by Rock, Judith
The old clothes dealer watched them pass from the door of his shop. “Crazy whores,” he muttered, and spat in their path.
Pernelle rounded on him. “Pig! Why didn’t you help her? Bastard! Son of a monk!”
The woman with the baby started to laugh. “You curse as good as a soldier, you! Come on, one of those shit-born curs might wake up.” Without slowing, she pulled open the frayed man’s doublet she wore for a bodice and stuck a nipple in the baby’s mouth to quiet it. “Those pissants took my jerkin,” she said furiously, looking over her shoulder at the ruined gate. “That’s what I was looking for.”
“What jerkin?”
The girl’s eyes slid sideways and she shrugged. “I was going to sell it.” She spat over her shoulder, then grabbed Pernelle’s arm. “Run!”
Pernelle looked back. The second man had staggered through the gate and stood swaying on his feet.
“Come on, keep moving your ass.” The girl tugged Pernelle into a trot. “If those hell spawns come after us, we’re dead!” When the man was out of sight, the girl narrowed her eyes at Pernelle. “You’re the one was at Holy Innocents. The fountain. With that dog.”
Pernelle nodded. “Is the baby all right?”
“He’s like everybody else: full belly, all’s well.”
“Nothing’s well with an empty belly.”
“No. Mary’s holy milk, I could have got enough for that jerkin to last days,” the girl lamented. “It was worn, but good leather. You been on the street long?” The girl reached out and fingered Pernelle’s cloak. “You don’t look like it.”
“How much filthier do I have to get to look like it?”
The girl just looked at her, and Pernelle bit her lip and looked away. Her answer was walking beside her.
“Where’d you come from?” The girl was frankly studying her now.
“Where? Um—oh—the north.”
“You have babes?”
“A little girl. She’s not here, though.”
They walked in silence, Pernelle following the girl’s lead for lack of anything better to do. They came to a place where six streets angled like ill-grown tree branches off a more or less triangular stretch of cobbles. Where the triangle narrowed, there was a roofed well with a wooden bucket hanging from its neatly winched rope.
“Know where you are?” the girl said.
Pernelle shook her head.
“See that wall over there?” The girl pointed to the left.
Pernelle squinted against the sun. “Is that Les Halles?”
“Right. You want to stay alive out here, always know where you are. So you know where to hide. And where not to. Come on.” The girl marched across the cobbles toward a church with an imposing spire. “That’s Saint Eustache. A rich people’s church. It’s Saint James’s Day; they’ll be stopping by.” She jerked her chin down at the baby, now fathoms deep in sleep, with milk dribbling down his chin. “Now I’ve got him, I get more coins.”
Pernelle stood still, as put off by profiting from the charade of a saint’s day as by the thought of begging. The girl, halfway across the triangle’s pavement, looked over her shoulder.
“Come on, if you want to fill your belly.”
Feeling as though she’d been told to take her clothes off in the street, Pernelle caught up with her. “I don’t know how to—”
Trumpets blared and they jumped out of the way as a pair of outriders cantered toward them. Behind the outriders came a coach drawn by six white horses, the mounted trumpeters behind. Pernelle had a glimpse of plumes and piled hair and rich colors and liveried lackeys hanging on to the rear of the coach.
“Begging’s easy as pissing,” the girl said, as they started walking again. “You plop yourself down in their path, hold out your hand, make big eyes, and look hungry.”
“I can look hungry.”
They climbed the steps to the church’s porch and the girl sat down squarely in the path to the big doors. With a sense of unreality, Pernelle huddled beside her, wondering who St. Eustache was. She thought she remembered hearing that he was a martyr. Perhaps he’d starved to death on this very spot, too holy—or too shy—to beg. She pulled up the hood of her cloak, withdrew into it as though it were a cave, and cupped her hands on her knees. A rainbow of skirts went past, accompanied by white-stockinged and well-shod male legs. Then stiff primrose satin slowed along the stone, above wooden pattens keeping heeled and ribboned green shoes out of the dirt, and a coin dropped into Pernelle’s hands. She jerked her head up in surprise. A small woman veiled in lace was mincing down the steps to a waiting carriage, followed by a dumpy chaperon delicately holding her nose as she stared at the baby. The baby’s mother elbowed Pernelle in the ribs. Pernelle turned, speechlessly holding out the silver coin.
“A livre! She gave me a whole livre.”
“Bite it,” the girl said.
“What?!”
She snatched the coin, clamped her uneven brown teeth down on it, and nodded vigorously. “It’s a good one.” She handed it back with a gap-toothed grin.
Then the quick clip of heels on the paving transformed her face into a pleading, lip-quivering tragedy mask as she reached toward a young man in a bouncing black wig. The lace foaming down the front of his coat waved in the breeze as he shied from her hand, but Pernelle heard the musical rain of small coins. Clutching her livre and its promise of food, she realized that she didn’t know her mentor’s name.
“What are you called?” she whispered.
The girl studied her, letting new footsteps pass unregarded. Giving her name, Pernelle realized, was giving one of the very few things she owned.
“Barbe,” the girl said gravely. “You?”
“I’m Pernelle.”
They exchanged shy smiles and went back to work.
Chapter 10
When they had enough money to buy food, Pernelle—because she looked the most respectable—went into a traiteur’s shop and bought cooked beef and bread. Barbe led the way to a small churchyard and they ate sitting with their backs against a tree. With a sinking heart, Pernelle watched the shadows growing. The summer evening light would last hours yet, but the sun was sliding toward the horizon.
“Where do you stay at night, Barbe?”
The girl laughed and tossed her head. “Oh, me, I stay in a palace.”
“I see. Would there be room for me in this palace tonight?”
Barbe jumped to her feet and made an ironic curtsy. “Always room in a palace, madame. I’ll show you.”
Pernelle got up wearily and followed her, hoping the girl was not playing a bitter joke. As they crossed street, she glimpsed the river, and then Barbe led her around a decaying wooden fence and into a desolate wasteland. Small grassy mounds lay haphazardly everywhere, and vines and bushes grew out of scattered piles of rock and rotten boards. Across it all lay the shadow of an enormous building. Pernelle squinted at it, shielding her eyes from the sun just sinking below its roof. It did look like a palace.
Barbe grinned over her shoulder. “See? I told you.”
“But—what is it?”
“The king’s palace. Was, anyway. He started to build more of it and then went off and left it. So we took over the part he was building.”
Shouts made Pernelle turn in alarm, but the noise was only from a half dozen children racing each other to the wide dark doorway yawning in the building’s wall. As the children ran under the half fallen scaffolding above the door, some of them jumped to hang for a moment from a dangling board. The last boy to jump brought the board down with him as he dropped back to the ground, and a woman standing in the doorway hurried to pick it up. For her cooking fire, Pernelle thought, smelling wood smoke drifting in the air. When she reached the door, she stopped, suddenly afraid to go into the loud, reeking dark.
“Nothing to fear,” Barbe said, seeing Pernelle’s hesitation, “not with me bringing you.” She strode into the building.
Telling herself that whatever was inside this beggars’ palace was unlikely to be worse than what threatened her outside, Pernelle half ran to catch up. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the place, she saw that it had been divided into “rooms” with pieces of board and ragged lengths of canvas and other cloth. Voices rose around small fires burning on stones or in makeshift braziers, and the smells of food mingled with the smells of poverty. As Barbe led her through a chain of makeshift living places, the tenants mostly ignored their passage, though here and there Pernelle had a dreamlike glimpse of a face turned toward them and wary eyes watching.
“This one’s mine,” Barbe said, as they rounded a partition into a largish space that boasted half of a tall window with broken glass. “Mine and theirs.” She jerked her head at two elderly women sitting on the floor beneath the window and chewing steadily, like cows.
“Bonsoir, mesdames,” Pernelle said politely, but the women only stared at her. Or through her. And went on chewing.
Pernelle recoiled as one of them bent and spat a wad of something into a bucket. The woman wiped her mouth with her hand, picked up a small pitcher, and drank from it. As she set it down, the sharp smell of sour wine fought with the other smells. The woman reached behind herself and something crackled. As she turned back, Pernelle saw that she was crumpling paper in her hands. She put the crumpled ball of paper in her mouth and began chewing again.
“What are they doing, Barbe?”
The girl straightened from putting the baby down on a pile of rags in the corner. “They’re paper chewers. Me, too, sometimes.”
“But—why? What—”
“You chew old paper and the papier-mâché makers buy it. Lots of women chew for them.”
Papier-mâché. Of course, chewed paper. For theatre masks and small bowls and other trinkets. Feeling slightly sick, Pernelle went to the pile of rags and looked down at the baby, awake now and fussing.
“You said he doesn’t have a name yet, Barbe. If—when—” Pernelle’s voice faltered. She couldn’t bring herself to say if he lives. Instead, she said defiantly, “When you name him, what will you call him?”
Surprised, the girl looked sideways at her. “Pierre, maybe. After his father.”
“Oh.” Pernelle realized she hadn’t expected Barbe to know who the baby’s father was. “Does Pierre live here?”
“Did.” The girl sighed and picked up a dented brass pot. “I’m going out to the well.”
Left with the vacant-eyed old women and the infant, Pernelle hugged her cloak around herself, feeling as though she might choke on despair. This place is shelter while I find my way, she told herself. That’s all. A swallow darted across the south facing window like a tiny comet and soared upward, and something about its flight let Pernelle breathe again. She picked up the whimpering baby.
“What is it, baba,” she crooned, cuddling the small filthy bundle against her. The baby quieted, staring up at her with wide dark eyes. Then it turned its face to her bodice, pushing against her to find milk. “Soon, your maman is coming back.”
Something hit the other side of the chamber’s flimsy wall and someone groaned, then began to laugh.
“All right! All right, then, stay. I need a model. And you, I don’t have to pay.”
Pernelle went to the partition’s edge, still holding the baby, and looked around it. The chamber on the other side had half the window, and in its light, she saw an impossibly tall and thin young man sitting on the floor. He had a piece of board on his lap and was drawing at lightning speed with a lump of charcoal. Then she saw what he was drawing and caught her breath with a small shriek.
“Yes,” the artist said without looking around. “Rats. I couldn’t get them to leave, so I decided to draw them.”
Two large rats were nosing at a pile of rags like the one in Barbe’s chamber. One of them turned its head to look at the artist, who nodded happily and drew even faster.
“Yes, yes, just right, hold that. Good!”
In spite of her fear of the rats, Pernelle took a step beyond the partition to see the drawing. The rats scuttled away through a crack in the wall.
“Oh, monsieur, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose you your models.”
The young man shrugged, put a few more touches to his work, and stood up. “No matter. They’ll be back.” He held out the board for her to see.
Her eyes widened with pleasure. “But it’s wonderful—you’ve made them exactly rats. Only—somehow even more rats than rats are! How do you do that?”
The artist swept off his battered plumed hat. “You are a lady of great discernment, madame. Your humble servant thanks you.” His bow was like his drawing, so full of grace and laughter that it was somehow the essence of all bows. He straightened and his sad hound’s eyes regarded her questioningly. “I know this brat.” He put out a finger and lightly touched the baby’s tiny nose. “He’s Barbe’s. But you I have not had the pleasure of seeing before.”
“No. You weren’t here when we walked through your—your chamber.”
“Then let me do the honors of my petit palais, madame.”
He swept an arm toward the walls and Pernelle realized that most of them were covered with drawings, some in colors but most drawn with charcoal. She stared in amazement. There were women clothed only in draperies or nude, parrots, cats, ragged children, ancient ruins, a crucifixion of Christ, drawings of the artist’s half of the broken window with swallows flying beyond it.
“They’re beautiful,” she breathed. She looked searchingly at him. “What are you doing here? When you can draw like this?”
“You sound almost offended, madame. And I might ask you much the same question, mightn’t I? Even if a man can draw, he still may not have the means to live. Especially if his father refuses to acknowledge his being alive unless the man ceases to be alive by becoming a magistrate like his father.”
“Oh.”
“As you say. Oh. So I live here in my petit palais and peddle my drawings here and there. And hope for a patron who will see them and catch his—or her—breath in wonder and delight as you did. And offer me means to live and draw and do him—or her—honor.”
Pernelle laughed. “If I myself had means to live just now, I would gladly be your patron.”
The irony fell away from his smile, leaving it merely sweet. “May I ask why that is? You have not long been a resident here, that is easily seen.”
Pernelle tensed, remembering suddenly that David had once told her that police spies were everywhere in Paris. “I think it is better not to ask.”
“Then, madame, questions shall not come near you, and neither shall rats if I can prevent it.”
The baby began to wail, and the artist held out his arms. “Here, I’ll take him. I can’t help his hunger—I mostly can’t help my own—but he likes me.”
He was dancing around the dirty floor, holding the baby high over his head, and Pernelle was wandering along the walls, examining the drawings, when Barbe came back with her pitcher of water.
“Ah, give him here, Alain. You’ll make his stomach sick!” She set the pitcher down, plumped down beside it, and put the baby to her breast. “She likes your pictures,” Barbe said, watching Pernelle.
“She is a lady of great taste. And speaking of taste, would you ladies care to share my evening wine?”
The artist spread a surprisingly clean blanket on the floor and the three of them sat together, leaning against the most solid of the walls, and watched the sky darken outside as they passed Alain’s not-too-sour wine back and forth. The baby slept on Barbe’s lap. Before the light was gone, Pernelle picked up a piece of charcoal from the floor.
“May I try to draw a little on
your wall?”
The young man’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded, and he and Barbe watched with interest as Pernelle began to sketch, racing the light. She’d always had some skill at drawing, but it wasn’t something most Huguenot families encouraged.
“It’s Pierre!” Barbe cried out, peering over Pernelle’s shoulder. “But—no, it’s bigger than him.”
Pernelle nodded, sketching in the wide-eyed infant’s wrappings. Then there was no more light to work by and she handed the charcoal to the artist. Sitting back, she watched her drawing disappear into the darkness. It was Pierre, but it was also Lucie as a baby, Lucie whose eyes were as nearly black as Pierre’s. It was also a kind of magic, a small benign spell she hoped God wouldn’t mind, a talisman toward keeping both children alive. A talisman that Lucie was safe, waiting for her in Geneva.
In spite of the evening’s grace and the odd comradeship among the artist’s drawings, the rest of life in the beggars’ Louvre closed darkly around Pernelle the next morning. The artist went out early and came back to tell her offhandedly that notice of a thin dark-haired woman’s escape from the New Converts’ House was being cried through Paris. Which meant that she couldn’t venture out, not even to beg. After Barbe left with the baby, the artist went out, too, and Pernelle spent the day in his chamber, looking at the drawings, pinched with hunger and trying to pray. She drew David’s face beside the picture of Lucie, his face as it had been when Lucie was born, before the wasting sickness that killed him. But seeing the two faces together drowned her in a swell of grief for everything that was gone, and she covered her face with her cloak and wept. Finally, Barbe came back with bread and mutton soup in a battered pot, and they ate in silence. Barbe was tired from a not-very-fruitful day of begging, and Pernelle had little heart for talk.
When they lay down to sleep, Pernelle was long awake. Talk and singing and arguments echoed under the high ceilings, and occasionally the sounds of drunken fighting drowned the rest. She finally drifted into sleep, but it seemed like only a few moments before someone kicked her in the dark and she rolled away, screaming.