The Queen's Dollmaker

by Christine Trent

  “Mama! I’m coming down! Wait for me,” Claudette shouted through cupped hands. Adélaide did not notice her through the din on the streets. Claudette turned once more into her room, grabbed her reticule, and headed into the hallway and down the stairs.

  She paused at the entry to the workshop, then shook her head against the thought of taking along any dolls. More than likely, the fire would be put out before too much damage was done. She passed through the doorway of the workshop into the showroom, looked with regret at the latest grandes Pandores she and her father had created, then opened the door onto the street to join her mother.

  Her mother was no longer with the neighbor. In fact, the street was now thronged with people hauling carts behind them laden with furniture, clothing, and all of the other household wares that could be carried away in a frantic rush of fear. Crying, barefoot children were dragged along by harried parents. An unkempt man, staggering and carrying a bottle of some sort of intoxicant, came lurching by and stepped across Claudette’s toes.

  “Ow, monsieur. Please watch your step.”

  “Eh, you’ll be burning in hell soon, mademoiselle. My, but you are a pretty one. How about a last-minute romp with old Pepin before the devil takes us all?” He leered at her with bloodshot eyes, then put his face near hers. The stench of alcohol was overwhelming.

  “Get away from me!” Claudette pushed her way past him and moved into the crowds. When she turned around to look moments later, the drunkard was moving up the street in the opposite direction. The crush of people trying to leave the area was becoming oppressive. She could not see where her mother may have gone.

  “Mademoiselle Claudette!” She heard a voice above the commotion. Old Jacques, who was their neighbor and a wine importer, was calling to her from nearby. “Mademoiselle Claudette, your mother is looking for you.” Claudette made her way back through the crowds to the shop near her father’s. “Come inside, my dear, or you will be trampled to death.”

  Stepping into the wine merchant’s shop, she saw her mother get up dazedly from a chair. “Oh, Claudette, I was not sure where you were.”

  “Mama, I was sleeping of course. Where is Papa?”

  “He has gone to help a family named Bertrand save their home.”

  “But what about our shop?”

  Giving a helpless shrug she said, “You know your papa. Someone came asking for help, so he went.”

  “Mama, we need to leave the area right away. The fire will likely come through here.”

  “Yes, my dear, you’re right.”

  “Thank you, Jacques, for keeping Mama safe. Will you come with us?”

  “No, I’m staying here. The fire may not come this far, and you know my shop will be the first one ruffians will break into when they think no one is looking.”

  With Claudette guiding her mother out, the two women stepped back into the clamor of the street, and Claudette began walking quickly in the opposite direction of the spreading glow of the fire. Adélaide tugged on Claudette’s arm. “Claudette, we should go and find your papa.”

  “No, Mama, we need to leave.”

  “I cannot leave without knowing where your father is.”

  “Mama, please, we have to get out of here. Papa will find us, I’m sure. Besides, we will never find him if he is helping others put out the fire.”

  Adélaide stood still and refused to budge, much like some of the braying donkeys now crowding the street, refusing to move for their masters out of sheer stubbornness. Claudette, exasperated, said, “Very well, we’ll go and look for Papa.”

  Turning toward the fire instead of away from it, Claudette grabbed her mother’s hand so they would not be separated.

  The closer they got to the edge of the burning area, the more difficult their journey became. More and more people were streaming away from the fire, and the smoke became denser, choking them and stinging their eyes. “What are you doing, walking into that kingdom of hell?” shouted a woman carrying what was apparently an infant securely wrapped in several dirty rags. A toddler was crying at her feet. “Best you turn back now. You’ll never get out of there alive.”

  Claudette looked at her mother. “Mama, we should not do this.”

  “I want to find your papa.” Adélaide was resolute.

  The mother and daughter continued their uphill battle against humanity, smoke, and the occasional burning embers floating around them. A piece of ash landed in Adélaide’s hair, but she seemed unaware of it until Claudette saw it and tamped out the cinders with her hands.

  They finally reached the outer perimeter of the firestorm. The heat was intense. Claudette worried that she and her mother would suffer burns to their skin simply from the heat. She stopped the nearest man she saw and asked, “Have you seen my father, Étienne Laurent?”

  “No, I don’t know him.”

  She moved on with her mother, asking everyone who would stop for her whether they had seen Étienne Laurent. Finally, a young man lugging two pails of water was able to help them. “Oui, your father is over on the Rue d’Henri.” He pointed off in the distance. “Go through that alley and turn right. You’ll find him there for sure.”

  “Merci.”

  Claudette and her mother hurried in the direction the young man had pointed. In the alley, dark now that the buildings obscured the fire’s glow, they obtained some relief from the overpowering heat of the inferno, but did not stop for respite. At the end of the alley, they turned right as instructed, and came upon a line of men passing buckets of water to quell the furious burning of a parquetrist’s warehouse, where the combination of wood flooring and stains was threatening to make the fire even more incendiary. Searching through the sweating, breathless, straining assembly of men, Claudette spied her father near the front of the line, grunting under the weight of each bucket passing through his hands.

  “Mama, wait here. Papa!” She hurried over to the line.

  “Ah, Claudette. What are you doing here?”

  “Mama is with me. She wanted to find you.”

  “I told her to go with you out of the city.” A yielding sigh. “Very well, where is she?”

  “I’ll bring her to you.”

  Claudette ran back to her mother to let her know that she had found Papa. Together they went to where he was accepting yet another heavy wooden pail. His face was beet red, but it was unclear if this was from the heat or the exertion. Claudette’s mother rushed forward. “Étienne, I’m so scared without you. Come with Claudette and me now.”

  “Adélaide, I told you to take care of Claudette. I’ll find you later.” He hastily kissed the top of her head and continued passing buckets.

  “No, Étienne, I want to be with you.”

  “Come, my love.” He signaled for the other men to continue while he attended to his wife, and steered her away from the frenetic work with the water buckets. Claudette joined her parents as her father walked her mother about twenty feet away. He sat her down against an overturned barrel in the street. “Now, you must promise to stay here until I am finished; then we will all leave together. Will you promise?”

  “Yes, Étienne.” She had a desperate look in her eyes, and she seemed unable to release her hold on her husband.

  Claudette approached the two of them. “Papa, I’ll stay here with Mama. Mama, let go of Papa’s arm and hold on to me.”

  Adélaide took this instruction literally and gripped her daughter’s arm fiercely. “I’m so afraid.”

  “It will be fine, Mama.”

  With a deeply concerned look, Claudette’s father turned to resume his work, while his wife and daughter watched from afar. The band of fire was approaching closer to the long line of makeshift firefighters, devouring everything in its path and threatening to encircle them. Claudette felt an unease she could not explain. “I think that perhaps—”

  Her father dropped the pail he was holding and crouched down with his hands on his knees. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. He closed his eyes and began swaying.
He crumpled to the ground in a curled position, his eyes staring sightlessly at his wife and daughter. The worker to his left simply continued the fight, handing buckets of water over his prone figure. No time to help a fallen worker.

  Claudette’s mother made a strangled noise in her throat. “No, no, no, no, no.” The words stuck in her throat and she gave a long, low moan. She stood up from the barrel and staggered to where her husband was lying on the ground. “Oh, Étienne, my love, no.” She dropped on her knees next to him, and threw herself on his chest. “No, no, no, it cannot be.” Her sobbing caused her chest to rapidly pulse in a mock parody of the way her husband’s had only moments ago.

  Claudette’s eyes opened in horror at what was happening before her. A hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, she watched her mother’s agony. Yet even through her anguish, Claudette sensed that something else was wrong. Another noise was rising above the din of men shouting, fire crackling, and women screaming for their children. Out of her peripheral vision she caught a flash of the source of the noise. Crashing through the middle of the already chaotic melee was a horse pulling a driverless carriage. The frightened animal galloped wildly through the streets. The firefighters began to disperse, some of them trying in vain to seize the horse’s reins whipping behind its head. One managed briefly to grab the side of the carriage, but slipped on the wet pavement and released his hold.

  The commotion was now out of control. No one was able to pay much attention to the loose horse. In an instant, all of the fire’s madness—the noise, the heat, the smell—receded into the background, as Claudette watched the horse carelessly gallop straight toward her parents and leap over them, leaving the carriage to drag itself full force over the prone figures.

  Claudette succumbed to shock and smoke, collapsing in the street.

  2

  Her lungs were gasping for air. She was drowning. No, water was dripping on her face. It was raining. Pain and soreness were making themselves uncomfortable companions throughout her body.

  “Mademoiselle Claudette?” A face loomed over her. Papa? “You are awake, no?” It did not sound like her papa. “Mademoiselle, let me help you sit up.” Masculine arms pulled her unwillingly into a sitting position. She gradually opened her eyes. She appeared to be in a park. What was she doing here?

  Focusing her eyes, she looked up into the face of Old Jacques. His kindly, wrinkled, unshaven face peered with concern into hers. It all clicked into place. Old Jacques had reunited her with her mother, then she and Mama had gone to look for Papa, then the rampaging carriage—

  “Can you walk?”

  She choked out an answer. “I believe so. I need to stand and walk, to clear my head.” He helped her struggle to her feet, handed her her reticule, and began guiding her through the pathways of the park. The early dawn revealed hundreds of homeless Parisians, some under makeshift tents of clothing and linens, some simply sitting in the elements. There was an eerie quiet to it all, as though her fellow city dwellers were stunned into silence that their worlds had collapsed around them so quickly.

  “Jacques, how did I get here?”

  “I was worried when you and your mother left the shop and I saw you turn in the direction of the fire. Étienne would have never forgiven me if I allowed his wife and daughter to wander about in that confusion, so I decided to follow you to make sure you were both safe. I did not catch up to you until you turned the corner and found your father working to put out the fire at the Bertrands’. I had just decided to turn back, when I saw Étienne fall, then your mother go to him—” He stopped this line of thought. “Well, then I saw you fall to the ground, and knew that you might end up trampled yourself. So I picked you up and carried you myself to this park. You have been unconscious for hours.”

  “I must return and find my parents.”

  He looked at her pityingly. “Claudette, there will be nothing to find, little one. The fire spread from there down to our block.”

  “Someone may have found them and taken them to a hospital.”

  “Cherie, no,” Jacques shook his head. “No one will have found them.”

  Claudette blinked rapidly at him. She felt tears burning her eyes, but was unable to stop them. In a rush, she threw herself at her family friend, sobbing against his shoulder. He patted her head awkwardly while she grieved.

  Raising her head eventually she declared, “But I must give them a proper burial.”

  He shook his head again. “No, Claudette, it is best that you not return there, for you will find nothing but sorrow and wreckage. You will find nothing of the doll shop, either, as passersby have told me that our street is almost completely destroyed. I assume my wine shop is gone, but to fire, not vandals, as I had originally feared. I have a cousin in the town of Versailles, and I will head out there to stay. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “No, no, I must return home.”

  “But there is nothing left. We are all homeless.”

  “I must see for myself.”

  “Mademoiselle, where will you go from there?”

  “I cannot think of that now. No, wait, I will find Jean-Philippe and his family, and they will take me in.”

  “Jean-Philippe? The Renauds? Why would they take you in?”

  “Because I—because Jean-Philippe is my—oh, because our parents know each other.” Claudette could see a mixture of skepticism and sympathy in his eyes for this girl who he obviously thought was out of her head from grief. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed.

  “Farewell, Jacques. Thank you for saving my life. I shall never forget you.”

  “Farewell, little Claudette. Remember, my cousin is Bertrand Jonceaux, and he lives just two blocks from the palace. You will always have a friend there.”

  She looked up, saw the Notre Dame spire in the distance, and used it as her compass needle to find her way back home.

  As she trudged her way back to whatever might be left of her home, she noticed that the farther she walked, the fewer people she encountered. An occasional dog or cat wandered by, but of course what Parisians would be wandering around in the rain through burnt-out ruins? At a street corner she saw a discarded bucket that was filling with rainwater. She knelt and peered down into the water, into a filmy reflection that shocked her. Her cobalt-blue eyes, normally sparkling and inquisitive, were overcome by the heavy dark circles under them. The rest of her face was thin and pale, and she had lost the band that had held back her disorderly golden hair, which now cascaded in a tangle midway down her back. She scooped water up to rub grime from her face, neck, and arms, and used her slightly clean hand to run a finger across her even front teeth. Her dress was still sooty, and now stained by wet grass, but the wash made a small improvement in her appearance.

  Rising from the bucket, she felt distinct aches in her back and legs that not even youth would heal rapidly. She felt much older than her tender years. She continued her journey through the wreckage until she came to her father’s doll shop. She had called the E. Laurent Fashion Dolls shop home for sixteen years, and had been her father’s assistant for most of that time, spending her early years sweeping up sawdust and scraping wax drippings from the floor, and later helping her father carve doll figures and take care of customers. Looking around on the street, she saw that the fire had not been quite as devastating to their home as it had been to Old Jacques’s wine shop. Probably their stone storefront had kept the fire somewhat at bay. Claudette stepped through the remaining doorway.

  The second story was gone, having mostly burned or fallen onto the first floor. The fashion dolls that were her father’s greatest pride, next to his wife and daughter, had all but disappeared in a heap of cinders. His newly acquired “baby” houses and their furnishings were nearly destroyed. The few remaining grandes Pandores, the mannequins that were Claudette’s favorite addition to the shop, were bizarre caricatures of themselves. The iron frames, mangled and probably fragile to the touch, still stood in the same arrangement they were in when Claud
ette left the shop the previous day. However, their wigs, gowns, and padding were completely gone. It was as though she were looking at a collection of empty birdcages, whose occupants had flown away from an irritating disturbance.

  She stepped gingerly over scattered debris until she reached the workshop. The fire did not appear to have destroyed everything in here. Perhaps there was something to salvage? Rooting through the fragments of doll molds, scorched body parts, and tools, she attempted to find salvageable pieces, reminders of the father and life she loved. An hour of searching in the rain, which had now become a light mist, produced some carving tools, fabric scraps, some paints, and one of her father’s old wooden toolboxes, into which she put the remaining items. With this small box and her reticule, she left the shop.

  In the street, she turned around one more time to look at the shop. Just twelve hours ago she was comfortably ensconced in her bed, secure in the affections of two doting parents and Jean-Philippe, whom she had loved as long as she could remember. Now she was alone, penniless, and beginning to notice a small gnawing of hunger in her stomach. What was she to do now? Her only hope was to find Jean-Philippe. Surely he was looking for her as well. But what if something happened and he had not survived? How could she find out what had happened to him and his family?

  Even at the young age of twelve, Claudette could not remember a time that she and Jean-Philippe had not been the best of friends, preferring his company always above that of the girls she knew.

  Jean-Philippe was unhappily apprenticed to a locksmith named Gamain. Jean-Philippe hated being trapped all day in a workshop, hammering away at metal and firing it in ovens that produced unbearable heat. He also found the detailed work of assembling lock mechanisms to be mind-numbing. However, the locksmith would sometimes drink, and drinking made him garrulous. During those times, he allowed Jean-Philippe to sit and listen while he aired his views on the French and Indian wars, on the rising cost of bread, on the evils of the aristocracy (no matter that they provided him with healthy commissions for work), and on the extravagances of the royal family. The boy did not understand much about what he was being told, but Gamain seemed very worldly, and Jean-Philippe was rapt when he had the opportunity to get away from his apprenticeship duties.