“Marcel, where are the children?”
“The daughter, Marie-Thérèse, has been safely delivered to Austria for the time being. And I have no doubt she’ll be permitted to live a long, happy life there. She holds no threat to the constitution. She’s nothing.”
“And Louis-Charles?”
He has no quick answer for this. “There can never be another king in France, Renée. We’ve changed the law.”
“Where is he?”
His eyes hold mine, and with each passing breath my heart sinks with certain knowledge. “We can never have another king in France.”
I feel the paper crumple beneath my hand, the fruit turn sour within me. “Quels monstres! He is a child. An innocent little boy.”
“He’s next in line to the throne.”
“A throne that doesn’t exist, by your own choice. How could you—?”
He holds up his hands as if fending off a blow. “I haven’t done anything. And you greatly exaggerate my knowledge in the whole affair. I’m here for you, and you alone, and only if you want me to be.”
“How could you ask me to pledge my allegiance to something so vile as this? For that matter, how could you?”
“I’m only asking you to say what they want to hear. To clear their conscience of taking your life. Who knows how many lives you might save? If those accused of treason will renounce their crimes, others might go free.”
I know he doesn’t want that any more than the monsters of this bloody revolution do. He’s simply telling me what I want to hear, finding the argument that might convince me to do his bidding.
“Whose conscience are we clearing, really, Marcel? I won’t sign my soul to a lie. Not to assuage your guilt or to pardon the fiends who sentenced me here. How could God ever forgive me . . . ?”
There’s a subtle shift in his posture, and I look again at the final words of the statement: I give my heart and my soul to my country, granting no other entity primacy in my consciousness. No, I cannot sign this document. I raise my head and look directly into Marcel’s eyes. “My heart and my soul belong to God alone. Never to France.”
“These are only words, Renée. They don’t have to mean anything if you don’t want them to.”
I remember a conversation just before I left Mouton Blanc, one of those dark afternoons when the storm raged outside, Marcel chastised for not bowing his head for the blessing. The words of Holy Scripture seemed so lighthearted then, but when I recall them now, I feel my eternal soul at stake.
“Jesus says whoever confesses him before men, he will confess before the Father. And whoever denies him, he will deny before the Father.”
“More words. Your Scripture is as meaningless to me as these are to you.” He pounds his finger on the statement.
“I will not defame the king. Or the queen. And I cannot deny my Savior.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made many mistakes, mon ami. If this is one, it will be my last.”
“I’m leaving this document with you. I’ll be back.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“I’ll bring Gagnon with me.”
Whatever I intended as my next retort dies on my lips. This promise draws all of the air from the room. I can see the silence. “You’d go to Mouton Blanc?”
“And fetch him and bring him here, yes. Maybe he can make you listen to reason.”
Half of my heart is back at Gagnon’s table, the sturdy, worn wood, the seats in all stages of disrepair. Chipped dishes, pewter mugs, the smell of his pipe when the plates were empty. If he were here, sharing this sparse meal on my wobbly table, he would echo my response with his whole heart. And I tell this to Marcel.
“But you’ll listen to him, regardless? You’ll heed his counsel?”
“Since when have you given any credence to Gagnon’s counsel?”
“Since it might save your life.”
“How soon . . . ?” I realize what I’m truly asking. “How long, do you think? Before . . . ?”
“I’ll ride for Mouton Blanc directly. We can be here in four days.”
Four days. “Will you take something to Laurette for me?” I say nothing about the stack of coins I gave him all those years ago, almost certain they never found their way to Gagnon’s hand.
“I will.” Then remembering too, “I promise.”
I reach under my thin mattress and produce the knotting shuttle. “It was a gift to me from the queen herself. If Laurette doesn’t know how to use it, have her ask Elianne. She knows.”
His eyes remain glued to his palm. “Gold?”
I laugh. “More than that, Marcel. I’m going to ask Gagnon if you gave it to her.”
“Renée—why not give it to her yourself? When you go home?”
“Because I don’t know that I’ll go home, Marcel. And I know for certain I don’t want her to see me here. Promise me, Marcel. Don’t bring her with you.”
He sends me an indulgent, knowing smile. “Trust me, nothing could entice your cousin to return to Paris. Non, the two of you will be reunited in Mouton Blanc.”
“If God wills.”
“If you choose.”
He rises, leaving me with two pieces of unsliced fruit—my trade for gold, and so much more valuable in these spare days. I offer myself for his kiss, one to each cheek and a final, chaste lingering on my lips.
“I pray you will let me atone for my sins, Renée.”
“I’m glad to hear you still pray, Marcel.”
“To you, ma petite. No one else.”
He shouts through the grate for the guards to open the door and steps back in surprise to find them so close by.
“You have been listening, citizens?”
The first guard, Albert, that distasteful sack of a man, closes the door and locks it. “Didn’t give us much to listen to, did he, ami?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I don’t recognize his voice, so I bring my chair up against the door, climb upon it, and peer out the window. The second guard is a stranger, but matched to Albert in every way. “Negotiating a way to turn a traitor. Lie to the court. Seems we ought to have the prisoner’s visitor arrested for treason.”
“Gentlemen—” Marcel’s words so smooth and refined in contrast—“bringing such charges requires proof. Witnesses. Testimony.”
“I heard it, citizen.”
“As did I, citizen.”
“And if you can get the judge to value your word over mine, I’ll gladly stand to the charges. Until then—” He attempts to pass through the wall formed by the two men.
“Wait up,” says the second guard. “I know you. We fought together—”
“My fighting days are behind me, brother. I’ve turned to more civil pursuits.”
“Like buttin’ up to one of that hag’s own pets.” This is Albert, employing his favorite pejorative of the queen.
“No need to speak ill of the dead,” Marcel says. “She can’t be resurrected and killed again.” Though his words chill me, I understand his intent: to strike a chord of camaraderie with these two beasts. This time, though, as he attempts to pass, his failure is evident.
“See how the judge values this.” The second guard blocks him not just with his body, but with a blow so violent, Marcel doubles over, expelling a breath that sheathes a sharper cry of pain. He remains folded and peeks within his coat as if searching. Resolute, he stands, though not completely upright, wherein Albert leaps upon the exposed weakness and follows through with another blow of his own.
At this, Marcel lets forth another note of stifled pain.
I’ve seen enough of brawling men to know that Marcel’s injury transcends that of a punch to the gut. True, Albert and his compatriot are bigger than Marcel by half, but he is younger—strong and healthy. He would have known to brace his body against a second blow. And yet, when he stands again, he is unstable and holds his hand protectively not over his stomach, but to the left where—I suddenly remember—he stashed the kni
fe he used to cut my supper.
I cry out with the pain Marcel cannot express, but it is lost in the cruel laughter of his attackers. He turns, sees me, and tries to adjust his expression to a mask of confidence, but I am not fooled.
“Marcel—”
“Promise you will listen to Gagnon.” He’s walking backward, away, pursued only by the guards’ mocking taunts. “Promise you will do as he says.”
I grip the bars and shout my word, praying I’ll have a chance to keep it.
L’épisode 31
Laurette
* * *
MOUTON BLANC
* * *
Philippe burst through the front door, his cheeks pink with exertion beneath the scattering of adolescent whiskers.
“There’s a gentleman coming on horseback. He asked if you were home and well, and told me to run ahead and tell you he’s on his way so he doesn’t give you too big of a surprise. And to make sure you’ll let him come.”
Laurette paused in her chore. It was midafternoon, the warmest hour of the day, when she could let the fireplace go cold and sweep the ashes. Aimée-Renée “helped,” holding the bucket as still as she could, though somehow managing to get smudges on her face and apron.
“Who is it?”
“You won’t believe it when you see him. It’s Marcel. He called himself Citizen Moreau, but it’s Marcel. He’s waiting at the top of the path for me to come back and let him know if you’ll welcome him in.”
Laurette took the bucket from Aimée-Renée. “Go back; tell him to keep riding. Or to return the horse to whoever he stole it from.”
Philippe laughed. “He told me you’d say exactly that. He said to tell you he has news of Renée. That she is in danger, and if you won’t see him, to send Gagnon, because the message is for him.”
A single word registered. Danger.
“He’s in the barn. Take this message to him. This is his house, after all. He’ll decide who has a place in it.”
She went outside to empty the ash bucket just as Gagnon emerged from the barn with Philippe. His eyes found hers across the yard, and after all their years together, the conversation needed no words.
I love you.
I trust you.
Gagnon and Philippe set out to greet their visitor and escort him to the front gate, leaving less than half an hour before they arrived. She took off her apron and Aimée-Renée’s, explaining that they had a guest about to arrive and needed to prepare.
When she scrubbed the soot from the little girl’s face, nothing but Marcel’s image remained. He would know upon first glance. What would he say? An even greater fear, one finding purchase from a place deeper than Laurette could fathom, was that Aimée-Renée would know. Would there be some quickening in her little spirit, some flicker of understanding in her unformed mind? Would she look to Gagnon, then Marcel, then back again, and feel the connection to the stranger at their table?
“Chérie,” Laurette said, smoothing back the child’s hair and plaiting it in a single, quick braid, “why don’t you go into Maman and Papa’s room and lie down for a bit? You have been such a good helper today; you need some rest.”
“But I’m not tired, Maman.”
“Just go in and lie down and see if you are. Stay there until I call for you, and then I’ll let you go out to the barn and play with the puppies. Agreed?”
Her face lit up at the mention of the puppies, as Laurette knew it would, and she scampered obediently to the room. Laurette followed, tucking a warm quilt around her body once she settled in.
“Now, remember,” she said, smoothing her skirt and rolling down her sleeves, “stay put until I call for you.” She wrapped a green shawl, knitted only last week, over her shoulders, crossed it against her filling stomach, and tied it in the back. A few drops of water from the washbowl kept the static at bay as she ran a brush over her hair before putting on her cleanest cap. Her cheeks were pink from the wash water; only Gagnon would recognize the nervousness in her eyes. Well, Gagnon and Marcel, but only her husband would understand the reason.
In the front room, she built up a fire and put on a kettle for tea. They had no cloth for the table—never had—but she set a narrow runner down its center and laid out a plate of bread, a crock of butter, and a jar of jam. A meager offering to an uninvited guest, but one that should convey the length of his welcome. Bread. Tea. News. Go.
She was sitting with her carding boards when they walked in, Philippe presumably dispatched to feed and water the horse. The change in Marcel was outstanding. His cloak, a rich, fine cloth; his suit, well fitting and expensive; his hat an impressive tricorn—a style she’d never known him to favor. The face beneath it, however, remained unchanged, and she hated herself for the unbidden thrill the sight of it induced.
But then, next to him, Gagnon. Her Émile. Taller, as he had always been. Broader shoulders beneath the same rough wool coat he’d worn since she and Renée were children. Laurette had knit his wool cap—long before developing any real skill for the craft—and he wore the lopsided, irregularly stitched thing with pride and affection. His beard grew thick, green eyes sought her above it, and the sadness in them drew her to her feet.
She bypassed Marcel without even a hint of a greeting and went straight to Gagnon’s waiting embrace. “What news, my love?”
“Not good,” he said with a kiss to her forehead. “There’s much to discuss.”
Only then did she turn back to Marcel, who took both of her hands in his. They were surprisingly warm, given he wore no gloves in the chill of the day. “You look beautiful, Laurette. As beautiful as I’ve ever seen you.”
“Thank you,” she said, feeling the first slip in her cool reserve. “Now, come. Let me take your cloak.”
He reached up to unfasten it, wincing obviously as he shrugged it from his shoulders.
“Are you all right?” How, after all this time, could she care? But his breath had been sharp, and she took note of an underlying pallor to his face.
His smile was pained. “Part of the heroic story I failed to tell your husband. There was a scuffle with the guards as I left the prison.”
“Here, then,” Laurette said, leading him to Gagnon’s chair by the now pleasantly roaring fire. The tea and bread could wait. News of Renée could not.
“I will tell you everything, all of the truth as I know it, and I beg that you will forgive me for not doing so before. But you must understand how much I believe in the cause of our revolution. Haven’t I always, mon vieux?”
“You have,” Gagnon said with the indulgence of a father. “Long before the first drop of bloodshed.”
“And I still do, but I can see how we . . . But there is danger in our digression.”
“Renée,” Laurette said, moved to the edge of her seat. Gagnon stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder with the weight of assurance. “Tell us about Renée.”
“Right, yes. That summer, all those years ago, I did see her. That was true. And I was shackled and she did save me. Convinced the guards to let me go.”
“So you said.” Laurette grew impatient. So typical of Marcel to make himself the center of the tale.
“What I didn’t tell you is that when I left her, I did so with money. Not a lot of money, as it turned out, but money that was meant for you.”
“And you kept it,” Gagnon said, stating an obvious fact.
“I knew, even then, how useless currency would be to you. You remember? Every bit of it would have been gone for just a few loaves of bread.”
“But they would have been our loaves,” Laurette said, recalling the sharp pain of hunger.
“What did you do with it?” Gagnon asked, his words patient.
“I traded it for what we would need. Guns, ammunition. Some food and safe places. I bought goodwill and trust—the same that would allow me to later buy food for your sheep. I bought my life.”
“For a cause that would kill so many.” This from Philippe, who had entered the house with uncharacteris
tic silence. His brothers flanked him on either side.
“Go upstairs,” Laurette said. “This doesn’t concern you.”
Gagnon contradicted her. “No. You may stay; it’s an important conversation. But sit and listen. Do not interrupt again. Understand?”
The boys—all three—nodded and sat along the old church pew under the window. Philippe’s eyes were set like steel.
“The man,” Marcel continued, “the guard who let me go. He was the head of Madame’s—”
“The queen,” Gagnon corrected. “Say it.”
Marcel made no effort to hide his distaste. “The queen’s security detail. He and Renée—they were in love. But he . . . died. The day the family was first arrested. One of our women was killed, too, and Renée was thought to have killed her.”
Laurette nearly leapt from her seat. “Never! She couldn’t!”
“I know.” This marked a change in Marcel’s demeanor. The first hint of sadness, regret. “I spoke on her behalf at her trial, hoping and failing to get her released. Though not a complete failure. Rather than execution, she was imprisoned with the family in Tuileries. She has been in prison all this time.”
“And not—” Laurette felt a grip on her shoulder commensurate with the strength of Gagnon’s words—“not a single word from her? Could she not write? Not a single letter to her family to know of her fate?”
“You can’t possibly understand. The fear of being seen as a traitor. People—hundreds arrested every day. Who would risk their lives to deliver a letter for her?”
“Not you, apparently,” Laurette said.
“No. I risked enough in court. But she was safe in Tuileries. She would be safe now if she hadn’t . . .” Over the course of the conversation, his face had gone pale, his voice hoarse, and a fine sheen of sweat formed on his brow. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?”
“Of course.” Laurette looked to Joseph. “Fetch our guest a drink, would you?” Then, remembering Gagnon’s propensity for hospitality, asked, “Are you hungry, Marcel?”
The Seamstress Page 36
