Thomas, A Secret Life

by A. J. B. Johnston

  “Thomas?” says Strombeau, clapping his hands and allowing a grin to fill his face. “I thought so,” he says pointing at Thomas. “You’re not a Jean after all.”

  Thomas gives a sheepish look. He darts a glance at Marielle. Her eyes are those of a jeweller examining a stone that is proving to be fake.

  “It’s all right,” he explains to her with a shrug. He continues the explanation in a low voice he does not want the waiting Hélène to hear. “I just told her my name was Thomas.”

  Too late he realizes that does not sound so good. He hunches his shoulders at Marielle. Oh well, the shoulders say, I guess now you know. And then to only Strombeau, with a whisper in the merchant’s ear, “Had to give her some name, didn’t I? Didn’t want to use my own.” Thomas pulls back and winks at the merchant’s smiling face. The man from Bordeaux beams back.

  And with that, Thomas avoids any more eye contact. He pushes back from the table. The others’ eyes follow him intently as he crosses the room and catches up with Hélène. She leans in and up. She bestows a kiss on his delighted cheek. The young couple goes immediately into the storage room, where she is about to tell Thomas her whole life story, and this time he will be all ears. He will hear about the heavy downpour that caused a flash flood of the Seine when Hélène was five. It overturned the rickety ferry at Les Andelys just when her parents were crossing with a wagon of hay. They could likely see the Château Gaillard as they were drowning – Hélène for some reason will throw this in. And so with their deaths she will explain she was raised by her Uncle François, the keeper of this inn. He isn’t mean to her, though he and his wife, her Aunt Isabelle, do allow fondlers and fucksters to have fun with her in the storage room. Thomas’s whole face and body will react to the story that she for the second time shares. It arouses more lust than sympathy, he’s not proud to say. In return, Thomas will recount the entire tale of his own thwarted life. It comes down to how he was misunderstood and nearly forced into the Church, which is why he’s fleeing for Paris to begin his life anew. He will acknowledge that his life story is not nearly as tragic as what Hélène endured. She will nod that he is right. Oh, and he will leave out mention of any strongbox under any counter. Those breathless explanations, accompanied by busy hands, lie moments ahead. As the door is closing to the storage room, before the young people are completely out of sight, the watchers see the serving girl tug at Thomas’s chemise, pulling it out of his pants.

  III

  Arrival

  Paris

  June 1715

  The city makes its first appearance from well away, before its surrounding walls are glimpsed and long before its west gate will be passed. Paris comes in the form of spires and towers, cupolas and domes. There are only a few at first but as the diligence draws closer along its twisting route there are too many to count, and there is one spire that is larger than the rest. Does the city have a hundred spires and domes or is it that what a thousand looks like? Thomas doesn’t know and supposes it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it’s Paris, the centre of a world that he wants to know. With each turn of the four wheels, Thomas is farther and farther from Normandy and the town of his birth. He feels like he’s rolling headlong into the future. Never before, that he can remember, has his chest felt so light.

  Thomas twists in his seat to look at the other faces in his compartment. Most of them are new. That is, he has sat with them only since leaving the inn near Évreux. Before that prolonged stop Thomas was in a different compartment. He thought it best to sit somewhere else, away from those who knew too much about him from the earlier stage. He has moved away from Strombeau, the Capuchin, Marielle and Madame Soule and has new seatmates in a different part of the diligence. He knows not a single one of their names, nor does he care. To him they are simply the man in grey with a face that’s grim; the man with too-large hands and a wig long out of fashion; the thin woman with pock-marked complexion who prefers to stare at the yellow shoes on her feet; and of course the young woman beside him. All but the last are strangers. Thomas figures the ride will soon be over with everyone going separate ways, never to see each other again, so why should he introduce himself to them or even speak. He likes the anonymity of this kind of travel. It’s so unlike growing up in Vire, where he knew near everyone and everyone knew him. He imagines that this silent nameless life will be what it’s like in Paris. It’s a new kind of living he’s certain he will enjoy.

  “Is that Notre-Dame? The big spire?” whispers Thomas’s seatmate. Her breath is hot in his ear.

  “Yes, I think so,” he replies quietly to Hélène, gazing into her playful eyes. He wants to pat her knee but decides he’d better not. It might lead to something else, and they’re not alone for that.

  Hélène, the serving girl from the inn, has come along with Thomas. It was a last-minute dash when her innkeeper uncle went back inside the inn as the diligence was rolling away. The last time they were alone in the back room together Hélène told Thomas that she envied him and wished she could do the same.

  “Why don’t you? I could find enough to pay your way.”

  “I wish, but I can’t. They need me here.”

  “To fuck on their behalf?”

  “I just can’t.”

  And Thomas thought that was it. But no, there she was, a small sack clutched in her hand, sprinting across the inn’s yard the moment Uncle François stepped back inside. It was a sight that made Thomas beam, his lover coming after him as if in a dream. Though a muddy dream it was, he admits. Hélène came from around the far side of the inn, splashing through the puddles in the yard. She muddied her skirt as she ran. Luckily, there was room enough right beside him for her to squeeze upon the upholstered bench in the compartment he had chosen.

  “You’ve not been there before, have you?” Hélène whispers in his ear.

  “To Paris? No, this is it. First time. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

  His face is so earnest that Hélène takes both her hands and exerts a squeeze. First on Thomas’s elbow then on his cheeks.

  “How big is it anyway?” she asks.

  Thomas’s eyes grow distant while he thinks about it. “I’ve heard half a million, but how can anyone know? Really? I mean, it’s not like you could ever go around and count everyone, up all the streets and into all the buildings. There are too many, that’s for sure. And there will be beggars and vagabonds too. I doubt anyone would include them in a count. How could they? They’re always moving about. So I’m thinking that there is no precise figure. Half a million? Maybe. That’s what I say. Half a million it has to be, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” says Hélène, bringing up a hand to hide a grin.

  The diligence rolls and bounces on, its creak of wood and leather a comfort to those who have an inclination to doze. For those awake and eager to see what lies ahead, and that includes Thomas and Hélène, they get to see the spires of Paris grow slowly but steadily large. Their wide eyes and keen attentions are drawn out the bouncing windows whenever there’s a glimpse of the city through branch and bush and twist of the road.

  “What are we going to do?” says Hélène in a sudden rush. “I mean there.” She gestures with her thumb at the latest Paris vista.

  Thomas turns to his lovemaking friend of the past two nights. He takes in her pretty face. Her eyes are dark brown, even darker than his own, and her hair colour is not far off from his as well. It occurs to him that they could be mistaken for a brother and a sister though he thanks the saints above that they are not. He and Anne never got along. Instead, Thomas takes the physical similarities with Hélène as a sign that the two of them are meant to be together. Maybe, if there’s a need some day, they could pass as siblings. That is, if there were some reason to keep the nature of their real relationship away from prying eyes. He likes it especially when he feels the warmth of her whispers near his ear, like he has just done.


  “My thoughts were elsewhere just then,” he says. “What did you ask?”

  “I asked what we are to do. For money. To have good shelter. Something to eat.”

  Thomas takes in a breath. Oh yes, the details of being on one’s own.

  “Well, I was going to go into medicine,” Thomas whispers in her ear, unable yet to pass over that now vanished part of his dream. “”Now I don’t know. Not after all I’ve lost. But I’ll think of something.”

  A shadow passes over his face as he wonders about how long the thirty or so coins in his pockets, socks and shoes will hold up. He has no idea what rent in Paris will be or how much it costs to dress and eat. He’s never lived anywhere but under his parents’ roof. He sucks in as deep a breath as he can. “Be all right. Not to worry. Not yet anyway.” Thomas pats Hélène’s knee.

  “Not exactly worried,” she says. “It’s only I don’t know what’s ahead. I’ve never been anywhere but around Évreux.”

  Hélène tilts her head to rest upon his shoulder. Thomas holds still then looks down at her chest, at the tops of the breasts he’s come to know quite well. He can’t wait to get back at them and the rest of Hélène once they’re in Paris. Yet maybe, he thinks, maybe those delightful pleasures of hers are a little too visible in the coach. They are after all nearly spilling out of her low-cut chemise. Thomas reaches out and with a careful thumb and forefinger he lifts up the front line of her chemise. Hélène opens her eyes and smiles.

  Thomas straightens in his seat and looks around. The passengers directly across from him and Hélène – grey grim face, big hands and downward-looking lady – all saw what he has just done to Hélène’s chemise. Each averts his or her eyes with speed. Thomas gives a vengeful glare, having caught them in their voyeurism. A distant cough – the kind one fakes to get attention – turns Thomas’s attention toward the back. Sure enough, in his old compartment at the rear, there’s Monsieur Strombeau wanting to make eye contact. He gives Thomas a wave and a wink. Then he holds up what appears to be a sheet of paper folded over. Thomas nods as if he understands, though he has not a clue what the merchant from Bordeaux is trying to communicate. Strombeau winks again, like Thomas has understood, and makes sure Thomas sees him put the paper safely back inside his coat.

  —

  Paris makes its presence heard and felt well before its walls and gates, along the very road itself. All of sudden the surface beneath the hooves of the horses and the wheels of the diligence switches from beaten dirt road to cobbled way. The change makes all the first-time travellers look out the nearest window to see what has happened to the sound they had lived with for hours, and in some cases days. They are all impressed. Where they come from, Vire, Évreux and other small towns, the cobbles don’t begin until the very gates. Thomas nods his appreciation: Paris is not just any town.

  Another change the travellers notice is that the diligence is now rolling not through untamed forest but a kind of parkland, with planted trees in neat rows. Thomas stands up for just a moment as the diligence rolls on to peer through the window on the other side. The grim-faced man in grey, whose knee he nearly touched when he stood up, radiates an annoyed look. Yet Thomas sees what he came to see. There are fortifications and a huge chevron-shaped gate up ahead.

  “What’s that one’s name?” Thomas asks the man in grey. “The gate? Its name?”

  “No idea. Sit down,” the man replies and looks away.

  “The gates in Paris are often named after saints,” Thomas whispers to Hélène when he’s back into his seat. “Saint-Louis, Saint-Antoine, Saint-Martin. Don’t know which one this might be. Could be something else.”

  “Maybe Saint-Thomas?” Hélène touches a finger to her lips. It’s a pretend pensive gesture, meant to be a joke. Thomas gets the joke and smiles. He guesses Hélène doesn’t much care what things like gates are called.

  The replacement diligence driver is slow to rein in the horses and there’s a jerk to a sudden halt before the lead pair and then those following clatter to a full stop. They’ve nearly struck the toll man standing in the middle of the gate. Shouted insults and a general dressing down for the driver begin at once. The “idiot” – as the offending driver is labelled by the toll man – is ordered to the ground. He dutifully stands and takes the tongue-lashing for a while. But then he explains that he’s new and inexperienced because the regular driver, a thief it turned out, fled in the dark two nights ago. The official who was yelling uncurls his sneer. The volume of the voices climbs down. The passengers cannot hear the rest, but they see the six summoned soldiers put their muskets back on their shoulders and march back to what seems to be their guardhouse. The toll is paid, and the new driver is back up top. He cracks the whip and makes sure that his devil horses continue on at a walking pace. Clip and clop, slow and steady, they’re on the streets of Paris now.

  “It’s June first,” Thomas says to Hélène. He says it as if it were a date she should write down. He’s not sure which saint day it is on the calendar of the Church. Whatever it is, it feels like it’s an advent of sorts. For him and Hélène if for no one else in the Christian world.

  —

  The advance is worse than slow. It’s barely a crawl up streets as narrow as those Thomas knew back in Vire. Thomas is surprised. He was sure the city would be more open everywhere he looked. Another surprise is the stink. Paris is worse than ever little Vire had been. The smell is a mix of things Thomas cannot easily separate out. There’s the horse dung of course, but there’s also the human night soil flowing with the yellow piss in the centre of the streets. And then there’s the sweat and covering perfumes of all the many classes of people he sees in the streets. Thomas inhales deeply, thinking he has to, to become a part of this place. Hélène chooses not to. She covers her mouth and nose with a mouchoir she pulls out of her sleeve.

  As the diligence rolls slowly on, Thomas concentrates on the buildings of Paris rather than the congestion on the streets. Some are a marvel to his young rural Normandy eyes. They can reach up twice as high as the buildings in Vire and Évreux. And the people! Why, there are more people on the streets in front of and alongside the diligence than Thomas and Hélène have ever seen in one place before. It’s as if there is some big event, an execution or a Fête Dieu. Yet it’s obvious from the way people are walking by, in all directions, that there is no single big event this way or that. It’s just how Paris is. Men with an assertiveness in their strides. They display their importance through the eagerness of their hurry. And the women, such prudence and elegance! There is a previous unseen finery about their clothes. Of course there are humbler sort who are dressed like back in any town or village, but Thomas’s gaze passes over them.

  The number of children is surprising. Their little hands, legs and mouths are never not in motion. Does Paris not have any parish schools? How can there be so many brats and urchins on the street?

  Everywhere Thomas and Hélène look are bustling bodies of all the hundred ranks of society. The cries and calls and taunts of the pedlars make a veritable hum. Each one with his or her patter competes to rise above the rest. Thomas stares open-faced to drink it all in, trying to absorb one tableau before moving on to the next. Hélène, on the other hand, shifts from scene to scene quickly. It’s like she’s almost peeking at this and that.

  Gentlemen and ladies strolling, beggars and wastrels pleading. Pedlars with trays of hotcakes, fish, ribbons or oil. Men with water containers strapped on their backs or fagots for fireplaces carried about in their wooden backpacks. Congestion is the only rule. The diligence cannot advance except at a crawl. The streets are clogged not just with people but with other carriages and coaches. Some are large, some very small. The wheeled conveyances come in a dozen shapes and sizes. A few are like nothing Thomas has ever seen. Those ones are low in the front and angle up. It must be to make the corners on the busy and narrow streets. There is confusion at ev
ery intersection. Thomas can’t imagine that it can be like this everywhere in the city, yet everywhere the diligence goes that’s exactly how it is. Thomas and Hélène stare out at what they see, then check back in with each other with large eyes and gently shaking heads.

  —

  The diligence comes to a halt.

  “Hôtel de Ville.” It’s a shout from outside the compartment, a deep voice from the spread of cobbles below.

  “You have to descend here,” says the grim-faced man. His expression says that he’s had just about enough of Thomas and Hélène and their wide-eyed talk and stares about Paris.

  “Descend? Yes, of course.” Thomas tries to pretend he knew that all along.

  The descent from the diligence takes time. Thomas exhales loudly while he waits, until Hélène elbows the impatience out of him and whispers in his ear, “We have to wait our turn.” He seeks to slow his breathing down. But I can’t help it, he thinks, I want to be in the swirl on the streets and squares. Yet bide his time Thomas must. Hélène’s warm hand clasps his. She presses to his side. “Where do we go? When we get out of the coach, I mean?” Her eyes are filled with faith and trust.

  Thomas wrinkles his brow. He is sorry to disappoint such an expectant face. “Not a clue,” he whispers then kisses her brow. “We have to find some place we can afford. That’s first.” He reaches to caress her ass. “Then maybe we can take off our things and … you know.”

  “But,” Hélène says, and only that.

  Down at last on the ground, Thomas catches a look of something sour on Hélène’s face. “You all right? You look … a little sad.”

  Hélène summons a facsimile of a smile. “How’s this?”

  “I, I don’t know.” Thomas tilts his head. Oh my. Other people do have their ways. “All right then, where are we?” he says, really only to himself.

  He scans the Hôtel de Ville right to left then up and down. He knows already that it is one of the two buildings from which Paris is partially administered. The other centre of power as far as buildings go, is the Châtelet. That’s where the royal authority is based. He’s read, or maybe heard, that Paris is like a coin. It’s circular in shape and divided into different zones spiralling out from along the Seine. The river divides the city in half. Thomas gives his head a little shake to put such thoughts away for a while. He turns back to Hélène. The quick, fake smile is gone. She’s back to that strange sour look. Maybe she’s feeling queasy after the long ride.