Celeste

by Roland Perry

Raoul nodded. ‘Dress in your Sunday suits and wear hats,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a small bonus in your pay packets.’

  Later that night they came to Raoul’s house and pounded on Anne-Victoire’s door.

  ‘Guy!’ Anne-Victoire whispered, fear in her face. ‘You must hide,’ she urged him.

  ‘Where?’ asked Guy, shaken by the commotion at the door.

  Anne-Victoire looked around the room frantically until she spied a cupboard. ‘In here!’ she gestured.

  Guy rushed in without a second thought and Anne-Victoire quickly locked the cupboard. She opened the door to the imposter policemen, who demanded to know Guy’s whereabouts.

  ‘He hasn’t come home, officer. I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Madame,’ one of the cops said, ‘I wish to inform you that an associate of your husband has confessed about a robbery. He told us your husband was the ringleader.’

  ‘I know nothing about this, sir, I assure you,’ Anne-Victoire said.

  The policemen acted as though convinced of her sincerity, and after a few more questions, they left.

  No sooner had Anne-Victoire unlocked the cupboard to let out a very frightened Guy than he raced to the back garden and hid in the shed. After midnight he disappeared with a sack full of his booty.

  But that afternoon there were threats of another kind in the city of Lyon. Boatmen, traders and workers rioted over high duties for river transport of silk goods. Since the French Revolution of 1789, Lyon had been an intermittent centre of political unrest. An industrial dispute such as this threatened to engulf much of the city. The initial targets of the rioting were the customs buildings at either end of the bridge. Officials were shot, stabbed and thrown into the river.

  Anne-Victoire and Céleste watched in horror from the second storey of Raoul’s house as the angry mob swirled around the customs buildings and set them alight. Their inhabitants were burned alive or forced to jump into the river. Many could not swim and drowned. Others who scrambled ashore were dealt with by the bloodthirsty mob.

  Belatedly, police on horseback with swords drawn charged into the mob and killed several rioters. This dispersed them, but they were not done yet. Knots of men headed for houses along the quay, including Raoul’s. Anne-Victoire and Céleste bolted the door to their living quarters. They clung to each other in fear as they heard men smashing windows and shouting, and shots were fired. When it was dark and the noise of the rioting had abated, Anne-Victoire decided to take Céleste to a friend’s house in another part of the city. They were descending the stairs near the first landing when Céleste slipped and fell. Anne-Victoire helped her daughter up and noticed congealed blood on her feet. Both women looked to the door of the first-floor lodger. There was a rivulet of blood running from under the door to the steps.

  ‘They’ve killed him!’ Anne-Victoire screamed and hurried into the street with Céleste. Fighting could be heard only a block away. Police were patrolling the area, weapons drawn, and they escorted mother and daughter to their destination.

  A day later Anne-Victoire returned to the house, where Raoul confirmed that the lodger had indeed been stabbed to death. Raoul had been in another part of Lyon on business during the rioting. His home and factory were among thirty that had been ransacked. Silk looms had been broken. Raoul was despairing but resolute. Living in Lyon meant putting up with such events.

  Three days after the upheaval, Anne-Victoire was summoned by police to the town hall, which was being used as a temporary morgue for identifying the dead. She was asked to wait in an anteroom with wailing relatives of those who had perished. When called to a window, an official slid items to her. It both chilled and thrilled her to see a wallet and passport belonging to Guy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the official said, looking over his glasses and trying to sound concerned, ‘but your husband is dead.’

  Anne-Victoire was too amazed to say that she had never married the man. She examined the wallet. It was empty.

  ‘Would you like to see the body, Madame?’ the official asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I’d rather not.’

  She did collect herself enough to look sad. In the street she allowed herself an inward smile of elation. God had smiled on her and her daughter. This vicious criminal character with whom she had become entangled would never brutalise her again. Anne-Victoire could not wait to tell Céleste.

  CHAPTER 2

  Vincent the Predator

  Céleste was filled with relief when she learned that her mother’s tormentor was gone for good. This emotion was overtaken by one of joy when Anne-Victoire decided they would return to Paris. They first tried to live with Anne-Victoire’s father, but her stepmother blocked this. However, he did give them enough money to find lodgings. Céleste was delighted that the choice was near the tree-lined and trendy Boulevard du Temple that divided the 3rd and 11th arrondissements in Paris’s centre and ran to the Place de la République in Le Marais. It was also just a kilometre from where she was born at 7 Rue du Pont-aux-Choux, where she had lived her first eight years, before the flight to Lyon.1

  The district was a place for walking and recreation, studded with fashionable cafés and theatres. It was the theatres that the impressionable Céleste loved. She would often steal into a matinee session and become consumed and awed by a crime melodrama, which was a popular theme and reflected Paris’s underbelly of lawlessness, potential insurrection and political instability. The shows were so numerous that the street became known as the Boulevard du Crime. These shows, and those that her mother took her to on Sundays, caused Céleste to declare with more forthrightness than an average child daydreamer that she would become an actress. Apart from the glamour, fame and applause, and being the centre of attention, which she craved, there was the fact that she had lived much real drama in her short life. Seeing murder, physical assault, sex and bawdy behaviour acted out was exciting. The formerly threatening activity took on a widely acceptable form on stage, and she wanted to be a part of it.

  Apart from the fantasy of the boulevard of dreams, Anne-Victoire was her world. After many disappointments and much foot-slogging, Anne-Victoire found work with a hat maker. She learned quickly, and became among the best of the staff of twenty working at the factory, which was close to their home. The owner of the business paid her a little extra to model the hats at fairs and exhibitions, or when he invited clients to fashion shows in the foyer of the factory. Anne-Victoire was too full-bodied to model dresses, but she was attractive and had the right head shape for hats, which enhanced her looks and led to increased sales for her employer. Her mother’s modest success inspired Céleste’s love affair with hats and the world of fashion.

  Céleste adored her mother. ‘No one else loved me,’ she wrote in her memoirs. ‘I had no friends like other children. I was jealous of everything my mother showed the least signs of liking.’

  However, at age ten, Céleste did find one friend in Vincent, a 27-year-old mason, who moved in on the floor above them. He was single, handsome and carefree, with enchanting emerald-blue eyes that twinkled with warmth whenever he saw her. She could sometimes hear him singing in the morning as he prepared to go to work. He was off-key but it didn’t matter.

  Vincent was happy with life, like no other man Céleste had known. At night she heard him playing a piano, also without much musical talent. Yet again it was of no consequence. Vincent appeared content with his lot. He was always nice to her and often gave her a Belgian chocolate, which he confided was his one vice. Céleste, who was idle most days and did not go to school, began to fantasise about him. She idolised the older man, who represented a sort of father figure. Céleste had never met her father, Alain, about whom Anne-Victoire refused to speak. Her grandfather had remained mute about him, too, which only frustrated Céleste further. She felt deprived, especially when she saw girls she knew promenading on the boulevard hand in hand with their fathers. She knew that abandoned women (or young widowers) and children were not uncommon in war-torn, r
evolution-divided and strife-riven France. But she resented that she fell into what she saw as an underprivileged category. The only other close older male she had known was the hideous stepfather, the drunken, angry Guy.

  Vincent endeared himself further to Céleste on 28 July 1835 when an attempt was made on the life of King Louis-Philippe. It occurred on the boulevard less than 300 metres from her home. In the ensuing chaos, eighteen people were killed and another twenty-three were injured.2 Céleste had seen a bigger riot in Lyon, but this failed effort to murder a king on her boulevard and the resultant disruption to life in the cafés and theatres shook her world to the core. Anne-Victoire was also troubled. She tried to settle her daughter, but it was the relaxed Vincent who remained calm.

  ‘Everything happens for the good,’ he told her. ‘The king survived and now his security will be tighter. Paris and the boulevard will move on and be back to normal in a week, you’ll see.’

  Céleste didn’t seem convinced.

  ‘I’m only a floor away if there’s any further disturbance,’ he told her. ‘I shall protect you and your mother.’

  Céleste had only heard this kind of assurance once before, from Monsieur Raoul in Lyon. It was comforting coming from someone she admired in every way.

  The gallant Vincent was in her life, if in a limited fashion. He told her she was ‘the prettiest girl on the entire Boulevard du Temple’. When she reached thirteen and had the figure of a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old, many boys and men would have agreed with this flattering assessment. Céleste was learning a dress sense from her mother that accentuated her beauty. She had not yet acquired the derrière and hip movements, pivoting glide and facial expressions of the coquettes and up-market prostitutes that she saw in doorways and lanes at night. She decided that with greater self-confidence and maturity she would add these accoutrements to her feminine armoury.

  Then the hard-working Anne-Victoire and Vincent began noticing each other. This at first pleased Céleste. One day her mother, now thirty-seven, invited him in for an evening meal, which excited the teenager. She dressed as well as she possibly could and pinned back her thick, fair hair in a way that she imagined made her look if not alluring then at least adorable.

  She didn’t really need to. Her natural beauty and blossoming sex appeal were already turning heads when she wandered the boulevard. Her confidence was buoyed by the main man in her orbit, Vincent, paying her much attention while Anne-Victoire cooked the meal. He even winked at Céleste and passed her a glass of wine, of which her mother disapproved, though not too strictly. Yet as the evening progressed the adults paid more attention to each other than Céleste, who felt left out. It hurt her but not too much because she deluded herself that it was she, the delightful (much) younger female, whom Vincent really wished to be with. He’s only paying attention to Mother to be polite, she thought.

  It was a shock the following week when Anne-Victoire announced she had been invited upstairs by Vincent for dinner. Céleste was not included.

  ‘You left me out because he likes me,’ she blurted out. ‘I hate you. I’m going to run away. I can’t stand it!’

  Later Anne-Victoire told Vincent of Céleste’s crush on him.

  ‘Really?’ he said, as if mildly surprised. ‘It’s her age. She’s discovering the opposite sex. I happen to be around, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s more than that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it will pass. I’ll be understanding.’

  This understanding manifested as cuddles and kisses on the cheek, which Céleste realised was a sop for the developing relationship between her mother and Vincent. Increasingly, Anne-Victoire disappeared at night for more than cuddles and kisses, which was obvious from the sound of the rhythmic creaking of floorboards in the bedroom above Céleste’s. It drove the girl to distraction. She was tormented and miserable. Whenever Vincent now showed her an apparently platonic ‘uncle and niece’ type of affection, she pouted and was torn between desire and competing with her mother. Her confusion became stronger when it seemed that Anne-Victoire was now paying more attention to Vincent than Céleste. This hurt deeply. It became unbearable when Anne-Victoire announced that Vincent would be moving in with them.

  The excuse was ‘saving on the rent’. Céleste was furious. A part of her wanted this most desirable man closer. But mostly she realised that she would be the odd person out in the trio, no matter how much the adults showered her with gifts and blandishments, such as more trips into the country and the theatre. The worst time was at night. Instead of the telltale creaking of floorboards above her, the thin walls allowed Céleste to hear Vincent’s grunts and expletives, and her mother’s shrill appreciation of his prolonged pounding efforts. Céleste covered her ears and even put the pillow over her head. She contemplated childish ways to make them both pay, such as burning the place down when they were at work, or committing suicide.

  A small solution was found when the adults encouraged Céleste to take on a trade. She was bright but without formal schooling or instruction. Anne-Victoire found an embroiderer who agreed to employ Céleste as an apprentice. The pay was poor, but there was promise of at least a token education in the business. Céleste was not overjoyed about this change, but it did remove her from the house five, sometimes six, days a week. Her torment continued at night. She became quiet and sullen, which seemed to intrigue Vincent. He noticed that as she approached fourteen years of age, she was developing a quite exceptional physical appearance. The puppy fat on her face was falling away to reveal an unusual beauty rather than the formerly pretty and ‘sweet-looking’ child. Her eyes were a little too close for perfection, but they were a penetrating brown, which attracted the blue-eyed Vincent. Even in her early teen years, tall Céleste had the figure of an eighteen-year-old. She was no more the skinny child. Her bust promised to be substantial, like her mother’s. Her legs were slender and long, similar to those of the girls in the growing number of Folies Bergère shows. Céleste was spoilt, but her tempestuous, at times wilful nature had an allure for Vincent.

  He mentioned to Anne-Victoire that Céleste may be trouble in the near future. After all, the girl was coming up to the age of consent, which was fourteen in France. But Anne-Victoire was not looking too far ahead. Handling Céleste day to day was enough of a challenge. Céleste had settled well into her embroidery work, and like most things she applied herself to, she was a quick and diligent learner. The work was in fashion, which kept alive her dreams of one day being wealthy enough to buy her own fine clothes. She hated the token studies she had to do, but again her agile mind took in the ‘history of the embroidery trade’ easily, especially if there was a descriptive component. She was semi-literate, but it did not stop her from understanding what she’d read and regurgitating it verbally, with a few embellishments from her fertile imagination. Céleste seemed to enjoy the struggle to articulate a response to any question from the teacher.

  She was easily the smartest girl in the small class and this gave her a much-needed boost in confidence. Unfortunately, it was at the expense of the boss’s dim and jealous daughter, Louise. This petulant, unattractive girl chided Céleste about her background after she had told Louise of her frightening experience in Lyon and the demise of Guy. Céleste was given such a hard time that she would often arrive home distressed and shut herself in her room. First Anne-Victoire then Vincent would try to comfort her. He was often drunk and in this state his affections bordered on something more than avuncular when her mother was not in the room. It befuddled young Céleste. She was pleased that he flirted with her and jollied her in those times of need. But she was unsure about his attempts to kiss her, not on the cheeks as before, but full on the mouth. His hugs were too smothering and close, and she could smell the stale alcohol on his hot breath. His relationship with Anne-Victoire had killed off his image as the sought-after father figure. And gradually his appeal diminished.

  Céleste grew to view her mother’s lover as something of a sleaze. But Anne-Victoire was in
love with him. He was seven years her junior, warm and respectful to her, and he had steady work. At her age, Anne-Victoire had little prospects of finding a suitable partner. She would do everything to secure this relationship.

  Early in 1839, a few weeks after Céleste’s fourteenth birthday in December, Anne-Victoire received an urgent message to go to Fontainebleau, where her father was dying. The family wanted her to nurse him in his last weeks. She responded to the call to look after a man who had always done the right thing by her.

  ‘I don’t want to be left alone with Vincent,’ Céleste told her mother, ‘he’s so awful when he’s drunk!’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic, dear,’ Anne-Victoire said dismissively. ‘I’ll have a word to him, but he’s already promised he won’t come home late or drunk.’

  The day her mother departed Céleste was in a foul mood. This led to an argument with Louise at work about the design pattern for a new, sleeveless chemise for women. Despite her limited reading skills, Céleste stubbornly maintained she was right about the instructions to make it. Louise, manipulative and envious as ever, tearfully asked her father to adjudicate. Probably to keep the peace at home with his family, the boss supported his daughter. Céleste was so furious that she resigned on the spot, without even asking for the week’s pay that was due to her. She stormed home. Vincent’s method of consoling her—with embraces and slobbery kisses when sober—infuriated Céleste further. She shut herself in her room. When he left for work she wandered the boulevard and came home late at night. Vincent returned home soon afterwards, this time drunk. He lunged at Céleste, running his hands over her breasts. She tried to fight him off, but he brought her to the floor, his weight pinning her down, and attempted to force himself on her. In desperation, she bit him hard on the forearm. He cried out in pain and fell back.

  The second his attention turned to the bitemark, she freed herself and ran for the door. Vincent stumbled after her, but he was in no condition to pursue the fleet-of-foot teenager, who scurried off towards the boulevard.