to arrive at the door. Enough time to smooth her skirt and give a quick twist to the hair that escaped her cap. She met him at the threshold, greeting him with a kiss that carried him across and to the bed, supper momentarily forgotten.
“I know better than to believe you’re not hungry,” he said, pulling away. “And as it took some doing to bring this delicacy home, I propose we enjoy it first, and each other after.”
Everything about him was humor and desire, and in that moment, there was nothing unpleasant about their life together. He loved her, surely. He’d said so often enough, dismissing the attentions of countless other women, claiming that no love but hers could sustain him.
She sat up beside him and gave her senses over to the enticing smell coming from the sack. “What is it you’ve brought?”
“Goose. Netted on the grounds of a bishop. L’évêque pompeux.” The descriptive nickname was delivered with puffed cheeks and a general air of portliness. “You should have seen. We were chasing the geese; he was chasing us. Never fear, my darling, that hunger will make you weak. Jacques and I were barely out of breath when that pious sack of fat gave out. ‘Hold! Hold!’ He couldn’t even stand straight at the end. Luckily, his birds are equally obese. We took three—fat, juicy things. Been roasting all day.”
“You just—are you saying you stole them?”
“I’m saying we fed fifty hungry people, at least. I was lucky to bring this much home.” He reached into the sack and pulled out a white cloth stained with grease. What had been a savory, pleasant odor a moment ago now overpowered the tiny room, growing stronger in its heat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not used to—”
“Taking what you want? What you deserve? The days are over when the poor of France will sit in idleness, waiting for our king to throw us the crust from his table. And this—this man of God? Every morning I’ve watched him step over starving, wasting women and children on his way to his church. If he can ignore the teachings of Christ, so can I. So can we all. The country will be in a far better place if we live by the statutes of hungry men.”
He unfolded the cloth, revealing several slabs of dark, greasy meat within. Picking one up, he gobbled it with the enthusiasm of a hungry stray dog. Goose fat shone on his lips, his chin, and he gave her a first taste with a kiss. “And, for you,” he said, dangling a bite in front of her. “Before I get too greedy.”
She bit. It was her first taste of meat in weeks. Already the texture was unfamiliar, the taste unwelcome. It was neither hot nor cold, and she forced both the smile and each laborious chew before struggling to swallow.
“It’s rich,” she said in an effort to explain her lack of enthusiasm. “I’m not used to such a delicacy.”
“Well, get used to it, my love. We are going to turn the world upside down. The rich will be in rags, and the poor will be in the palace.”
She thought about summer evenings sitting on the bench outside with her back against the cool stone wall of the cottage, watching the boys and the dogs chase each other in circles. “I don’t want to be in a palace.” A bit of goose remained lodged between her teeth.
“Then wherever you like, my love.” He took another bite of meat and licked his fingers. “You said you had a surprise for me?”
She picked up a small piece, willing herself to ignore the feel of it against her skin, and nibbled. “It doesn’t seem like so much now.”
“Tell me.”
“Well—” she fought past the smoky taste of the goose—“the other day I went out walking, and I was wearing the vest Renée made for me. You know the one—green? With the stitching? I was passing by a little chapel. I can’t think of the street name, but just that way.” She pointed in a vague direction. An observer might think she used vagueness to cover an untruth, but there had been a walk. There had been a church, and there had been the conversation that followed. “A woman—not noble I don’t t
hink, but with some measure of wealth—actually called out to me and complimented the vest. Called it exquisite.”
Her story ended at that point, and the raucous laughter from the street underscored the silence between them.
“Et?” He leaned closer. “And? What then?”
“I told her merci. And that one of the seamstresses for the queen herself fashioned it for me years ago.”
Marcel’s face froze in a strained smile. “You told her that?”
“I did,” she said, confused by his reaction.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“I—I don’t know.” The last taste of meat gummed at the back of her throat.
“Do you know her sympathies? If she’s one of us or one of them?”
“Us? Them? What do I know of us or them? I know she was a lady, and ladies find such details interesting. But I think—I didn’t realize how I must have appeared to her.” The embarrassment of the rest of the encounter took hold, and even in the street-lit dimness of the room, Laurette could not find enough darkness to hide. She turned her back to Marcel and touched her head against the bedpost.
Never had she been prone to vanity, but always she understood her ability to draw attention. Before that wretched summer, when her figure was full to bursting, she recognized the looks she received from both men and women. Lust, envy. Even Gagnon was not immune—sometimes. And Marcel certainly made his desires known since that very first night at the forest’s edge. She’d been buxom and round, always with a ready laugh. Even without a glass she knew her complexion to be healthy and pink, her hair too thick and unruly to confine itself to any cap or braid or kerchief. And always, always, she’d been clean. Scrubbed. Fresh.
But that afternoon. How many days since she’d felt even a splash of water on her face? Because the fountain was far, and the women gathered at it spiteful and terrorizing. Days since she’d combed her hair. Her chemise stiff with sweat. Skirt frayed above her blackened feet. Yet, for some reason, on that day, with Marcel gone since the sunrise, she chose to don her green stitched vest and venture out alone. Her steps brought her to the church, to the woman.
“May I add, the stitching on this vest was done by my young cousin, who is now seamstress to the queen herself.”
And how the woman had laughed. Head reared back, every healthy tooth exposed, great, shrieking laughter. How she’d pointed at Laurette, repeating the ridiculous phrase to all who passed, bringing the laughter into a chorus. Laurette stood, feeling each peal like a blow, ever more aware of her disheveled appearance, the layer of grime on her skin, the stench she must carry. From the corner of her eye she’d seen a brown-frocked priest in the doorway of the chapel. Out of the same corner, she saw him disappear.
“When was this?” Marcel mercifully allowed her to leave the rest of the story untold.
“A few days ago. It’s not important. I guess my surprise was that I thought I might sell the vest. If it can catch the eye of such a woman—a different such woman might pay something for it.”
“Never.” He came behind her and pulled her close against him. “It means too much to you.”
“Not so much.” She’d come home and buried it, forever tainted, under the mattress.
His breath blew warm at the back of her neck, where he planted a kiss so small she might have missed it if not for the undercurrent of revulsion running under her skin. Not for him, but for herself, for she was no cleaner now than she had been that afternoon. Nothing had changed, or was very like to soon. In fact, given the true nature of her abandoned surprise, it would get much, much worse.
She felt him rummage around the forgotten meal, felt him take a new bite, heard the slurp of it. Next, his arm snaked around, a half-eaten strip of goose dangled in front of her. He nudged, and she opened her mouth, allowed him to feed it to her. Closed her lips over the tips of his fingers, tasting the grit of Paris along with the now-cold grease. She couldn’t swallow, and when she did, it wouldn’t stay. None of it.
Tearing herself from his embrace, Laurette leapt from the bed and staggered to the bucket in the hall, retching all the more when confronted with its contents. She heaved every bit of the ill-gotten prize from the bishop’s yard, keeping balance with one hand on the wall, unwilling to drop to her knees.
She would tell Marcel, again, that it was the richness. So unaccustomed was she to fine things. She would not tell him the truth, at least not what she suspected the truth to be. Not tonight. Not with the shadow of shame still so dark upon her.
L’épisode 21
Renée
* * *
VERSAILLES
* * *
There is a painting in the Salon de Mars of the queen and her children—Marie-Thérèse at her side, infant Louis-Charles in her arms. The young dauphin, probably four or five years old, points to an empty cradle. I’m told the cradle in the painting wasn’t always empty. It once held baby Sophie, just as the queen once held her infant daughter in her arms for a fleeting time. When the infant died, she was removed from the canvas just as she was removed from the world. Erased with a painter’s brush, erased from conversation, living only in brief moments of lingering sadness in her mother’s eyes.
Days after the dauphin’s remains are laid to rest in the family crypt, she is told to appear publicly as a queen dedicated to the life of her country rather than the death of her son. She walks the halls, shadows of sleeplessness undisguised by powder, head held high, for if she allowed it to droop—even a bit—she would collapse beneath the weight of the invisible crown.
“I don’t mind so much, wearing black,” she tells me. She’s been home for three days and is preparing to go to the chapel for a special, private novena for her son. “Black and yellow are my family’s colors. I wasn’t allowed to wear a single stitch of either when I first arrived. They said, ‘Not until you’ve done your duty to this family.’ But I was sneaky. A feather here, a ribbon there. I think you would have been very handy to have had around back then, my dear.”
She is not often free with terms of affection, and only because I am kneeling behind her, adjusting the train of her gown, do I allow my smile to linger.
She spends her days listening to those who, through persistence or subterfuge, have found a pathway to her ear. I watch from the side, small and unnoticed, continuously working on one small task or another. Since the revelation of her family’s colors, I busy my hands with the knotting shuttle, working with yellow wool I’ve dyed myself, making trimming that will be appreciated by my queen and unnoticed by anybody else. Her parasol, for instance. Or the silk toes of her shoes.
One after another, women come in to have an audience with the queen. Each a copy of the last. They are skeletal in physique. Torn skirts reveal legs without an ounce of flesh. Their breasts are pendulous and empty, even those who come with equally emaciated children on their hips. “We are starving,” they say. Not merely hungry, but dying. “You are a mother. Imagine what it is like to watch your child die.”
And I drop a stitch. Do they not know? Can they be so ignorant?
But my queen is gracious. She learns she cannot give them enough money to buy bread, for there’s little bread to be bought. So she sends them away with sacks of flour, barrels of vegetables, and bids them to return for more.
Men come sometimes, too, clutching hats no more than rags in their hands. They will not look their queen in the eyes the way the women will. They carry their poverty with shame, not challenge. They ask for work—fair labor for wages. Her Majesty will say, “Of course, of course,” and tell them to go speak to one minister or another. They bow and thank her in a way the women never do, yet they never take her offering. They speak to no ministers. Who are they to wander the grounds, hoping to find the right overstuffed officer and submit their services?
True to his word, Bertrand is a constant at her side. On these occasions, when she is face-to-face with her country, he stands with his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes in constant motion, watchin
g to see if the pitiful soul in the center of the room is merely a distraction for an attack to come from the side.
“You frighten them,” Her Majesty said once. “You look ready to attack.”
“Not attack, Your Highness,” Bertrand replied with all respect. “Defend.”
She laid her royal touch to his arm. “Do not take a life on my behalf. It is hardly worth the effort.”
Since then, to please her, he stands attentive, but with his arms at his sides. The queen says nothing, but later that evening, when she is well abed and I about to be the same, I lift the same hand that felt so at home on his sword and kiss it.
It is a hot afternoon, the air motionless and thick, and I’m listless. The queen, rightly gauging the mood of the people, has declared a halt to the design and construction of any new gown until warranted by some royal invitation or event. I’ve altered, mended, and otherwise stitched every garment in the gown room—both at the request of Mademoiselle Bertin and to appease my own need to stay busy.
My idle hands are a source of trepidation, for I cannot help but remember the warnings Bertrand gave about the queen’s fickle nature, her tendency to toss aside those no longer useful or entertaining. I know Madame Gisela brought me here as an oddity. A scrawny poor girl with an exploitable skill. Like a pet monkey with a needle or a small dog capable of creating a perfectly balanced peplum. But I’m of little use now, and I notice with each passing day there are fewer and fewer of us numbered among those in service to the royal family. The long tables at which we take our meals are sparsely populated, and our food declines in both quality and quantity accordingly. Once, at our midday dinner, there was simply nothing. We—chambermaids, footmen, dressers, pages, porters—went into the kitchen and procured bread, cheese, fruit. After, the sentiment for many was that they could very well starve in their own homes without wiping the royal behind to do so, and a mass exodus occurred that evening.
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