“He is strong enough to ride a horse with me now and I will let him feed when I decide it is time.” He studied me from his princely spot on the horse. Then he added to his lopsided science of infants by saying, “It is good to deprive children. It makes them stronger, more rugged of temperament.”
His treatment of the servants—particularly a little bit of a thing that recently turned up—is horrid. She is fair-haired and keeps to herself. Just last week, while strolling along the garden path lined with wild rose bushes, I heard screaming, turned around and saw him chasing after her with a stick.
“Come back here, you lazy wench. I told you to make curds and then scrub the kitchen floor. Here you are prancing around outside like you own the place.”
“She’s with me,” I said firmly. “I asked her to help me gather thyme.” Of course it was a lie, yet I was not about to tolerate such cruelty.
Monsieur Bluche looked at me, not knowing whether he should yell at me or be polite, as he had managed with some difficulty thus far. “Madame Vivant, perhaps next time you will ask me before you make use of my servant. After all, you don’t want me looking like a complete imbecile in front of the likes of her now, do you?”
Paying no attention to him, I gently brought the girl to me. He needed my milk for his son and wouldn’t cast me out for anything.
“What is your name?” I asked when the servant girl and I were alone. She tried to free herself from my clutches yet I repeated my question.
“Céleste,” she said waving her head in the air like a wild horse, her dirty hair dangling in front of her face.
“You are of the skies, the constellations,” I told her, adding that her name meant she was from the stars.
She spoke in quick bursts as she told me her mother sang her name when calling her, though only when her father wasn’t around. Then she broke away from me and ran to the house.
A day later, I met her on the stairs. She was like a little bird and I dared not go too close for fear she would flutter away. Her thin frame was bent and her head and neck were stiff like an old woman’s. For a brief flash she looked right at me, then turned her head down once again. Since that encounter she has begun to spy on me from behind the paravent in the boy’s room while I suckle the infant or write in my diary. I sometimes see one eye peering between the panels. The last time she did this I began to sing very softly while rocking the baby. It looked as though I was singing to the little one when in fact the song was for her.
Yesterday at dusk, I heard her laughing to herself in one of the bedrooms as she tidied. Her lovely, light laugh told me she was not always sorrowful. I peeked around the corner and saw her smoothing out the sheets with her hands. She sat on the bed for a moment, all the worry in her face vanishing as she gazed out the window, and I observed that she took pleasure in her own company. Something about the girl stayed with me. She seemed full of self-loathing, yet even with her wildness I found there was a certain grace about her. Perhaps it was her vulnerability that made her appear that way to me. Whatever it was, she made me want to stay on at the estate to know her better.
Is the human heart merely a muscle, divided into chambers that expel blood through the body or is it something more? When I saw the servant girl that day on the stairs I thought I perceived what was living and dying inside her. She wondered whether to flee or to look into my eyes, and finally she did. Her hands shook and her tongue was caught inside her mouth like a bird clawing the sides of its cage. My mind knows nothing of her struggles, family, or even from whence she came. I am no doctor. Even so, what I read in her eyes allowed me to understand things about her that moved me. My father would say animal spirits produced by the blood are responsible for moving the body like that. All I know is, a flood of emotion welled up inside me as I sensed our hearts aligning. Can science measure such a thing as this?
Holding Armande’s loving words to me, I rocked the book as one would a baby. Heat on my face spread to my arms and legs, belly filling with warmth. Monsieur Phlipon asleep beside me in the carriage suddenly opened his eyes and I closed the book so quickly that it made a clapping sound. Doctor Jolycoeur looked at me sternly and placed a finger on his lips. I heard about these animal spirits Armande wrote about in her diary. Monsieur Vivant told me animals abided by the laws of nature, whereas humans were governed by their minds. That is, if their bodies had sense enough to listen. All I knew was my mind told me to rise from bed in spite of my lazy body wishing to stay put. If I did not let my mind win over my body each morning, I would get nothing done. Yet at times my body instructed me to do certain things that stumped my mind, like when my body told me to leave that estate to live with Armande. My mind still suspected she was a witch out to harm me, yet thankfully my body overrode my head’s chatter. She wrote, I sensed our hearts aligning. So she had known this from the very start.
The doctor glanced at me once more. Perhaps his eyesight was not very good and he could not see I cried, yet Monsieur Phlipon saw. He half-smiled at me as though my sadness gave him pleasure. Though he did not know my tears were happy ones from reading about Armande’s love for me.
Bees
WE ARRIVED IN PARIS on a clear morning. Outside the carriage window, a water carrier lugged two buckets, one on each side. Another man peddled lanterns. An organ player’s music drifted through the air and a man carrying an enormous basket at his waist began shouting, “Who’ll buy spoons and larding pins?” Horse carts and carriages rattled past women with baskets and children in hand. The ladies I saw were simply dressed with no care for primping. Not like the women Armande told me about who wore ribbons and pearls, hair piled high on their heads.
Monsieur Phlipon opened the carriage door and helped Madame Jolycoeur into the street. The sun was warm on my face and shoulders. People, horses and carriages filled every nook and cranny around me. I felt as though I was still in the carriage and had not yet woken up from a dream. Could we really be in Paris? It seemed so unbelievable to me.
I bid the doctor and his wife adieu and she hugged me to her with more strength than I thought she had. She did not cry as I did, though her hands trembled as she pulled away from me.
“Come visit,” she said weakly.
The doctor embraced me, the ostrich fringe on his hat tickling my cheek.
“Please do come by and see my wife when you have a chance. We will be staying at 37 rue Fabrice.”
After dropping our baggage at the hotel, we went to eat at a café next door. I instantly felt plain next to the ladies with their silks, oriental caps, beads and feathers. My gown was heavy, almond-coloured, and I had only a simple braid in my hair. My wool cloak was now too warm for the spring weather. The spacious room had a glass ceiling with lush plants throughout. There were marble tables with apricot lamps and an enormous fountain in the middle.
“Armande is no longer at court,” said Monsieur Phlipon once we were seated. “She is somewhere in Paris.”
“What?” I was stunned and couldn’t spot if he was lying.
“I found out just before we left the village,” he told me. “That’s why I asked you to come. I’ll do what I can to investigate further.”
I thought to ask him why he had not told me this before, yet then I remembered that he was not who he pretended to be, and so he would surely keep his true motives from me. In the street, he said he had some urgent business to attend to and would meet me later at the hotel. A stranger from the café exited just after we did, turned his head and walked in the other direction. Monsieur Phlipon gave me a kiss on the cheek, waved dumbly and vanished into the crowd of people walking by.
What reason would the King have to let her go? Her motherly liquid would not only make the future king healthy again, but benevolent also. He would see the excesses of those rulers before him and right past wrongs carried out in Almighty God’s name. There would be bread for everybody. Bread. Labour. Education. Yet then a flash of terror
ran through me as I remembered Margot’s words before I left the village. Wisdom in the wrong hands can drain magic from those that possess it.
My thoughts were pulled apart by shouting and the beating of drums. A group of women, mothers, children and grandmothers marched through the streets in my direction just like la pucelle going into battle with her army. Carts, carriages, horses and those on foot were forced to the sides to make way for the thunderous cavalcade.
“The rich are taking all the grain with barely a crumb left over for the poor,” shouted one woman, the shine of her bluish skirt piercing through the thick cloud of street dust.
Her hat had a colourful ribbon hanging from it and her parasol struck the ground as she marched. Younger ones were arm-in-arm with older ones; some carrying babies while others dragged their small children behind them. Through the dust, I saw the faces of the women, their eyes full of fire, their mouths booming out slogans with the words prejudice, superstition, and lies. Then as if on cue, they sang a song about the flame of truth scattering clouds of folly. One of the women was about my age, slender and fair, she held a baby in her arms.
“Excuse me Mademoiselle I’m looking for a woman by the name of Armande Vivant. Do you know her?” I asked, half-thinking to see her marching with the angry women.
“I don’t recognize that name,” she said as she walked past.
I stood in the road and watched the last of them go, fists clenched and waving above their heads, skirts swishing, children running behind yelling, people making fun or shouting in approval as they went. Two skinny dogs barked and tagged along after a hurdy-gurdy player who followed the women. I wanted desperately to march beside them, tell them I knew how to read and write—something to be proud of, as not many women could do that. Many of the marching women could read because they shouted things about changing laws in favour of the poor. Some carried placards with words they surely wrote themselves. Sooner or later, the air in the street cleared. Carts, carriages, and bodies filled the street as before.
I passed two women peddling green walnuts. They were plump, rosy cheeked and looked like sisters. Monsieur Phlipon could be deceiving me about Armande being in Paris, yet there was no harm in seeing if somebody might have spotted her. If she was known in Versailles, then surely all of Paris knew her reputation by now.
“I’m looking for a woman,” I said, accidentally knocking over their bucket of walnuts. I began scooping them off the ground when one of the women pushed me aside to finish the job.
“Never heard of her.” The other sister coughed and waved her hand to rid her throat of dust.
I then went up to a street porter who wore a cloak the same colour as his dark, thick moustache. “I’ll give you quelques sous if you can lead me to a woman named Armande Vivant.” I held out my handful of coins.
“Don’t know her.” He then took my money, turning the corner quickly to blend with the crowd.
What an idiot I was to hold out my money as a pickpocket would see I was naïve and stupid and be after me so fast. I could even be knifed, ending my sorry life in a rubbish bin at the back of some shop. I came upon a man selling rabbit skins. He pulled the skins away when the pleat of my skirt nudged them. Gazing at me, he squinted, his free hand protecting his goods.
“Have any coins?” he asked. “If not then get away from here. I have to make a living.”
I wandered away, tail between my legs. At that moment, I longed for our home in the mountains with its creaky stairs and low ceilings, its pleasing gardens and country air. Yet most of all I longed for Armande. If only I was given a sign she was truly in the city, like when I walked through the field in winter and could tell if Pierre passed by that way because he would drag a stick through the snow beside him. Or Margot, who wore a thick skirt that made deeper impressions in the snow or spring mud.
I turned to look behind me at a man selling ink and saw the same person who was in the café earlier and who came out while Monsieur Phlipon and I were saying goodbye. As soon as he saw me staring at him, he vanished behind a building. The idea I was being spied on gave me a chill. What could he possibly want with me? The man was short, wore dark clothes, and had brown hair, a smallish nose and thin face. I began running through the streets in order to lose him. After scurrying along the river, climbing some steep stairs and wandering through several winding streets to another part of the city, I stepped into a bookshop. I looked out the window and, seeing nobody, snuck to the back, took any old book off a shelf, sat myself down on the floor and began thumbing through it. I decided to stay there a while until the man lost my trail completely.
The volume in my hands was The Feminine Monarchie and told some amusing tales of bees throughout the seasons, mainly in the summer months that contained Gemini, Cancer and Leo. My head buried in the book, I brought my knees up to my chest and fell to sleep. It was not clear how long I slept before sensing a figure towering above me. Over the top of the book, I looked down and saw trousers. Shoes were shiny black with silver buckles.
“What do you think you’re doing Mademoiselle?” The bookshop owner lowered his hand and snatched the book, which had become my protective shield. He then pulled me up with the other hand. By that time, I was fully awake and hunting for excuses.
All I knew about bees was from Armande’s father, and, so I blurted out, “I am looking for a book by Monsieur Vivant on the topic of bees.”
No sooner did I say these words than the merchant pulled a thin volume from a shelf in front of us.
“You’re very fortunate as this is newly published,” he said proudly as he handed it to me.
The cover was buttercup yellow and in uneven capital letters the title read, A STUDY OF SOLITARY BEES AND THEIR PREFERENCES FOR CERTAIN FLOWERS. A crudely drawn bee appeared under the words, and under that, the date: 1789. On the next page was a dedication. For my dearest Armande, philosopher and explorer of life. So he had published it after all. My breath was rapid and I had trouble finding my words. Blood ran to my cheeks, the bee on the cover quivering before my eyes. In my hand was, I felt, a sign not to give up my search for her.
“Will you purchase the book?” He looked curiously at me as if he thought I might steal it.
“Oh, yes,” I stammered. “I wish ever so much to learn about bees.”
I left the bookshop, bee book in hand. The street was empty except for an old woman knitting by her door. I made my way to the river, constantly checking to make sure nobody followed me. I sat by the water’s edge far from street crowds and hawkers and flipped through the book reading phrases here and there. I recognized some of the expressions her father used to describe the bees, and even recalled passages from his notes for the book, left on the desk in his library. Solitary bees are very selective about what flowers they gather pollen from. Most frequent only a few species of flower and it is not apparent whether this is as a result of a preference for one colour of flower over another or whether it is the unique nectar that draws them. On the book’s last page was a delicate drawing of a lion’s head. The creature had a shaggy mane, deep-set eyes and a wide, knowing mouth. Underneath was an inscription that read, Un Vieux Lion. Armande had taught me that such an emblem showed who published the book. I wondered if Monsieur Vivant was the publisher, and if so whether his business was located in Paris. There was no address under the name as I saw with other books. Nobody was watching so I lifted my petticoats and secured the yellow book in my embroidered pocket. It was my very own book now and the first book I ever bought.
Two men were fishing downstream, and one caught a fish and was reeling it in. The man had strong arms, long blondish hair tied back and a small, feminine nose. His profile was not like Monsieur Vivant’s in the least. Before I ever met him, Armande had showed me her locket wherein there were two silhouettes, one of her father and one of her mother. Armande’s father had a nose like a Roman emperor and a distinguished chin. The men were shouting as they
watched the fish twist and jump, its glassy body slapping against a rock. I was sorry for the poor creature. The fish took a last breath and was dead, and then the man who caught it took out his knife and cut the belly from head to tail, its guts spilling onto the ground. If I saw her father in the streets of Paris, I would of course spot him right away. If Armande were here, then surely she would be looking out for him too.
Along the bank, a woman lounged on a rock reading a book. Every so often, she lifted her hand and brushed away a curl that the wind tousled. Her hair was the same shade as Armande’s, yet I knew it was not Armande because the woman’s back was bent. It rained earlier and the moist air clawed at my face and neck, its cold breath slid under my skirts. A glint of sun hit the water and then sailed away on a ripple made by some children who were on the other side of the river skipping stones. In my pocket was a piece of cheese from yesterday’s supper outside Paris. Gnawing on it, I pulled out the diary.
I imagined Monsieur Vivant wore a big, dark hat and heavy cloak to hide himself from his enemies. Maybe he played the part of a sweeper or billsticker to avoid being noticed. He crept around buildings, choosing to stroll down lesser travelled streets and dimly lit alleys. Armande would surely visit Monsieur Taranne or Madame Rousset to find out where her father was staying. Sifting through the beginning pages of her diary, I learned that the old woman lived at 12 La Rue des Capucines. Just before sundown, I found myself standing outside Madame Rousset’s house, an iron staircase framed by a pair of stone horses just as Armande had described it in her diary.
At first, the old woman did not believe my story and did not even invite me to sit down. In the drawing room, she arranged herself on the sofa while I stood awkwardly in front of her. She wore a black gown with a stiff lace collar and a black bonnet on her head.
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