Alaric Longward - Cantiniére Tales) Read online

  Marie-Louis stopped me, and on a practical suggestion from her I tied Gilbert’s shuddering hands with some stray pieces of rotten rope across his chest and did some simple knots around his legs. I growled at a sneaky rat staring at our suspicious activities from a broken crate, not far. Done with the knots, we nudged Gilbert’s body, groaning with the effort, until he was nearly all in, and I stopped, before he could fall. He was my cousin, and I had liked him, sometimes. ‘Must not hesitate, girl,’ said Marie-Louise sternly. ‘Not now.’

  ‘Jeanette, that is my name. I am sorry, I just need to do something,’ I said, feeling panic and remorse, hoping against my better judgment he would be my friend again, as I took cold, filthy water with my trembling hands, and threw it on Gilbert’s savaged face. He sputtered, his eyehole bloody, and tried to get up, hitting his fool forehead on the roof of the dark hole, and I had to redo the process of revival, for his tangling eye must have been very painful. He came to slowly.

  He growled, his one eye smoldering at me from the darkness. ‘What are you doing, you bitch! You will go to jail for this, I will see to it,’ he told me, hissing like a bound demon, his eye flickering between me and Marie-Louise, who was grinning at him with strange pleasure. She would give him no mercy and she shrugged at Gilbert. He saw Marie-Louise’s stubborn, murderous face, and a note of fear entered his voice. ‘Wait, I…’

  I opened my mouth and closed it and he abandoned his sentence and instead was struggling desperately. We stared at each other, and he was unable to say he was sorry, and so was I. Marie-Louise shrugged. ‘Not sure what you expected, girl,’ she said. ‘I was raped by such as he, and know they will never be different. Angry and imperious they are, no kindly human emotion evident in them, but soon, this one will be doing his deeds in hell. Let him go and find some likeminded company with the rats and devils of the darkness below.’ I nodded heavily, my mind finally made up. I had hoped to ask him to let the thing lie for we were cousins, and even if I disliked him now, it had not always been so. Nevertheless, he had already answered me. He would have none of that, and he would not be sorry. If he survived that night, my future with Gilbert would have no peace, only terrible punishment. I gritted my teeth and found the power from his malicious face to kill him.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you I envy you,’ I told him, thrusting all pity aside.

  ‘Envy me, you crazed fuck? Why?’ he asked, blood trickling to his face. ‘I cannot see with my other eye!’

  ‘Your eye is rat feed. I envy you,’ I said, ‘for you get to take a bath. I have not had one in weeks, thanks to our fucking fathers and our poverty.’ He swooned from pain and fear as we nudged him, and we pushed him further, until his legs were kicking wildly in terror. Then Marie-Louise helped him along using the sturdy stick I had clobbered Gilbert with until he slipped from my grasp. We heard a shriek, then finally a hollow plunge, and then nothing more. We stayed there, listening, and the rat mimicked my movements as I turned my head this way and that, trying to hear if he moved down there.

  Nothing.

  Finally, the rat gave me an approving look, ran past us to the gaping hole, and I leaned on a dirty wall, vomiting again. I was scared to death, to the bone. Marie-Louise clapped by back, and took me aside to where she slept under a broken bit of roof, amidst a heap of old clothing and bedding. She put her kind hands around me, and so I slept in the street. Next morning Marie-Louise woke me up, told me she was going to find some decent food to steal and hugged me gently, and we said nothing as I went home, knowing we had a bond beyond any words. When I got home, mother hugged me fiercely, worried, ashamed for her uncovered secret, saying nothing about that. Downstairs Adam began his guild mastership happy, singing, little knowing I had taken part of that happiness away.

  I had tried to kill for the first time. I hope you never have to, Marie, but if you do, do not fail miserably, dear. Do not fail at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  We had no time to talk about the deeds of the night, for she had to go to her filthy work that cold morning. We did not look at each other, but she nodded, and I knew that come evening, much had to be decided. I would not be a whore, and I was deeply ashamed she was. She saw this, as she left, but she had no choice and Julie and Jean were a constant reminder of this, but I disapproved it, nonetheless.

  By early afternoon, she was not home yet, and Florian and I went to fetch bread from the baker. Florian, who had been seeing Gilbert far more than I had, was asking after the bastard, but I shrugged, somehow fey and fatalistic. ‘Perhaps he drank too much last night,’ I told him, thought myself clever and giggled hysterically. He laughed, uncertainly, but did not ask more. I did not press him if he had known the truth; he had tried to shield me, and in some small way, I was very grateful to him.

  We found the bread; we were lucky for the harried baker had some left, though it was moldy and tough, barely edible and expensive. I resisted the base impulse to have my share early, but Florian gave me some of his, and I ate a bit. Going back home was terrible, a route of fear, each step regretful and heavy, my mind trying to find ways to make the trek slower. I let Julie and Jean run carelessly around, delaying us until Florian had to speak up. ‘I have to go, Jeanette,’ he said, hoisting Julie. He said it impatiently, but even then I stopped to admire a fanciful mechanical box, operated by a man with appalling teeth. It was magical, the man said, a box where fine pictures from far away places could be seen. I could not pay to see, but stayed to admire the lacquer work of the box. Finally, Florian was pulling at me. I nodded as I gathered my lingering courage and followed him home, where we parted. I had lived in morbid fear all day, as I half expected to see Gilbert when I got there, but instead I heard a song. The song I heard was not Adam’s happy song. It was uncanny and sounded like a song from far away times, forlorn and haunting, a song of loss, a song of lament. It came from the second story, and as I pressed my face to the door of Adam’s apartment, I heard his wife Sara sing and cry.

  Gilbert had not come home.

  I stood there for a long time, wondering at what to do. Should I go and find if he still lived? But the twins and mother would suffer if he were found, dead or alive. I went upstairs slowly, and Henriette was there, her face grave, as she gathered Julie and Jean to her. She knew Gilbert was missing. ‘Where is he? They came to ask about him as I got home. Do you understand how dangerous this is?’ She said, as she shook me. I cried bitterly and she let go of me, and sat down slowly. We did not say anything for a while as if both understood that we had to calm down, think, and make decisions.

  ‘Mother?’ I asked her finally and she looked startled. Jean was saying my name happily, and I took him on my lap. We stared at each other, for a long time. We shared a moment of despair and knew we only had each other.

  ‘If you ever see your father, can you, dear, please shoot him. Do it so that you are in no danger, but shoot him, love,’ she said in apparent seriousness. I smiled, she smiled back and we laughed harshly, and the twins, uncertainly, joined in. We had some bread, thin soup, not much of anything, but for a second, we were happy with what we had, content at not talking about the future. We were waiting for the impending and likely savage judgment, and dreading the outcome of the tragedy developing downstairs. Adam’s voice rose, and Henriette’s face twisted in hate. She eyed me, took a deep breath and ended our momentary peace. ‘He will come to ask you soon, dear. Where is Gilbert?’

  ‘I do not know mother, I…’

  ‘Where… is… Gilbert?’ she asked sternly, all humor gone from her voice.

  I swallowed and struggled. Unbelievable lies sprung to my mind, sad excuses, and unlikely ways to avert mother’s questions. It was not my fault, for it was a frustrated robber who pushed him to Seine after Gilbert fought back, or a pack of starving dogs ate him, munching his cadaver to the bone. Or perhaps a wagon rode over him, and then another, as many as it takes to pulverize his remains. It could be that he enlisted in the army, or that a gang of lusty sailors raped him, and he liked it so
much he joined the navy. I actually giggled as I thought of that one, but then, seeing mother’s incredulous eyes, I shrugged, I let go of such stories, deciding against lying.

  ‘He went mad after I pushed him. Drunk he was, and he tried to do something terrible to me, and I did not enjoy it, and so I dropped him to a hole in the street. I guess he drowned, or something. In any case, I am not all that sorry.’ I looked defiant, swallowing bile of terror, and I was a liar, for Gilbert’s fate haunted me. I knew it. I got up, put Jean on the floor, where he promptly tottered towards the still hot ashes in the fireplace, and I picked him back up, struggling for he was growing strong. Henriette walked back and forth. She opened the window and looked down to the street.

  ‘I’m most sorry I could not protect you, I failed as a mother,’ she said, as if to no-one special.

  ‘You did not,’ I told he tiredly, but knew suddenly I deeply resented her profession. ‘And I do not know why we don’t just go,’ I said, with a hint of accusation in my voice.

  ‘We have no money! I told you,’ she said, also getting angry. ‘Foolish child. Madame Fourier is running the whorehouse, and here, she watches us, and so we cannot easily run, for she and Colbert have ways to find us. And if we did manage it, with two babes? You would starve. The lot of a beggar…’

  I got angry. ‘Is cleaner than that of a whore. I’d rather beg and steal.’

  She took a step forward, her eyes incredulous. ‘What did you say?’ She asked in a small voice.

  ‘I will never submit something like that, not if it means someone has to starve. .’

  ‘Ungrateful little monster,’ she said and slapped me hard and I cried for it, fighting back the tears, but could not, but she did no console me. She sat down to think and I was afraid she would go and leave us and I cried bitterly until after a very, very long time she came and hugged me resentfully and I clutched her hard.

  She rocked with me, back and forth. ‘It’s a mother’s lot to suffer first shit, then piss, no matter what she does, but I cannot blame you for airing what I myself think. I have thought of a suicide for the shame I feel every waking moment, and stiff drink to drown the haunting memories of the things I have done, but still I endure. They will come here soon, dear,’ she said, holding me and looking into my eyes, as if willing me to understand. ‘They will ask the questions, and we can lie, and we will suffer, no matter if they believe or not. We have Jean and Julie to take care of, and now, you will serve the same heavy duty I have, to keep us all safe. Whatever they will decide to do, we have to endure it. But I won’t let them touch you, and if they do try, we shall fight and rather die, and pray some kind soul saves the twins.’

  I shrugged, swallowing, opening my mouth, and then closing it. Jean grabbed Julie’s hair, she showed her displeasure by grabbing his toe and they started to cry the sort of an unreasonable, angry and sad cry so usual to babies. We took them, and consoled them and loved them, and she saw my indecision. ‘What, Jeanette?’ she asked, tired.

  I showed her the watch. ‘Perhaps we should sell this?’

  She took a ragged breath as she looked at the watch, hope rekindled. ‘By God, Jeanette. By God. Yes. I have family in Lyons. Sister, brother. We write. You know this. This might help us reach them, yes! You took it from Gilbert?’

  I nodded, happy at her lifting spirits, the hope like sweetest of nectar for the thirsty. ‘We could go there, maybe? Sell this and just go?’ I asked, bursting with joy.

  She nodded. ‘Tomorrow, love, we think about how to accomplish this. I…’

  The door opened, and the dark, looming presence of Adam was standing there, having sneaked up the usually noisy stairs. He was dressed in a silk coat, drunk from sorrow and wine. He walked in, his erect spine making him look like an arrogant cock, and he eyed me darkly. He took a swig off a loosely held wine bottle in his ink-spattered hand. Then he saw the watch in my shaking hands, and I tried to hide it in my skirt, but it was too late.

  His face changed, it went from angry to horrified, from horrified to broken and a tear gathered in his eye, as he realized Gilbert must be dead.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked, slowly, as if coaxing the answer out, trying not to startle me. ‘Where is my son, Jeanette?’ He took unsteady steps inside the room, and tottered to the table, where he placed the bottle. ‘I need to find him. Tell me I can find him.’

  ‘No,’ I said, hating the man for tears that were decade too late for Gilbert and for making my guilt even worse.

  ‘No?’ he asked, dangerously. ‘He took that watch from me, reluctant to wait for it, to earn it. And you have it.’

  I quivered and licked my lips. Mother walked next to me. ‘She does not know. Gilbert…’

  ‘I mean no,’ I said, gathering strength, ‘you cannot find him. Neither can I. He is gone.’

  He howled and pushed Henriette away from me. ‘Gone? He is gone? Very well, I will have another in his place,’ he said darkly, mad with grief and grabbed unsuspecting Julie from her hair as she tottered to greet him. The baby shrieked as Adam shook her in his grasping hand. I rushed forward, terrified for the baby, and grabbed at her, but he slapped me, took both twins and dropped them in the crib. They screamed and cried in terror. Mother came forward, and scratched Adam’s face, but he hit her as well, and she fell, and he turned to me, but fell on a rug as I ran out haphazardly, taking to the stairs. Madame Fourier came out of her room, and looked at me disapprovingly as I grabbed madly at her skirts. ‘Help!’ I screamed. ‘He will hurt them!’

  She rolled her eyes in derision and pushed me away. ‘Your mother always thought too much of herself, girl. I taught her better the first day she worked for Colbert and me. Best just accept your lot, this is the lesson. And do tell him where Gilbert is.’ I spat and pushed past her as she tried to take me, but she was fat and slow. I went to the street, quick as a hunted rat, and tried to find Marie-Louise, running around the terrible alley she had slept at, for she might know what to do. I did not see her, and then I saw the seedy tavern and remembered the soldier.

  I dodged in quickly and ran to the dark, the meaty bouncer cursing after me. The tavern was emptier than usual and so much quieter. People were silently eyeing each other, talking in hushed voices, and I walked forward, looking around. There were two men at the middle table, a very strong man with a savage, thick face, and a weak looking man, with a florid complexion, arguing. Others were quiet, or near it, looking at them expectantly.

  A red haired woman in a greasy apron grabbed me by my shoulder, and pulled me around, eyeing me closely. ‘What do you want in here? Hey, I remember you…’

  I nodded. ‘I am looking for a soldier.’

  ‘You are too young to be flirting with soldiers,’ she scowled. ‘Or the members of the bloody Cordeliers Club.’ Cordeliers Club, the men and women meeting in the crumbling convent, dangerous radicals, demanding the damnable and useless king must be deposed of. She pointed at one man, brutal and thick necked, determined looking man, a large man in a dark jacket, muscular, swinging his fist at the table, yelling like a drunken priest from pulpit on Sunday. He was aiming his powerful words at the smaller man, who was slumped, waving his hand, and apparently disagreeing with the whole topic. ‘Georges Danton. The smaller one, Camille Desmoulins. People here heed them, and they are fomenting trouble. They are lawyers and journalists, beggar poor both,’ she giggled shrilly. The men apparently disapproved this, for both stopped what they were doing, turning to stare at us and their intelligent, driven faces showed curiosity, but the waiter looked down, ashamed.

  So it was I saw the men who would create much harm for the kingdom, indeed, until there was no simpering king and glowering queen to bother them, though they would not enjoy or savor their great victory. There would be many, many men like them, intelligent and fanatic pamphleteers, impoverished lawyers, simple common men who would become famous, men who would incite unrest, men who would fight their fights in the arena of the floors of the Assembly and the winding streets, small rustic tow
ns and the vast countryside of France. There would be famous clubs, radical newspapers and rebellious cafés of great renown, where the equality and brotherhood were the themes, but for me, the revolution equaled the Cordeliers. Cordeliers was one of the first active organizations, Jacobin Club certainly another, but it was not the inciter and pioneer in the art of insurrection the Cordeliers were, even if the Jacobins would become famous for much of the blood that was to flow across France and even Europe.

  Georges Danton and Camille Desmoulins, men in cravats and dark coats, clamoring for a change, were the men I knew, and they did much for the common people, and their courage was to risk all for the change, though perhaps the change they wanted was to benefit themselves the most. When people later on argued about who did the most for the revolution, I smiled and knew it were these two.

  I nodded at the nervous waiter, and took a swift step forward, avoiding her horrified grasp. The larger man was swearing. ‘His highness Mirabeau is doing an excellent job for us by keeping the Third Estate afloat, and I agree that no noble, no matter if they lead our efforts, should be trusted. Yet, for now, he is needed, and we should approach him more firmly.’

  The smaller man, nervous, stuttered. ‘Mirabeau, Mirabeau. That bastard will do what he wants. He must be deposed of, eventually, perhaps already now. We will never achieve anything by the new National Assembly anyway. No equality, no brotherhood, and they will let the king swindle them in the end, and Mirabeau will sell us out for a fancy title. What we need are our common people willing to rise up and act, people who bypass Mirabeau and the king both. The soldiers like our ideas, they hate their officers, you see? We must reach for the masses and the soldiers, not to the limp dicked Mirabeau. Mirabeau will never join us, in fact, we might have to device a way to be rid of him, should he persist.’