Alaric Longward - Cantiniére Tales) Page 4

  I had a new jacket and had twisted my long hair in a braid around the head, for I did not want anyone opportunistic enough to grab it if our victims ran quicker than we did. We were about to leave, sneaking out to avoid sudden random chores, for we knew Colbert, Adam, and father would frequently sit at the rose infested walled garden around that time and Madame Fourier often joined them and they might spy us in the hall, and spoil the fun at a whim. Usually Colbert sat like a fat spider in the middle, his arse claiming the expensive, heavy stone bench, carved gothic splendor, decorated with roaring lions and lilies. They would sit there; drink, eat sweet cake, smoke expensive tobacco generously provided by Colbert, and talk about day’s business and country’s politics, but lately, father would go early, in a huff. I often saw him head out to drink wine in a nearby tavern, sometimes with Claude Antin, but often with people he did not really know. He still made the measly thirty sous, and kept us alive by his humble efforts, even if I saw after the twins were born, he and mother rarely smiled anymore, but I understood it was often so when babies claim the world of the adults. I heard them argue angrily once, and it was about money and the lack of it, and the needs of the twins and me, and I contemplated on stopping it by claiming I have no needs, but he had left, the creaky door slamming with finality.

  When we were nearing the dusty ground floor, making our way slowly down the stairs and then we heard shouting, and froze. Gilbert put a finger on his mouth, his eyes round, and I nodded, determined to avoid capture. We looked at each other in alarm, as we heard footsteps in the corridor, Colbert denying something with a loud, imperious voice, again invoking God to banish the people he was addressing and another loud, officially thin voice demanding to see father. At that, Gilbert grinned at me, enjoying the chaos, anticipating something unusual, but I was morbidly afraid. After awhile, the door opened angrily, then closed even more angrily and the men went away, cursing Colbert and his God alike. We moved down stealthily, and glanced at the doorway, noting the door was swinging dramatically open. A fat soldier and a thin policeman stood outside in the light rain, the latter gesturing madly. Then Colbert was yelling at my father in the garden, and we flitted that way. We sneaked to the garden doorway, and heard them address each other rather loudly. Gilbert wanted to eavesdrop, hissing at me, pulling me next to him, near the doorway and I heard Guillemin speak harshly; he was agitated and stuttering. ‘Do not claim to know, uncle! Speaking to me in such way, as if it was true! I am no criminal! Not in my mind, at least, and that should do you just fine!’

  Colbert coughed, angry at the statement. ‘They claim you are, by God, let him have mercy on your sad soul.’ I was getting really worried, but Gilbert hung on to my hand, squeezing it painfully, keeping us there, his eyes twinkling by the implications of the discussion, and I cursed him profusely.

  Guillemin barked a laugh, but it was a bitter, nervous bark. ‘Thief and a criminal? Me? The king and the nobles are such creatures. They are, truly!’ He addressed Colbert like he would a child, his voice insipid. ‘Men in our family fought in the fucking seven-year war, well, all save you, uncle. Your brother, our father did, and we lost all our money, just like France did. He left us with nothing, nothing! I have no inheritance. The country offers nothing, but spends all we grind, and the latest American war? More money is gone, even if they claimed a useless fucking victory, a word overused if you ask me! France is spending on nobles, on the church but not on us, the people! And now you say they want me for this… crime? For few sous, they claim? I say I have not done it! Tell them go raid some fucker of a noble’s house, full of wealth sucked from the tits of starving mothers! They commit crimes every day by denying our sodden family food!’

  Colbert evidently slammed a tin mug on the bench, making a high note unsuited for the impressive and aggressive gesture. ‘Do not give me sodden stories of France and its lack of money, nor of injustice. I care not, nor does God! You are talking to your wise uncle, a master in a guild and if my brother, your fucking father was a fool, then you are clearly his son. Not you Adam, you have good sense, but Guillemin is his son of both blood and lack of respect and courtesy, I see that. I know you have done this thing! Forging passes and papers and permits for dark societies and desperate criminals! I am not a blind fool. In my very own print, no less!’ An embarrassed silence reigned for a while, then Colbert continued, painfully. ‘I know you need money, Guillemin. You owe a lot of coin, and it might, just might be that you could sell your wife’s watch to cover your sad little crimes, and stop there for good.’

  Gilbert nodded happily, apparently agreeing with Colbert and I scowled, for he was my friend, but I knew he enjoyed such chaos. We had one fabulous treasure, a dead grandfather’s watch from mother’s side, a glittering gold pocket watch made by Isaac Thomson in London. The story goes it was lucky grandfather who acquired it in the seven-year war from the battle of Lutterberg, where he was a harsh dragoon and one of the iron-like cavalrymen who routed the overwhelmed Prussians and the stalwart Brits, and the grateful British officer whose life he in his mercy spared gave him the golden watch as a gift. It was ours. Gilbert snickered as he saw the dour look on my face. ‘Sins of father’s, Jeanette. You have no saying in it.’

  ‘It’s not his to sell,’ I growled nervously.

  ‘If he owes money, and your mother loves him and you enough, he will sell it and you can forget the stupid piece of crap,’ he said, saw I still did not agree and pushed me to make his point while snickering. I scrambled desperately for balance and fell heavily on my rear, making noise. We froze, but needed not to worry, when there was a sudden crash in the garden. Father was throwing things and letting the roses suffer a horrid fate as flying chair claimed many like a cannonball mowing down hapless soldiers. Colbert noted laconically: ‘the spendthrift nobles keep a roof over our heads, mind you. God loves them, and we are blessed, but you are not, it seems.’ Father scoffed. An intense shouting match erupted, and we heard our fathers and great uncle scream in such a manner, that none likely knew what the other was saying, and I doubt they cared. Madame Fourier kept quiet, and I was happy, for I hated her rasping voice. They spoke harshly now, all of them. I finally heard father demand Colbert imperiously that he needed a bigger salary, and get denied one.

  Gilbert snorted and even I knew many had been clamoring for more pay lately. That winter, the 1789 had been exceptionally hard, and after the government had told the people that we were effectively bankrupt, prices went up so quickly, it surprised everyone. Bread, the usual four-, six- or eight-pound bread we bought to feed ourselves had skyrocketed in prize. Four pounds had cost some six to eight, now, near twenty sous. I was twelve, I did not understand enough to fear such figures, and not even when mother looked terrified as she tousled my hair after coming home from the bakery and the market.

  ‘Let us go,’ I begged Gilbert who pulled me up, for I was very uneasy with the loud discussion. ‘Let’s get Florian,’ I poked him, but he shrugged. ‘Mother will be back soon, and I cannot go then,’ I lied. Mother had gone to fetch water from the fountain, and she had taken the reluctant twins with her. Florian’s old mother helped her. In Paris, neighborhoods were all influential, helping and guarding jealously each other. We had no money to buy water from the industrious men and women hauling such wagons around and she took her time at the fountain, gossiping. She would be back later, but I wanted to be away. I did not want to see father like he was now, face red, his eyes glowing with unfathomable anger.

  ‘Shh!’ he said, ‘Perhaps they will fight, and I shall bet on your father!’ He relished the thought, though even if Adam and Gilbert were closer than they used to be, there was a deep resentment in Gilbert over many past and present issues, and he was right, I saw, as I peeked over his wide shoulder.

  ‘I’m betting,’ father was saying, ‘that all the wealthy dog humpers in this country will soon know poverty and be ignoble and sad, and this filthy business of creating shit in the form of king’s approved books will shrivel up like Adam’s pric
k!’ Guillemin was on his feet while the other men were sitting, and violence was not far. Yet, after waving a shivering fist at Adam’s nose, father stormed out, his rage spent, pulling on a floppy hat. He did not see us, and Gilbert sighed in disgust and disappointment.

  Colbert sighed as well, and Adam was speaking quickly in his squeaky, nervous voice. ‘He is just unhappy, sir, very unhappy. He knows he is no good in the trade, and that is why he is speaking like that. Cursing our beloved king and the fine nobles! That would be like shooting ourselves in the knee, leaving us alive, perhaps, but suffering and poor as beggars. Our businesses…’

  ‘Will change, they will all change, he is right in that,’ Colbert grumbled unhappily. ‘What happened today, boy, is bad. Over twenty people shot at Réveillon factory? Wages, they want money, because the bread costs so much, and then the fools of the owners say they agree with them, but do not pay. French Guard mowed them down, as they should, by God, but it cannot stay like it is, this terrible situation. He is right in some unintended way, the fool, though I doubt our nobles will stop buying books, ever. But Guillemin. He will not get any more from me. The rat-like police are sniffling around, and suspect him of forgery for some nefarious parties and that cannot be changed by loud, arrogant denial.’

  Adam laughed, nervous as Colbert agreed with Guillemin, even in some small way. ‘He could not forge his own signature, little less…’

  Colbert spat shifting his considerable weight. ‘He has, though. He is in deep debt; he has done something in the print, though I cannot prove the deed, yet it reflects poorly on all of us. No matter what happens to France, my name cannot be connected to a common criminal, by God. Imagine, if on our doorsteps we will start seeing hoodlums and runaway soldiers, all wishing to buy new name or passes to escape the service! Imagine them in the shop, if you will! Standing there in rags, while a baron comes in, and their eyes meet! Might as well hang myself.’

  I quaffed, despite myself, at the thought and so did Gilbert, but we went quiet as a mouse as Madame Fourier, her saggy cheeks trembling, was stretching like a fat cat in a delicate bodice of satin. She rolled her eyes, bored. ‘Calm, calm. Of course, you cannot have this. You must act. And as for the fanciful things he thinks will happen? Matters will change indeed, but not like the fool raved. In a few days, our fine king will meet with all the sad estates, and our excellent life will improve. I find your Guillemin boring as a pious priest in a pulpit, this threatening and promise of violence only leads to heavy handed mercenaries coming to Paris, and those men will have their bayonets teach the rabble proper way of conducting the business of respecting one’s monarchs, if the rabble does not heed otherwise.’ Colbert, his fat jowls and powdered wig bent down in deep thought, was nodding, whether in agreement of disagreement, we knew not.

  Adam grinned though. ‘Guillemin is like an angry, spoiled child, which he was, by the way, thanks to mother. Even if he never makes mastership, and has to work and slave for me, eventually, he should think about his fine family. He should look after that delicious wife of his, Henriette…’ Madame Fourier stopped him quickly, and nodded at our general direction. They noticed us, and went quiet, apparently trying to decide what we heard.

  ‘Jeanette? Gilbert?’ Colbert asked, gesturing like a lord for us to step forward, wiping sweat. ‘Have some most brilliant wine, though just a bit.’ We walked up to the garden, enjoying the smell of herbs and trampled roses, and took pewter mugs of delicious red wine from Colbert. They were eyeing me curiously, and wondered what I had understood. So I humored them.

  ‘Why,’ I asked, after having drunk the wine, savoring the taste, ‘is father not going to make a master? For this forgery? What is that?’

  Gilbert snickered at my side, and answered for them. ‘He will not make a master because my father is far better at the trade. That is why Guillemin is fomenting all this trouble. Criminals need false documents, and he is…’ Adam got up, grunted in rare agreement, and led Gilbert off, smiling at me in a patronizing manner. I hated him, in fact, I hated both of them right then, and could not stand Gilbert for taking a side other than mine.

  Madame pulled me gently next to her, and I sulked, eyeing Colbert with hostility. ‘It is not fair, you know. Have you told him? And the police, they…’

  Colbert nodded, tired of the drama. ‘It is God’s will. Not all are as talented as Adam and I, and that is the way our lord intended things to be. Guillemin knows. You heard us. Possibly, he could work here, still, if the nefarious police do not find proper evidence. If they do, I will throw him out as he deserves. I have my fine reputation to think about, and the untarnished fame of my business. However, I am putting Adam forth as my preferred candidate for the mastership, when I retire, which is soon, perhaps. He needs to create his delicate proof of mastership, but he will, he is good. He has nearly finished it, in fact, and I think it’s brilliant, the book he has bound and devised. I am sorry, but fair it is indeed. Adam has the aptitude for it. You should not complain if you do not work hard enough, no? And if he indeed broke the law? He has to go.‘

  ‘He has been here longer, master,’ I told him sadly, and he nodded, expecting my reaction.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jeanette, I know this will depress and suck some of that happiness we all enjoy from you. He has, and so he should have paid more attention. Much more. I will take care of you if things go as I fear they will,’ he told me, grudgingly, but there was something strange in his voice, and a note of nervousness and regret in the way his hands thrummed his knee breeches.

  ‘How could they go even worse?’ I asked, alarmed.

  Madame Fourier nodded sagely, her thin lips pursed and pulled my face gently near hers. Her breath stank of wine and garlic and I got dizzy, contemplating on rushing away. ‘Your father, child, might go to a dark jail. Moreover, your beautiful mother is not eating enough. She has no coin to buy new bread for all of you, nor even half decent vegetables, and your father, he is spending half of what he earns in the tavern, gambling like an idiot, as is that Claude Antin, and drinking wine, in excess. He spends far more than most fools, they say more than he earns, and likely more than he has made from forgery. Your mother will either starve and get sick, and we do not want that, or you eat but cannot pay the rent. This will not do, for someone has to pay something for everything. Smile, Jeanette, for your great uncle will take care of you, and you will see it is better than starving.’

  I was eyeing them incredulously as I pulled off her. Was such a thing possible? ‘What is better than…’

  Colbert smiled. ‘Your mother will provide. You, when you grow up? Yes, perhaps, though it gives me no joy to think about it, as I have no children of my own, and have enjoyed the wild adventures you and Gilbert have blessed our evening talk with. Now, you have a mother, you are growing up and so things are not hopeless, not at all, by God. Madame Fourier might have errands for her, we will see. Now, go and play, Jeanette. You will be an adult one-day, and face the harsher world. Today, no need.’ I eyed Madame Fourier suspiciously and saw she had a complacent look on her old pinched face and I did not want mother or myself to work for her, whatever it was she did.

  I sat at the stairs for an hour, and then got up quickly as Florian knocked on the door to the sodden street. I opened it and saw his gangly body there, wet from light rain. ‘You never came. I waited and had to lie...’

  I sobbed and he stepped in and hugged me, an astonished look on his face, for we were rarely unhappy. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

  I looked up to his concerned face. ‘We have trouble. Father is suspected of some stupid crime, and mother is starving as we have not enough coin.’

  He shook in surprise, unused to such trouble. His father’s business was doing exceedingly well, and I envied him that for a second. He looked around, thinking about it, and then, slumping in resignation he whispered to me. ‘I can probably steal some sous, I think, maybe. Father uses our savings to buy expensive meat and wine, which he gorges by himself, and he also gambles a great
deal, so if some more is missing, mother will not think I did it.’

  ‘Thank you, but we have to… I don’t know.’ I thought about it, knew it was a bad, horribly bad idea, but I took a deep, determined breath, unable to resist the temptation. I had to see what father was doing. ‘Go home, I have to do something. Is your father in the tavern now?’

  ‘No toppling the people on to the sewers?’ he asked, disappointed. ‘No, he is not at the tavern. Claude is at some foolish guild meeting where they sample sweets and praise each other shamelessly while getting drunk on sugar and wine.’

  ‘No toppling the poor fools today, no,’ I told him sadly, for I had looked forward to it and followed him outside, where the rain was no longer light and coming down steadily and resolutely. I waved at him, forgot him in a second and then I traced my route through puddles and trash towards a tavern I had once seen father entering. I hesitated outside its dirty stone facade, and then I quickly scuttled in through the rotten doors, dodging a meaty bouncer and a communicative drunk having an argument.

  The tavern was seedy. We had often passed it, mocking the variety of drunks exiting it, but never had I thought of going in myself. After a dark and dank entry hall, I saw the main room. Dirty stalls, which were seeping with moist mold, hemmed in the trash of Paris and mocking laughter and loud moans were wafting through dark doors leading to holes I could not see. Men and women walked in and out of them, in various states of dress, and I sneaked forward, wet to the bone. The main room was smoky, the humid air making it hard to breathe, and many boisterous discussions inside the room created incredible, unrealistic echoes. To this day, I remember the faces, toothless and drunk as they regarded me. Someone tried to grab me with a palsied hand, and I instinctively screamed and ran, slipping on the ale sodden straw.