The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  I mourn with you, Second Son Guillaume, for we loved him truly, and only we can understand each other’s depth of sorrow in this moment.

  His last words were of you and of Estelle, although I do not believe either of us has met her. However you described her to him must have made an impression, and she was as real to him as wood, and he loved you both with a full and pure heart, as was his way.

  I realize that I was less of a father to you as Raphaël was your brother, but I want you to know that I am your family, and you are always welcome here. You and your sister, and even your father, are always welcome here. What is mine, is yours. You will always have a home, and a destiny, in Le Cap.

  A Second Father’s Love,

  Papa Pinceau

  Guillaume felt the strangest sensation. It was as if color was a liquid on the world and it suddenly evaporated, leaving everything dull and grey. He simply sat on his bed, the letter resting gently between two of his fingers, until he realized he was cold, and it was dark.

  Over the next few weeks, his attitude did not change. His professors were concerned. The few friends he had were concerned. Guillaume and his class were close to graduating. There was a giddy excitement running through the school that Guillaume did not share.

  Guillaume graduated in a fog. He half-expected Estelle to be there, even though he had not written her. He thought she would somehow know he was graduating, and undertake to be there on her own. He was actually surprised when she wasn’t, and vaguely concerned. His father was not there, but he did not expect him to be. He graduated cum laude, which was quite an honor, but could have done better had he been a more diligent student. Unfortunately, due to his lack of mental discipline, he simply could not apply himself when he was bored.

  After graduation, Guillaume put everything he owned on his bedsheets and tied it all together. He left school, and ambled aimlessly through the city. The smell of fresh bread stopped him. He found himself next to a bakery, open to the street. He realized he was very hungry, and had not eaten in some time. He took all the coins he possessed out of his pocket. He had half a livre - ten sous. It would be enough for a four-pound loaf, with a little left over.

  “Quarter loaf, Monsieur,” he said to the tall, thick, balding baker.

  “Fourteen sous, six deniers,” he replied. Guillaume was dumbfounded. A workman’s daily salary might be twenty sous.

  “Why, that is absurd, Monsieur, “said Guillaume, “How are people eating at all?”

  “They aren’t. Just be glad you are not sick or old,” the baker said grimly.

  Guillaume found himself getting angry, “So the sick and old simply have to die? Of starvation?”

  “I have nothing to do with this, Monsieur.”

  “Then who does? Whose responsibility is this?”

  “The weather was too cold for a good harvest.”

  “Why doesn’t the King help his people in these challenging times? Is he bankrupt? Why is he not flooding the nation with Polish grain? Or better yet, good, dry American flour?”

  He shrugged, “It is the war debt.”

  Guillaume did not realize it, but his voice carried, and a few people had gathered. “You are making too much money from this famine, Monsieur.”

  The Baker saw the crowd, and broke into a sweat. Men had been hung from the lampposts and murdered for such an allegation. “No, no, Monsieur. Far from it. The flour is expensive; therefore, the bread is expensive. That is all. Fetch the police if you wish. They will tell you.”

  “En enfer with the police. Is wheat expensive, as opposed to flour? Why do you not buy wheat, and grind it yourself?”

  “Monsieur, come now” the Baker nervously laughed, “It is expensive to grind wheat, and one needs specialized equipment.”

  “I demand a loaf of merdique bread,” said Guillaume. The baker was a big man, but Guillaume did not care. He was a Mamelouk from Le Cap, and he had killed someone with his bare hands. He was a hairsbreadth away from pulling the baker over the counter, and beating him against the floor.

  “Now, now, Monsieur. I know that you are a good man,” said the Baker.

  “I am no thief, Monsieur! I do not want to rob you. But you will sell me a foutu loaf of bread for nine sous, or I will beat you senseless, take the loaf of bread, and place the nine sous in your bordel de pocket as you lay!”

  There was a moment where anything could have happened.

  But just then, a young man in a warm coat pushed his way through the crowd to the inside of the bakery, “Bonjour, Gabin,” the man said to the baker.

  “Bonjour, Victor,” whispered the relieved Baker.

  Guillaume turned, and saw the man, and the crowd behind him. Now he was properly incensed. If the baker believed the arrival of these people and his friend would change anything, he needed to be disavowed of the notion immediately. Guillaume turned to the new arrival, ready to take him on. But the man was looking at him with a smile, as if Guillaume was his friend and not his foe. He traded similar looks with others in the crowd, as if he had great news of import. The man spoke, “Grenoble is in need. You will never believe this.”

  “What?” asked Guillaume.

  “Do you know of Brienne?”

  “I know of Cardinal Étienne Charles de Loménie de Brienne, the Archbishop of Toulouse, and Controller-General of the King.”

  The attention of the crowd was on him as he replied, “The very same.”

  There was a female snort, “All pagan noble sons need two salaries, one from the church, and one from the Throne. How else to pay for courtesans and coffee?”

  A male voice from the crowd, “We need more cardinals who have never performed mass. It saves on bread.” Dark laughter erupted.

  A woman spoke from the crowd, “What of Brienne?”

  The coated man spoke excitedly, “Brienne is trying to achieve the goals of his predecessor Calonne, and the Assembly of Notables.”

  A man spoke, “What did they suggest?”

  Guillaume answered quickly, “The King appointed Calonne to create an Assembly of Notables to come up with solutions for our financial troubles. Their recommendations were revolutionary, and would help everything: an equal land tax, hiring workers to perform public works, the abolition of internal tariffs, and the creation of real elected provincial assemblies. Brienne took over, and has not proven the man for the job, I will tell you.”

  Another woman, holding a listless, dirty baby, snarled from the back, “What does this have to do with the price of bread, and this foutu baker?”

  Victor took off his hat, and bowed to her, “Madame, it has everything to do with him. Brienne has issued an edict. It is complicated, but it effectively dissolves the Parlements. The nobles can no longer keep their privileges, or block the King’s attempts to tax them. But Grenoble has had enough.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Guillaume.

  “I mean, the judges rejected the edicts. They said the edicts violated the terms that France made with Dauphiné when the two countries merged. But then the King’s men effectively made our leaders sign them into law - at bayonet point, Messieurs et Mesdames, literally at the points of bayonets!”

  Guillaume could hear the crowd muttering, rumblings which were gaining in magnitude. He narrowed his eyes. The King was acting against the privileges of the nobles on behalf of all of France, albeit in clumsy and tyrannical fashion. Why would the townspeople be angry? Are they for the nobles, against tyranny? Did he miss reading a pamphlet?

  A woman shouted, “There is a pamphlet everyone must read. It is called The Spirit of the Military Enforcement of the Edicts of May Tenth!”, and she began to hand them out. Guillaume took one and smiled. “Vive Dauphiné!” she shouted, and the crowd took up the cheer.

  Victor continued, “This would not stand, and it did not! The nobles of the Grenoble Parlement and the city councilors have rejected the edicts. Brienne has sentenced them to exile! Brienne has exiled the Grenoble Parlement and the Grenoble city council... from Grenoble
!”

  The crowd was growing more agitated - and, looking around, Guillaume saw shops were closing and men and women armed with axes, shovels, and staves were marching down the street - excited by some prior exhortation, some prior reading. Who knew? It probably had more to do with cold Winters than politics. Anger made people into hammers. Hammers sought nails. Sometimes it was that simple.

  Victor shouted over the din, “Troops are coming to take them away and enforce the exile! We cannot let this happen! With me!”

  With that, the dam broke. Guillaume’s small crowd of onlookers followed Victor and moved away. Guillaume saw that the baker was quickly closing his shop. “Pardon, Monsieur,” said Guillaume quietly, “I’ll give you half a livre now for the loaf, and the rest tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be able to loot something worth a few sous within a couple of hours, the way things are going.”

  “All right then,” resolved the baker. He handed a loaf to Guillaume and took his coin.

  “Merci, Monsieur,” said Guillaume, “I apologize for losing my head. I was very hungry, and the last few months have been regrettable. I-I lost my brother.”

  “It is of nothing, mon ami. Go with God.”

  “Thank you,” said Guillaume. He moved off into the street to join the crowd.

  ***

  Guillaume chewed his bread and waited for the city to unhinge. He read the pamphlet, which was interesting and upheld Grenoble law against tyranny. Men and women ran everywhere, screaming and yelling, and waving staves and axes. At some point, the idiots must have taken the cathedral because the bells sounded out of time, and once they did, they rang continuously and discordantly. Guillaume thought the bells were as good a sign as any. He guessed the best place to procure his four-odd sous was the Hôtel de la Première Présidence, where the Duke of Dauphiné resided. The Duke had authority over the local troops who would be tasked to fulfill the exile orders of the Throne, and his residence would therefore be a target of the mob. He ambled toward it, since it was just down the street from the university school on the Rue Neuve. It was a high building on a square off from the narrow street, and both square and street were already crowded with the mob. Servants were yelling out the upper windows, telling the crowd to disperse. The crowd shouted retorts, and some of them threw stemless roses at the open windows. From the pamphlet, he knew the roses symbolized the three roses on the Grenoble coat of arms, which in turn symbolized the three ruling branches of the city: the bishop, the duke and the city consuls. Guillaume marveled. It was centuries since Grenoble was independent, yet here was all the patriotic fervor of Thermopylae spearmen.

  Guillaume noticed wealthy townhomes set against the walls of the city, directly across the street from the Hôtel on Rue Neuve. He imagined the inhabitants of the townhomes probably were more inclined in sentiment toward the duke, rather than the mob, and were, most likely, properly terrified over the morning’s events. Guillaume strode to the front door of a townhome, bold as brass, and dropped the knocker four times. There was no answer, and he dropped it four more. Finally, a pipsqueak of a voice from an old man was heard behind the door, “Go away! Leave us in peace.”

  “Yes Monsieur, that is precisely what I need to speak with you about. If you could but open the door.”

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “No, Monsieur. I am only a guard.”

  “A guard? For whom?”

  “For you, Monsieur.”

  “I hired no guard.”

  “Precisely, Monsieur. But you need to. Right now. If you do not believe me, look out your windows.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Guillaume did not think the man was looking out his windows because he believed the man knew exactly what was happening. The man was calculating, that was all. He was finally heard again. “We don’t have any money.”

  “That’s all well and good, Monsieur. My rate is only one livre an hour.”

  “That is highway robbery.”

  “No, it is the best money you will spend all year, Monsieur. I guarantee it.”

  “How do I know you will stay?”

  “You will pay me at the conclusion of every hour. I am just graduated from the university school, Monsieur. I am an honest man, and a fearless one. No harm will come to you while I am here.”

  There was a moment of silence, then the old man spoke, “Very well.”

  “I will begin my post. If you have something to drink, that would be marvelous.”

  “All I have is well-water.”

  “And it is appreciated. As long as it is pure and clean.” Guillaume sat down in the middle of the steps, so no one could pass without confronting him first. The water was brought out by a young maid, quivering with fear. “Thank you,” Guillaume said, and she disappeared behind the locked door without a word.

  But his attention was pulled to the scene across the street. The crowd was surging in and out of the Hôtel. The servants of the duke, police and soldiers were pushing them back, and were in turn pushed inside. More soldiers were showing up, but were still outnumbered. They looked like Marines from the Régiment Royal-La-Marine, based nearby. The Marines had their rifles slung, it was just a pushing match, not even to the level of good tavern brawl. As more Marines showed up, however, the situation seemed to get worse, not better.

  Guillaume was becoming increasingly angrier. It had been over a foutu hour, yet the door had not been opened again, and he had not been paid. The damné insolence! Did they not know the danger they were in? Did they not see what was happening right outside their door?

  A knot of four young men walked by. One of them grinned at Guillaume, “Having fun, Monsieur?”

  “Guard duty,” he replied, “But my thoughts are half-way to kicking in the door.”

  “As you were then, Soldat,” the man said and saluted. The rest laughed and joined the fray.

  People were coming from both directions. It wasn’t just Marines and townspeople. Peasants, wet from swimming the Isère, were showing up in knots and bolts. The noise, amplified by the tall buildings, was getting ridiculously loud.

  A flying, fist-sized stone nearly brained Guillaume. He stood immediately, and looked for the culprit. No one was holding rocks, no one was looking in his direction. He sat back down, one step higher, and held the stone in his right hand. Whoever was throwing stones was going to get a hard surprise.

  Fifes and drums were heard as the mob was pushed southwest. Soon an organized company of Marines appeared from around the bend to the north. The second rank had bayonets on their rifles, while the first did not, and pushed the crowd back with barrel pokes. They were led by a young officer on horseback. Slowly they were making their way to the Hôtel, forcing the mob to retreat. Soon they made the square – but now there weren’t enough Marines to completely clear the space. The mob clung to the south walls and moved west. A chant of “Dauphiné! Dauphiné!” shot up from the crowd. The closer to the Hôtel the soldiers came, the more violent the action. By the time they were in front of Guillaume, the violence had now escalated beyond the level of a brawl, and was gaining intensity. But every time one member of the mob took a barrel-jab to the face, had enough and stepped back, three more took his place.

  Guillaume wasn’t having fun anymore. He stood and watched, a bit horrified, but not sure which side he was on. He knew the mob was composed of idiots, fighting on the wrong side of everything, but somehow the sight of them being roughed up by the soldiers - who were increasingly angry and violent - was not sitting well in his stomach. Except for the push-pull at the Hôtel entrance, the citizens of Grenoble had only been throwing flowers and epithets. Now there was blood aplenty, coming from broken noses and knocked out teeth.

  Space opened up between the soldiers and the mob, right in front of the Hôtel. The soldiers were screaming and the crowd was cowed – except for an old man, very old, perhaps in in seventies, who moved toward the line of soldiers. He tried to fight past the front ranks but didn’t have the strength to do much. He did grab a man�
��s musket, and would not let go. The soldiers, try as they might, could not dislodge his grip. Soon a member of the second rank came forward and helped, and finally the old man’s grip was broken and he was thrown back. He made the mistake of rushing forward again, and found himself accidentally impaled on the second rank soldier’s bayonet. The soldiers pushed him away. He fell to the ground, and soon after his shirt turned bright red from the wound. Men from the crowd bolted out, grabbed the wounded old man, and quickly pulled him to safety.

  Guillaume moved forward on instinct.

  It was now only Guillaume who confronted the Marines. The soldier from the second rank, the one with the bloody bayonet, turned to Guillaume and snarled, “Get back, fils de salope!”

  There was something about being violently confronted by a man, blood on the ground, being yelled at - whatever mix of present factors and recent history - but Guillaume snapped. He threw the stone at the soldier. It hit him hard in the face, badly cutting him open. He went down, clutching his cheek.

  Now time stood still. The mob was well-back from the soldiers. Guillaume was fifteen feet from the nearest uniform. He was alone, totally alone, as the soldiers turned to face him. They were together a tableau for the mob, who were now transfixed spectators.

  Guillaume found himself without fear. He was not only fearless, he felt a surge of power through his veins as if he was utterly indestructible, as if this moment - where his life hung in the balance, completely outgunned and outnumbered - was empowering. Everything was clear and uncomplicated. There was no shame, no humiliation, no wretched mix of conflicting emotion. Everything was black and white, simple. A musket ball could kill him, but it could not make him feel ashamed. A bayonet could pierce his heart, but it could not break it. There was nothing here that could injure him in a meaningful way, only in ways he did not care about at all. Without thinking, he felt himself take two steps forward. The soldiers raised their rifles.