March 9, 1786
A pimple-faced boy arrived at Madame Rousset’s door holding a small, crudely drawn map. The time and place to meet Monsieur Taranne, a dear friend of my father’s, was written above. A red X designated a tavern called Corinthe. To my left was a woman pouring ale into glasses. A young woman sat by herself listening to a table of drunken men as she sipped her ale. By the fire I spotted Monsieur Taranne’s wiry frame. He rose from his chair and took me in his arms. After a few moments holding me, he reached his head down, kissing me on both cheeks. His mouth was large, his eyes two perfect ovals. His hair was dishevelled, wavy in spots just as I remembered it.
We sat down and he stared at the blazing fire in front of us. His big, watery eyes glanced at me and I thought I might drown in them.
“What is it?” I pleaded.
“It is so very nice to see you Armande. You are quite a lady now.”
“Please Monsieur Taranne, whatever is the matter?”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose, a trumpet blast echoing through the cavernous room.
“I recently returned from the banks of the Rhône River where two weeks ago a boat caught fire.” He gulped his ale. “It was carrying a shipment of my books. I believe the fire was set by somebody, that it wasn’t an accident. You can imagine how many enemies we have printing the books we do.”
“I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your books. I hope it will not ruin you.”
He cleared his throat and gazed at me, his face full of worry. “Armande, I haven’t asked you here to speak about the turbulent state of my business.” His eyes grew wider, and then filling with tears. “I am not quite sure how to tell you this.” The deep wrinkles on his brow formed an upside V over his nose. “Your father is missing.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice breaking.
The men at the table beside us stopped their wild chatter to look in our direction.
“He didn’t have to be on the boat,” he continued. “Sometimes he went along to make sure the books were safely delivered even though I pay someone to do that. He was to leave Lyon as soon as he finished his business there. Yet so far I have had no word from him.”
I began to tell Monsieur Taranne that I expected my father in early March when it hit me that I might never see him again. The fire, candlelight and those seated around me became a sweeping haze of colour and distorted sounds, and I was unable to speak.
“There is a chance that he might have quit Lyon and not yet arrived in Paris.” He wiped his face of tears and cleared his throat. My mind went in and out of his words as I tried not to think the worst.
Monsieur Taranne invited me to his house, only a stone’s throw from the tavern and the river. In the corner of one of his rooms was a desk, and next to it, three cabinets with little drawers, then bigger ones lower down.
“I live alone but from time to time my daughter comes to stay,” he said. “She helps me with my accounts.”
There was a series of large-scale botanical drawings sprawled out on the floor in the corner of the room, which reminded me of Robert’s plant drawings. He was surely still in Paris though I wished not to see him. Rumour had it that he became a police inspector.
“I’ll contact these customers to see whether your father mentioned to any of them that he would travel on that boat.” His head was burrowed in the open ledger. “I was in touch with one of them while there last week; however he told me that your father only counselled him on what books he should add to his illustrious collection.”
I sat on a sofa next to a heavily curtained window and a table piled high with papers. Monsieur Taranne served me some gooseberry wine, the same wine he used to bring to gatherings arranged by my father at our mountain home. He had a strong, yet resilient body, which he said he maintained through his daily two-hour promenades by the river.
“I admire your father’s fortitude and intelligence, especially when it comes to discovering what pamphlets will sell and which authors to pursue. Armande, you must know that I would be at a loss without him.”
His kind words and the thoughtful way he looked at me put me at ease and caused me to recall my father’s own nature, his firm yet tender voice. How he would listen intently to me as though nobody and nothing else mattered in the world to him.
“Where is the boat now?” I asked him.
“A burned out hollow shell.” He didn’t look up from his ledger.
My father was a strong swimmer. Surely, he could have made it to shore.
“What of the man driving the boat? Did he not make it?”
“Too cold,” he mumbled. “That river is freezing, even a strong swimmer….” He stopped himself, closed the ledger and came to sit beside me on the sofa.
“When the craft floated to shore most of it had either already sunk or burned. She was still smouldering when I came to her. I couldn’t climb onto the boat, but did catch a glimpse of a wooden box, some tools and a mass of scorched, wet pages.”
“Did they find the boatman’s body?” Tears crept down my cheeks.
“Not while I was there.”
He lowered his head, his bony frame trembling. I reached over to kiss him on the forehead as I used to do with my father when he was distressed. I would interlace our hands as though we were one and the same person, then hold the palms of his hands up to my face. Monsieur Taranne gazed into my eyes, smiling the way an older man does who is still affected by feminine charms. When I opened his arms, he pressed my body close. This simple act was one of consoling me, his strength making me feel protected.
“Monsieur Taranne.” I let go and moved deeper into his body.
It did not feel like seduction at first. After all, we were only sharing our joint sorrow and concern for someone we both deeply loved. Then at once, the scent of the man’s hair, his breath on my neck, his arms cradling me, ignited a flame that Robert stamped out when he had refused to sleep in our bed after Rose-Marie died. With an unmatched sense of rhythm and purpose, Monsieur Taranne was unfastening my stomacher, removing my gown and sliding his hands under my petticoat. His hands instantly warmed my thighs, his kisses soft and sweet. I slipped off his breeches, washing my long hair over his body. All the while, he spoke few words. Robert used to chatter away during lovemaking and so I was not used to silence in these matters. Monsieur Taranne was a solemn man and very dignified, which showed itself in his caresses. The way he ran his hand along the pleats of my skirt, smoothed my hair, said “please” and “thank you” suggested a properly raised boy being handed a tasty pudding. Robert was at times a selfish man who demanded love, though in the end he gave little. This would prove to be an essential part of his overall character. How did I not see this plain fact before?
My love encounter with Monsieur Taranne happened so quickly. When it was over, I realized that I was crying the whole time, pleasure and pain intersecting throughout. Crying over the loss of my first love, the death of my baby, and the idea that my father too might be lost to me forever.
March 13, 1786
Two boys were skimming rocks outside a town called Viviers-sur-Rhône when they found the boatman’s swollen body on the banks of the river. He had tied a rope around his waist and to a piece of his boat that was strong enough to keep him above water. That is until the stronger current took him. I heard the news from Monsieur Taranne who came over this afternoon. Did my father encounter the same end, I wondered? My mind went from one horrible possibility to another. Perhaps he drowned and they hadn’t yet found his body, or, he escaped only to be captured by those that set the boat on fire. His dear friend was fatigued; his head drooping like a tired workhorse. It was the first time I saw him since our heart-led encounter. Although the event had lifted my spirits that evening, and caused a shut door to open inside me, I knew it wouldn’t be repeated.
“The day the boat caught fire a silk workshop
burned to the ground by the Saône River and somebody untied all the horses in Place Bellecour.” His grey hair and long eyebrows prominent in the light of day made me see him as a family friend once more, rather than a tender lover.
“Did they catch who was responsible?” I asked.
“No, yet the authorities believe the incidents are related.”
A feeling of helplessness overtook me, yet I knew I had only myself to rely on. As my funds would soon disappear, I decided to once again visit Monsieur Paradis at the Bureau des Nourrices to see if he still wished to hire me.
I had not nursed since leaving my mountain village for Paris in the middle of February, yet my breasts were still plump with milk. Despite that, he asked me to discharge some milk into a cup.
“It is a good thing you will be nursing again as your milk is on the thin side,” he said. “Come by here tomorrow and a carriage will take you to meet the widower Monsieur Bluche and his ailing infant son.” Then he added, “I am very pleased Madame Vivant that you have had a change of heart.”
After leaving Monsieur Paradis, I sat on the steps of the Bureau des Nourrices and cried as the sun slid behind the rooftops. Would I ever see my father again?
With an armful of wood, I arrived home to find Margot at my door. My hands were numb from cold as I was outside at the woodpile reading Armande’s diary, and my head and heart were still humming from her story. I added a log to the fire in the drawing room and sat in her oak chair. Margot settled firmly on the dormeuse, her arms crossed and her probing eyes on me.
“On the day Armande disappeared there were tracks in the snow made by two horses,” she said. “They led through the forest to the other side of the river.”
“Did you see them?”
“No, but the priest was going back to the church from being at an old man’s deathbed the day Armande disappeared. After, he took a shortcut through the forest, and, by the light of his lantern made out the tracks of two horses.”
I told her about Armande’s husband who visited the house a few days before using a made-up name and about the found snuffbox with his initials engraved on it. The handkerchief he briskly pulled away from me so I wouldn’t discover his true identity.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before my child?”
Ashamed of succumbing to my desire and his advances, I had kept our meetings secret. I knew at that moment I had made a grave mistake.
“He left her after their baby was killed by the swine,” she told me.
My limbs felt heavy like I was the dead boatman Armande wrote about in her diary, a great wave threatening to wash me under. Margot looked as if she knew my secret, as if she could see Armande’s husband and me tangled in a sinful embrace.
“He told me she went willingly with them to Versailles,” I said.
“I won’t believe it,” she gasped. “Oh, they were a lovely couple at first. Yet I always sensed he was wrong for her. Don’t let him near you again, Céleste. No good ever came of Armande and that man being together.”
As Margot talked, my mind was inventing a scheme for how to hurt Monsieur Phlipon. He was so seductive, played the part of a lover so well. And now hearing Margot speak about him with such distaste I was flooded with even more guilt that I had welcomed his advances. I would need to punish him for tricking me and betraying Armande. First, I would let him take me just as he did the night before. Then, while he slept, I would tie his arms and legs to the bedposts. He would then wake up, think it was a lover’s prank and play along, most likely sweet-talking me until I blushed. At which time I would reach for the candle by the bedside, pouring hot wax, not into his navel but all over his handsome face and eyes, scarring the look of a gentleman so others would see his true nature. To me, he was even worse than Master Dogface, and the same sort of no-good as my father.
“It cannot be mere chance that he should show up and she vanish,” Margot said.
I knew she was right about that. Then I thought, to punish him would mean no chance of him telling me what he knew. My heart beat faster, sweat collecting at my temples and the palms of my hands as I thought about how to trick him.
Invitation
SHORTLY AFTER MARGOT LEFT, I hurried to Armande’s closet to pick out a dress. Monsieur Phlipon sent me a note that he would come for dinner and I had no time to waste. I wanted to make him think I was falling for him, and then I found just the thing to help that along. Instantly my eyes fell on a gown of pink silk with white flowers, pale green and white braided rope at the back. She must have worn this before she had Rose-Marie, as it would be too small for her now. Maybe she bought it to wear for her beloved Robert. The thought made me shiver. I pulled a pair of stockings over my knees, binding them with buckles. I even put my shoes on with buckles done up. My underskirt and stays went next. Tying the pocket to my waist, I then fixed the panier. After arranging my petticoat, I pinned the stomacher to the stays, pulled on the gown and looked at myself in the mirror. All lovely, but for the rat’s nest of hair on my head. With her brush, I pulled and strained until finally rid of the knots. A piece of green ribbon tied round my head kept the strands in place. To finish off the look I tied a lace choker around my dainty neck. I was not as lovely as Armande, yet pretty all the same. To stave off gossip I told Nadine and Bertrand to circulate a story that my brother was visiting. Many did not know Robert Phlipon’s appearance as he spent little time in the village as a grown man, yet I knew eventually the truth would come out, and so I had to work quickly.
For dinner, I prepared a small chicken and some apple cake for dessert. I lit lavender-scented candles and added more wood to the fire. He was Monsieur d’Agenais, not Monsieur Phlipon, a name I had to forget for the time being.
After stepping inside, he kissed me on the cheek. “How very lovely you are, Céleste.” His eyes danced across my special gown, and he said, “Springtime came early this year.”
I was very nervous about my plan to snare him, yet tried not to show it. We sat at the kitchen table across from each other. He was full of compliments, each one a trap to avoid.
“Very nice how you’ve prepared the bird, flavourful herbs and just the right cuisson.”
It was her recipe and I wondered if he had eaten this meal with her before. He held a chicken leg in one hand, never two, as someone who learned from books how to do these polite things. He did not talk about plants, stars, or women, maybe because he thought Armande had told me about her husband’s interests and he did not want me to become suspicious. He took only a drop or two of ale and raised his hand to stop me filling his glass. His gesture put me off because I wanted him drunk so he might let slip the truth about how she was captured and where he hid her. I snuck some more in his glass when he was not looking.
Later he sat on a chair by the fire and then patted his thigh for me to come to him.
“I’m a gentlewoman. Pray, Monsieur d’Agenais, treat me as such.”
At that, he started to laugh. His cheek made me want to slap him.
“What do you call the other night, Céleste? I trust you remember what heavenly law of attraction brought us together.”
He opened his waistcoat as before, keeping his boots on this time.
Margot spoke the truth about him, yet to find out what he knew about Armande I had to pretend I was falling for him. His eyes would be all I looked for, his touch my only medicine. Now standing before him, I lowered myself onto his lap, fanning my skirt out.
“Yes, I remember. I was in a weak state, sick with worry for Armande who is both mother and sister to me. You were very kind.” I almost choked on the words that I said so sweetly.
“I am very fond of you, Céleste. You underestimate the effect you have on the opposite sex. Your light grey eyes are as those in a painting I once saw in Paris that reflected the landscape. You are very lovely to me and, yes, of course, I consider you a gentlewoman and pay you the respect you deserv
e, utterly.” His compliments would not reach my heart.
“Tell me then, what is it like to live with such a celebrated woman?”
“She has only ever been Armande to me.” That was not entirely true, yet I didn’t want to tell him my feelings about her. I rose from his lap and rooted around for some mending to tame my nerves.
“Tell me your thoughts Céleste?” He sat beside me on the sofa, one arm resting by my chest, the other stroking my hair.
I put down the shawl I was mending and touched my lips to his palm. He kissed me softly and I returned the embrace, adding spirit to the act so he would not doubt my growing affection for him. As I did that, words entered my head … traitor, bad woman, liar. With eyes closed I almost forgot whom I was kissing. On the outside, I was eager and loving while inside, a tangle of loathing for him, and other feelings I could not patch together.
He hummed a little song as he lifted my petticoat. Armande wrote in her diary that his hands were large like fishes. The sensation of them on my thighs was more like a smooth stone rubbing up and down my body. My skin was warm, burning to his touch. Soft as a duckling’s downy chest, he said. He wrapped my legs around his neck and grinned like a schoolboy.
“I leave for Paris in three days. The doctor and his wife will join me in Grenoble.”
He pinched the flesh of my thighs just enough to cause me to cry out with pleasure. My plan to make him think I was falling for him was finally working.
“Céleste, why don’t you accompany me?” His pure blue eyes pierced through me. Then he planted a kiss on my lips and added, “Follow your heart and see where it leads you.”
The next morning, the woman who was doing me a favour by nursing Nathalie asked me to care for the infant while she delivered soup to some needy families. Nathalie’s eyes grew large when I held her and her head tilted into mine as if to kiss me. My heart warmed to be with her once more, even though she smelled of hay at harvest time instead of the lavender or rose scents she gave off when Armande suckled her. I brought her into the drawing room, emptying yarn onto the floor for her to play with. Nathalie crawled towards it, nudging the coloured balls with her fingers. In the bottom of the knitting basket was a half-knit shawl of blue wool started by me. Armande had taught me to knit pretty patterns. I had wanted to repay the kindness by presenting her with a gift of my own making, yet never finished my creation.
Milk Fever Page 19
