Milk Fever

by Lissa M. Cowan

  Jacques

  FOUR DAYS HAD PASSED since Sophie’s death. That Sunday I knelt down and prayed for her while the priest gave his sermon. After church Armande rushed home to suckle Nathalie. Pierre sat on the ground by the stone bénetier outside the church. He wore no hat and no coat, only a woollen scarf with holes.

  “Why weren’t you at church?” I asked him.

  He shrugged his shoulders and flashed his eyes—green with grey and brown flecks—at me. He usually kept his lids partly closed, which made it hard to see how nice they were. He leapt up and grabbed my arm just as two young women strolled by whispering and giggling. One of them bumped into me, turned to her friend and mumbled, “slow-witted.”

  “Strumpet,” said the other.

  One had on a woollen bonnet and a dark blue gown, and her eyes bore into mine. The other wore a light beige cloak, yellowy hair pinned on top of her head. They looked back and forth between Pierre and me. Did they think we were entwined? Armande frowned on idle chatter saying there were those who spent all their time discussing the lives of so-and-so as though these people were fireflies caught in a jar to amuse them. The women left the square, and when I turned to go, Pierre pulled me to him.

  “I’m sorry for what I said about Armande.” His breathing was unsteady and he dragged his feet. “It’s just what I hear.” Then he smiled adding, “Let’s go to the chapel and catch snowflakes on our tongues.”

  “I can’t.”

  I did not want to leave Armande alone by herself for too long. I promised her father and Sophie I would keep her safe. Now, with her husband not far away, I had even more troubles on my hands than before.

  “I have something to show you,” he said with a suspicious air.

  “Show me and then I have to be on my way.”

  We descended into the valley and climbed the mountainside. The sky was grey and the snow hard and crisp underfoot. The big wooden cross next to the chapel stuck out from the hill before us as we made our way. I could make out the coq carved on top as well as a baby’s shoe, a heavy cowbell, and a child’s crutch that villagers had nailed to the cross. These objects belonged to souls and beasts the villagers prayed for. Wind from the north picked up and I edged my body closer to him. The bell on the hilltop rang in the wind like a blathering old man. Inside the chapel there was a picture of Mary on the wall above a wooden alter. Five candles were lit, which told me a body was praying in the chapel shortly before we got there. The ceiling was sloped and there were benches for sitting and kneeling.

  “What is it then?” I said.

  Pierre held his scarf close to his body then pulled out the very bonhomme with black coat, gold buttons and red cap I saw that day in the frozen fountain.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?” He held the precious doll in his dirty hands.

  “It’s just that, it’s not yours,” I stammered. “It belongs to somebody else.”

  “But I found it. I never set my eyes on so fine a plaything.”

  “It’s not yours,” I said again. “Let me have it.”

  Pierre pulled the doll away, and at the same moment I lunged and fell, hitting my knee hard against the ground. My skin and bone smarted with pain and my skirt was ripped. He led me to a bench in front of the altar to sit down. My belly stirred with anger. I wanted to punch him between the eyes, not that I cared much that he hurt me but because he had no right to have that doll.

  “Tell me who it belongs to and I’ll give it back.”

  Candles flickered at the altar. The flames warmed the tips of my fingers as I cupped my hands around them. Mary looked down, gentle and loving. The blue of her gown matched her eyes. Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of my womb, Jesus. I bent forward to kiss the altar. Pierre shuffled on the floor behind me.

  “It was her daughter’s,” he said. “After her child was taken by the Devil, she started gushing milk. It made the babies she suckled different from others,” he added, an air of sureness in his voice. “My mom told me that.”

  “Your mother is a harlot.”

  “Say that again and your doll will burn.” He held it over a candle flame.

  Pierre fell as I pushed him then ran out of the chapel my breath quickening. He chased after me.

  “I saw the boy sit down once on the front step of her house and look between the boards at a feather caught underneath.” He took a few breaths of cold air. “He sat there for a very long time before he shoved a small stick with some honey on it through the crack to fish out the feather. How could a small child think of that? Something made him act that way. Her milk was what did it.”

  My mind was like a dog chasing its tail. It went to the village chitchat about the death of her baby giving her plentiful milk like Jesus with the loaves and the fishes. Then to stories about her milk making the little ones wise and sharp-witted. I knew these stories were true because the babies looked changed and acted different after drinking her milk. But the stories about her and the Devil were lies, I thought, because she was more like Mary in the portrait over the altar than an evil angel.

  “Snowflakes.” Pierre pointed to the sky.

  We lay down by the tall wooden cross, where Armande and Robert lay a few years before. One by one, flakes of all sizes floated onto my tongue, my lips tingled and my throat grew cold. Pierre looked calm unlike when he had spoken of Armande and her milk. He repeated other people’s gossip and was not smart enough to know for himself between lies and truth. The bonhomme’s leg peaked out from his hole-ridden scarf. I thought if only I could get close enough to grab it.

  Then Pierre planted a kiss on my lips and I found his mouth was warm as was his tongue. We lay on the cold ground kissing and hugging, my face and body becoming warmer. I didn’t even open my eyes as just feeling the heat and firmness of his body was enough.

  “You can have the doll,” he whispered in my ear. “It’s my gift to you.”

  Happily taking the bonhomme, I tucked him inside my cloak like a piece of Armande coming back to me. As long as Pierre held onto me and the doll was by me, my heart was filled with warmth. That feeling reached out and covered my whole body. What if we married? Where would we live? Yet Armande had a husband and he fled. Many men turned after they got married like my father who stuck my mother in an apple barrel when she became rotten. It was hard to know if Pierre was the kind of man who would turn. If he wished to keep kissing me, he would have to stop repeating lies about her. I needed to get back to Armande and waved goodbye to him.

  A thin older woman greeted me when I entered the drawing room. At first I was angry with myself to see a stranger in the house, then I recognized her as Jacques’ aunt. She wore a blue gown and a black cloak, and had the same eyes as Jacques. The older sister to his mother who died, Madame Lefèvre lived in Grenoble and was a woman of some means. She paid Armande a monthly stipend to nurse and care for the child, and agreed to take him as her own when he turned three.

  She reached her hand out to me. “Madame Vivant tells me you are a great help to her in caring for my nephew, Jacques.” The aunt had visited only once. Her face looked sad and worn.

  “He’s a good enough boy.” I was out of breath from running.

  The bonhomme was hidden inside my cloak. Armande suckled the baby on the dormeuse, a yellow handkerchief tucked in the front of her bodice, pulled down on one side for nursing. I threw a piece of wood on the fire and looked at the snow melting from the bottom of my dress, water collecting on the floor in a puddle by my shoes. I removed them and the stockings, emptying the shoes of snow. Hard white lumps sizzled, disappearing into a puddle on the hot stones.

  “Yes indeed and so advanced for his age,” the woman said. “He remembered my name even though we’ve barely met, and to be walking so steady and tall, my what an extraordinary thing. And his vocabulary! How could he possibly know
so many words at his young age? If I was a religious woman I would call it a miracle.” The tightness in her face melted into a smile.

  “That’s high praise Madame Lefèvre,” said Armande. “The clever boy has done it by himself with little guidance from me.”

  “Is that a fact Madame Vivant?” Her eyes narrowed. She took off her cloak, placing it on the sofa before sitting down. “Why it sounds as though you have been reading our dear Jean-Jacques Rousseau who thinks children should run about willy-nilly with no discipline or formal instruction. He has caused such a stir with his book Émile. If we leave them to their own devices do we not risk our children becoming barbarians, half-human and half-animal?”

  Armande drew back as though trying to avoid a nasty fly. “Allowing them to learn from Nature is not leaving them to their own devices.”

  She finished suckling and was now holding the baby over her shoulder, patting its back, her torso moving up and down. More, it seemed, to calm herself than the baby.

  “I brought you some chocolates, Céleste,” Madame Lefèvre said. “All polite people of an adult age are now consuming this food of the gods.”

  She handed me a gold box tied with a white lace bow—one of the most beautiful objects anybody ever gave me. I embraced her and then ran out of the drawing room to hide the doll in my bed covers.

  On my way downstairs, I saw Jacques sitting on the steps, his eyes fixed on a wooden horse in his hands. He did not seem to notice I stood over him, did not even hear me ask him to move so I could get past as he pretend-galloped the horse up and down on the narrow steps. Nonsense sounds flowed from his lips mixed with the loud tapping of the horse’s hooves on the steps. Then, amidst the noise, I swore I heard a song like one soldiers going into battle might sing. Marching now, one, two, three, let’s all fight together for our liberty. The words and melody were so distinct I scooped up the child to see if he was indeed singing.

  Madame Lefèvre came into the corridor from the drawing room.

  “Look auntie, horse … run,” he said.

  “Why, that’s splendid. What a smart boy you are!” She clapped her hands.

  After hearing the childish words I smiled to myself. How foolish to think a boy that age could sing a liberty song.

  Back in the drawing room, I opened my beautiful gold box to sneak a chocolate, giving no more thought to the song I heard. The dark, rich sweetness filled my mouth, making me dizzy with pleasure. Never had I tasted such delicious flavours.

  Armande and Madame Lefèvre were talking seriously.

  “Madame Vivant, it was my intention to wait until after he was weaned, yet I see he is old enough now for me to begin to raise him as my own. I mean to say that, thanks to your guidance, he is quite a remarkable boy and just needs a mother’s love.”

  Nathalie lay by the fire on her stomach, banging a wooden spoon on the floor.

  Armande’s eyes filled with tears as she watched Jacques frolic with the toy horse. “Madame Lefèvre,” she said with a tremble in her voice. “The arrangement was for me to care for Jacques until he turned three, which is not for another six months.”

  “But I wish to take him this instant, to have him in my home and to begin raising him. I am quite alone you understand.” She threw up her hands and started to sob. “My husband spends all his time at our textile factory outside Grenoble and I have no one to care for.” She composed herself then took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “Lately he has taken to sleeping there on a cot some nights to guard against thieves. Last month he was forced to let some workers go so he could cover the month’s expenses. Three days later they broke into the factory and stole a dozen or so Indian calico prints. If it happens again with other workers, either those who believe they should be paid more or those he has let go, he might be forced to shut down the whole operations. Desperation is in the air, Madame Vivant, and I worry each day for my husband’s safety. I will pay you for the months you would have spent caring for Jacques, if you’re worried about that.”

  “I am very sorry about your husband’s situation,” said Armande. “It must be a tremendous burden on you, yet it is Jacques’ well-being that concerns me, not my own.” Armande’s tone changed. “He is a bright and sensitive boy Madame Lefèvre. Like all children, he requires that we know his nature and help him at each stage of his growing.”

  “Of course, Madame Vivant. I don’t wish to quash any possibility of intellectual advancement in the boy.”

  The discussion went back-and-forth until Armande’s face softened. Maybe she felt it was a good sign the aunt was anxious to raise him, and that she should not stand in the way of that.

  On Armande’s request, Madame Lefèvre agreed to stay on a night or two so as not to cause the boy too much distress.

  Armande went to her desk and wrote up a list of foods Jacques liked, games he enjoyed and details about his temperament. Her movements were stiff and her eyes filled with tears. Then she gathered together a pair of booties, a couple pairs of trousers, the precious coat I made for him and a bonnet, which he would soon outgrow.

  Until that moment, I did not think of Jacques as a son or even a brother. He was simply another body to clothe and feed, a plain nuisance when I was at my study or chores. Yet, seeing Armande arrange his little outfits in the basket, then looking at our dear boy who was now busy stacking blocks by the fire with such purpose, made me see just how much I cared for him. For all the time I had lived with Armande, he was there. A wave of sadness washed over me and I began to cry uncontrollably. Rushing out of the drawing room I sat on the steps leading upstairs where, only moments before I thought I heard him sing … let’s all fight together for our liberty.

  Darkness

  SHE MADE ME UNEASY shifting back and forth on her heels, her eyes flitting about. She had pale cheeks and a brown spot on her chin. Lines circled her eyes and mouth, her black hair tied away from her face. She looked like a woman of sixty, yet was probably twenty-five. Her clothes were ripped and her shoes were a couple pieces of leather stitched together. Her feet were red and blue from cold. My heart was sorry for her. Even so, I stood at the door, not letting her in. She said her name was Emilie.

  “It won’t eat much and I’ve not enough milk.” Her baby lay limp in her arms. “When she does eat, she brings up green water like pea soup.”

  “I know little of babies,” I told her. “I’m not a mother. Nor am I Armande, the wet nurse. Come later when she’s back.”

  I tried closing the door, yet she pushed back with all her might.

  “I’ve buried two children in one year.” She was out of breath as though she just finished digging their graves. “My husband has a small parcel of land, a cow and a poorly horse, yet still we must pay the seigneur a fee of forty-two livres of wheat and three chickens. To another man we owe four livres of oats and a chicken. On top of this we are burdened with the heavy taxes. With seven children it’s hard to live on the milk from one cow.” Her small, dark eyes suddenly seemed less menacing and so I opened the door to her.

  Armande would want me to, I thought, and in any case she would be back soon. Besides I had chores to attend to and did not have time to stand in the entranceway arguing with the woman. I brought Emilie into the drawing room, telling her to sit by the fire. Two weeks passed since Jacques went away. Still, I could not bring myself to pick up his wooden blocks scattered over the floor.

  I rummaged through the kitchen cupboard and then unravelled a cloth containing a piece of sausage. After the pot was filled with water, I threw in the meat and cut up apples and carrots. When the soup was ready, I scooped some into a bowl and took it to the drawing room.

  Emilie sat on the sofa clutching her baby. Not saying a word or taking the spoon, she placed the infant beside her. She then clutched the bowl with both hands, drinking the warm liquid with great attention until every drop was gone. Her eyes rested on my face and I was remi
nded of the man who owned the estate where I had first met Armande. He had those same small, dark eyes and that is why I called him Master Dogface.

  I bent down and made a nest around Emilie’s bruised and swollen feet from an old blanket used to carry wood for the fires. Nathalie was crying in an upper room and so I quit the woman and raced upstairs.

  The baby’s nose was gushing. After cleaning and changing her, I went to the kitchen to fetch Nathalie a wooden spoon to gnaw on. The dried herbs tied with string swayed back and forth over the table as though wind was coming in from somewhere. I looked outside, yet there was no wind, neither was there a door or window open. Another thing that was odd, the soup ladle was sitting out, not in the pot were I left it. Then a whiff of something hit me like the smell of a dead animal. Nathalie lifted her head right up. Her eyes were fixed on the soup pot. Armande came into the kitchen holding the stranger’s baby.

  “I just met Emilie in the drawing room,” she said. “I wanted to fix up her baby’s nasty cuts before nursing.” The wet nurse’s cheeks were still rosy from cold. Her thick woollen petticoat was wet at the bottom from melted snow. She lay the baby down on the table, mixed a spoonful of rose water and lard in a bowl, and then rubbed it on the child’s cracked mouth and around its eyes. “There, there little nut.” The baby clung to her. Head bobbing up and down in search of milk. Then she added, “I think I’ll have some of that delicious soup you made Céleste. I need to warm myself after being outside.”

  I brought Nathalie with me into the drawing room and found Emilie sitting quietly on the sofa.

  “Would you like more soup?” I asked her.

  “No Mademoiselle.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and did not look at me.

  A few minutes later, Armande joined us with the sick baby. A sudden wind thrust a sprinkle of snow filled with the light of morning sun against the window. The whole room lit up, the dormeuse, the brass and porcelain ornaments on the table, the harpsichord, the writing desk, the sofa, the hearth and the vibrant carpet on the floor. I set Nathalie down on a blanket in the streaming light and planted a block and a spoon in each of her hands. When she’s a bit older, I thought, I will bring her to my bedchamber and show her the bonhomme, now under my bedcovers for safekeeping.