He closed the door softly. Sleep beckoned, not the human sleep I can no longer recall, but the deep sleep of the vampire, sleep more like death than slumber—yet not being death it is often filled with dreams.
I undressed for I knew the cupboard would be warm. It was and small as well, still I knew if I slept on my side with my legs curled under me I should fit nicely. The darkness was soothing. There was no sound, just that of my own breathing filling the space. Soon I would be in sleep’s embrace and I would dream of the life that was mine long ago.
CHAPTER 2
Before the Blood
The dream came like a whisper — it was probably my own voice I heard beckoning me to remember. “Justine, remember us...”
It was my mother’s voice—I heard it without a doubt. It was so clear I thought her spirit had manifested itself. Sometimes I think she does come, Papa too. Such was this moment. There they were smiling down at me, looking at their child. They called my name as they used to do when I was little. “Tine...”
I recall them before they were sick, sick from being poor—from lack of food and not having enough heat in the winter or warm clothes. Paris’ poor were not highly regarded. Of course things would get much worse but no one knew that until they did.
As for my mama, my gentle sweet mother, she died quickly, between a cough and a seizure of some kind. Her chest was stained with blood. Her lungs you see. Papa sat so still by her bed — bed, indeed— a pallet on the floor with ragged blankets under it.
“She is gone, Justine Mama is gone.” I cried as any child of ten would. There was a funeral of sorts, a pauper’s funeral—where she would be taken to an open burial pit outside of the city. They were no longer burying the dead in Paris. The awful business of the rotting dead of Paris had ensured that. The Holy Innocents Cemetery had been closed as a result. Now the newly dead were taken away.
Mother’s poor corpse was put onto a wagon. It trundled away, its uneven wheels making such an awful noise along the cobblestones. No church for us, no kind words to lessen our grief. People like us didn’t live that way. Yes, one of the nails in the coffin that was to be the downfall of the aristocracy and their priests.
But I wanted something said to ease her passing. I asked my papa where the priest was. “Mama deserves him!” I cried.
Papa kissed my forehead. “They do not care for the likes of us, Justine.”
Father and I were lonely, never had we clung to one another more than we did then. I tried so hard to look after him, but I could see he was no longer willing to live, though he pretended he was.
Some years passed. He continued to take whatever work was available—which was never much. Charity was not something he accepted readily. Still, by this time he did what was best for me. “I will not let you starve.”
I did not, as I had taken in sewing. I was adept with a needle like my mother Papa said. When I was fourteen, he looked ill, worse each day in fact. After he began coughing, he didn’t last long. I wanted to die too when he did. They took him away and I was alone. A man came. I had seen not him before. He was an acquaintance of both my father and mother. “I am Monsieur Coulon,” he said. “And I am sorry for the suffering you and your family endured. Pride makes victims by its very nature. You know how proud your father was. Had I known his circumstances I could have helped.”
I knew that was no boast. He had a kind face. He said he knew father through my mother. “Yes, Justine—I did know them both. Your father was a fine man and you’re mother a skilled seamstress.”
Skilled yes, but too ill to sew, I wondered if he knew.
He told me she had done sewing for his family, shortly after she arrived in Paris. I knew she had come from Normandy, I knew her to be a farmer’s daughter.
“There was none finer with a needle. Tell me young miss, can you sew?”
“I can sew ... a little.”
When he smiled I knew I would be alright. I did not look back. There was nothing to look back to.
He took me to his carriage. There were people milling about, dirty and in rags, even those who knew me, refrained from speaking to me. The mood was such that they resented someone escaping from the mire.
I stared straight ahead as the carriage pulled away. My life begins again I thought.
****
The Coulon family had a fine house in the Marais district. I had never seen such a fine home as theirs. There were gardens with roses and enough food to eat. I caught the aroma of goose when I was led inside. Not through the front door I hasten to add, but through the back one. Very well, whichever door they wished me to enter I would have lodgings and a position as well.
The house was noisy with children but I didn’t mind. A servant took me in hand. “You are small for your age,” she announced, this pinched face woman who would have been remarkably ugly had it not been for her kind eyes. “Yes,” she went on. “Small fingers are good to thread needles and such. Let me see what you can do.”
With that she handed me a handkerchief. “The lace is coming apart. Let me see you stitch it up. Tomorrow is Sunday and Mme. is attending church she cannot be seen to take a raggedy looking hankie!”
I said nothing. I wanted to show her how efficient I was so I threaded the needle quickly. My fingers were not shaking, surprisingly. I had willed it as so much depended on it.
In a few minutes the task was done. And I was complimented. “Mme. Coulon was pleased, and told me so.”
I did have questions but not the courage to ask them. I wanted to know where I would sleep and how I would get on. But I had nothing to fear. If I went about my tasks quickly and efficiently and did not draw attention to myself, I got along fine. My employers’ children were slightly older than I was and they were rarely in my company. Their governess minded them, taking them into see their mama and papa twice a day.
Time passed pleasantly, six years in fact. I had enough to eat and grew better skilled at my work. In fact I became so competent I found I pleased my mistress with the gowns I was making for her. Nothing was too difficult for me, no trim too hard and no decoration too intricate for my nimble fingers. There were balls and dinners and a banquet too and at court no less!
“The Queen will be in attendance! Imagine, Justine! She will be there – for my eldest daughter is to be presented at court.”
Such was the custom of the day before the world changed and blood ran through the streets of Paris.
“Think of it, Justine. You will see her!”
I begged off. That is I tried so hard not to go. It was intimidating. However, after a great deal of coaxing I did go. Mme. Coulon was delighted. “You will attend to us as our personal maid. Paulette and I shall be so lucky to have you there.”
Paulette was the daughter I felt certain was being groomed to search for a husband. The Coulons were committed to raising themselves ever higher. If there was dissatisfaction with the monarchy it was not known in their house. Not with an unmarried daughter and social climbing parents.
“There are so many suitable gentlemen, Paulette—please try and act less awkward. Do try and be at ease.”
The night came at last. Mme. Coulon was so excited she was stumbling over her words. “That is it! Have you ever seen such beauty?”
Paulette was delighted. “No, indeed Mama! I feel like royalty myself!”
I thought my mistress would say something to keep her daughter’s feet on the ground. Yes, they were a wealthy merchant family, but they were not aristocrats.
When Paulette saw me looking at her she smiled. “Don’t look at me, silly! Look out there!”
I did just as our carriage was given permission to enter the palace gates. That’s when I took my first look at Versailles.
It was stunning and I gasped. My eyes filled with tears at the sheer beauty of it. There were the famous gardens even I had heard of. And there, just beyond them—was the great glittering palace. It seemed to be filled with golden light.
My mistress only stopped chattering when
the carriage drew to a stop. I had already been instructed to follow along behind.
There were other guests milling around, each judging the other’s importance by their apparel and demeanor. Mme. Coulon was giving her daughter step by step instructions of how to move and what to say.
Two liveried servants ushered us inside.
“We are entering Olympus!” Mme. Coulon exclaimed. “The home of the Gods and Goddesses.”
And so we were. The opulence and splendor was all around. Clearly it could be nothing else!
We passed from one hall to another. Officials of varying importance saw to this, each haughtier than the next—even in their subservient state, they exuded snobbery.
When we passed through the Hall of Mirrors I thought I would faint. Mme. Coulon whispered, “This is only the beginning. Look!”
A handsomely dressed man, in lavender frock coat, smelling divine bowed slightly. I would soon learn that different levels of bowing—varying from deep to less deep were associated with class and standing. The bow accorded Mme. Coulon and her daughter — I didn’t count, of course, was a bit shallow.
When I heard Mme. Coulon’s hoarse whisper, “The Queen!” I almost stumbled.
She was there, resplendent in a gown the likes of which I could not have even dreamt of. What a poor excuse for a human being I was to be so impressed!
I had quite forgotten the poverty I sprang from. Would my poor parents be turning in their graves? I should think they would have.
But it didn’t matter! The spell was too strong—the magic of wealth and beauty too powerful to overcome.
We all curtseyed. And when the Queen complimented my employer and Paulette on their gowns and insisted on knowing who the seamstress was, I could barely breathe. But the royal command received an instant answer and I was introduced.
“It is my seamstress’s handiwork, your Majesty!”
There she was! Queen Marie Antoinette herself, smiling down at me. She was a goddess, a beauty, like something come down from heaven to dwell among lesser mortals, Olympus indeed!
Whatever I had sprung from the recollections were gone—blinded by the light that emanated from this real goddess.
“Shall I be naughty?” She winked at me. “Shall I steal you away?”
That was the first I heard of it. If I thought my employer would look horrified she did not. She looked proud. It was a great compliment to her taste for her own seamstress to be plucked away by the queen of France! As for myself, I felt I was dreaming.
CHAPTER 3
It was indeed a fairytale and I welcomed it! Who wouldn’t wish living in such a place? Yes, there was work to do—so what? I was away from the world—away from reality too, but I liked it. It was better. My suffering had ended, I was convinced of it.
I did my duties and the queen was delighted with my work. There was the great designer Mme. Bertin, the queen’s favorite. She was kind enough to teach me a great deal and I was willing to learn.
I overheard her sometimes expressing her fear to other seamstresses about what was going on in France. It seemed only she and one or two servants discussed the growing problems in the country.
One day I overheard her mention a dream the queen had. She dreamt Mme. Bertin had dressed her in beautiful ribbons that each turned black one by one.
Mme. Bertin smiled sadly when she saw she had been overheard. I felt my face go red and apologized for not hurrying away. She only sighed and said, “No, it was not the overhearing of the dream that is bad, it was the dream.”
If she worried others didn’t. The Queen and King and courtiers were seemingly oblivious to the discontent around them. Although there had been some talk among envoys and officials. There was gossip too that filtered down. Still nothing came of it, no change or concern voiced by the aristocracy.
The scandals were all around. They seemed to follow one upon another but the scandal that over shadowed all the others happened shortly before I arrived. The affair as it came to be known concerned a diamond necklace. Actually the queen was misled along with a cardinal. In time I would realize it was one of the events that disgusted the people and helped to bring about the Revolution. By that time innocence was no excuse. Things had gone too far.
If the queen ever feared the worst, she didn’t show that she did. Of course there were her young children to distract her. I often saw her play with them as though they were dolls. They were each beautiful and well-behaved and a welcome distraction for her. I didn’t see them often but when I did I loved it.
My standing was the most important thing to me. Often I was praised. I was considered a good and diligent worker.
“Getting on with your work is your only concern.”
How many times had the senior seamstresses told me that?
Still we had our fun. The winter of 1788 was particularly severe. While the country froze and suffered, those within the palace, including myself were enjoying sleighing and making snowmen. We used makeshift sleds — whatever we could use. Our betters enjoyed rides in magnificent sleds with ringing bells. I had never seen anything like it.
I saw the queen and her entourage of friends throwing snowballs at one another. We didn’t get to join in of course—but we watched and laughed.
Christmas came and went. There were parties and balls and gifts too, not only for her children and her friends and court officials but for servants as well. I received some ribbons and was both delighted and amazed.
I remember thinking I had a full belly and a warm bed. Well not exactly warm—but an ancient bed warmer we all shared did the trick.
When spring came the young dauphin was ill. Everyone thought the worst. They were right for he was gone by June.
The queen took his death very badly and was not seen by anyone for weeks. I prayed for his soul, that was one of the few times I can recall doing such a thing—perhaps I brought about my own damnation because of how I was, I have wondered about that sometimes.
The mourning period ended and we did at last see her about. And when things began to return to normal there was much activity about the palace, people coming and going all the time it seemed.
There were shouting matches too between the King and Queen that could be overheard if one was brave enough to go close to their apartments. Their guards chased us away, but not before we got an earful!
There were accusations of foolishness and impropriety. The queen was very emotional and each confrontation ended with her rushing out to her private apartments to cry. I always wanted to go to her, but did not. I knew my place, every servant did.
We did gossip amongst ourselves however, although I always tended to listen more than I spoke, but I have always been like that by nature.
As time went on the queen tried to distract herself with frivolities. That was something she was inclined to do. She surrounded herself with people, friends and courtiers alike who made her laugh.
She had faced her tragedies bravely. Of her four children two remained, Marie Therese and Louis Charles. A daughter had preceded Louis Joseph in death by two years. Sophie was gone before her first birthday. I was told how the queen wept for her little daughter.
“One more month, and she’d have been a year old.”
One of the milliners told me of this and we both filled up with tears. “People criticize her, but she has paid the price for what she has...”
Of course her two remaining children were doted on. And it seemed the little family would get by on love—but the king was quiet and distant much of the time. That always led to speculation and gossip that the two were unsuited which I suppose they were. Although I must say in the Queen’s defense, she was loyal and loving. If others said she wasn’t, I did not agree.
When I think back on it, I wonder if I knew to what extent the danger was growing. I don’t suppose I did. My world was within their own, if they were insulated to so much I was too.
It just seemed life would continue as it had. There were parties and balls and gowns to
get ready, hats to prepare. Not that I was the milliner, still, the queen came to value my opinions. And really if I enjoyed helping her decide on things, what I loved even more was fussing over the children, her daughter in particular who was already a little beauty like her mama.
Yet during all of this, the storm was brewing. Still, the sun shone, the sky was blue, we served, we praised, and we laughed and danced too— holding little soirees in our quarters. It mattered not that we were servants, for we were servants to their royal highnesses and we dwelled on Mount Olympus.
****
A year passed and another. I had no complaints. My life was good. I could not ask for more. In time, I began to be complimented on my beauty by others, mainly older female servants who said I’d best be careful. As many a pretty servant girl wound up being dismissed for taking up with her betters.
“You’d be surprised how many had to leave. And what, pray tell do you think became of them, eh—or the poor child they gave birth to?”
I had no answer, but I could imagine so I was determined to be a good and chaste young woman. Marriage and children, I doubted were in store for me.
Within a few years of having arrived, I was firmly entrenched in the fairy tale world that was the French Court. Had things never changed I’d have spent my life there, I am certain.
It had become easy under such circumstances to see no evil nor hear it. And when you do not, you not only do not speak it, you do not think it. Yes, I had changed.
Changed though I had I saw what I saw or rather heard what I heard. It seemed the queen’s spending was getting more lavish. The queen we heard spent extravagantly on her friends.
“She does that because it’s the way she is. She gives people gifts—it makes her feel good.”
If this was so, it came at a price because she also spent lavishly on her dress and adornments so that each year she exceeded her clothing allowance.
I heard Mme. Bertin discussing it.
“The King will bail her out. At least she has him!”
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