The Seamstress

by Allison Pittman

In the time it takes me to cross the room, I say two prayers. First, that God will protect my queen, and second, that Bertrand will forgive my actions.

  The sight that greets me when I burst into the antechamber is nothing I could have imagined. The women who surrounded me in the Salle des États have multiplied threefold, as has their anger. They are armed, too. With knives, sticks, and pistols, though their weapons hold far less threat than their clawed, grasping hands. In front, the one with the green vest—I’ve ceased thinking of it as Laurette’s. There’s no time for that now, and I tuck the question of my cousin away, forcing myself to forget in the moment.

  But she has not forgotten.

  “Her!” The woman points to me, wielding a baton of rusted iron. “Still fancy me a thief? All of this, and I’m taking only what’s due to me. Just the flesh from her foreign bones to pay for what I’ve lost!”

  She charges, and Bertrand aims his pistol, shouting, “Halt!”

  But she will not be stopped. None of them will. Like a gathering storm of rags and anger and iron, they rain—relentless. The men, disbelieving that the fairer sex could ever be moved to any act of true violence continue to brandish their swords in a threatening posture, repeating, “Halt! Halt!” As if mere words could stand as a bulwark of defense.

  I, however, see the truth. The women carry weapons in their hands, but they carry hunger in their bellies, dead children in their hearts, broken men in their arms. They suffer all that my queen has suffered, and while she hides behind a wall of soldiers, they have only hopelessness as refuge. They will run the men over on their way to her chambers. They will tear the panels from the walls in search of a hidden door. They will find it, they will follow, and unless every man in the regiment is armed and waiting in the king’s apartment, they won’t stop until the last bit of royal flesh dangles from their rusted blades.

  Desperate for Bertrand to follow my thoughts, I shout, “Stop them! At all cost!”

  The explosion from his pistol coincides with my command, and before I fall silent, the intricate stitching of peacock feathers is wasted, shot through, singed with fire, and fallen to the floor.

  A new howl rises up, an unholy sound of fresh despair.

  Bertrand turns his head to me and says, “Save yourself!” It is a split second, but enough time for a murder of soot-faced women to descend upon him, weapons abandoned.

  I can think only to distract them, so I slither through, successfully maneuvering around their focused anger, and come out the other side at the door that leads to the main hall. A dozen soldiers approach, and I run to meet them halfway. “Make haste to the king. She is there, with the children.”

  From behind me I hear sounds of battle, as much as any fought on soil. My only desire is to run from it, to follow the guards and see my queen safe in Poseidon’s shadow. Better yet, to flee to Apollo’s statue and wait for Bertrand to come find me in the approaching dawn. I’ve yet to fulfill my vow to be there at that hour, to see the myth fulfilled of a god racing through the heavens with the promise of a new day.

  A brace of women, bloodied yet carrying renewed fervor rush past, shouting, “Au Roi! Au Roi!” They have obviously discovered the empty bedchamber, but not the passage, as they pour forth spewing new threats and sporting fresh wounds. The soldiers follow, looking for all the world like they are returning from the field. Four of them, uniforms askew, hats abandoned, weapons drawn—they run in pursuit. The fifth, a stone-faced man named Alsace du Vin known for his easy charm and ruthless wit, emerges and stops short in front of me.

  I look behind him. “Where is Bertrand?”

  He lays a hand on my arm. “Go to him. I’ll send someone.”

  His words stain as much as his touch, which leaves a red print when he withdraws his hand.

  No.

  My shoes, soft leather laced up my calves, feel like lead, sinking with every step. The first time I walked into this room, I’d been awed by the ornate decorations, the silk, the gold, the opulence of life. There’d been the humming chatter of conversation. Laughter, stories. A truly welcoming heart.

  Now.

  The acrid scent of gunfire lingers, and the silence.

  Near silence.

  The sound of labored breath permeates, and I see him, my mountain, flat upon the floor. The intricate pattern of the carpet obscured by blood.

  I rush to his side, kneel at his head. His face is a new shade of pale, his lips utterly without color as I press mine to them. When I rise, his eyes are open, blonde lashes half-mast.

  “Is the queen safe?” His lips do not move.

  “She is, my love.”

  “You have to leave now. Will you promise me? I couldn’t . . .”

  Blood is pooling behind his head, trickling out of his ear, staining my skirt.

  “They would have killed her, Bertrand. You saved her. You got her away. You protected her.”

  “I wasn’t trying to protect her. I’m sorry, but I wasn’t. I was trying to protect you, Renée.”

  My name is the last he speaks before his countenance turns to peace. His gaze flutters wide, and I know he is picturing the cottage on a farm, riding the horse he earned the rights to. For him, it is a clear day—evening, the sky violet and orange. For me, the storm outside rages on, loud enough that I can hear thunder over the shouts of murder in the palace and the echoing footsteps of its citizens. His eyes, though, are clear blue, full of wonder, even as the rest of his body goes perfectly still beneath my palm. I bring my hand to my lips, pressing his final heartbeat against my kiss.

  I feel like I could stay there forever, even if it meant the rest of my life surrounded by death. My love, just beyond my touch, a stranger in my cousin’s clothing, and I to blame. I’ve made promises to both Laurette and Bertrand, promises to return home, but how?

  I touch my fingertips to Bertrand’s lids and close his eyes, leaving a crimson stain on the pale flesh. His brow is cool to my final kiss. Then, as much as I hate that first, final separation, I force myself to stand. I’ll speak no words to his departed spirit, knowing I’ll be overflowing with speech when we are united again.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  The thought that I am the only living soul in the room causes me to yelp at the intrusion, and I turn to see a familiar figure. Not in face or being, but dress. Patched breeches, stained shirt, bare feet, red cap.

  “You startled me,” I say, feeling instantly guilty for the healthy pounding of my heart. “There’s no one here. Only me, and I’m nobody.”

  “Oh,” he says, a wicked grin spreading across his grime-smeared face. “You’re not nobody. You’re a combatant. An enemy of la République. And you are coming with me.”

  I face this new day with my hands bound behind me, coarse rope chafing my skin. They’ve not bothered to check my pockets, so they don’t know I have scissors within reach to cut through, and a solid gold knotting shuttle to reconfigure the strands into something beautiful. But then, I’m not inclined to do either. Numbly, I follow my instructions, up the steps into the grain wagon, where I’m loaded in alongside valets and cooks and chambermaids and soldiers.

  Soldiers.

  Five prisoners away, I lock eyes with Alsace du Vin, who breaks his gaze to look at his handprint in Bertrand’s blood on my sleeve. Silently he questions, and I answer with a shake of my head.

  We are leaving Versailles in the direction of Paris, traveling behind the royal carriage, where, according to the conversation around me, the king, the queen, and their children are safely aboard. They are prisoners now, just like the rest of us, and I can only pray that they have been spared some of our indignities.

  Let her hands be free, Lord, that she might hold her children.

  I pray, too, that the carriage blinds are drawn to block out the sight that we must endure. On either side of the road, in a line that appears to stretch the entirety of the dozen miles to Paris, mobs of rebels jeer at each turning of the wheels. My mind journeys back to that afternoon with Madame Gisela, the r
ich upholstery of the carriage my first taste of luxury. And the hours before, when the kindness of Gagnon protected her.

  Now face after face twists in anger; tattered bodies dance, their weapons raised in victory. Another and another and another—red caps and gaping mouths. Some women hold thin children to their breasts while others hoist them on their fathers’ shoulders to get a better view. They meld into a single visage, like a walk down the hall of mirrors, the same face reflected over and over again.

  Until . . .

  My mind is dull with hunger and fatigue and loss, but in an instant life shoots through me. Tattered clothing, yes. Victorious in rebellion? Yes. And the red cap—only in this is he changed. The black curls fringed beneath it are achingly familiar.

  I worm my way through my fellow prisoners, ignoring their protest, and press my body against the side of the wagon. Its wall rises to the middle of my chest. I lean over and shout.

  “Marcel!”

  He doesn’t hear me, see me. We’re passing, and I turn my head to look back and shout his name again, adding, “Laurette! Laurette!” in case she is nearby. We roll on and on. He grows smaller with each turn of the wheel, becomes just another indistinguishable silhouette. Still I shout his name. My cousin’s name. Somewhere within the wagon, new commands are issued, calling for “Silence!”

  But I will not be silent.

  “Marcel! Laurette!”

  Until I feel the blow of something hard and sharp at the back of my head, and everything goes black.

  PART V

  L’Automne (Autumn) 1789—

  l’Été (Summer) 1791

  * * *

  Réveillez-moi pour voir un jour glorieux. . . .

  L’épisode 26

  Renée

  * * *

  À LA COURT

  * * *

  I lose track of the days and know only that when I am brought up from the prison where I’ve been held—shackled—in a cavernous room with countless other women, it is a bitter-cold wind that blows against my face. Still, the air, choked as it is with chimney smoke, is welcome, and I gulp in as much as I dare.

  There are five of us taken out. We shuffle in step, prodded by guards who make crude comments with each touch of the stick. I am the smallest, and probably the youngest, though the conditions of the prison have turned us all to crones. I am thinner now than I ever was in even the leanest times in Mouton Blanc. I can feel the dryness of my skin, unwashed since my arrival—water is far too precious to waste on something so frivolous. My lips are cracked with the cold; they split and bleed if I open my mouth too wide to speak or eat. There’s little chance to do either.

  For those sharing the same plight, we women do a poor job commiserating with or comforting each other. When it was learned I was a resident at the Palace of Versailles—albeit a servant—hatred rained down on me from all sides. Noblewomen of the Second Estate, resentful of our equality as prisoners, blamed me for being one of the class responsible for our misery. Those like me, poor and without any crime to claim, mistook my silence for aloof disdain. They teased me unmercifully for the colorfulness of my dress, calling me the queen’s gypsy along with far more degrading names. Sensing my clothing was made from the scraps of the queen’s, in one accord they ensured that I was fed nothing but scraps from their own bowls when the guards came with buckets of pale, tepid soup.

  I would have wrapped myself in pity and prayed for deliverance if not for the two images that came to haunt me every time I closed my eyes. First, I saw the woman; no, not the woman—the vest. The green velvet vest I stitched with golden thread as a birthday gift to my cousin on our last New Year’s together. I saw it—see it, still—with a black, smoking hole in its center. I do not see the face of the woman. I cannot, much as I try. The only face I see is Bertrand’s. I see his blue eyes staring up into mine, the color draining. I press my hand to my heart and I feel his at its last. And I hear his voice, “for you”.

  He is dead because of me.

  Laurette was here because of me.

  While I may not be guilty of the crime they accuse, I’m no innocent in circumstance.

  “I need a priest,” I said to those who guard us when I could catch one’s attention. “I need to make Confession.”

  But they laughed and told me to bide my time, that I could make Confession to the council of the brotherhood that will judge me, as there is no God in heaven to forgive what I’ve done.

  Today is my day to confess.

  We are taken into the court chambers, where the gallery is full of men and women jeering at our appearance. Their voices blend into a wall of noise, sparing me from the vocabulary of their taunts. At some point, someone must have said something amusing, because the resounding laughter bursts forth as its own unique sound. Once we are sitting on the bench at the front of the gallery, our shackles are removed, and a man wearing a soiled shirt and red cap walks the length of us, pistol drawn, promising to mete out justice here should we move or speak without being called.

  At the front of the chamber, a bailiff pounds a gavel for order, and the noise of the crowd dies down to a murmur as three men take their places behind the table on the raised platform. They look like no other judges I have ever imagined. No powdered wigs, no black robes. These are rough men, well dressed but looking ill at ease in their attire.

  “Citizens! Citizens!” The bailiff calls for silence. “The court of the citizens of la République française is in session today to hear accusations against her enemies!”

  The crowd roars in excitement, and it takes a good bit of pounding to get them quiet again. The first of us accused is a middle-aged woman, Madame la Fontaine, who wears the same dress she did when she first arrived at our prison two weeks ago. It is torn at the sleeve from the struggle at the time of her arrest. I offered to repair it for her, but she refused, saying she would proudly display her fight against this mad band of hooligans bent on ruining her country.

  She is led to the front of the room, to a platform just below and to the left of where the judges sit. On her own power, she steps up and turns to face the audience. A small iron gate closes in front of her, and though it is no taller than her waist, it reminds us that this woman is a prisoner. Anyone who testifies against her will do so from behind a podium directly in front of the judges, as will anyone here to speak on her behalf. Today, there is no one.

  Madame la Fontaine is charged with being an enemy of the republic, and before the bailiff can go into any further detail, she collapses into tears, begging forgiveness for her misguided thoughts, promising to renounce her finances and position in honor of the new order of the world. With a strike of the gavel, she is forgiven and handed a prison sentence to last only as long as it takes for her property to be satisfactorily disbursed.

  The entire ordeal lasts less than five minutes.

  She is led away, much to the delight of the gallery. The gavel sounds again, and my name is called. “Renée la couturière! Accused of inciting violence against the people, and the murder of citizen Anne de la Rue.”

  I shake as I stand, feeling the jeers of the people wrap around me. My desire is to remain immobile, but someone removes my shackles, and I am shoved forcefully up to the platform and shut behind the little gate. Locked in. When, finally, the room is silent—though even the silence is thick with hate—my crime is read for all:

  “On October the sixth, when the citizens of France were engaged in the lawful detention and arrest of our heretofore king and his wife, our former queen, you, Renée la couturière, in employ at the palace at Versailles, did make violent efforts to thwart them in their mission, and those efforts resulted in the murder of Anne de la Rue, a good citizen of Paris who gave her life for the freedom of its citizens. How do you answer these charges?”

  I think back to that night, remembering it as clearly as any of my life. Their faces twisted in hate, weapons raised, intent on tearing the flesh from their queen, bringing death to her home. And I can see the woman—Anne—as v
icious as any other of them. And my voice. “Stop them! At any cost!” Not caring in the moment if that meant taking their lives. Her life. In truth, not caring now.

  “I have no answer, messieurs.”

  My response does not please my accusers. No amount of shouting down would quell their protest, the pounding of the gavel no more effective than the tapping of a finger in a moment of frustrated thought. Not until one rises among them, standing from his seat and making his way through the thunderous sea of protest, does a wave of calm ripple through.

  Marcel, red cap in his hand, hair bound at the nape with a length of blue ribbon, shirt miraculously white—he rises as the tricolored embodiment of their cause. “I have something to say about these charges.”

  One of the three judges, the one sitting in the center seat, pounds a small round stone on the table. “Are you a witness to her crime?”

  “I am a witness to her life.” By now he’s come to the railing that separates the gallery from the court stage, and he steps right over it. “I have known mademoiselle since she was a child. Since we both were children. She is incapable of the violence of which she is accused.”

  The crowd takes in a single breath, mine joining in the shock of his appearance and statement.

  The judge smiles a smile that bodes no good for me. “Citizen—”

  “Moreau.”

  “Citizen Moreau, we are not here to judge the idyll of the accused’s childhood. We are here about the events that took the life of citizen Anne de la Rue.”

  Without any ruse of asking permission, Marcel approaches, bypassing the witness podium to lean against the prisoners’ gate. His handsome face is inches from mine, infused with an air of experience and power that has chased away the listless rogue. He knows something—something about Laurette. He conveys as much with his eyes, his gaze reaching out to build a sort of trust between us. I feel that my life is in his hands, as much as it had ever been in Bertrand’s.