Claire laughed to herself, “So, he likes married women?”
“They like him. He likes many woman and they all like him, too. He is very handsome.” Another giggle.
“And what do your parents have to say about that?”
Looking down at her hands, but seeing nothing, a lone tear ran down her cheek. “My parents perished in a fire.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Geneviève,” Claire addressed her by the name of the life she was seeing and noted the physical manifestation of tears.
“I was eight,” she volunteered.
“So, who takes care of you?”
“My brother,” she offered cheerfully.
Geneviève …
“Wake up, Ma Petite Chou, or you will be late for school.”
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I smile at my brother’s handsome face. “I did not hear you come in last night.”
“I had to work late.” He pokes the wood in the fireplace that is heating the black iron pot.
“Mme. Michaud again?”
“Oui.”
He doesn’t turn around to face me.
“Do you like her?” I can’t imagine him kissing her pinched face.
“She pays well for the tasks she needs done.”
I know she pays him for odd jobs: chimney sweeping, roof tiling, replacing rotting floor boards, but I suspect most of his money is made in her bed satisfying her womanly cravings.
“You had better be careful or she will smother you in that giant bosom of hers and you will never escape.”
Putting a bowl of steaming porridge in front of me, he shakes his head, his dark blue eyes laughing at me.
“I really should sell you to the gypsies,” he teases and reaches forward to let a long lock of my hair run through his fingers. “That red hair will get me a good price.” Laughing, “Finish up, I need to get you to school.”
“I can walk alone. It is only a few blocks down to the churchyard.”
Shaking his head, his handsome face becomes very serious. “No, Geneviève. Two more children have gone missing these past few days. We are one of the neighborhoods being targeted. I will not let you walk alone.”
“But will you not be late for work?” I do not know how we would survive if he were to lose his job. And I cannot fathom how I would survive without him.
As if reading my mind, something my big brother is always able to do with the precision of a clockmaker, “Trust me, she is not going to relieve me of my duties. I have got this under control,” he laughs. “It is good that I make her wait. Now if only you would stop making me wait, ma moitié.”
He knows I love when he calls me that. Ma moitié. My half.
“I will make you wait for me forever, mon moitié,” I tease back.
“I believe this to be true.” And he swats me on the bottom to keep me moving.
We could always count on him to be standing in the doorway of the charcuiterie on Rue Montorgueil, just like he did every morning. Shirt sleeves rolled, exposing well-defined muscular arms covered in dark hair, he always appeared oblivious to the chill of winter’s air.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Diot,” I call to him.
I am greeted by his handsome smile.
“C’est la belle, Geneviève. Bonjour, Madamoiselle.”
Giggling at being called beautiful by this big, rough handsome man, I see a look pass between him and my brother.
“Monsieur Lenoir.”
“Monsieur Diot.” My brother nods in acknowledgement.
We are beyond his shop when I hear him call to my brother, “Are you working tonight?”
My brother’s smile is bright as he calls back, “Not if I can help it.”
“A drink?” the charcuitier poses.
My brother answers with an even brighter smile, his head turned around still looking at the handsome older man.
It occurs to me that they are becoming friends, meeting often for drinks. He is so much older than my brother, that I am a little surprised that they have taken up to be friends. Maybe he is a father figure. I know how much my brother misses our father.
Approaching the great stone walls of Saint-Eustache, my brother puts his hands on my shoulders, “Today you walk home with Lilette and you stay with her until her mother can walk you to Mme. Michaud’s. I will meet you there later.”
Looking up at him through my lashes, I hold out my hand.
Laughing, “I should really sell you to the gypsies,” he teases, as he places a denier in my palm.
“They might like me.”
His eyes take on a serious cast, “That is my fear, my rare beauty.” Turning to walk away, he looks back, “I will pick you up from Mme. Michaud’s. Be careful, ma moitié.”
••••••
Lilette and I skip down the Rue Montorgueil trying not to step on the cracks in the cobblestones, laughing about the l’hermitagoise who will come eat us if we do.
Looking through the frosty windows of Patisserie Stohrer, I pull out from my cloth pouch the denier from my brother.
“The two most beautiful little girls in all of Paris,” Monsieur Stohrer gushes as we enter into the warmth of the store, the yeasty smell of dough mingling with the nose-tingling scent of rum and other liquors that the cakes absorb like fat sponges. “The Bourbons cannot compare,” he teases, comparing us to the royal family. “What would you two princesses like today?” He does not really have to ask. We get the same thing every day and he is already plucking them from the counter and wrapping them in paper for us.
The first bite of choux pastry squirts crème chocolat onto my tongue. The rare dark chocolate frosting of the éclair is the most delicious thing on Earth, I have decided, as it joins the choux and crème in my mouth. Slowly, I take small bites so that it will last longer and I can keep it in my memory. This is my luxury. My one luxury. A gift my brother works hard to make sure puts a smile on my face every day. For that alone, I love him more than all the stars in the night’s sky.
We walk six flights up the curving staircase to Lilette’s flat. Her mother is breastfeeding the baby. Both have had coughs for months now. She has mending for us to do and we sit in the stream of light coming in through the window trying to capture the afternoon sun’s warmth as we work. Lilette’s mother will later walk me over to Mme. Michaud’s where today I will launder her dresses.
My brother is very concerned that I not walk alone for fear that I will be abducted and sold. Lone girls are disappearing with frequency, being sold to agents of Louisiana silk factory owners in the New World.
It is two days later that I sit quietly by the fire in Mme. Michaud’s salon mending a green silk and brocade dress. Her bosom has grown so large that I am now repairing my repairs. The thought of my brother’s face pressed into her jiggly flesh makes me queasy.
“Geneviève, Madame would like to see you,” her chambermaid Chantal informs me.
I follow Chantal through the moderately decorated rooms to where Mme. Michaud sits at the dining table. Next to her, a place is set, and a steaming bowl of soup is placed.
I curtsy as I enter the room, “Madame.” I greet her, hoping that my voice is louder than the growl in my stomach. The aroma from the soup is making my hunger burn.
“Geneviève, come sit by me.” There is a false sweetness to her voice. I know it is false because it is a tone I’ve never heard before.
She must be reading the confusion on my face–servants don’t sit at the dining table with their employers, because she comments, “It is alright, come sit next to me.” And she pats the chair.
Taking the seat next to her, I note the fine silk of the fabric. The fragrant steam from the soup rises to my nose. I close my eyes breathing it in and silently telling my verbose stomach tais-toi, be quiet.
“You are looking so slim and pale these days, Geneviève. I am so worried about you.”
I am not sure how to respond. She has never taken much of an interest in me. Now, my brother, on the other hand…
&
nbsp; “Eat,” she commands me, motioning to the bowl of soup. Again, she nods her head to let me know that it is alright for me to begin eating.
“This is delicious.” I consciously slow myself down when I realize I am shoveling spoonfuls of soup into my mouth at an alarmingly fast pace.
Mme. Michaud is looking at me with a mask I can see through. There is disgust behind it. But she continues to smile and then calls the cook in to bring me another bowl and crusty bread.
By the time I go back to my mending, I want to curl up like a cat in front of the fire and go to sleep. My stomach almost hurts it feels so good.
A few days later she feeds me fatty mutton. The rich, stringy meat takes away my hunger for the whole night. When I curl up on my mattress that night, I don’t feel any pains.
I know she has a reason for all this and I wonder. Will she marry my brother? But I know that even though she craves him, she could never cross the line to marry him, he is a servant. But if she did, possibly this is practice for taking me on like the daughter she never had.
Maybe if she is nice to me, my brother will satisfy her more. I decide that is the answer.
“Where is this meat on your bones coming from?” My brother asks weeks later. “I am going to have to stop giving you deniers for éclairs,” he teases, “or the gypsies will no longer want you. Your upkeep will be too expensive.”
I laugh. “Mme. Michaud has taken a liking to me. She has been making sure I have hot food in my belly.”
His back is to me as I say that and he spins like a coin on the edge of a tavern table to face me. “She has been doing what?”
“Feeding me,” I stutter, suddenly looking down at the warped floor boards. “And letting me try on her jewels and creams.”
“Chou, look at me,” his fingers are on my chin, tipping my head back. “You need to be careful. Very, very careful.”
“I am.” I stick my chin farther into his hand, part to be defiant, after all, I am a big girl and I can take care of myself, and partly because I like when he takes my chin in his hand and looks at me with serious eyes. My protector.
“Has she asked you about me?”
My eyes are starting to burn as I try to fight back tears. Maybe I’ve done something wrong, after all. Maybe I’ve been a fool.
“Tell me, Chou. It is alright,” he implores, gently running his thumb up and down on my chin to calm me.
“Some days she asks me if you had a good time the night before.”
“What days are those?” His jaw muscles twitch.
“Usually when you’ve been at the tavern.” I’m beginning to shake with panic.
“And what have you told her?”
“I’ve told her I think you did because you came home very late.”
“What else?” He looks angry, his dark hair partially obscuring his deep blue eyes.
“She has asked if you’ve brought anyone home.”
“And what have you told her?”
His fingers on my chin are beginning to hurt and I avert his eyes, focusing on the cast iron pot hanging in the fireplace.
“Geneviève, answer me.”
“I have told her the truth. That you have brought no one.”
“Good. Good girl.” He lets go of my chin, his hand going to cover his own mouth, as he stalks the room.
“Have I done something wrong, mon moitié?”
He crosses the room quickly and sinks to one knee in front of me. Stroking my hair and letting a lock slip through his fingers, “No, ma moitié. You have done nothing wrong. She is just a jealous, crazy old woman and I don’t want her using you to spy on me.”
I gasp, shaking my head. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“I know that, ma petite chou. But she is crafty. Very crafty and I want you to be careful.”
I nod, promising I will be.
“I will take care of her,” he vows. “Now promise me you will pretend that we did not have this conversation so that she does not know that I am on to her treachery.”
“Treachery?” I am alarmed at that.
“I do not want you to worry. I will take care of this. I have got this under control. She will not harm you.”
“But will she harm you?” I have a sudden foreboding fear of something terrible happening to my brother. He is all I have. I cannot lose him.
Bending down, he kisses the top of my head, “No, she cannot harm me. I am invincible.” And he shares a smile, the one that makes the ladies swoon.
••••••
I have been giving her the same answer for weeks now, telling her the weather is so cold that my brother stays in all night. I know that she has begun to doubt me, because there is no more special food and she has me cleaning chamber pots, a task that has never been given to me before. My stomach had become familiar with the extra food and now craves it more, and I am hungry all the time. But I cannot tell her the truth.
I cannot tell her that he is out late at night, every night, returning in the small hours of the morning.
“Madame, that salon window is drafty,” my brother comments to her when he comes to retrieve me one evening. “I could try to come earlier tomorrow and fix the sash, if that would please Madame.”
The pinches in her face instantly smooth at his offer and her overly large breasts puff out like a molting bird’s plumage. Even the tone of her voice changes, becoming breathier as she speaks.
I know he is doing this for me. She will no longer dare to assign the cleaning of the chamber pots to me if he is tending to her. I do not care if she does not feed me, I just want to go back to being left alone with my mending and sewing.
Using the pretense of odd jobs, they often disappear behind locked doors in her chamber or the salon. One day the door was slightly ajar and one of her male servants stood outside, peering through the crack as he stroked himself through his clothes. He scurried off like a cockroach when he saw me.
I went and stood in the spot where the man-servant had been. My brother had her facing the wall as he plowed into her.
“You are a dirty whore,” he snarled into her ear. “Your pussy is here to please me, only me, whore. You need to be fucked by a dirty peasant. I am the only man good enough for you.” And he grabbed her by a handful of hair and yanked her head.
Hearing her swine-like grunt brought me to the edge of nausea and I quickly hurried back to my sewing.
It was not long after my brother’s regular visits began again that Mme. Michaud resumed feeding me. As thankful as I was for the warm food in my belly, I was also saddened that there was a cost to my brother. To quell my hunger, he had to satisfy hers.
We left there nightly, often in silence.
“Maybe you should sell me to the gypsies,” I announced one night, “then you could have your freedom and would not have to service that horrid woman to keep me fed and working.”
Putting an arm around my shoulder, he smiled as he gazed off into the frigid night air. With his free hand, he touched his chest, covering his heart. “Ma moitié, there is nothing I would not do for you. You are my heart. My one true heart. We do what we have to do to keep our true heart safe. Do you understand? One protects their true heart at any cost.” He looked down at me.
“But what about you?” I searched his face.
With a secret smile, he dipped his head down, “It is all taken care of,” he confided.
And I knew he was referring to his late-night visits. Satisfied, I smiled, as we walked on.
“Good evening.” We were greeted by one of the members of the night watch as we approached our street. Many neighborhoods throughout Paris had recently increased their night watch as more and more children had gone missing. In addition to seeing our usual night watchmen, we were now crossing paths with several new ones who had appeared in the neighborhood.
My brother makes sure I am bolted in when he leaves in the evening. Many workers live in quarters provided by their employers, but we have remained in the rooms that belon
ged to our parents, barely scraping by to pay rent and taxes. My father’s miserly cousin was at the door looking for payment immediately upon my parents’ death, and together we have worked to keep our small space.
••••••
“Geneviève, I have the theatre tonight.” Mme. Michaud fills the doorway, a royal blue velvet cape fastened over her pale blue silk dress, a garment I added fabric to just last week to accommodate her expanding girth. Next to her stands a man who looks familiar, yet, I cannot quite place him. I have the distinct feeling that I know him, but I don’t. Something is out of context.
“Your brother left this here last night when he left me.” Mme. Michaud hands me a small leather pouch. Without opening the sack, I can tell by the weight and sound that the bag is filled with coins.
I find it odd that she is being so open about her affairs in front of this other man, potentially sacrificing her reputation.
“Thank you, I shall see that he gets it back.”
My brother has been working a steady job at a cobbler’s shop on the Il de la Cité in the days and not doing odd jobs for Mme. Michaud. I was concerned that with him gone, she would start treating me poorly again, but he calmed my fears. “Don’t worry, ma chou, she knows I am working for the cobbler on Il de la Cité and the money is good. She will not take that out on you.”
The night before when he arrived to retrieve me, he waited in the entrance until I was finished, his coat still buttoned, so he could not have left the pouch then. He must have come back here last night, I decide, and he left it when he was with her.
As he and I walk home, I remember the pouch. “Madame gave me this to return to you.”
“Return to me?” he asks questioningly, his face filled with confusion.
“Yes, she said you left it last night.”
My brother stops in his tracks, “Geneviève, what did you say to her?”
“I told her I would give it to you.”
“Merde!” The anger in my brother’s face transforms him, his eyes wild, darting left to right and back again.
“What is wrong?” I am alarmed by his response.
Love on the Edge of Time Page 5
