“She soon shall!”
“Yes, of course. My dear Florentine, you are right. It is unforgivable of her to approach us like that, and with a bone, no less. But see how happy it has made poor Sylvette? She hasn’t had such a treasure since we left France. If Talon hears of this, then it will be hardest on Sylvette. The girl is quite taken with her and no doubt will bring her other gifts—if we do not interfere. Will you not desist for Sylvette’s sake?”
“And yours, mademoiselle?” he asks with sly innuendo.
“Of course! What is good for Sylvette is good for me as well.”
It is the closest I’ve ever come to speaking truthfully with Florentine. I fear, though, that in my truthfulness, I am quite misleading him. A fine irony, no?
“Allow me to escort you back to your maison, lest any other barbarians decide to take advantage of a lady’s vulnerability.”
Vulnerability. Weakness. It must be true, for look—I am incapable even of extricating myself from his presence. Hannah Kimbrell has moved smoothly away, swift as the American Indians of stories, while I totter alongside Florentine like a child.
Shouts come from somewhere nearby. “The Queen?” I cry. “She arrives?” But the voice seems to be saying Stop!
“We must learn what it is!” Florentine pulls me in the direction of the shouting.
It is only the boorish slave owner, Rouleau. And there are the horses, the wagon, and the two men, all of them at the edge of the forest, not far from the river.
“Kimbrell, I warn you,” Rouleau shouts in French. “Whatever you build here, I shall pull down. They are not to have a shelter to best the nobles’. Do you understand me?”
I doubt that either of them does. They continue unloading logs while Rouleau rages. “It will give them ideas. It is dangerous, Kimbrell. What they have now is good enough.”
Then, as if it has been emerging from the forest all this while, I finally see a green hut, not unlike Madame de Sevigny’s. Its roof and sides have been formed by boughs of pine and fir. A small cooking fire burns before it, and the white-haired slave woman emerges from the hut with a pot in hand. Her gown is of some thin and faded cotton, and she wears an equally thin half cape over her shoulders. Seeing us, she pauses in her work to curtsy.
“If you persist, Kimbrell,” Rouleau is saying, “I shall whip my slaves for each day you dare to come here. Beginning today.”
Whip them? For something they themselves do not do?
Kimbrell. The young man’s name—and Hannah’s. They must be brother and sister, for I see a resemblance in the dark hair, dark eyes, and fair skin. The older man must be their father—and the one Papa has been working with on the chapel.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur Rouleau,” I call. “They do not understand French. They are but ignorant Americans.”
Rouleau bows before replying. “Whether they understand or not, mademoiselle, is not your affair.”
Florentine stiffens at this insult yet does nothing other than lead me away. Of course—he is afraid of the man and his whip.
I decide to tell Papa of this matter, and then Papa can inform the marquis, and the marquis will relay word to the Kimbrells.
But the four slaves are whipped by Rouleau. It is some three hours later, and Florentine has come to tell us about it, reveling in the news. Maman turns her head to the side and says nothing, a subtle expression of displeasure lost upon Florentine. Papa regards Florentine with reserve. This afternoon Talon told Papa that we must not interfere in Rouleau’s affairs.
“Is he not a citizen of France?” Papa asked. “And thus answerable to us for his treatment of the slaves?”
Talon merely said, “What is all this concern about his slaves? Besides, Rouleau is right. We must first have maisons for our own people. I, too, have forbidden the Kimbrells to work on a maison for the slaves when I need them to do so much else. But they are meddlesome, I fear, and no doubt will continue.”
“They must be told about the whippings,” Papa said.
“Let them find out on their own, and be sorry for it. Maybe that will stop them.”
Now I am near sickened, imagining these whippings, and yet . . . surely it is not right for slaves to have a maison before Madame de Sevigny does. “You see all the trouble these slaves bring!” I cannot help saying. “They should not be here at all. I have thought this all along. It is Talon’s fault—and Noailles’s.”
“Indeed,” Florentine says, offering his smirk.
It disgusts me, Florentine trying to ally himself with me. I give him a look and refuse to say anything further until after he leaves.
“Papa. You must inform the Kimbrells. I do not think people should be whipped for something they do not do.”
Maman and Papa regard me.
“Well? I speak truly, do I not?”
“Your father must not interfere, Eugenie. We are here at the marquis’s pleasure. And Noailles’s.”
After playing the harpsichord, as Maman requested, I write a note in simple French, telling Hannah about the whippings. I plan to quickly tuck it into her apron pocket when she serves us this evening. But a different American girl comes with a steaming pot and, after curtsying, clumsily fills our bowls with some gray potage. I stare at it. A fish head rises to the surface and stares back. Mon Dieu! Then the girl places a scorched piece of yellow bread to one side of the bowl. Her ragged fingernails are dark with dried blood. Her fingers are dirty. I look at Maman. Her chin is high. Her eyes appear to notice nothing amiss. After the girl curtsies and leaves, with her ill-smelling pot, Maman says, “I do not wish to keep a tally. I do not wish to witness Hannah Kimbrell’s discomfort day after day when I have enough of my own to occupy me. We demanded satisfaction from Talon and received it. Bon. Now we shall have the respect due our rank.” She sips a spoonful of the potage and after a moment swallows. Slowly, she dips her spoon again. Papa, saying nothing, eats.
Fish-head soup. High price to pay for respect, no?
The bread is inedible. The potage—I give mine to Sylvette. Even she hesitates. Soon after, I retreat to my featherbed by the hearth. The fire snaps and flickers. I cannot bear to look at it. But when I close my eyes, I am again encased within the roll of Italian velvet, stifling, airless, being smuggled onto the merchantman ship.
Sleep seems impossible. The odor of that potage still permeates the maison. I take the note from under the featherbed. How shall I get it to her?
The night is long. In time, a plan forms.
Hannah
“Chantez, chantez,” Madame d’Aversille commands.
I sing, for the hundredth time, it seems, the old counting song “Over in the Meadow.” Over in the meadow in the sand in the sun, lived an old mother turtle and her little turtle one. “Dig,” said the mother. “I dig,” said the one. So he dug and was glad in the sand in the sun. On and on, all ten verses in English, but still madame touches each eye with her lacy handkerchief. When I finish, madame takes up a quill, makes three marks on her tally, then strikes through them. She holds up the paper for me to see. I smile a little, for she is grinning like a mischievous child.
But why make the marks at all, then? These French people truly are a puzzle.
Madame d’Aversille sighs and leans back in her straight chair. Her feet rest upon the pillow of lamb’s wool I made for her. Her eyes are half-closed, yet she draws the sheet nearer to her elbow and makes yet another mark but does not strike through it.
Then she gives me a wide smile. ’Tis like young Richard’s, if I could erase the wrinkles. She says something in French and draws her arm through the air. She says something more in French. Is she having a talk with herself? I wish I knew what about.
Now she groans and points to her head.
The wig, Hannah?
I am afraid to move. She points again and pulls at the thing. It seems stuck there. Possum holding fast by its tail.
I go behind her chair and lift it away, but then do not know what to do with it. Finally I hang it on the other
chair. She looks so old and tired now. Her own bit of hair is stuck damply to her scalp like the few feathers on a chick just come out of an egg, all crumpled and wet. I do the only thing I can think of, then. I dip a cloth in the basin and dab her head and the few strands of hair. I pat her head dry and comb the wisps straight back.
“Ah! Merci, merci!”
I wash the damp powder from her face. Dab away the tears gathering at the withered corners of her eyes.
“Chantez,” she says again. “Chantez!”
In the middle of the second verse comes a tapping at the door. Visitors? I hurriedly replace her wig, but ’tis on crooked! “Entrez!” Madame calls, eager, it seems, for this new diversion. I step well back as the door opens.
Mademoiselle de La Roque enters, with her little dog. Seeing me, it barks and barks. When she sets it down, it runs to me and keeps hopping up. Madame d’Aversille laughs and claps her hands. She calls to the dog in quick French, and finally it goes to her. She picks it up and holds it against her wrinkled face. The dog squirms but then begins licking her face. Madame laughs some more. So does mademoiselle. I move farther back, awaiting the order to curtsy, and the new tally marks.
Mademoiselle looks at the table, its teapot and the apple tart I baked, and madame notices. She is like a cat that way, missing nothing. “Mangez!” she commands. Then, “Ha-nah!”
Trembly, I serve mademoiselle while the two talk. Their words seem the crackling of bird chatter. Every so often madame looks at me and grins. Listening to mademoiselle, she shakes her head. And all the while, mademoiselle eats like one starved. Three pieces of tart with cream! Finally madame says, “Chantez, Ha-nah! Chantez!”
I do not wish to sing! I wish to flee to my own cabin. This day will cost a dozen marks.
“Ha-nah!”
I sing for them seven verses, in English, of the counting song. Mademoiselle listens but does not look at me.
Then, there’s more talk in French. So far neither one has made a mark on the tally sheet. But finally, mademoiselle stands and calls to her dog. Madame taps, with crooked index finger, the tally sheet. Mademoiselle looks from it to me and makes a mark, but madame crosses through it and laughs. Mademoiselle tries to make another. Madame brushes her hand away.
Seems a game, Hannah. I am happy for madame, at least, for most days she is a sad, broody creature. And today is dark, with wind.
As she throws on her cape, mademoiselle gestures for me to approach. When I do, she leans down and, quick, catches up her dog. But just before that, she tucks something into my apron pocket. There is no way to see what it is because madame has other things for me to do. While I work, I hear someone playing the harpsichord at the La Roques’ cabin. Could it be mademoiselle? ’Tis a sprightly tune, quick and lively, and madame taps a foot. In the sound I see a field full of wildflowers in sun and wind. Pink mallow and buttercups and black-eyed Susan and daisies and red clover, all swaying and bright.
To be able to make such music, Hannah!
My arms prickle at the thought.
A note, I see later, while madame naps. A few words come clear—Papa . . . maison . . . nègre . . . My heart fair stumbles as I try to guess at the meaning. I will need our dictionary.
Eugenie
We have survived yet another night in this wilderness. And here is another day to traverse. And Florentine again here, a clinging vine. We walk, and he talks, and while he talks, I give attention to other thoughts—Hannah and the note I delivered successfully. And quick upon that thought, another—Kimbrell fils. I am somewhat ashamed of myself for berating him as I did when he stopped with that team of horses. Then as if my thoughts have the power to summon that young man, two workers appear on the avenue, carrying something—to our maison! Heat floods my face, for the object is a bed. And the younger of the two men is indeed Kimbrel fils.
“Such wood to be had, here?” I exclaim, as if this alone has made color rush to my face. The smooth wood of the rails appears more like the finest satin.
“What is truly remarkable, mademoiselle, is that they do not set down their burden and acknowledge our presence. I must learn their names.”
Florentine releases my arm and prepares to do battle. Arretez-vous!”
“Florentine, allow them to continue, please. They are bringing that for me.”
“Do you know them? They seem—but of course! Are they not the ones who attempted to build a maison for the slaves?”
Again he orders them to stop, but they pay no heed. The young man lets the river stone fall against our door, and Papa opens it.
“Comte,” Florentine says, standing ignominiously behind the workers, “I must learn their names. They refused to bow.”
“Ah! Florentine.” Papa executes a bow, which Florentine returns. Then Papa steps aside and the workers enter. First they remove Madame de Sevigny’s harp, and then they place the new bed against the far wall, opposite the hearth. Kimbrell père offers me something wrapped, like Sylvette’s bone, in broadsheet paper.
“Do not accept it!” Florentine urges. But I open the parcel and find panels of cream-colored muslin and a length of cord. Kimbrell père gestures to the ceiling, takes hooks and hammer from a pouch, and soon the two men have created a petite chamber for me. Kimbrell fils leaves and returns minutes later with a small, round-topped table supported by three simply curved legs and a thin pedestal, all in the same gleaming pink wood.
“Merci!” I cry. “Merci, messiers!” The words simply flow out. Then to my further surprise, I do two things that will later shame me. I curtsy—to the workers. And I bring the featherbed—myself!—to the new bed and place it on the pale ropes strung into the beautiful wood.
Voilà! A room. I shall make a drawing for the wall. I shall ask Talon for additional candles and holder. It is all so exciting that I forget that Florentine, as a guest, needs attending, until he says, “Well, I shall report them, comte, even if you are disinclined, given your republican tendencies.”
Outside, the two joiners carry Madame de Sevigny’s harp somewhere. A comical sight—the gilded harp sailing through the day. I nearly laugh aloud. But then it is not so comical when it brings to mind how mobs looted our great houses in France. And how they probably have taken the Queen’s own harp by now.
And perhaps the Queen herself.
Non! Let it not be, Our Lady. May she arrive here safely, and soon.
How fleeting, happiness. It wings away on a mere thought. Just moments earlier I was charmed by my petite chamber. The Latin phrase is so applicable: Multum in parvo. Much in little. But now I see it for what it is—next to nothing!
When Florentine finally leaves, I enter my new chamber and let tears fall. Maman parts the curtain and sits alongside me.
“Eugenie,” she whispers, her arm holding me close to her. “Ma chérie. Enough, please. We must go to Madame de Sevigny this afternoon.”
“I do not wish to go!”
“But we must. She will show us her new maison.”
“What is there to see? It will look just like this one.”
“Shall I tell you a story? About Versailles?”
“Non.”
I know all her stories by heart. The Presentation of Marie Antoinette to the People of Paris. The Ascension to the Throne. How Maman once Stepped on the Train of the Lady Ahead of Her in Procession. On and on they go, these stories—the masked balls, the witticisms, the intrigues, the triumphs. Maman loves retelling them because they transport her back to court life. I feel mean saying no. She is gently rubbing my forehead as if I were a little girl again, and ill.
“All right, Maman. One.”
“I’m thinking of when you were invited to attend the fête for Marie-Thérèse at Le Petite Trianon. She was six and you, four, Eugenie. A white coach and four white horses took you there. Do you remember that June day? The strawberries? The lambs you played with, the Queen’s special lambs? The sweet brown calves? You wore a watered silk gown, green, it had an amusing name, that color—”
&
nbsp; “Frog green.”
“Oui! Oh, Eugenie, you were so beautiful that day and so—”
“Happy.”
“Oui! Happy. And you shall be again, Eugenie. It shall all be again.”
“The peasants destroyed Le Petite Trianon. They took the animals and cut down its fruit trees. Monsieur Deschamps said so.”
“That gardener should not talk so much, and you should not listen to his stories. They make you too sad.”
“But they are true, Maman. He brought roots that he’s planting even now, near the Queen’s new house.”
“Well, my stories are also true. And I do not make you weep. Now. I want to tell you something that may cheer you, ma chérie.”
I let my thoughts drift, for Maman seems about to embark upon another story of court life. But then she is saying, “Florentine adores you, and he is of such good family. I am thinking that we must arrange your marriage, Eugenie. You are exactly the Queen’s age when she was married to the Dauphin. It will give us something to anticipate with joy—in addition to our Queen’s arrival, of course. Is this not a wonderful idea? Then when we return to France, you shall have your own beautiful château, Eugenie, and—”
“Maman.” The word hardly has breath behind it.
“He will inherit the title of comte, Eugenie. I had hoped for something higher for you, but . . .”
“Non, Maman!” Fear has found voice. I am shouting.
“Eugenie!”
“I am sorry, Maman, but not Florentine.”
“Your father and I have discussed it and—”
“Non!”
I push away from her. My face is hot and must look scarlet. I care not!
“When you are calm, Eugenie, we shall discuss this matter.”
Then I am alone in my petite chamber. “Sylvette,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
After a while, she is curled alongside me as I lie there, shaking.
Hannah
Our baked loaves fill the air with sweetness.
Waiting for the Queen Page 5