“The women said they saw you. How could they?”
“Perhaps they mistook someone else for me.”
She cradled my hands in hers rubbing them gently. I lay my head in her lap once and she stroked my damp hair just like she used to when I came to her crying from a nightmare. Or from fear my father or Master Dogface might come for me, even though they were in my past.
That night we slept together in her narrow bed. “Can I come back to see you?” I asked as I sank into her familiar curves.
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “Although I won’t be here much longer … only a couple more days.”
The room was dark and a shit smell rose up every so often. Yet then my nose would catch her lavender scent and I would feel calm again. I imagined the tower where we rested stretching into the night, the unknown, and thought of what she said about having no more milk.
Morning came and with it was a sloppy feeling of being undone like a ball of string. The mixed up song by the woman outside the prison came into my head. To be dry with no fruit and no moisture is bad for the weaker sex. I knew without a baby to suckle Armande would soon lose her milk for good, and with it, the wisdom.
The man with the black hat brought Armande some bread and a slice of cheese, which she shared with me.
“Come now,” he said.
His big green eyes peered from under his hat and scabs on his knuckles were thick and brown. My palms grew wet and warm, and my belly filled with fire to know I would soon be leaving her. To settle myself, or maybe to do something nice, I reached under my skirts, pulling her diary from my embroidered pocket. I sensed her present circumstances would make her less angry with me for having read it.
“This is yours.” My cheeks were hot with tears and my heart was in my throat.
“Mine?” She looked surprised, and then her eyes sparkled. “Yes I remember now. I keep it tucked away in the little drawer of my desk.”
She opened it up, softly caressed the pages while reading her own words. Was she reading about when she was ill with milk fever, or about when her child died?
“It’s yours for now, Céleste,” she said. “Keep it for me until I am freed.”
I returned the diary to my pocket. “I’ve been reading it in hopes it would lead me to you.”
“Tell me then, did it?”
“Yes,” I told her.
We said goodbye, and the man with the black hat pulled me through the dark passage toward blinding sunlight.
Pistol
I ARRIVED AT THE HOTEL to collect my belongings. Monsieur Phlipon’s shirt and silk breeches were rumpled on a chair and the half-burned log in the fire was cold. I took Armande’s diary from my pocket to make room for some gloves when a sudden noise at the door made me jump.
“There you are, Céleste. Three days is a long time to be away from me.” Monsieur Phlipon stood in the doorway, his hands folded at his chest. “You’re reading that book of fairy stories again. Have you no other interests besides the fantastical, the far-fetched?”
I hugged the diary.
“You have found Armande, have you not?”
I shook my head as he came closer—my heart in my mouth, arms and legs trembled. He pushed a pile of clothes onto the floor with his pointed shoe then sat on the chair. Before, his clear blue eyes had tempted me. Now gazing upon him I found him too ugly to even look at: a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“You poisoned her, Robert and helped them capture her.” I was tired of lying, and, seeing Armande gave me the strength I needed to confront him with the truth.
He was stunned I called him by his real name. After a few moments staring at me, his mouth gaping wide, he said, “It was a soporific, a sleeping potion. No harm came to her.”
“She was blinded for several days.” My grip on her diary tightened. I thought to hide it in the ruffles of my skirts, yet his eyes never left me.
“I assure you, Céleste, that it was not my intention. The men heard she was a spirited woman and wanted to make sure she didn’t give them too much trouble. A valet de chambre confirmed the rumours that the King summoned her to court to revive the ailing Dauphin. The lettre de cachet sent to her father had produced no result and his Highness was impatient. If I could assist in some way then the poet would see to it I was rewarded. The King and Queen will be presented with a copy of my book on alpine plants when it’s completed.”
His fingers toyed with his waistcoat buttons and his eyes lingered on my face. “As chance would have it, I was already planning a trip to my village to settle my father’s affairs after his death.”
Although her diary was hidden inside another book cover, having it in my hands made me feel naked.
He leaned towards me. “Now, tell me, where is she then?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“I can see it on your face. You are too honest, Céleste. It doesn’t pay to be read so easily like a book.”
“Think what you like.” I felt like a trapped animal.
“Céleste, you must tell me where she is.” His voice was like a toad’s rattle. “Her father is engaged in illegal activities and has evaded the authorities on countless occasions. He has quite possibly the largest file of any criminal and naturally she’ll seek him out.”
“He’s a good man,” I told him. “What has he ever done to you?”
“It’s true he was always kind to me when I was a boy. He would take me into his library where we conversed until the wee hours of the morning about botany, astronomy…. Yet, at the time, I was naïve about his writings.” He stood up and began pacing.
“The libelles portray the King as despotic, impotent and indecisive.” His voice was loud, enraged. “They fuel this talk of revolution, and mass protests. Villagers are disregarding the game laws and go about killing rabbits, partridges and woodcocks for their sheer amusement. In other districts, they have even shot gamekeepers when they encountered them.”
“Their winter crop was destroyed,” I said, matching his loudness. “They didn’t want the animals to eat all their seeds.”
“They only want blood and will stop at nothing to have the King’s head on a stick.” Then he stared at me, and, in a low voice said, “I know what you have in your hands, Céleste, now give it to me.”
I ran for the door and he lunged at me.
“I stole the object from your hot, little hands one day while you were fast asleep. You didn’t suspect a thing. I remember that diary very well. It was the one she wrote in when our daughter Rose-Marie….” He stopped and I caught the hurt in his eyes.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, thrusting me onto the bed. I punched him square in the face, and then he touched his nose, a grimace appearing on his face. There was blood all over his fingers, his nose gushing. He twisted and hit my hand, forcing the diary from me. Still wrenching my hand, he opened the book, his eyes wildly hunting.
“Ah yes, listen to this, At that moment, I let my mind wander to a place where ideas and justice dictate actions. I questioned what it would be like if these women could read and write. I knew that it would mean they would not only be able to teach their own children but also be fit for political life. As it is they have no power that is theirs, just the claim of being so-and-so’s wife. Yet they are given the reins to nourish a child, to rock this bit of life back and forth when it cries. They see the child take its first steps and hear it utter words for the very first time. How can it be then that there is no room for their learning?”
His eyes were crazed, his face streaked with blood. “How can it be indeed?” He closed the diary, finally letting go of me.
“The diary belongs to Armande. You have no right to keep it, Céleste.”
He pushed me down on the bed once more, fumbling under my skirts and ripping my embroidered pocket from me.
“Tell me where she is. I won’t harm her I promise. It is only him I
want.”
He retrieved a knife from his trousers, cut the ties from my lovely pocket and then used them to fasten me to the bedposts. I struggled, crying out, yet it was no use, as he was much stronger than me. I screamed and shouted; the bed banged against the wall. He shoved his face up to mine; his river-blue eyes pierced through me, blood from his nose smudging my cheeks. Then, before leaving with the diary, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in my mouth.
In the early morning, the man who ran the hotel heard me banging the bed against the wall, came in and untied me. My hands stung where the ties had been, bloody rings around my wrists. When I tried to stand, my legs almost gave way, yet then a stroke of good fortune befell me. As I was gathering up the rest of my belongings, a skirt, bonnet and books to take with me, I noticed a shiny brass object jutting out from beneath the mattress: a pistol. It was heavy and long, made of wood and had a carved brass handle. The thought that the weapon might be used to murder Monsieur Vivant caused a painful sensation like splinters to pass through me. Too big to fit in my stocking, I wrapped it up in one of my skirts, and then secreted it away in the bottom of my sack.
My apron was soiled with blood, both his and mine. I took a few moments to wash my face in a nearby basin and run a comb through my hair. Then, as I was about to leave the room, I looked out the hotel window and, just as I thought, there was a man across the street. Different than the other one, he stood not moving, his eyes fixed on the hotel door. After trying to climb out a window at the back and seeing another spy—the same tall man as before—waiting in the alley, I snuck into the back of the hotel where they soaped the linens. There I found an apron with a faded flower print and a bed sheet, which I ripped apart to make a shawl and kerchief to cover my head. I bent over, lowering my head like an old beggar woman.
After walking for a few minutes, I turned to see if I was being followed, and was delighted that my disguise had fooled them. Women were walking to market, baskets in hand and children trailing behind. Two men loaded boxes onto a cart, the horse whinnying. A woman and man stepped from a carriage. The man smoked a clay pipe and their laughter pierced the chilly morning air. Outside a bakers’ shop, I passed a group of men who shouted and waved their arms. One said, “We are being fined for selling our bread at fifteen sous, yet due to shortages and high flour prices we can’t sell it for less or we’ll be ruined.” The man’s fingers were thick and worn down, his fat nose was round like a fresh bun.
At dusk, I walked past empty market stalls, past a cemetery where upturned graves and skulls pushed from the soil like rutabagas. I looked behind me every so often to make sure nobody followed me. Pretty bottles hanging on posts created splashes of light on wet stones in the street. I reckoned Monsieur Phlipon patrolled the area where I first saw him in his blue police uniform with the man from the censors’ office. I had to act fast as it would not take long for word to reach him that she was in prison. I sat on the ground, my back resting against a building. The pistol was tucked inside my skirt at the waist. Nearby, beggars crowded around a makeshift fire. A loose woman walked past, her face decorated with powder and splashes of red on her lips and cheeks. My heart beat so fast my chest hurt. I never murdered anybody before. Two children came by, kicked me, laughed and ran away, which made me happy as it meant I played my part of a poor old woman well. When all was quiet, I took out the pistol. I closed my eyes and felt for the trigger so I could find it instantly. I would not have time to stop and reload so would have to get him on the first try.
Heavy rains came with flashes of light and crashing overhead. Log floaters maneuvered their logs towards others lined up and bobbing at the river’s shore. Women pulled their cloaks over them and ran for cover. I ran to the nearest building and stood under the roof watching the rain pound down on barges along the Seine.
The rainstorm cleared the street of people and nobody passed my way for at least two hours. Then, just when I started to nod off, I spotted Monsieur Phlipon wearing a police uniform. He carried a rod in his hand and his stride was steady like a soldier. As he got closer, I put the pistol down low so it was out of sight, while aiming it straight for him.
“Old woman have you no home to go to?”
His question caught me off guard. My fingers clenching the weapon were damp with sweat.
“No home sir.” I looked up, the kerchief covering my face so just my eyes were visible.
“When morning breaks, you need to be gone from here. You are in front of a solicitor’s office. He’ll be angry I didn’t arrest you.”
I nodded dumbly as I watched him turn and walk down the street, his boots clapping on the stones underfoot. The fact he was not cruel took me by surprise, and made me forget what I had been waiting there all that time to do. Quickly, I held the pistol up, cocked it, aimed for his head and pulled the trigger. It took a couple seconds before I realized the pistol was not even loaded. Morning sun edged its way into the street. That day I would load his handsome pistol with bullets and blast him clean to Spain. I snuck into an alley, stripped off the apron, and changed into a fresh, dry petticoat and blue cloak from my sack. There was the sound of children and babies coming from a nearby doorway, and I felt a deep sadness thinking of Armande, and how she had no milk.
Inside the orphan house children ate lentils and bread at a long table. They wore black bonnets each with a white border, fichus at the neck and white aprons. In another room were newborns in baskets and a woman suckling a child in the corner by a window. Radiant delight filled my heart as I was sure God had led me there to help Armande restore her precious milk. “The flames of revolt are catching, little by little,” said the small, knowing child shortly after Armande was kidnapped.
“I have come for an orphan,” I said to the woman. “It is for a very well regarded wet nurse.”
She looked on me curiously and replied, “The wet nurse must come herself. We want to get a look at her to make sure she is fit to nurse the orphan.”
I walked out of the room, then waited outside and peeked in the window until I saw the woman leave. Some of the babies cried, some fussed, while others slept. I snatched a sleeping infant from its basket and headed for the door. As I took off in the rain, I pressed the warm bundle to my heart. Blood coursed through my veins and I ran and ran until I was too far away for them to catch me. For the revolt to be a success, these babies had to keep drinking her wondrous milk. The baby was awake, though still, its little eyes searching my face. Barely breathing, I waited by the gate, crouching down to avoid suspicion. A group of men passed by me talking and laughing. Then after a while, only a few people lingered.
“I’m here to see Armande Vivant.” I spoke in a delicate manner so he might think I was someone special.
He looked at me as though we were now best friends, tapped my backside with his rod and I was in—just like that. The last time I had counted the number of doors in each passage so I would not get lost, yet now I knew from memory when to veer left or right. As before, I brought the man at the end of the corridor some coins the doctor had given me, and the guard opened her chamber door. Wedged between the bars of her door was a bouquet of lilies, daffodils and pussy willows. No doubt a gift from some admirer. Their soft fragrance cut the stench that lingered in the air as I brought them to her. Armande lay on her bed, curled up. Hair washed over her face and she clutched her hands to her chest.
As I drew closer, she opened her eyes, smiled and said, “Oh, Céleste. How nice to see you. They tell me I will be released tomorrow.”
She sat on the edge of the bed smoothing her chemise, underskirt and her red gown with a blue sash at the waist. She then gathered her hair from her face and twisted it, tying the curls on top of her head with a deep red ribbon.
“She’s lovely, Céleste,” she said when she saw the baby in my arms.
I had no time to waste and so came right to the point. “Can you suckle her?” I held the baby out for her to
take from me. “If you don’t your milk will disappear for good.”
“I tried at court, Céleste, remember I told you that. My milk had dried up by then. My life as a wet nurse has come to an end.”
“But it can’t. Please just try,” I said pleading. My wish for her milk to flow as before was so strong that I thought I could will it back.
Tears streamed out of me and I was helpless to stop them. Then, moved by my show of emotion, Armande took the baby into her arms.
“There, there little nut,” she said as she unlaced her bodice, offering the screaming orphan her nipple.
The baby’s mouth fastened to her and sucked, its tiny fists clenched, eyes moving from side to side under closed lids. I held my breath while marvelling at the spectacle I had seen many times before.
“In the beginning I didn’t believe that my thoughts were impressing upon the infants through the milk,” she confessed to me. “I showered them with affection and nursed them when they cried.” The ruffle of her chemise brushed the baby’s cheek. “Stories began in the village about my milk and I added to them, partly for my own amusement, yet also because I did feel that a mother’s milk—not only mine—was essential to a child’s development. Some women didn’t fancy having a baby clinging to them. Others were too poor and had too many mouths to feed to care about one more. I thought perhaps they would draw from their own motherly wisdom if they perceived their children transformed by the milk. Before I knew it, the stories about me were being communicated to people in towns and villages across the country.” She gazed down at the little one as the candlelight reflected in the baby’s head.
“In the past I thought that this gossip had no weight to it, that the claims about my milk transforming babies were false….”
I hung on her every word. Then, just when I thought she would finally tell me the truth about her milk, she said, “Céleste, it isn’t coming.” Her loving voice was apologetic. “There is no more milk.”
Milk Fever Page 26
