The Maze

by A. J. B. Johnston

  Thomas reddens just a bit and removes his hands. “Now?” he asks.

  Hélène nods, and pushes herself up into a sitting position. She grabs hold of her chemise from its hem and pulls it off over her head. It goes to the floor. Thomas puts a hand to his chin. He pretends to study a perplexing work of art, a work that is the contours of her naked body.

  “Jack in the box?” she asks.

  “The toy?” Thomas is perplexed. “Where the smiling devil pops up?”

  “Something like that. Only I get to box the devil in this game.” She swings a leg over Thomas and is soon straddling the centre of his body. The necessary adjustment is made.

  “Ah, funny girl.”

  “Sometimes. Enough talk, all right?”

  —

  Hélène reaches out and runs a finger along the faint, barely noticeable scar line beside Thomas’s nose. “Want to know what I was thinking before?”

  “Sure. Then I’ll tell you about the book Gallatin sent me. Love in a Maze, it’s called.”

  “What?” Hélène blinks repeatedly.

  “It’s true. But you first. What were you thinking before?”

  “That I need to take a leaf out of your book.”

  “What book is that?”

  “To marry. To marry up, I mean.”

  Thomas’s expression changes from smiling expectantly to bewilderment. “That’s your plan?”

  “It is. And I can and I will.” She punches him hard on the shoulder.

  “That hurts.”

  “Not as much as it could. Yes, me. I too deserve an arrangement like you have with Marguerite. To wed someone who can lift me up. I’ve got a lot to offer.”

  Thomas glances down to some of her charms.

  “Not just that.”

  “Of course not. But, marrying up is not as easy as you think. It’s not always possible to find—”

  “Shhh. Shhh.” She runs a finger along his lips. “I’m going to marry someone above me, that’s it. And you, you’re going to help.” She jumps out of bed and pulls on her chemise.

  “But you—” Thomas sputters.

  “No buts, all right?” Hélène sends a kiss across the room. “Tomorrow, I start by finding a place to live. Then I’ll look after the rest.”

  She is out the door. Thomas does not even hear her footsteps padding down the hall to her room. He shakes his head. What she aspires to sounds so simple, yet it is not. Hélène has to understand that aspirations are just that. They’re not always the way things end up.

  —

  The day dawns fine, and each of them takes it as a good sign. The world begins again.

  The Pont Neuf is its usual concert of rough voices. Each hawker has his or her cry. A few intone, their voices deep, but most yell as loudly as they can. Cheese or ribbons, whisks and brooms, hot buns, fresh fish, roofing slates, toys for boys and girls, a lotto ticket. Hélène can even make out one of the comic poets beginning his latest rant. Then way off to the left she spots a juggler, five cascading balls making a circle in the air. It’s as if there’s an invisible string.

  Hélène reaches out and grasps Thomas by the sleeve. She tugs him close. “Thomas, the things I took from Marguerite, they don’t make me a thief, do they?”

  Thomas gapes at her. Apparently he thinks her foolish to even breathe the word “thief” where anyone might overhear. He shifts his eyes away from her to focus for an instant on the bas-relief on a huge hydraulic pump. It’s a biblical scene that depicts the Samaritan woman drawing water for Jesus at a well. Thomas sucks in a breath before he returns to face Hélène. “Not here,” he says. He flashes a glance in the direction he wants them to go, over to the much less crowded far side of the bridge, beyond the open seam where the coaches roll.

  Thomas maintains the stern face as he waves to let the many sellers in his and Hélène’s way know that they have to give ground. Thank the heavens he has a walking stick in his right hand. He brandishes it like a sword.

  Their advance is slow. The man with the tray of oranges, who sings out “Portugals” at the top of his voice, will not cede an inch. No matter which way Thomas and Hélène turn, the seller matches their move. He is insistent, an orange thrust out and a leering grin on his face. At last, Hélène feints left and goes right while Thomas does the reverse. They are both past.

  Thomas scurries around a bent-over seller of old clothes while Hélène has to deal with a scrap-iron vendor whose head is constantly swivelling. “Oh my, the poor thing,” she says. The man’s head goes left then right then left again. Next it’s a water carrier in her path. With the big metal container on his back, the little man does not move fast. Hélène hears him breathing heavily as he shuffles by. She cannot help but wonder how soon it will be before she’s on the bridge again, not as a lady but as a seller like all the rest.

  —

  “Careful,” Thomas calls out from her left, a half-dozen feet away. Though sometimes she cannot see him, he can always tell where she is. Her rose-coloured parasol, taken from Marguerite’s wardrobe, rides gently up and down above every other head nearby. And from time to time he can even make out her pretty profile as she pushes through the crowd. Hélène nods vaguely in Thomas's direction. “Careful, yes,” he hears her mutter back.

  Yet Thomas sees that she is not being nearly cautious enough. She’s glancing sideways at the water carrier more than she is keeping a vigilant regard straight ahead. The open cobbles, left open for the wheeled conveyances that rumble by, are not far from where she is.

  “Careful,” Thomas calls out. He stands up on his toes in an attempt to make himself both seen and heard.

  But Hélène is not looking his way. He sees her bite her lip and make her shoulders taut. It’s because she is now confronted by a shaky old woman selling brooms. The humpback has her wares held up high for all to see. To get away from the cluster of brooms being waved in her face, Hélène spins away. She pushes off the seller’s held-up brooms and strides out into the only place where no one is, the open space in the middle of the bridge.

  “Hélène!” Thomas yells. Heads turn his way up and down the bridge, Hélène’s gaze as well. She swings round to find where Thomas is. She makes eye contact with him and smiles back. “I’m all right. It’s open here,” she calls back.

  “No, no!” he shouts. “Look out! A fiacre!”

  He points at the two horses pulling a hired coach coming across the bridge. The chopping sound of their advancing hooves on the cobbles is a terrible noise. The snorting muzzles and frightened eyes of the horses have frozen Hélène where she stands. She does not jump or run, she does not move. The parasol she’s been holding up collapses and drops from her hand.

  “Mother of shit!” Thomas flails at those in his way. He pushes through the crowd, sending the water carrier falling, spilling his tank. He pushes the broom-selling woman to the ground. He hurtles out into the open and tackles Hélène. He takes the two of them across the bridge toward the far side. They tumble down in a puddle, a pool of rain from the past two days. The horses and the steel-clad wooden wheels of the fiacre miss the couple sprawling on the cobbles by no more than half a foot. The spray spit up further soils Thomas’s and Hélène’s clothes.

  “Idiots!” the driver of the fiacre shouts back. He’s standing up, a fist clenched. “Next time, death.” He snaps the whip to get the slowing horses of his coach rolling again.

  “You all right?” Thomas asks. He’s on his knees, his pants soaked.

  “Me? I’m fine, but....” She shakes her head as she too goes up on her knees. “I— I’ve ruined my dress.” She’s pointing at the wet stains. “And lost my parasol.”

  “No, not quite.” Thomas reaches behind her and picks up the parasol. Still on his knees, like her, he opens it up and gives it a spin above their heads. “Look, none the worse.”

  A crowd of gawkers c
omes round, wide-eyed and shaking their heads. “Should be hanged, ’e should,” announces a woman with a tray of fish. “Driver of that fiacre.”

  “Hanged,” repeats the man with jowly face standing beside her. “Hanged” is picked up by others. It becomes a chant.

  A dozen arms reach out to lift the stricken couple up from their knees. Among the helpers Thomas is surprised to see three waifs with dirty faces. They have sly looks but he has to admit they are enthusiastic about getting the two of them to their feet.

  “Fine, I’m fine,” Thomas says. He wishes he did not sound so annoyed, but in truth he is. It’s not like he or Hélène were actually struck by the horses or wheels. Yet their clothes are soiled and—

  “Thank you. You’re very kind,” he hears Hélène saying over and again to everyone who gives her a hand or offers a word of sympathy.

  “That’s it. Enough. Move away.” Thomas gives a stern look to the tallest of the waifs. The scruffy lad is going so far as to straighten out Thomas’s justaucorps and veston. “Shoo!”

  The boy presents a startled face. Despite his size, he begins to cry. He beckons his two friends to come near to comfort him, then just like that the three of them are off, running toward the far end of the bridge.

  “Hold on,” says the jowly man who was the first to call for the fiacre driver to be hanged. The man thrusts a finger an inch from Thomas’s nose. “Got no right to do that. Boy was only trying to help and your type made him cry. Maybe the driver was right. Maybe he shoulda run you down.”

  “That’s it.” The woman with the tray of fish is shaking her head. There’s a scornful scowl on her lips. “Imagine, hurting a lad who was only trying to help.”

  “But,” Thomas begins, then throws up his hands. What’s the use? He bends down to pick up his silver-handled walking stick. “Come on,” he says to Hélène, taking her by the hand. He drags her away from the small crowd, over to the stone rail. “We need to figure this out.”

  “You sure you’re all right?” she whispers in his ear. “Everyone was only trying—”

  “I know,” he says, “but I didn’t like it. I didn’t—” Thomas feels for the pouch in the pocket of his veston. He doesn’t feel the lump where it should be. It contains the coins he brought with him to give to Hélène, to cover her rent and food for the first month. He slaps his hands across his chest and abdomen.

  “What?” Hélène asks.

  Thomas looks at Hélène, then tips back his head and closes his eyes.

  “What?” she whispers. “Your purse?”

  “Seigneur,” Thomas hears himself say, quiet as a prayer. He feels a little dizzy. One shoulder and one knee are sore where they must have made first contact with the cobbles as he dove. Thomas opens his eyes and gives Hélène a long, sad look.

  “It’s gone, isn’t it?” she asks.

  “It is.”

  Thomas scans the crowd up and down the length of the Pont Neuf. There, at the far end, standing on one leg atop the distant stone rail, waving at Thomas, is one of the boys. He’s holding up something in his hand. It’s too small to see yet Thomas knows exactly what it is. He shakes his head.

  “Do we have to go back?” Hélène asks.

  Thomas exhales long and loud, then nods. “Not just the money. We need to clean up. Find you another dress.”

  Hélène makes the sign of the cross. “Marguerite won’t be there yet, will she?”

  Thomas shrugs and turns to begin the walk back. Hélène sighs and does the same. “I don’t want to face her again, I don’t.”

  “Then let’s be quick,” is all Thomas can say to that.

  Hélène loops an arm in Thomas’s and together they pick up the pace. “I don’t really want to see her servants either, you know.”

  “Oh, fuck the servants.” Thomas turns to face Hélène to see what she says to that.

  Her face brightens into a broad smile. “Isn’t that how we got into this mess?”

  Thomas feels his grin. “I suppose it is.” He halts her progress and steps in front of her. “Would you rather we’d not gone into the maze? Have things back as they were?”

  “I do.” Hélène tries to soften her admission with a beseeching kindness in her eyes.

  “Me too, though it was good, was it not?” Thomas asks for her agreement with his eyes.

  “It’s not the pleasure, I regret, Thomas. It’s the consequences.”

  “Ah, yes. Such is life. Well, the quicker we get there and are changed, the quicker you’ll start your new life.” He grabs her hand and tugs it to get them walking again.

  —

  “I think I should accompany you to your apartment,” says Madame Dufour. “Just in case.”

  Marguerite watches her cousin incline her head meaningfully forward. She’s clearly waiting for Marguerite’s reply. It’s been a good hour since the two cousins last spoke. The rocking and swaying motion of the coach has lulled each into something like a trance. Each has closed her book and is sitting with heavy-lidded eyes. The trip back from Brittany has been long, stretched out over three and a half days, despite Marguerite’s request that they go faster. Madame Dufour has had to explain repeatedly that the horses, and the poor driver, need to rest along the way.

  “What I mean,” Madame Dufour elaborates when Marguerite chooses not to reply, “is that suppose you find the two of them there? Suppose that’s the situation, my dear? Who knows what those two might do. They’re fornicators and cold-hearted thieves as well.”

  “So you repeat every hour,” Marguerite mutters to herself. Louder she says: “Yes, dear cousin, I know.”

  Marguerite glances out the window of the carriage. She thinks she recognizes the shape of Montmartre off to the left. She squints to make sure. Yes, she can see the windmills that stand upon the hill. “Montmartre,” she says, with a flick of the hand.

  “Yes,” replies Madame Dufour, leaning back in her seat. “The Fauxbourg Saint-Honoré will be just ahead. After that it’s straight on past Louis Le Grand and—”

  “I know, Marie-France, I’ve lived in Paris all my life.”

  “I’m just trying to point out that we could be at your place within a quarter hour.”

  “That’s right.” Marguerite vents a weary exhale. Will this interminable coach ride never end? What happened at the château was bad enough. But she’s been forced by her cousin to relive it and dissect it over and again. This ride from Brittany must be what the Church means when it teaches purgatory is almost as unpleasant as hell.

  Marguerite looks again at Madame Dufour. “The journey has been long. So I would prefer it, Cousin, if your coachman took you to your place first. I would rather go into my apartment by myself. Just in case.”

  “Just in case what? Oh, never mind. You have your stubborn side, my dear. Yes you do.” Madame Dufour turns toward the window and the scenery of Paris rolling by. Though her cousin keeps her eyes out the window, Marguerite hears the woman continue to speak. “Only trying to look out for your interest is all. Once a criminal begins, it’s impossible for him to stop. And what we have here are two criminals, not just the one.”

  “Really, Cousin? Thomas is still my husband. I will hear him out. I cannot imagine I’m in danger returning to my place. You do not know him as I do. You’ll grant me that.”

  Madame Dufour turns fully toward Marguerite. Her cheeks are enflamed. “Forgive all you want, but it is foolish, very foolish, I say. You are not the Mother of Christ. Nor his wife.”

  Marguerite’s eyes go wide. Is that not a sacrilege? What can she possibly say to such a thing?

  Madame Dufour wags her finger. “They stole my calèche and that I do not forgive. I’m seeing a greffier and laying charges, I am. I’ll see justice done. And he stole it, by the way, that husband of yours, to run away with a whore. That’s who your Thomas is.”

  “Is it?” Margu
erite feels she is biting her lips. She knows her face has to be flushed.

  “Is it? Is it? Those are simple facts, Marguerite.”

  Marguerite forces a shrug. She will give the woman, her busybody cousin, no more satisfaction than that. Marguerite swivels in her seat, tilting a shoulder to Madame Dufour. But then, an instant later, Marguerite swivels back. She will speak her mind

  “You know, Cousin, I will not be surprised if Thomas did not steal that calèche at all. That you will find it safe and sound in a Paris stable. My guess is that Thomas borrowed it, that is all. In his haste to get that woman away from me, away from your precious Le Mesnil. It could have been an act of consideration, not theft. I for one will wait to hear what he has to say.”

  Madame Dufour snorts. She puts a hand to her mouth to keep herself from replying at all. With a show of lifting her legs and hips, she turns to gaze out the window on her side.

  Relieved, Marguerite turns to the opposite window. She spies an opening between two buildings. It is the Place Louis Le Grand. She acknowledges with a habitual nod the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV in the centre of the square. She admired the late king, she did. The Sun King. Twice they attended the same ball. They didn’t meet, but she saw him glance her way. He was the epitome of what a king should be.

  Marguerite hears a rustle as Madame Dufour swings her legs back to face Marguerite’s way. Marguerite turns to make eye contact.

  “I hope you’ll not be disappointed, Cousin,” says Madame Dufour. “If things are not as you expect.”

  “How kind you are.” The words barely squeeze out through Marguerite’s lips. “I think it best if we say not another word.”

  “On that we agree.”

  —

  “What’s in that?”

  Thomas is pointing at the large cotton sack Hélène is carrying. Whatever is inside, it has a lot of volume but not much weight, judging by the way she has it slung over her shoulder.

  “And why are you dressed like—” He lowers his voice in case Marie-Claude, Charles or Sébastien might be nearby. “Like you’re nothing but a servant?”