Into the World

by Stephanie Parkyn

  A sense of relaxation, almost happiness, spread through her. She had missed these elements of her former life. A thick mattress, clean sheets. What luxury! She sat on the bed and ran her fingers across the embroidered coverlet, feeling the richness in each stitch. A person of wealth must have owned this bedspread. Girardin felt sure this room had once belonged to a woman. At the end of the bed stood a large wardrobe. She should not look in it, she told herself sternly. It was not her business to poke around in other people’s possessions.

  She tugged open the mahogany doors and released the cloying scent of musty fabric. She sneezed. As she had suspected, the wardrobe was filled with a woman’s gowns. But these gowns were not like those worn here by the Dutch women. They preferred simple dark dresses fastened to the neck, while these gowns were sumptuous and decadent, a reminder of the ancien régime. Sky-blue satins, golden yellows, silks the colour of summer peaches. These gowns belonged to another world, as alien to this island as she was. These skirts could once have swept around the great ballrooms of Europe, perhaps even the court of Versailles. She reached out to stroke the slippery material. This shade of pale blue had been a favourite of Olympe and it reminded her of the day Olympe de Gouges stepped back into her life.

  Marie-Louise was preoccupied with a parasol that was refusing to open and did not see Olympe rushing for her carriage. The two women collided in a swirl of fabric.

  Marie-Louise recognised her instantly. A towering headdress of silver-white curls. Large, dark eyes in a complexion of soft snow. The other woman’s rosebud lips opened to exclaim, ‘Madame Lesserteur!’

  Marie-Louise nodded but did not correct the mistake. By her father’s decree she was once again Mademoiselle Girardin.

  Olympe de Gouges immediately offered her condolences and expressed her sadness that she could no longer visit Café Lesserteur on her travels to Versailles. In another woman the forthrightness would’ve been an attempt to wound or the worst of manners, but Marie-Louise saw no malice in Olympe’s moist eyes. It had been five years since the death of her husband and Marie-Louise was grateful to have Etienne come to life again for a moment in their memories.

  Olympe de Gouge was speaking: ‘Do you ever visit Paris?’

  Marie-Louise shook her head sadly and looked down at her feet. The stitching on the toe of her left shoe was beginning to unravel. She concentrated hard on the little yellow thread.

  ‘You must come to see the production of my play! L’Esclavage des Noirs.’

  ‘My father…’

  ‘Yes, bring your father.’

  Marie-Louise looked up to meet Olympe’s eye. She could not explain that her father would not countenance her friendship with a woman playwright. Respectable families considered Olympe de Gouges to be little more than a prostitute to debase herself so in public. Simply standing here unaccompanied in the street and talking to this woman was arousing whispers that would no doubt arrive back at her father’s doorstep.

  A slight rise and fall of Olympe’s eyebrows was the only sign she made to show she understood. ‘Well, I do hope we can see you in Paris sometime soon.’ She inclined her head in farewell and turned towards her waiting carriage.

  ‘I hope so too!’ Marie-Louise blurted out, suddenly desperate to stall Olympe. Her hand shot out and gripped the fabric of her skirt.

  Olympe paused and turned back. This elegant woman seemed to stare at Marie-Louise for the longest time, appraising her. Marie-Louise knew her waif-like body barely filled the bodice of the dress that had been once belonged to her sister. She felt the pinch of her shoes and the weight of her headdress, which was sliding off-kilter and tilting her neck at an uncomfortable angle.

  Finally, Olympe smiled. ‘Sophie de Condorcet! No one, not even your father, would disapprove of your visiting the wife of the noble Marquis de Condorcet! Sophie will send you an invitation to her salon. All the most exciting thinkers attend our gatherings. You shall join our circle!’

  Marie-Louise beamed back. Standing in the glow of that beatific smile and the infectious enthusiasm, she could imagine no difficulty with the plan. It was only later, after Olympe had bundled up her skirts, climbed into her carriage and waved farewell with a cheerful flick of her fan, that Marie-Louise began to doubt. Waiting for her stepmother with a light rain beginning to fall and her parasol jammed shut, she realised her own folly. She would’ve laughed at herself if she did not feel so wretched. Her father would never let her attend meetings of learned men and women whose education, values and politics were so different from his own. Even if the Marquis de Condorcet were an aristocrat.

  But she had been wrong. Olympe de Gouges had been a better reader of his character than his own daughter. Jean Girardin had seen the chance to further his own ambitions in the connections that his daughter might make. When the invitation arrived, her stepmother had squealed with joy.

  The dress her father had given her was green taffeta. It fitted well, having been made to measure rather than handed down. She had stood in front of the Hôtel des Monnaies on the banks of the Seine, gazing up at the severe façade, too afraid to enter. Inside were the rooms of Sophie de Condorcet and her husband, the Marquis. The words of her stepmother lingered with her. ‘Remember your duty to your father. He could be a man of influence, a burgher of Versailles. Be a dutiful child and think of all he has done for you.’

  Marie-Louise clutched her fan tightly in one hand. To her mortification, the hostess of the salon was informally dressed in a simple shift with a loose scarf wrapped around her shoulders. Marie-Louise felt outdated and awkward in her hooped pomposity. All the more ridiculous to be emulating the ancien régime, she thought, given her humble beginnings. Sophie wore her hair long and loose. She welcomed Marie-Louise warmly with a kiss on each cheek. The Marquis was much older man than his pretty wife; he wore no wig and his silvered hair was receeding. She noticed his face powder was erratically applied and mostly rubbed off.

  Marie-Louise said little, but absorbed much. She met men and women who were witty, sardonic and fearless. They discussed the philosophy of Voltaire and his nemesis Rousseau. They challenged the rules of society and they duelled with one another, turning their words into swords. They saw what was wrong in the world and were prepared to speak it. It was here she learned that the nobility and clergy did not pay tax; only the Third Estate, the workers and peasants of France, contributed to the coffers.

  ‘A nobleman may be utterly and constitutionally mad,’ one said.

  ‘Or a murderer,’ another interrupted.

  ‘But he must not, under any circumstance, demean himself by using his talents in literature…’

  ‘Or law!’

  ‘Or science.’

  ‘Or any productive means of supporting himself and his family—he must not work for a living,’ the man said with exaggerated disgust, ‘for he will immediately lose the privilege of his noble birth and be forced to pay tax the same as any snivelling peasant.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed another speaker, his voice laced with sarcasm. ‘That is the natural order of things.’

  Beside Marie-Louise, Olympe shot to her feet. ‘You men mock our system of governance and deny that man is superior by virtue of a noble birth alone, and I support you. But I say to you, what of women? Should we not challenge what is thought to be the natural order of things?’

  A man with a weasel-like face, pointed chin and eyes too close together put up his hand. ‘We have heard you too many times, Madame. Outspoken women are tiresome.’

  Some of the men snickered, and Marie-Louise felt heat radiate from her gut. The last time she had seen this man attend the salon was when he had brought his friend the botanist. He was enjoying the attention.

  Olympe’s gorge was up. ‘Why must we be denounced as whores if we dare raise our heads from the affairs of the home to that of our homeland?’ she challenged him. ‘Why are we not allowed to speak?’

  A man with a wig of chestnut curls interjected. ‘I must agree with Rousseau that motherhood i
s a woman’s highest responsibility and her greatest gift to mankind. Outside the home, a woman loses her greatest radiance.’

  Marie-Louise thought of the long hours she spent in her room in her father’s house. Its window faced into the courtyard. All she could see of the world was a distant patch of sky.

  ‘You fear us having ideas—ideas above our role in life, ideas that you cannot control,’ Olympe continued.

  ‘You are meddling in things your mind is not capable of comprehending,’ the weasel-faced man explained to Olympe. ‘Stick to breeding.’

  ‘I comprehend freedom, Jacques Hébert, you vulgar man,’ she spat back, losing her temper.

  Marie-Louise saw him smile in triumph, revelling in Olympe’s loss of self-control as if it proved his superiority.

  The Marquis himself interrupted. ‘It will be France’s eternal loss if we do not extend the equal right of democracy for all women as well as all men.’ He smiled at Olympe. Marie-Louise was grateful for his support. The Marquis was an extraordinary man.

  But the chestnut-wigged man disagreed. ‘Women are happiest in their domestic realm. They have their fathers and husbands to speak for them. It is against their nature to go beyond their sphere.’

  ‘Like a domestic animal,’ Olympe said under her breath as she took her seat.

  Marie-Louise cleared her throat. She had never dared to speak her mind at the salon before. ‘I wonder,’ she said softly, ‘why it is necessary to go to such lengths to suppress a woman’s curiosity?’ Her voice was small and hesitant. ‘Why confine her to the house, deny her education, control the things she is allowed to learn and do and say? Why is that necessary, if it is against her nature to be curious about the world?’

  Olympe de Gouges beamed pure sunlight at her.

  Jacques Hébert was smirking, one eyebrow jumping with delight. He had looked at her with such naked curiosity, she could not help but feel that she had bared too much.

  Girardin ran her fingers down the sky-blue satin and stretched out the full skirt. With dismay, she saw the dress hung in shreds, eaten by moths. She reached for another. Crowded black bodies hibernated between the folds. She squealed. Hundreds of cockroaches began to squirm in the light and run for cover. One darted across her hand and up the sleeve of her smock. She beat at her arm and felt them crawl across her bare feet. Leaping onto the bed, she watched in horror as the shiny, armoured bodies scuttled out in waves from the wardrobe.

  Chapter 35

  GIRARDIN JOINED THE NATURALISTS IN A SILENT VIGIL AS Ventenat’s condition slowly worsened. Labillardière kept his hand on Ventenat’s wrist, monitoring the rapidity of his pulse. Sweat beaded on the chaplain’s forehead and soon his face was dripping. Girardin wrung out the scrap of linen she had used to bathe him, feeling sure his time was near. She looked across the bed at Félix and was surprised to see him smiling.

  ‘The sweats are a good sign, are they not?’ Félix asked.

  ‘I feel his pulse quicken,’ Labillardière confirmed.

  To Girardin, Ventenat looked as near to death as before. A Malay doctor arrived to tend the invalid and Girardin left the room. She felt certain there was little to be done for the chaplain now. In her final glimpse back, she saw Ventenat’s sharp nose as prominent as a gravestone.

  The hallway was dark and she reached out her fingers to feel her way along the rough plaster. Three nights had passed and she had seen no sign of Kermadec. Only the General had come to visit Ventenat. Slits of light squinted through the shuttered windows at the end of the corridor. Joannet told her the General had taken rooms on the lower floors. She felt her way down the staircase.

  On the ground floor, she heard raised voices coming from a salon.

  Girardin stepped softly on the flagstones, careful not to let her heels fall. She was alone in the dim corridor, but she checked again, glancing over her shoulder, before she pressed her ear to the door.

  ‘We must go back to search for him!’ It was Kermadec’s voice.

  Next she recognised the sly tone of d’Auribeau, but couldn’t make out what he had said.

  ‘We have a duty to investigate the Friendly Isles as soon as we are able,’ urged Kermadec.

  ‘We shall, we shall.’ The General, placating. She imagined him clapping a hand to Kermadec’s shoulder to reassure him.

  ‘But not until we have completed the King’s instructions.’ That was d’Auribeau.

  ‘The Friendly Isles, New Caledonia, the Solomons, these are the locations of La Pérouse’s itinerary we should explore. Not the southern coast of New Holland!’

  She heard footsteps, pacing.

  ‘Mapping the unknown coast is crucial to our mission,’ d’Auribeau responded calmly.

  ‘How long will that take? Another year? How many men might die for our negligence?’ The footfalls were louder now, coming towards her. She sprang back into the shadows.

  Kermadec burst out through the doors and strode down the corridor away from her. He did not turn, he did not look back, and she did not have the nerve to follow him.

  Ventenat began to recover. Whether from the onset of the critical sweats, as Labillardière maintained, or from the healing hands of the Malay doctor, Girardin couldn’t say for sure. It was a miracle.

  As the days passed, she was relieved to see Ventenat slowly but surely recover his strength. Soon he was well enough to leave his sickbed and sit with her on the shady verandah, looking out over the kitchen garden with its drooping fruit trees and leafy green vegetables. It was a joy to hear the parrots crashing and screeching in the trees, so full of life. She was content to sit and breathe in the fragrant air. Here even the bark of the trees exhaled perfume. But Ventenat seemed much changed after his illness. It worried her that he jerked with nervous tics and his thoughts would sometimes drift away like tendrils of smoke that couldn’t be caught.

  Each afternoon they watched the rain clouds gather above the distant hills.

  ‘There would be a sign, don’t you think?’ Ventenat said, his Bible shuddering on his knee. ‘So close to death, there should’ve been a sign.’

  She reached for his hand, but she could not be the one to reassure him in his faith.

  The General gave her permission to stay in the house rather than return to the ship. Although she feared to think what mess Besnard might make of her stores, she was relieved. Happily, she took over some of the duties of the Malay cook, making some of the General’s favourite dishes. At first the kitchen staff were wary of her and she couldn’t look at them without thinking of them as slaves. It tortured her to think they might have children they would never see again. But surprisingly the kitchen was a place of laughter. The cook was a good-humoured woman with creases around her eyes from when she smiled, like lines of sunlight. She was quick to hug and console the younger kitchen staff. The servants soon welcomed Girardin, both men and women taking her by the hand to show her around the house, and she slowly came to realise they had formed their own family.

  As the weeks passed her own health began to improve. The black rash on her legs faded. The sores in her mouth and the burning in her stomach eased. Her injured knee and arm no longer ached. When alone with the General she tried to turn the conversation towards the next phase of their voyage, but he would not be drawn on the subject. Captain Kermadec spent his days engaged with provisioning the ships. The closeness of their moment in the galley now seemed as distant as a half-remembered dream. In the house, he did not seek her out.

  Félix and Labillardière now felt secure enough in their friend’s state of health to go on excursions into the forests. Claude Riche told them he had seen a lizard with wings that flew between the trees and Félix had been eager to see this flying dragon for himself. They were gone for several days at a time, returning only to catalogue and store the specimens they had collected. When they were absent, the household was peaceful. But when they returned, the house was fraught with argument.

  ‘But slaves, Citizen d’Entrecasteaux! How can you buy slaves fro
m these Dutch masters for our expedition when you know they have been stolen from their homes?’

  Girardin stood against the wall in the dining room. Labillardière had returned to the house unexpectedly when the General was entertaining the officers at his table. The revelation that the General had purchased men to join their crew had shocked her. It was bad enough that they had slaves to wait on them in this house, but worse still to participate in the practice.

  ‘The slaves come from Ceram and the Moluccas where the prisoners of war were formerly eaten! Now the prisoners are sold as slaves instead. Which evil would you prefer, Monsieur Labillardière?’

  ‘One abomination does not excuse the other.’

  She glanced around at the other servants, the small Malaysian men with their round, pleasant faces. She was glad they could not understand the language.

  The General sighed. ‘The systems of governance here are unjust, but we cannot change the world, Monsieur Labillardière. We have enough to concern ourselves with on this voyage.’

  Girardin sought out Captain Kermadec, but he would not meet her eye. Did he know about this? Had he been the one to buy the men?

  Labillardière continued, ‘You agree the domination of these people is reprehensible, and yet you support the very institution that keeps our own people in similar chains of bondage.’

  Lieutenant Rossel snorted. ‘You cannot compare the situation here, where the commerce is built on slaves, with that of our homeland. Preposterous!’

  ‘A noble class that does no work and pays no tax. A corrupt clergy…’ Labillardière paused to glance at Ventenat, who gestured for him to carry on. ‘A corrupt clergy plucked from the wastrel and demented sons of nobility who abuse and exploit their flock. We do not reward talent and merit—we crush it! You are right, Citizen Rossel: it is preposterous to compare the two systems of governance. The leaders of our homeland are far worse tyrants and they have already been judged and found wanting!’