I first learned how to knit at Master Dogface’s estate. It was just after I spied on Armande suckling the baby in the garden. She was singing to him in the gentlest, sweetest voice I ever heard. I thought the boy did not deserve such love. The Master saw me spying on her and chased me with a stick. He was mad at me for not being in the kitchen cutting curds to make cheese. I ran screaming until the two of us came to Armande who told a lie for my sake. Her kindness surprised me so much that, at the time, I thought she might turn on me. One day, not long after I spied on her in the garden, I locked myself in an empty stall in the livery. It was my way of hiding from her so I would not be caught by her spell.
“She’s a witch,” I told the Master’s daughter. “She makes me not who I is.”
The daughter shoved a mirror into the stall for me to see myself.
“Take a look at yourself, idiot girl. Why would a kindly wet nurse put a spell on you? You’re no more than a pocketful of dirt.” I looked in the mirror at a sad figure with a crooked nose and chin.
“Homely as Master Dogface,” I said under my breath.
I bent the mirror to view my torso. While my portrait looked frightened and weary, my neck and shoulders were lily-white and soft like the flesh of my thighs. I untied my bodice to marvel at my cherry red nipples. It was the first time I saw them as pretty to my eyes, and so I caressed my body again and again until I felt lovely all over.
That same night Armande arrived at the door to my bedchamber holding a ball of yarn and two knitting needles. Sitting beside me on the bed she showed me how to cast on and how to make a garter stitch. With her help I made my first square. One of many squares I would knit to form a vibrant wool quilt for the Master’s beady-eyed infant.
Now I scooped the shawl from the basket and picked up the knitting where I last ended. Maybe my concentrated work would stir Armande, wherever she was, to think of me?
A little later, Nathalie stopped playing with the balls of yarn and crawled over to me. She was making soft sounds with her tongue against the top of her mouth, which sounded almost like words. I bent down and put an ear to her head as if it was a seashell or nest of nearly hatched bird’s eggs. Then, in a small yet distinct voice, I heard her say, “The King’s people are dying of hunger. They are without hope, yet will rise up to take what’s theirs.”
My knitting fell to the floor and I picked up the baby, holding her to me.
“How are we to do this?” I looked deep into her eyes. My knees trembled and my voice along with it.
“Tell me.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I beg you.”
Her eyes could see my thoughts, and in that instant all my fears were laid bare. Then just as it came to pass with other children, her visage suddenly changed to its original look. Baby Nathalie’s words flowed from her mouth as if they were not coming from her mind at all, but from a deeper wisdom contained in the milk. And Armande was in danger of being drained of this magic. Yet if, for her sake, I went with him to Paris, what was I hoping to find once I got there? With Nathalie to my chest, I knelt on the floor to pray. I begged the Good Lord to keep Armande safe and lead me to her.
My last full day in Armande’s home, I set aside the gown I wore to please Monsieur Phlipon. That and a winter one Armande had a woman in the village sew for me. I had no ribbons or fancy shoes, yet while looking through a box in her room, I found some pearls for my hair, a bracelet made from feathers and a pair of pink shoes with embroidered blue flowers. Somebody might even mistake me for a gentlewoman. Spring was on its way and so I arranged some lighter gowns, petticoats, a bonnet, hairbrush, and a couple of books in a porte-manteau bag belonging to Armande’s father. Behind a dusty row of books was a soft leather pouch. I grabbed some silver coins from it, a handful of deniers and sous and took more than one demi-louis d’or, crossing myself and swearing, with God looking down on me, to return every last one.
Armande told me Paris was a city where poetry, music, and theatre were more important than the colour and thickness of leaves in the field, the quality and scent of sheep’s wool. Poets, actors and artists went to that city to be among their kind. Her father went there to write and sell forbidden books. Women hosted literary salons frequented by well-known philosophers. Armande went to one, showing herself to be as sharp as any man. Yet she also said the poor lined Paris streets. They went because it was thought the loaves of bread were bigger there. Winter in that city was especially cruel. Desperate folk burned their bedsteads, chairs, benches, hampers, baskets, and cases to escape the cold. They pawned cloaks, rings, carpets and cupboards in exchange for a day’s food. Mothers rocked and shushed babies, reciting spells against their lot. Poverty, go to sea and drown yourself.
Before sleeping, I said goodbye to the neighbours Nadine, Bertrand, and others, goodbye to the house, then closing up the chimneys, shutting the curtains, and finally rolling carpets snug against the doors to keep out the winds. I thought of how I would miss gathering wild plants in the summer with the other villagers for eating, such as dandelion and clover, yet would probably be back for the harvest of oats, wheat and barley before wintertime. That night, the wind banged at the shutters and there was a soft tapping sound no louder than a knuckle at a door. It was the last night in my bed, the last night in the comfort and quiet of my own familiar home. Almost morning and I woke to the noise of myself crying in the dark. I needed to believe I would find her, that because of me she would be safe. Once in Paris I would journey to Versailles where I would certainly find her held against her will. I imagined her at the foot of my bed, arms outstretched. With an arm out to her, I believed it would be possible.
“Mon enfant, you must rise.” Monsieur Phlipon stood at my bedchamber door, his face aglow from the lantern in his hand. “We are to be at Grenoble before dark.”
He wore his frock coat, cravat and boots, and tapped his staff on the ground. I stumbled from my bed, got dressed and passed a comb through my hair, as there was little time for fussing to pretty myself. A rider and his horses were making an awful noise outside.
I put on my winter cloak trimmed with fur. Armande’s diary was in my pocket beneath my heavy wool skirt. It pressed against my thigh. A hazy blue light, like the colour of a woman’s hair ribbon, outlined the fields. A coach with a leather roof was parked in front of the house. Two horses pawed the snow. Steam rose from their fur, noses thick with clouds of breath. The rider sat at the front of the carriage tugging on the reins to still the beasts.
“Come Mademoiselle.” He helped me into the coach.
The seats were upholstered with a dazzling blue and yellow flower pattern. I had never been inside a fancy carriage like this before. Sitting down, I felt like a gentle lady. Monsieur Phlipon shouted at the rider and climbed in across from where I sat. He rubbed his hands, blew on them and pinched my cheeks.
“Ma petite, my hands are so cold. Could you find it in your heart to warm me?”
I reached over and grabbed his hands, which he quickly directed to my waist. In spite of my woollen layers, he chilled me. I didn’t understand his motives for asking me along, yet I had no choice but to go with him.
“You’re so warm my lovely,” he said, a sly look in his eyes. “Look how you brought life into them.”
When he held his hands up and moved his fingers before my eyes, a sensation of panic overtook me. What if he found out that I knew his true identity? What would the King do to her if she refused to suckle the Dauphin? I wasn’t even sure she was taken there. The rider shouted at the horses and the carriage moved backwards and turned. As we sped up, I gave a feeble wave. Armande’s house looked tiny from the coach window. A picture hanging on a wall. The babies she suckled spoke of a revolt. Through the milk, their voices proclaimed the truth of what was to come.
Part 3
Clue
WE ARRIVED IN GRENOBLE before nightfall and took a room in a hotel with chipped yellow paint and blue shutters. At the d
esk, a small woman with hair past her waist handed Monsieur Phlipon the key. Her fat eyebrows joined in the middle of her face like mating caterpillars. Our room had a small bed with a curtain to draw across and another bigger bed near the fire.
“This is ours,” he said flopping on the bigger bed and lying lengthways upon it. On the outside, Monsieur Phlipon was as gentlemanly as any other man of his station. Yet I could see past the silk breeches and periwig to his true nature. It scared me to play this game of impassioned lovers with him, yet I knew that for me to find Armande there was no other way. Whether I liked it or not, we were soon entangled.
The next morning, we were in the carriage once more. Monsieur Phlipon told the couple, the Jolycoeurs, who joined us, that we were married. A woman voyaging by herself was looked down upon. I was no gentlewoman yet I wanted others to see me that way. Being polite and having a thing or two to say made me good enough to most. The doctor’s wife looked at me the way older women look at those younger than themselves. She studied the fabric of my skirt, how I held my hands. She was taller than her husband and dressed plainly—a brown gown, white bonnet, a fichu at her neck, and gloves. Instead of sitting beside me as a woman might do, she sat with her husband. I saw why when, as soon as we were away, she closed her eyes, left cheek pressed against his shoulder. While she slept, my eyes took in her face. She had a large head, manly features but for her small and delicate nose.
“Paris is a city of possibility,” said the doctor whose eyes were large and bright. “All sorts of men of genius reside there and have in their minds the most astounding inventions. In time, these wondrous creations will be seen to enhance our lives. Why, our dear Monsieur Montgolfier is such a physician. He manufactured an immense balloon from taffeta propelled by nothing but hot air. Imaginez-vous! Perfectly composed during the performance he was, as though he knew the experiment would be a success.”
He looked tenderly at the ostrich fringe on his hat, petting it as if it were a small dog. His movements were slow, his voice a high whisper so he would not wake his sleeping wife.
“His first apparatus was azure blue with gold fleur-de-lis painted on its body. Its flight from the Royal Palace was to transport a sheep, duck and rooster.”
His story made me picture in my mind’s eye a great blue gown with farm animals attached by golden threads flying through the air to the sea.
“The balloon man’s imagination knows no bounds,” said Madame Jolycoeur, her eyes now open. She licked the tips of her fingers and ran them over the folds of her skirt.
“The French can fly with the birds.”
“Tis true mon ami. We are entering a time where the impossible is now occurring. Did you know that there is a new Musée des Sciences in Paris where learned men give lectures on topics of great scientific importance? That is right. Merchant, fop and artisan go there to listen alongside cordon bleu.”
The doctor reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
“At this Musée one can view a suit for submerging oneself in water. This watertight apparatus will keep the wearer perfectly dry. Another of these inventions is a hat with a built-in lamp, perfect for night time excursions.”
“Incroyable,” said his wife.
“So, I gather you’re well-acquainted with Paris?” Monsieur Phlipon asked.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Alas, I have not been there before, but I have met many a worldly man who has. What about yourself, Monsieur d’Agenais?”
“The past couple of years we’ve lived in a mountain village not far from Briançon,” he lied, gazing at me as a husband to his wife. “I did live in Paris though while studying theology at the Sorbonne and am returning there to visit Comte Buffon. That is if he will receive me. I am writing a book on alpine plants and it is my deepest wish that the Count take interest. I am a staunch admirer of his work and very eager to share my botanical findings with him.”
His botanical findings? I thought of the letter Monsieur Vivant gave Sophie in secret. It was to Monsieur Taranne detailing how Monsieur Phlipon stole ideas from an obscure plant book. The letter I found stuck to Sophie’s bloodied hair was now tucked away in my embroidered pocket for safekeeping.
“Ah yes, I read his Histoire Naturelle,” said the doctor arranging his cravat and smiling.
“The Jardin des Plantes is unparalleled,” remarked Monsieur Phlipon. “Winding paths and geometric forms lead each time to a new scene that renews the spirit: a trickling stream with a lamb grazing before an ancient ruin, and what a world of scents. It makes one half-drunk with pleasure to see man improving on Nature.”
“Do you share your husband’s passion for plants, Madame d’Agenais?”
The name he called me meant nothing. On top of that he was not even using his real name. Monsieur Phlipon, the no-good, elbowed me in the ribs.
“I like Nature and all it has to offer,” I stumbled over my words.
“We love the city yet prefer the quality of air found in our mountain village.” He cleared his throat and looked over at me to add to his tall tale.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to appear calm. “Mountain meadows provide us with many grasses and flowers, yet the past winter was nasty. The harvests were bad, the price of flour too high.”
Could they possibly believe we were married? My palms were wet so I hid them at my sides.
“Yes, I read that 1788 was a particularly bad year and that production fell by half,” said the doctor. “I know all about the attacks of peasants on granaries, but how can these people be as hungry as they say given they have many fields in which to grow crops? In our city....”
“It is true, doctor,” I cut in. “These families give up most of their earnings to taxes and the rest goes to rent a plot of land from the seigneur.” Nathalie’s words gave me the courage to speak. They are without hope, but will rise up to take what’s theirs. My heart was racing yet I did not stop.
“Many families had to make bread from plant stems. Children became bloated and sick. The field grass made their poor stomachs swell like balloons. You should have seen them. Each one looked as if it were big with child.”
When I spoke in short bouts, my voice was like a gentlewoman, yet when I rambled on did the doctor and his wife see through me? Words rose in my throat like hills of mossy rocks and tree roots. I was from a line of no-goods, line of dead children, line of disease, line of chestnut gruel, line of water soup, line of farm workers, line of beggars, line of knife, scar, child, worm. Monsieur Phlipon’s disapproving eyes burned a hole in my skull. Yet I spoke the truth after all, and so what did I care if they thought me ignorant?
“I have just the remedy for a child who imagines he’s a goat and grazes all day in the fields.” The doctor’s voice that time was loud, no hint of a whisper. “There is a plant called burdock that is so abundant it grows in ditches and highways all over this land. Why, little boys even play with it. They toss the burrs off and throw them at one another. The children may eat grass if that is their wish, but then they must bring the roots of this plant home for their mothers to prepare. I have used burdock for years now and can attest to its healing properties. The root must be beaten with a pinch of salt and laid on the swollen belly.” The doctor patted his stomach. “That will soon ease the pain and it even helps those bitten by mad dogs. There are other uses too, yet I will surely bore you if I persist.”
“We are very fortunate to be in the company of someone so generous with his knowledge,” said Monsieur Phlipon.
He startled me. I half-forgot he was beside me, forgot I was supposed to be his wife. Sweat collected on my upper lip as the corner of Armande’s diary dug into my thigh, giving me a sudden pang of missing her.
“He didn’t discover the many uses of this plant,” the doctor’s wife piped up. “Oh, my husband is a good enough doctor, but it was a midwife in our neighbourhood who first told him of it. She knows many
things about herbs and their medicinal properties. She was the one who taught us about burdock soothing the belly.”
“Yes, my wife is right, but she forgets one thing.” The doctor raised his hand, pointing a finger. “The midwife is dull-witted, as are most women when it comes to the ways of science. She has not the cleverness to use the roots as I do with a pinch of salt. She applies the leaves of the burdock with the white of an egg to wounds by fire. She knows not that the roots carry all the plant’s goodness. I have no idea why she wastes her time with the leaves.”
The road became bumpy and the rider shouted at his horses, pulling on the reins to slow them down. Each shake of the coach brought me closer to Monsieur Phlipon. I wanted to pounce on him and then smash his head open with my heels for all he did to Armande. Similar to when my father got mad and cursed the seigneur and his prize doves. He wished he could hunt yet it was not allowed for peasants, and so instead he would shout to force out his anger. Pull the heads off hares! Smash the eggs of every woodcock, pheasant and snipe!
Hours passed and the road narrowed. I awoke to hear wheels crushing bits of sand and rock, and far-off birdsongs. Low hanging branches slapped against the roof as we drove swiftly by. The doctor and his wife shifted, their eyes closing and opening. By the time we reached the mountains, the sun was melting the snow, rivers overflowed and some roads were washed out. Cool air smelled of mud as the coach climbed the bumpy mountainside. Water dripped from rocks on the edges of cliffs and little birds splashed in puddles along the road. Later in the afternoon, we reached a clearing where we saw a castle and some houses. A man stood by the side of the road watering his horse and waved as we went past. The road we were supposed to take vanished under water. I crossed the river with the doctor’s wife while the rider, Monsieur Phlipon and the doctor led the coach and horses. She cried silently as I squeezed her hand.
Milk Fever Page 20
