“Did you kill her, Renée?”
Truth—real truth, not truth driven by my conscience—comes forth. “I did not.” His eyes prompt for one more word. “I did not, citizen.”
“Did you instruct the soldiers to kill her?”
“I begged the soldiers to stop her.”
“To save the queen?”
I know better than to answer this, and he rewards my silence by not pressing the question.
“Did you ever think, Renée, when you were a poor shepherdess living off the charity of your community, sleeping in the loft of a barn, that you would one day be a resident of the grandest palace in all of France—” he adopts a wide gesture—“in all of Europe, put in the position, little thing that you are, to defend a woman who has more than enough resources to defend herself?”
“I never imagined anything,” I say, unwilling to denigrate my queen.
“Would it surprise you to know that Anne de la Rue, the woman so tragically murdered that night, lived a life very similar to your own? To what most of us have experienced? That she was poor too. Came to the city with no thought of such a vile confrontation. Wanted only to find work and food for herself.”
Marcel steps away from me and paces the length of the judges’ table. “You see, I knew Anne de la Rue.” He pauses. “Intimately. I loved her very much.”
The crowd is enthralled, but I am not fooled. Forcing my mind to return to those frightful moments, I see the woman—Anne—with greasy, lank tendrils creeping from beneath her cap, her uneven figure and fish-eyed expression. Even without the grime of poverty and unnatural fury, she would not be a woman suited to Marcel’s taste. I have no doubt that somehow he and Laurette became lovers, and he is the common person who brought my handiwork to rest on this woman’s frame. He may have used Anne’s body, but he did not love her—a truth on which I would stake my life.
“Isn’t it safe to say, citizens,” he continues, weaving this tragic tale like a timeless ballad, “that many of us have been moved to actions that could never have been ascribed to us when we were children? What part of our childhood trained us to take up arms against the injustice that bound us in poverty and fight for rights we never knew existed? When we were mere boys stacking blocks, did we ever think we would tear down a mighty stone structure with those same hands? If I, the lover of the murdered woman, can ask for mercy, surely you can find it within you to grant it? Anne herself, a citizen more devoted to the cause than we will ever know, would have wanted as much.”
He holds them—every eye and heart and soul and mind in the gallery, on the bench—in shackles, and charged with dispensing justice. His words have commanded more silence than any stone or gavel ever could. I grip the railing, hating him. Hating every serpentine word that has ever dropped from his tongue, but knowing he is saving my life. Blood for blood is what these people understand. He has given them something else. Innocence for innocence.
“You were in service to the former queen, Marie Antoinette?”
It is a heartbeat or so before I realize the judge at the center of the table is addressing me.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“In what capacity?”
“Seamstress, sir.”
He frowns. “Not a highly important position?”
“Non, monsieur.”
“And yet you were in her chamber that night?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“To warn her?”
“I thought, monsieur, if they—the family, the queen and her children—escaped . . . if they got away, there would be no cause for anyone to be hurt. That those who wished her harm would simply . . . go away.”
“And now, in your current circumstances, do you remain loyal to our former sovereign?”
“I am alone, monsieur. My loyalty is to Christ, into whose hands I commit my life.”
A whisper ripples through the crowd.
“Well,” says the citizens’ judge, “Christ has delivered you to me. And I remand you back to prison.” He punctuates his pronouncement with a rapping of the stone.
“Citizen, please!” Marcel moves from the witness stand to place himself directly in front of the bench. The bailiff moves to restrain him, but a single glance from the judge allows him to remain free. “She is but a child. New to the city, unaware of the distasteful cruelty of her former mistress. We cannot fall into the same patterns of injustice that enslaved us for so long.”
The impact of his words registers on the judge’s face as he holds the stone aloft. He looks to Marcel, to me, and confers quietly with the men on either side.
“Very well,” he says with an air of final authority and turns to me. “We will allow you to live out your life in loyalty to the woman who is responsible for your circumstances.” Then, to the guards who brought me here, “Remand her to custody at Tuileries.”
I don’t know what this means, but a sense of calm enfolds me even as I submit myself to once again be bound.
“S’il vous plaît, messieurs.” Marcel has sidled between me and the men who escorted me here. “A prisoner bound for a palace surely need not be shackled like a common criminal. I will escort her myself.” His hand closes around the crook of my arm.
“I don’t reckon that’ll happen,” the guard says with a knowing smile. “Bit too familiar with the testimony for my blood.” He leans in close, almost nose to nose. “I don’t trust you. She’ll ride back in the cart she come in.”
I’ve remained silent, eyes downcast throughout the exchange, and submit my hands to the ropes. Once bound, I’m taken back to the crowded bench, where one by one my fellow prisoners hear their verdicts.
Guilty of treason. Death.
Guilty of treason. Death.
A movement catches the corner of my eye, and soon I feel Marcel’s breath on the back of my neck.
“Don’t turn,” he says. If I did, even a fraction, his lips would grace my cheek. “It is a good thing, going to Tuileries. They don’t want royal blood on their hands. Do you hear me? They say they do, but they don’t. The king is stripped of power; it is enough. I’ve saved your life.”
“Laurette?” My single word holds a life of questions.
“She is safe, as far as I know. Home, from what I have heard. Gone since the day of la Bastille.”
He has no reason to lie, so I allow his words to be truth. It is a small hope, but as two more are pronounced dead, it is enough. Until the day comes that I, too, can return to Mouton Blanc, his words will keep her alive in my mind, in my heart. I will see her, will walk with her in the fields, will talk with her late into the night. All this time past will be but a moment. Soon and soon, our feet will share a path.
L’épisode 27
Laurette
* * *
HOME
* * *
A month after the wedding, as news of the nuptials trickled among the people of Mouton Blanc, Monsieur Girard hosted a celebration at his home, complete with a roasted hog, a cask of wine, and a dense, sweet cake. There were twenty people or more in attendance—some Laurette knew, others barely familiar faces drawn by their own hunger as much as a desire to celebrate.
Elianne, never one to exude an air of charm or joy, looked especially pinched and sallow, moving Laurette to pity.
“I’m sorry,” Laurette said, finding a moment to catch her alone. Catch being the most appropriate word, as she’d chased her back into the kitchen. “I know you had your sights set on him—”
“My father had his sights set. I knew better. Gagnon’s always had a heart for taking in strays. Like you and—” she looked down meaningfully at the now-unmistakable mound under Laurette’s skirt—“whatever bastard you’re carrying there. How could I compete?”
Laurette drew back, feeling Elianne’s truth over every inch of her, clear to the fingertips that itched to slap her face.
Others, though, no less aware of her condition as evidenced by their own whispers and glances, were kind enough to keep their silence. Gagnon, long known fo
r his generosity, was remembered in kind, and the new family was showered with the best gifts their neighbors could afford. Bottles of wine, a sack of flour, a crock of butter. Skeins of yarn, a pitcher with a beautifully painted pastoral scene that Laurette declared she’d be too frightened to use. To the boys’ delight, they received five jars of preserves and a basket of pears, which meant special treats after supper for weeks to come. Finally, the grandest gift of all: the young milk cow given by Monsieur and Madame Tournac, born to them last spring.
“We won’t be able to feed her through the winter,” Madame Tournac explained. “We pray you’ll be a blessing to each other.”
Father Pietro attended and prayed a special blessing. “We are all adopted into the Holy Father’s family. His sons and daughters through the miracle of mercy.” He brought with him the registry book for l’église du Mouton Perdu, and with all eyes watching, recorded not only the marriage of Émile Gagnon and Laurette Janvier, but listed below the names of Philippe, Nicolas, and Joseph. For safe measure, he baptized each, pouring water over their heads from a pewter chalice. “That they may all be reunited as a family in heaven.”
The walk home was slow going, as the young heifer seemed in no hurry. The boys took turns leading her; those not in charge of the rope carried the bundles of pork and food gifts. Laurette and Gagnon lingered behind, close to Cossette, who circled them constantly, redirecting any step that veered from the invisible path.
“We’ll see our first frost tonight,” Gagnon said, seeming unconcerned about their leisurely pace.
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure because I wish it to be.”
His voice had dropped to something low and secretive, and somehow brought her to blush. “And why do you wish it to be?”
“Because it means winter is coming.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, keeping their coordinated stride. “And that means, Laurette, my love . . .”
They stopped, allowing the boys’ lamplight to move ahead. The world grew dark around them, and she felt the promised chill.
“What does it mean, Gagnon?”
But she knew. When she first returned, she and the shy, frightened Joseph slept in Gagnon’s bed, though it wasn’t long before the boy begged to join his brothers—mes frères, he said—in the loft. And then, long after, even after their wedding, now a month past, she remained. Alone. That first night, exhausted from the walk from town and the excitement of la Déclaration, Laurette had collapsed upon it within minutes of walking through the door, mindless of any wedding-night expectations. And after, each evening, the two danced around the question, ending with a chaste kiss and Gagnon’s own declaration that she looked tired and needed her rest, and he would stay up with his pipe for a while.
Though there had been moments. Touches, glances. Once, when Joseph fell asleep at her feet, Laurette said, “Perhaps I’ll just stay in this chair all night. I hate to disturb him.”
Gagnon scooped him up, saying, “I’ll take him to my bed tonight,” leaving no doubt where he planned to take himself. But then, while being lifted, the child cried out for his maman, and Gagnon laid him in Laurette’s arms, all other plans abandoned.
Now, with the question left unanswered between them, she felt him lean forward, his touch to her face and his kiss.
It was by no means their first. Here, too, with this bit of uncharted affection they’d been testing one another. Pecks to her cheek as she scrubbed dishes, a kiss to his brow as he read through his printed copy of la Déclaration. Every night before retiring to their separate rooms, every morning meeting between them. But tonight, he held her, his mouth upon hers, a bit of warmth in the chilly air as he moved upon her, coaxing.
It was the first time, after so much time, after that first night with Marcel on a bed of moss under a canopy of moonlight, after all the nights and days in the tiny, hot box of a Paris room, after accepting the new life growing within her—this was the moment she felt truly a woman. Desired, protected. Gagnon’s kiss held a promise that he, too, had stumbled upon the same realization. Stumbled, righted himself, and was now proceeding with sure footing.
He released her slowly, her mind echoing all the times he told her she was free to go, free to leave his home and pursue what life she would. Now, no force could make her more of a prisoner than this kiss.
“I think you are wrong,” she said when the cool of the evening once again touched her lips. “It is far too early and too warm for the first frost.” She smiled at his look of quizzical disappointment. “But I need no such reason to share your bed. Tonight, and forever, Gagnon—”
“Émile,” he prompted.
“Émile. I am your wife, am I not?”
“You are. In the eyes of God and our friends. And our sons. And this one you carry.”
“Venez!” the boys called from their paces ahead.
“Allons-y,” he whispered. “Let’s catch up and put them to bed.”
The baby was born just past dawn in the bitter-cold first days of February. There’d been no time to call a woman to come help with the birthing, as the pains started well after dark, and a swirling snow portended a dangerous journey to the Girards’.
“All will be well, my love,” Gagnon reassured. By now Laurette was well versed in the nuances of his heart. His words were meant to reassure her while constructing a wall between this night and the night all those years ago when death took his first wife and his son away. He built the fire high in the front room and brought her in beside it, the flames seeming to wave in rhythm with her pains. Through the hours, the only sounds were her labored breaths and his whispered assurances that she was strong, she was loved, that the baby girl would be a blessing to the home.
“You’re still so sure it’s a girl?” Laurette asked when a pain cleared itself away to make room for words.
“I am.” He mopped her brow with a cool cloth.
“How can you be?”
“Because it is what I want. It’s what I see in my heart.”
She didn’t question further.
It seemed right, somehow, that he alone would bring this child into the world. She’d known, all those years ago as an abandoned, hungry girl, that this man would restore her life. Gagnon took her hand, led her around the room in the times between birthing pains. He told stories when she asked, remained quiet when she demanded, and laid his hands upon her when she cried out in fear.
“She is making her way, my love,” he pledged. “We will see her before the dawn.”
“I don’t want the boys to come in and be frightened.”
He grinned. “I put the dogs in their room at the door.”
Gagnon was almost perfect in his predictions. The morning sun was glinting off the new day’s snow when Laurette delivered a new life into his hands. The soft mewling was lost at first, masked by Laurette’s own heaving sobs of relief, but the cries grew strong and robust once she took the squirming bundle, wrapped in dark, soft wool, into her arms.
“Hold her close,” Gagnon said. “Touch her face, her cheek.”
Her.
Laurette did as he said, grazing a knuckle along the soft, pink flesh, and felt a surge of life when the babe turned her face, the cries softening once again. “She’s beautiful.”
“As is her mother.”
Gagnon guided her through the final stages, but Laurette paid little attention. She knew nothing but the depth of the tiny girl’s brown eyes, felt nothing but the weight upon her breast. She held her nose to the cap of dark curls and breathed in the essence of her daughter.
“I’ve never felt so important in all my life,” she said. Already the pain was dissolving into a distant memory. As if it happened to some other woman in some other place, far from this cozy, familiar room.
He laughed. “It is something, isn’t it? To know that you will love this child from the moment of its first breath.”
She knew that he, too, was far away. With some other woman, in this same house, yet not this place
. All these years, and he still loved the tiny boy. Loved the woman, too. Laurette would always share her affections, and the boys—all three—would in some way be shadows of the life his firstborn would never know. This little one, however, knit them together. Born of Laurette’s flesh, born to Gagnon through mercy. From her womb to his arms, without the time for a breath to pass between them.
At some point before the final, crucial hour, he had built a fire in the little bedroom stove and assured her that the room was warm, the bed soft, and she and the little one had earned a day of rest. He helped her from the chair and held her arm as she took her first steps as a mother, the baby cradled against her. The day loomed full of promise, but the bed yawned an invitation. Gratefully, she sank within it, propped her head against the pillows, and felt a tugging within her breast as her girl’s soft face rooted against it. An unknown instinct took hold, and she moved the fabric of her nightdress aside, inviting the first droplets of milk to draw the babe’s mouth closer until they were perfectly seamed together.
All of this under Gagnon’s protective gaze, free of any hint of embarrassment or shame.
“What shall we call her?” he asked, sitting gingerly on the edge of the ticking.
“Aimée, because she is loved.” Then, another thought, another ghost. “Aimée-Renée.”
L’épisode 28
Renée
* * *
TUILERIES
* * *
If not for the armed guards at the door, we might not know we are prisoners. It’s easy to pretend they are here for our protection. Daily, hordes of rebels pass by, shouting praise for the revolution and calling for our blood. I would like to think that, should such a breach occur again, an event like the one that brought murderous rebels into the chambers of the queen, those men posted at our doors and gates would leap into action and dispatch the would-be assassins.
The Seamstress Page 31