*
January in Geneva was colder than anything Jeanne had ever experienced. In the last week of that month the lake froze around the port. Trees crystallised into fantastic ice-sculptures, children played in snowdrifts heaped up by the north wind, and icicles formed under cornices of tall buildings that lined the steep streets leading up to the upper town and Protestant cathedral.
However, the lengthening days meant that Jeanne was able to work longer hours at her loom. The act of producing fabric, something physically useful, not only allowed her to earn a modest living, it kept her mind focused on creation rather than her own ruin. It also saved her from lingering in hope of a letter from Suzanne that never came. She deduced somehow her sister’s correspondence must have been intercepted, unless there was another reason for the lack of tidings.
Of course there were times when she could not keep her thoughts from exploring ways of returning to Montauban to retrieve her children herself. She had not seen them for nigh on two years. However, those deliberations that sometimes came to frustrate her were quickly quashed by her economic reality. She simply had no more means to hire a guide.
But more than this, the extra daylight hours allowed her to invest herself further in her new occupation.
She was now living in third-floor rooms above a bakery that was situated on place du Molard, a busy market place of the lower town that opened onto the lake harbour on the north side. She had wanted to be able to live through her sufferance in her own space, where she could choose to eat, sleep, work, and sometimes cry, as she pleased.
Pastor Duvaux had been supportive about the move. Together they had found the rooms which were well heated thanks to the baker’s oven, and she frankly did not mind the early morning noise. On the contrary, it brought her comfort to hear the bakery in action and the daily rituals of family life going on beneath her.
She did, however, and gladly so, agree to retain her seat at the pastor’s table every Sunday after church. Jeanne found the conversation during these meals helped her better understand Genevese society. And it was during one of these meals that she discovered her new raison d’être.
Jeanne was sitting at the end of the table in her usual place nearest the tiled stove, the place once occupied by the pastor’s deceased wife. When a lady once pointed this out to her, at first Jeanne felt slightly awkward about it. But then her practical sense quelled any feelings of impropriety. The pastor’s wife was dead and she was cold, so that’s where she continued to sit.
To her right sat the deacon, a wiry man with a full head of white hair. Next to him were successively Madame and Monsieur Tagliani – a respected merchant and member of the Council of Two Hundred. The pastor presided at the opposite end of the table and to his right sat the guests of honour, Monsieur Ezéchiel Gallatin and his wife. Gallatin was one of the four syndics elected to form the executive government of the Republic of Geneva. Jeanne noticed the dishes were well garnished. She wondered if this was owing to the importance of the guests or to the extent of Monsieur the Syndic’s prodigious belly. At any rate, the pastor was pulling out all the stops of the organ to get his special guest to rally to his cause.
Both she and the pastor had wanted to question him about the plight of Protestant refugees that would undoubtedly continue to flow into Geneva at a greater rate come spring.
‘I really do not know how much longer we can open our gates to everyone,’ said the syndic who then shovelled a chunk of capon into his mouth using a fork, an unmanly utensil that he had nonetheless learnt to tame on diplomatic missions to Paris.
‘With all due respect, Monsieur the Syndic,’ said the pastor, chuckling cordially. ‘May I remind us all what has in the past bolstered our economy and made our little city prosperous?’
‘I certainly need no reminding,’ said Monsieur Tagliani, seeing as Monsieur the Syndic had his face full. ‘Protestant refugees during the governance of Jean Calvin. And I am proud to say that at least one of my forebears on my mother’s side was among them.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said the syndic. ‘And my great great great great grandfather was a clockmaker from Paris, as you well know. But come, Pastor Duvaux, that is beside the question.’
‘Then what is the question, Monsieur the Syndic?’ said Jeanne with something of her sister’s affable musicality. Dinners with her husband and his clients had taught her that a contestation always had a better chance of hitting home when said with a smile.
‘The question is, dear Madame,’ returned the syndic, turning his head to gradually encompass the whole table. ‘Where are we going to put them all? That is the question!’ He gave a fine twirl of his fork then brought it back to his mouth.
The pastor said, ‘I realise that the relief fund is not inexhaustible; however, many of the refugees have means to rent or to acquire lodgings.’
Jeanne added, ‘At the least, most of them have skills which will allow them to establish and sustain themselves in the long run.’
The pastor continued, ‘Indeed, and those with means will inevitably create work. But if the local workforce cannot meet the demand, then such affluent individuals will move on to enrich Brandenburg and Holland instead.’
Monsieur Tagliani said, ‘Put like that I admit it does make sense for the town to grasp this opportunity as it did under Calvin. And I do not care if the French King’s diplomat wants us to move them on.’
‘You mean Monsieur Dupré. I confess, I am not overly keen on his manners either,’ said the syndic, which gave some relief to Jeanne and Pastor Duvaux.
Otherwise known as the Résident de France, Monsieur Dupré was responsible for conveying to the Genevan authorities Louis XIV’s desire to rid Geneva of Huguenots. Some high-ranking officials were beginning to fear a French invasion if the small Protestant republic did not comply.
As the syndic washed down his food with a quaff of wine, Madame Tagliani, a mouse of a woman but with a certain pedigree, took advantage of the short silence to add her tot of reasoning. She said, ‘Makes me wonder if the King of France realises what a generous windfall he is giving to his rivals.’
‘Well said, Madame,’ said Jeanne who was thinking exactly the same thing.
Indeed, during the short time Jeanne Delpech had been in Geneva the pews of Saint Germain’s church had swelled with tanners, shearers, lawyers, labourers, clock-makers, physicians, weavers and more. No wonder King Louis had made up laws to prevent them from leaving his kingdom. The loss of income from taxes would be considerable, not to mention the drain of talent. That being said, to a certain extent other laws shrewdly made up for the shortfall by allowing the King to confiscate the fortunes of wealthy Protestants who were sent to the galleys.
But Madame Tagliani was right. For the state capable of harnessing such an inflow of expertise, it was surely a windfall, even if not all Swiss cantons saw it that way. Indeed, the fact was, some of them were encouraging escapees to continue their path northward to the more accommodating pastures of Prussia and Holland.
The deacon, a sensible, calculated man and ageing bachelor, said, ‘But the problem remains. Those without means will need time and shelter before they can stand on their own two feet. Or would you rather have them camp outside the city walls?’
‘Certainly not,’ said the syndic, ‘it would look messy.’
It suddenly occurred to Jeanne that a role was waiting to be filled, and filled by her. She had been so centred on her own misgivings that she had not seen what must surely be the reason God had brought her to this cold refuge, pretty as it was. It now all made sense, she had come to serve her persecuted brethren.
She stood up, dropped the facade of affability, and with unshakable conviction she said, ‘Already these people are pushed away in Savoy and some Swiss cantons, we cannot push them away from the very capital of Protestantism, the city of Jean Calvin, the defender of the Reform, and our spiritual leader! We shall call upon the goodness of people’s hearts. And I shall take care of finding the extra space require
d.’
There was no objection to that. On the contrary, the syndic let out a belch of approval. The pastor and the deacon gave her a doting smile, as if their prayers had been answered. She would in effect be removing a thorn from their side, what with the deacon lacking experience with the fairer sex and the pastor no longer able to call on his wife on account of her being dead.
What is more, Madame Delpech had first-hand experience as a refugee. She had a certain standing, had the gift of being able to speak with anyone of any social rank, and had become an active and respected member of Saint-Germain’s church. And of course, most of all she knew about the secrets of womankind and motherhood.
Jeanne sat back down amid encouraging interjections, while the whole table patted their hands.
Her first task would be to garner a list of addresses from churchgoers, where refugees could find a bed and a warm meal until they got settled or continued north.
*
Come February, Jeanne noticed a steady rise in the number of newcomers arriving through the city gates. Once again, the refugee issue was the main topic of conversation on the Genevese marketplace. The authorities were beginning to realise the amplitude of the situation and willingly directed refugees to organisations where they could find assistance.
Weaving on her loom one February morning, her thoughts turned to the grateful young couple — the wife with a baby in her belly — whom she had placed the day before with a church acquaintance.
The patter of footsteps followed by a knock on the door brought her out of her contemplation, and told her it was getting on for noon. Little Denise, the baker’s daughter, aged seven and very proper, every day delivered Jeanne’s bread for which the baker and his wife refused payment. It was their way of supporting the refugee crisis, and hopefully kept Madame Delpech from asking if they could put up a foreigner. Jeanne finished passing the shuttle across the weft, squeezed the warp with the beater and went to open the door.
‘Oh, thank you, Denise, my sweet,’ she said to the little girl, standing in the doorway with a galette of bread and a gummy smile. ‘And how are we this morning? Let me see your tooth.’
The child handed over the bread and showed her two gaps where the bottom front teeth had been.
‘Well, well, what have we here, a little rabbit who has lost her teeth?’
‘Oh no, Madame, not a rabbit,’ said the child who frowned at the thought of being compared to her grandma’s favourite dish, a civet de lapin.
‘Ah, but a pretty little rabbit, though,’ Jeanne continued, and the child’s frown turned into a polite smile. Of course, the lady was not expected to know about rabbit stew, even less about her grandma’s delight for sucking rabbits’ heads.
It struck Jeanne that Isabelle would have all her teeth by now, that she would have suffered teething without the love and patience of a mother. Jeanne had learnt to live with these impromptu flashes which popped into her head at any time of the day, during any activity or event.
She shook the anxiety from her mind as footsteps on the narrow wooden staircase announced another visitor. She recognised the constant and deliberate footfall of Pastor Duvaux.
‘Off you run, my angel,’ she said to Denise. The child ran off, passing the pastor as he came upon the landing.
‘My dear, Madame Delpech, I am sorry,’ he said, doffing his hat as he arrived at the door. ‘We have a father and a son this time. I was out when they called but they left a message. And they asked for you. Your name knows no bounds, my dear. They are waiting at the tavern.’
Her new role, which had enabled her to recover some shreds of self-respect, had come as a blessing to the pastor. He now systematically passed onto her the charge of organising accommodation, food, and other requisites necessary for children, not to mention the female condition. This role he would have delegated to his wife, had she still been alive. Jeanne was careful to not let any misunderstanding creep into their relationship.
‘Then please step inside, Pastor Duvaux, while I put on my coat,’ said Jeanne who crossed the room to her small bedroom. ‘I shall be with you in a moment.’
With the increase of asylum seekers, the pastor was calling more often than before to the extent of her having to delay some of her textile orders. But it was for the right cause, and it was bringing her notoriety and paradoxically more customers.
A few minutes later she was standing before him clad in her outdoor garments with a hat firmly pinned to her head and a heavy woollen shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
‘You might have to take them in for just one night until I check if the captain’s lodgers have vacated their room yet,’ said Jeanne as they stepped out into the freezing street. She continued, ‘A carpenter, his wife and their children from Aigues-Mortes. They have found somewhere down by the river near the mills, a bit damp but I believe it meets their requirements.’
‘Yes, of course, whatever you say,’ said the pastor.
The square was still bustling with shoppers, and barrows, baskets and stalls whose vendors were stamping their feet and clapping half-mittened hands. The day was crisp, an icy chill swept off Lake Geneva, horses and beasts of burden moved in shrouds of vapour that escaped from their muzzles. Jeanne and the pastor quickly wended through the busy lower town, past Madeleine church where they bumped into acquaintances with whom they exchanged polite salutations, and into a wide cobbled lane.
‘I hope the syndic will see reason,’ said Jeanne. ‘We need his support for more temporary accommodation.’
‘I hope so too,’ said the pastor. ‘I fear that, with the spring, the numbers will increase more quickly than we thought. It will be a job to accommodate everyone. Thank goodness you have come to help, dear Madame Delpech.’ Jeanne gave a modest smile but hurried her step. However her quickened pace did not stop his train of thought and he said, ‘You are, if I may say, a perfect godsend!’
She had heard him say it before but was nonetheless flattered, though she made every effort to appear unmoved. She did not want to give him the wrong impression. Moreover, she noticed something new in the pastor’s eyes that gave her a secret cause for alarm, and something more dramatic too in his speech which had faltered uncharacteristically on the last syllables. Was the pastor falling in love? She shut out the notion from her mind as they arrived at their destination.
‘Here we are,’ he said, opening the sturdy wooden door for her. She then let him lead the way into the warm and smoky tavern.
They had entered the spacious room together many times over the past month, always for the same reason, and each time the pastor had to overcome his natural reticence. Such places were often the refuge of corruption and vice, rarely visited by men of the cloth. However, given the present crisis, his presence was tolerated as long as his visit was short and he did not preach.
Jeanne had become familiar with the setting, which she found demystifying and which she would surely not have otherwise known in her life: the nonchalant dog, the blazing fire, the banter of patrons over a table scattered with playing cards, and the blended smells of ale, pipe smoke and broth. A great iron cauldron sat permanently on the stove and was constantly topped up in the morning with meat, carrots, cabbage, onion and dregs of red wine, all peppered with spices and herbs. She remembered how very good and heartening it was, especially after a long and exhausting trek. And every time she entered the place she still felt the sense of comfort of that first time, when she had looked up and saw the pastor’s benevolent smile.
Whatever her frame of mind, whatever her private sufferance, she always made a point of reserving the same welcome even when the stranger’s face did not seem to register it. Nobody knew the inner battles a person was going through, the torments a person had already endured, and she would at least try to radiate a feeling of friendship while keeping a respectful distance. She knew as well as anyone how harrowing and confusing it was to be scornfully rejected in one land and find welcome in another.
As per their habit, they looked
towards the barman, a middle-aged and barrel-shaped man with rugged features. He had a gash from his left cheek to his lip which gave him a grim rictus, a remnant of his soldiering days. But for all his roughness he had heart, Jeanne sensed it.
She had become a familiar face to him now. He noted she was never ostentatious or pompous to the foreigners, she was never haughty or overbearing. He liked her for that, and appreciated her for sensing the kindness in his own soul.
He lifted his eyes, and jerked his head towards the table nearest the fire where the father and son were sitting in front of bowls of stew and a quignon of bread. The pastor and the lady directed their course towards them.
It was often the case during these times of religious persecution that young men would pretext a visit to a distant French town for work, leaving the father with the mother to take care of the family business at home. In this way the family heritage was not given up to the King’s treasury, and the offspring would have the means to start a new life in a Protestant country without being missed.
But in the present case, the arrival of both son and father could only mean that the man must have lost his wife. And Jeanne could now see that the son, who had his back to her, was just a boy.
Halfway across the room she had an awful premonition that shook her confidence. The man sitting in front of the lad looked up. It was Trouvier, the guide whom she had paid and on whom she had counted to bring her daughter to her.
A realisation struck.
‘Oh, my God!’ She held her hand over her mouth. The boy had looked around to face her.
The pastor stepped out of her path as she rushed forward to meet Paul. She let go of all restraint, hot tears streamed down her face.
‘My son, my beautiful boy!’ she cried as the young lad, now nearly as tall as she was, pushed back his stool, stood up, arms open wide, and then buried his cheek into his mother’s bosom.
Merchants of Virtue Page 15