Spirit of Lost Angels

by Perrat, Liza

  ‘But surely it’s dangerous for you to be at the Palais-Royal?’

  I smiled, patting my scarlet curls. ‘Even you must admit, this disguise is effective. My actress-maid is a makeup adept. She taught me theatrical tricks to change the contours, even the colour, of a face.’

  Claudine’s eyes widened. ‘You wanted to go back to the Palais-Royal. You still have revenge on your mind, n’est-ce pas? You must stop!’

  ‘He has to be punished,’ I hissed, waving her away. ‘Please don’t worry for me.’

  My friend shook her head, her face grim. ‘I can do, or say, nothing more for you. You dig your own grave.’

  Her shoulders hunched over her stout body, Claudine strode off across the courtyard without looking back.

  ***

  ‘It’s no surprise the assembly of notables baulked at Calonne’s deficit,’ cried the orator addressing the Palais-Royal crowd. ‘Since the very assembly is composed of the system’s social and political elite!’ The man stood on the sun-drenched café terrace, one foot placed before the other, just like my dear father.

  ‘But Calonne’s tax reform plan was our only solution,’ another man shouted. ‘He even had the King’s backing.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the speaker said, ‘but the people still suspect our enormous financial strain was Calonne’s fault.’

  I sat in the shade of the chestnut trees, listening to the debate about the exiled finance minister. Since I no longer worked in the restaurant, I enjoyed spending many hours in the cafés listening to the speakers — the perfect place to continue my education and remove myself, as far as possible, from my peasant-girl roots.

  I was enjoying a glass of wine with a refreshing soupe aux cerises, and tinkering with my plume, jotting thoughts down as the muse came, when a man stumbled over a chair leg. He almost landed in my lap.

  ‘Goodness, excusez-moi, madame,’ he said in a strange, accented voice. ‘How clumsy of me.’ The tall, angular man repositioned his hat. He took my book he’d knocked to the ground, and placed it back on the table.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ I asked. ‘Please, if you need to sit down.’ I gestured at the empty chair opposite me.

  ‘Why thank you, madame.’

  I dipped my head, curious about the peculiar accent as the man sat.

  ‘A popular spot, it seems.’ As he waved an arm across the crowded café and nodded at the speaker, I saw he held his right wrist awkwardly, as if it had been injured and never healed properly.

  ‘All the cafés are crowded these days,’ I said. ‘Especially when there is talk of political and financial trouble.’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ the man said, glancing at the title of my book he’d knocked from the table. ‘Ah, The Social Contract. Does madame find it of interest?’

  ‘Oh yes, very interesting. Rousseau argues against the idea that monarchs were divinely empowered to legislate,’ I said. ‘That only the people have such an all-powerful right.’

  ‘I hope to read it myself, shortly,’ the man said, eyeing my paper of scribbles. ‘So, you write too, as well as read, madame? May I be so bold as to ask about what?’

  ‘It is a script,’ I said. ‘For a play. About oh, lots of things — class differences, the health of the mind, women’s rights.’

  ‘The rights of women? Well that is a very bold thing to write about. Alas,’ he continued, shaking his head. ‘Even though I have learned to speak your lovely language, I remain the awkward novice at writing it.’

  I tapped the end of my quill against my bottom lip. ‘In what language do you write then, monsieur?’

  ‘Why English, naturally, madame. I am American. Please let me introduce myself.’ He stood and tipped his hat to me. ‘Monsieur Thomas Jefferson, ambassador to the French Court.’ He took my hand and kissed the back of it.

  ‘Mademoiselle Rubie Charpentier, playwright,’ I said, feeling the heat of the day heighten in the flush of my cheeks.

  ‘Well, perhaps the delightful Mademoiselle Charpentier would care to share a cup of the famed mocca they pump up through the columns of the Café Mécanique?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Purely to observe this engineering ingenuity, of course.’

  My blush deepened and I lowered my eyes, fidgeting with my papers and shuffling them about on the table.

  ***

  My dear Madame Collier,

  I am happy to hear you have arrived safely in London. Sorry for my late reply, but I have been busy visiting all the sights of the capital you recommended.

  I understand why you advised me to eat in that particular restaurant of the elegant Palais-Royal, which the people call the capital of Paris — the greatest bordello in Europe — where any desire can be had from the most depraved debauchery to the heights of learning about physics, anatomy, poetry … anything the heart desires. Naturally, those of the noblest tastes frequent it.

  Some say the Duke of Orléans transformed his palace into the centre of Paris’s political and social intrigue simply to get back at the King and Queen, who constantly suspect him of anti-royalist sentiment. I suppose however, standing so close to the throne, it is natural our rulers treat him as treacherous, hypocritical and selfish.

  Despite his outward scorn for Marie Antoinette’s lavish, immoral lifestyle, I see the duke as a man of the people, in touch with their moods and concerns.

  I have been attending the theatres of the Palais-Royal, admiring our mutual friend’s acting talent, though I think most of the scripts are trite, ridiculous even, which has led me to doodling with my own ideas.

  So, my friend, you are not the only one writing stories. It seems as if my entire repressed lifetime has found release in words. As we enter the height of summer, in this new age of enlightened thinking, of questioning our archaic social mores, I see prose as the ideal vehicle to impart my ideals to others.

  An incident, which may have reached you on the English shores, inspired my first play. At a Palais-Royal party, an attempt was made on the life of a certain marquis. It was not apparent why this elegantly-dressed woman failed to pull the trigger. Possibly the disciplines on which she was reared held her back, who knows? I suppose, fundamentally, we can’t change. We can merely present varying public facades, which remain, in essence, superficial.

  Anyway, all scandals aside, my friend, I must tell you of an event you may find exciting, I certainly did.

  Several weeks ago I met a most charismatic gentleman in a café. It transpired he is Monsieur Thomas Jefferson, American ambassador come to Paris to negotiate trade treaties with the European powers.

  I could hardly believe a man of such importance took the time to speak to an ordinary woman such as myself. Apart from being an amateur architect, he is also an avid reader and theatregoer, and we had an interesting conversation.

  Since then, despite his time and presence being in such demand, we have spoken together over coffee one morning, and agreed to help each other: I am to teach him to write French and he will help me learn English. All you have told me about Great Britain inspires me to visit one day, so I am keen to learn the language. Anything English is also very fashionable in Paris, and we’re all becoming, as Monsieur Jefferson says, Anglomaniacs!

  I am quite excited to meet him again. After all, you did urge me to make the most of my stay in Paris, and amuse myself!

  I leave you, my friend, with that last thought, to return to my script.

  By the way, you didn’t mention your husband in your last letter. I trust he is well?

  I have the honour to be your friend,

  Mademoiselle Rubie Charpentier

  34

  ‘I imagine you’ve heard about the death of the princess?’ I said to Aurore, as I drew back the pastel green drapes, a blast of summer sun flooding the parlour.

  ‘You mean Sophie-Beatrix?’ Aurore placed a fresh fruit salad on the table. ‘Yes, we hear every last thing about our loathsome Queen.’

  ‘The child hadn’t even reached her first birthday,’ I said, sweet flesh spurting into m
y mouth as I bit into a cherry. ‘Her poor mother, there is nothing more tragic than the loss of a child. Apparently the Queen is devastated and spends hours weeping over her baby’s body.’

  ‘Poor mother?’ Aurore’s spoon clattered to the table, chunks of plum and strawberry flying about. ‘How can you feel sympathy for that hateful Austrian, whose face is set in stupidity and contempt for us, her diamonds flashing like naked blades? All she does is hurtle our country closer and closer to financial ruin.’

  ‘I understand how you feel, Aurore, I too have seen the Queen’s scornful face in street processions, but even so there is no worse tragedy. And for that, Marie Antoinette has my empathy.’

  ‘Well I for one am glad we don’t see much of her anymore,’ Aurore said. ‘And on the odd occasion she does go outside Court, she is met with silence, or hisses. The public simply shun her these days.’

  ‘I wouldn’t venture out either,’ I said. ‘If all those insulting pamphlets and songs going around the cafés were about me.’

  ‘She deserves it.’ Aurore finished her fruit salad, and stood to get ready to leave for the theatre.

  ‘Wait, I have something to show you.’ I placed a stack of papers in front of her. ‘My first play.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Aurore said as she flipped through the pages. ‘You know I cannot read well enough to understand this.’

  ‘The oldest of themes — the poor fighting against the rich. Satire, Aurore, social messages disguised in simple drama. I know you cannot read perfectly, but I hope this will spur you on to learn more. For if you can’t read the script, how will you play the leading role?’

  ‘Leading role?’ She frowned. ‘You know I only do vaudeville — the high-wire. I don’t play real parts.’

  ‘Don’t you want to become a famous, well-paid actress?’ I said, lifting my eyebrows. ‘I am sure my play will cause such social rumblings, you cannot help but be noticed.’

  ***

  My dear Rubie,

  What marvellous news you send me, especially about the distinguished American gentleman, whose attentions are, I imagine, in great demand.

  How exciting also, to hear of your play. One day I’ll be back in Paris and take great pleasure in watching your works.

  You ask after my husband. I have no idea where the scoundrel is. Run off with another of his women friends, I suppose. His female entourage seems to think he’s in possession of some great wealth, though I have no idea why. How disillusioned they’ll be, when they discover he has nothing, and is as poor as the next person. My husband was always too stupid to hang onto any sort of wealth.

  Never mind, you know I never really loved the man. Besides, I now have a new, and admirable, lover. Having suffered himself, at the hands of those who wield the power, he is a great inspiration for my writing.

  So the rumours were true about the Marquis de Calonne, finance minister exiled to Great Britain, taking up with the infamous woman of the necklace affair. I smiled to myself. How typical of Jeanne.

  I continue to enjoy my stay in London, with its offerings of domestic bliss and peaceful conduct. Of course, the French could also enjoy such things if only they would give over these silly games of luxury and appearance, which are simply a waste of energy and money.

  The English seem happy too, with their government, which, while still enforcing the law, respects the rights of the people. They have finished with civil disorder and emerged triumphantly enlightened from their crises. Enlightenment, that’s what we French can learn from them.

  I continue my story-writing with delight, and will shortly publish the first one.

  I have the honour to be your friend,

  Madame J. Collier

  I refolded the letter. Enlightenment. Yes, Jeanne, how I craved for that too, almost as much as I hankered for justice.

  ***

  ‘Let us celebrate the Assumption of Mary,’ the parish priest cried, glowing in his holiday vestments of gold embroidery.

  The stifling August heat had done nothing to deter the crowds. My companion, Monsieur Jefferson and I managed to find a spot in the dappled shade of a linden tree, but the sweat still trickled down my neck, and the sun scorched my head through my straw hat.

  ‘It’s like being back in my village,’ I said. ‘Every August 15 we celebrated the Festival of the Blessed Virgin. Our priest always reminded us she is as important as God.’

  Monsieur Jefferson waved away a humming bee. ‘And what village might that be, Mademoiselle Charpentier?’

  I stirred the gravel with the toe of my shoe. ‘Oh, it is about a week from Paris, if your coach is a good one and doesn’t break down or have an accident.’

  As the priest continued, I was reminded again of Père Joffroy’s cassock dancing about as he waved his arms at his congregation.

  ‘Having completed the course of her earthly life, the Virgin Mary was assumed, body and soul, into heavenly glory!’ the priest cried.

  His voice rising with his conviction, I felt a pang of yearning for Lucie, and a deep ache for Madeleine, but I could not forget Léon’s treachery — what prevented me from returning.

  As I waved away the flies and heat with my fan, squinting against the scorching sun, I vowed one day, despite Léon Bruyère, I would find a way to return to those earthy tendrils binding me to Lucie-sur-Vionne.

  The ambassador and I had taken his private coach earlier to attend a play at a château just outside Paris. We’d not planned on participating in these celebrations, but caught up in the fervour, we joined the people lining the street cheering and clapping as an effigy of Our Lady and the Divine Child rumbled along on a cart heavy with flowers, ribbons and fruit.

  ‘You French certainly know how to celebrate,’ Monsieur Jefferson said, smiling down at me. I didn’t think I’d ever met a man as tall as he, or as well mannered, and I felt quite safe, by his side.

  ‘Feast days take up almost a quarter of the year,’ I said. ‘Well, they did in Luc … in my village. It was a time when everyone forgot their worries in food, dancing and telling tales.’

  I gazed across the vast swampy marshland in the distance, the rural scents of fresh hay, of flowers and sun-baked earth catching in my nostrils, even though we were but a short distance from the stink and filth of Paris.

  ‘You’re certain you don’t want to attend the sermon?’ Monsieur Jefferson asked, as we stepped back into his coach for the ride home.

  I shook my head and settled into the leather seat. ‘At one time I would have entered a church with pleasure, but not now.’

  ‘At one time?’ he said, as we swayed to the soft thud of the horses’ hooves on the baked ground. ‘What changed?’

  ‘No single thing,’ I said. ‘Life, I suppose, growing up.’ Of course the well-brought-up daughter of deceased silk merchant, Maximilien Charpentier mentioned nothing about prison, and how that alone hardened and changed a person, and made them question the ways of God.

  ‘And education,’ I went on. ‘Like you, Monsieur Jefferson, I am a great reader. Recently I managed to acquire a copy of Le Dictionnaire Philosophique, which has been most instructive.’

  ‘But isn’t that banned in France?’ he said. ‘All copies burned on town squares?’

  ‘Not all copies,’ I said with a smile. ‘I have a special book trader who, for a good price, seems able to procure whatever reading matter you desire.’ I leaned closer to my companion. ‘I heard it whispered in a café — the author is our own Voltaire.’

  Monsieur Jefferson nodded. ‘Ah yes, I have read his works. So, how does it appeal to you?’

  ‘I think it is his scepticism,’ I said, as the coach rumbled on. ‘How he believes in a God; in a religion without church or politics. And while I do retain my faith in God, I now see the Catholic Church as a hypocritical and sometimes harmful institution — a place where the feeble-minded worship a piece of bread!’ My mind clouded with the memory of my father’s battered body, of my mother being dragged, screaming, across the muddy riverba
nk, her eyes wild and searching me out, her hand pressing the angel pendant into my mine.

  My fingers strayed to my neck, feeling for the little bone carving as if it were still there. Even in its absence, I felt the warmth prickling my fingertips, the comfort stealing through me. I concentrated on that strength to calm my voice.

  ‘My mmother was ex-executed for doubting the existence of God.’

  Monsieur Jefferson’s brow creased. ‘How tragic.’

  ‘Like Voltaire, though,’ I went on, ‘for some people I believe organised religion is necessary. When disaster strikes, it is often a person’s only consolation.’

  The smoke raged in my nostrils again, and I cringed from the lightning, the soaring flames, the twisted wood and two small, blackened skeletons. ‘Oh yes, Monsieur Jefferson, the Church has its place but I, personally, have no need for it any longer.’

  I realised then, the smoke I smelt was no memory. Great brown palls of it curled into the sky from somewhere in the distance. As we approached the city gates, I craned my neck, but could see nothing. It was probably just another shop fire.

  A green-coated clerk stopped us at the toll gate, or barrière as we now called them, since building on the hated Farmers-General Wall had started.

  ‘Anything to declare?’ The tax farmer stared at us, and must have realised it was Monsieur Jefferson in his private carriage, because he merely nodded and waved us through the toll gate.

  ‘He dares not search us for taxable goods,’ I said, squinting into the fierce ball of setting sun throwing its orange-grey haze over the city. ‘Oh the advantages of being important, unjust as that is.’

  As we approached the Pont Neuf from the left bank, to cross the river and reach my apartment, the coach jostled with others down the narrow streets.

  ‘I was brought up an Anglican,’ Monsieur Jefferson said, ‘and while I consider myself a Christian, I have come to view the Church as the principal agency enslaving the human mind. I firmly believe separation of church and state is a necessary reform of this religious tyranny which punishes and denies rights to those who are not of that religion.’