Spirit of Lost Angels (10 page)

Exhausted from his journey to the produce market eight leagues far, Armand slumped into a chair before the fireplace.

I handed him a beaker of wine. ‘Drink and rest, my merchant husband.’ It made me smile, how he insisted we call him a merchant innkeeper now, instead of a lowly farmer or winegrower.

A plume of smoke leaned into the room as Armand drank the wine. He took my hand. ‘A small profit was made. Minimal, but every bit counts,
n’est-ce pas
, my dear? All in our effort to overcome this impoverishment gripping Lucie and every other rural place around.’

I thought back to Noëmie and her beggar family and, once more, I blessed my good fortune to have such a man — a man who, despite lacking youth, rose in the four-o’clock cold to ride off and bargain good prices at the surrounding markets for our eggs, vegetables and poultry. What luck to have a husband also clever enough to understand a smattering of every dialect — the language of the river people, the butchers, the silk-workers and fishwives.

I left my hand in his. ‘I fear your children are worse, Armand. Their brows are feverish and they barely eat because of the coughing. This morning they began spitting blood. I keep giving them the bugle infusion and I have moved them from the others. I had to use one of the inn rooms.’

‘You separate them from the family?’ Armand looked up from the crackling fire, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary from the long ride home into the brunt of a south wind.

‘Maman always said a child with the speckled monster sickness smells like horse manure, one with scarlet fever smells like old apples, but the tuberculosis child has the odour of onions.’

‘And my children smell like onions?’

‘I’m sorry. Maman also told me
la tuberculose
is contagious. I must keep the other children safe. We cannot have more of them fall ill, and Madeleine, Blandine and Gustave are young … so vulnerable to sickness.’

Armand gave my hand a faint squeeze. ‘I know you’ll take care of my children — our children — and make them well again.’

I left my husband by the fire and, as Maman had shown me, I boiled up linseed and mustard for a poultice. I returned to the sick children and placed it on their hot little backs.

I held the beaker to their pale lips. ‘Come now, just a little more,’ I said, coaxing them to sip the minty-smelling bugle tea — my only hope to stop the bleeding inside.

I had been with the children only a few minutes when I heard voices. I listened closer. It was Léon’s voice, hushed and urgent. I put the beaker on the bedside table and hurried out to them.

Léon was sitting at the table, his hat in his hand, fiddling with the brim.

‘What’s wrong? What is it, Léon?’

For someone I thought I knew so well, I had no idea what to read on that grim face. I looked from him to Armand, the panic rising in my chest. ‘What is it?’

‘They are dead, Victoire,’ Armand said. ‘Léon’s wife and child. Dead birthing the first son.’

My first instinct was to run to Léon’s side to hold him, to smother him with kisses and rock his pain away.

I felt my husband’s eyes on me and I did not move, only lowered my head to hide my blush.
‘I’m sorry, Léon. So very sorry for you.’

***

‘Water drips down the windows again,’ Armand said, as I prepared the morning coffee. ‘How peculiar, for a summer day. Quite as odd as this smoky haze that persists across the countryside.’

He nodded beyond the window. ‘
Mon Dieu
! Look, Victoire, frost covers the ground! Whoever heard of thick frost in a month of June?’

‘And the sun is the colour of blood again,’ I said, watching it rise, as it had done these past weeks, into that strange, smoky fog. A flock of birds heeled sideways, catching the first sun’s rays. They wheeled and dipped like crazed things, as if trying to dodge the fog, seeking fresh air in that great bowl of singed, scarlet light.

‘Whatever is happening, Armand?’

‘I have never seen such a thing,’ he said as he washed down a hunk of bread with coffee. ‘God must be enraged, my dear.’

He kissed me and strode outside to begin the farm chores. Through the rusty haze, I watched him — a bleak figure looking across his frosted fields, and shaking his head as his gaze lifted to the sky.

Busy with the twins and preparing the inn for the evening guests, I pushed the worry of the queer weather aside, until Armand came stomping back inside.

‘The new oats are brown and all withered. The wheat looks mouldy and the water has turned a strange, light blue.’ He shook his head. ‘How are we to make the bread, Victoire? We, and our inn guests, surely have the right to decent bread?’

Léon appeared in the doorway. ‘That’s not all, Papa. The snouts and feet of the livestock are raw and have turned a bright yellow. The fruit trees have all shrivelled up, as if a fire had burned beside them.’

As always when Léon spoke, I busied myself at the stove or the fire. Still we avoided each other’s eyes, as if afraid of what we might see. Nor did we mention the loss of his wife and child, especially after the joyous birth of Gregoiré and Françoise’s healthy baby boy — Emile Félix Charpentier.

‘What poison does God send us from the heavens?’ Armand said, flinging his arms skyward.

‘Witches’ revenge!’ Pauline said.

Adélaïde shook her head. ‘We have enraged the angels.’

Over that whole summer, the people of Lucie tilted their heads towards the sky. They looked with suspicion and fear, but nobody could explain the frequent, violent thunderstorms which affrighted and distressed us, and which struck down cattle and men across the country. We had no idea why people had trouble catching their breath, some choking to death on the bizarre, ever-present fog, which covered the sun and stopped it warming the earth.

***

‘It is because of a volcano,’ our inn guest — a silk trader from south of Lyon — explained one morning the following autumn.

‘A volcano?’ Armand said.

We rarely heard of such things, and we all fell silent, still mourning our lost harvest.

The man nodded. ‘
Eh, oui
. So the scholars say. From a far-off land. Apparently this volcano, Laki they call it, began erupting in early June, and spews out great clouds of volcanic ash and lava, covering our sun with its poison.’

All eyes stayed riveted on the man. ‘This cloud has killed thousands and made the living even poorer, and more destitute.’

Before their afternoon sleep, I took a moment in my busy day to read to Madeleine and the twins from
Les Fables de Jean de la Fontaine
. I would teach them to read and write when they grew older, as I had promised Grégoire I would teach little Emile, but for now, the children were content to listen to the tales and gaze at the pictures.

The door flew open. ‘Come quickly, Victoire, Papa’s
had an accident with the plough!’ Léon cried. ‘ … gone through his leg, the blood gushes out. Grégoire is with him.’

I hustled the children from my lap. ‘Stay here with Adélaïde and Pauline,’ I said, grabbing strips of cloth.

Léon and I hurried across the half-ploughed field to where Armand lay, the wound on his leg bloody and gaping.

‘Mon Dieu,
poor Armand. Let me look.’ As Maman had instructed me, I pressed on the wound until the bleeding ceased, then bandaged it with the cloth. Between Léon and Grégoire, Armand hobbled back to the farm.

By the time my husband had crossed the courtyard and laboured up the steps, his face was grey as a storm cloud, and sweat dusted his pleated brow.

‘Go quickly,’ I said to Pauline. ‘Fetch
la guérisseuse
.’

Lucie had no residing physician or barber-surgeon, and apart from the blacksmith who set bones and helped women prepare for less painful childbirth, the healing woman was the only one who could help the sick.

La guérisseuse
probed and cleaned Armand’s injured leg and applied a poultice. ‘Yarrow flowers leaves, to staunch the bleeding and close the wound,’ she said, applying a binder fashioned from thick leather strips.

‘Give him this for the pain, madame … willow-bark tea. Then make him rest. I will return tomorrow.’

‘Rest now, Armand,’ I said, helping him to our bed. ‘Tomorrow you’ll feel better.’ As he closed his eyes, I tried to quell the foreboding swelling inside me.

‘Armand must get well,’ I said, accompanying Grégoire outside. ‘He has to recover.’

My brother kissed my cheek. ‘I know you’re a good wife, you’ll take great care of your husband.’

As my brother left to return to Françoise and little Emile, the hairs on my arms bristled in the late afternoon chill.

My dear Victoire,

Thank you for your wishes. Marie, Roux and I are well. The lecherous Marquis found new prey quickly — the young scullery maid who replaced you. The poor girl must have resisted him and Marie found her strangled in her attic bed.
Quelle tragédie!
Of course, the Marquis, ever the fawning toady to those who matter, claimed it was some intruder — a thief come to rob the silver and jewels.

I have an urge to upturn my vat over his powdered wig and watch the burning oil run down his frock coat and soil his satin breeches and white stockings.

So caught up he is, in his own high and mighty self at the Palais-Royal, he never notices me observing from the throngs of commoners at the Camp des Tartars; watching him strut around the expensive arcades, eyeing the fancy ladies in their paste jewellery and striped gowns. As he goes up to the gambling casinos and plush houses of pleasure, I am plunged into sorrow for that dead scullery girl, as I was for you, Victoire.

He will go unpunished no doubt. As you well know, justice is a dream! Those of the blue blood are above crimes and we commoners are powerless against them.

I was relieved to hear of Madeleine’s recovery. I hope the twins are also in good health. They must be eighteen months old now? Healthy children who survive infancy are true gifts from God.

I imagine you experienced this terrifying volcano down south? The foggy rust-coloured air over Paris killed many throughout summer, and the scholars predict thousands more will perish in the freezing winter this volcano is sure to bring. We must prepare ourselves, my child, for this unexplained punishment God sends us.

So as not to cloud this letter with bleakness, I have some news that will make you laugh. Did you hear of the brothers Montgolfier, who invented an enormous balloon filled with hot air? Well, they have flown this giant balloon before a huge crowd at Versailles. You could never imagine such a spectacle! A rooster, a duck and a sheep were inside to check its safety. This trio travelled a short distance and landed unharmed, except the sheep had kicked the rooster! The fat King watched it all through his telescope, and has made nobles of the Montgolfier family. Humans flying in the sky, whatever will men think of next, Victoire?

I close now, my child, the kitchen awaits me. I hope all is well with you and Armand at
L’Auberge des Anges.

Affectionately yours,

Claudine

***

I immediately took up my quill.

My dear Claudine,

I beg a thousand pardons for not answering your letter earlier. Several reasons, the first being that some months back, three of Armand’s children succumbed to
la tuberculose
. Despite all I could remember of my mother’s remedies, theirs were terrible deaths, all within days of each other, and it seemed we were constantly calling Père Joffroy out for the Last Rites in the morning, then again in the afternoon to lay the children to rest.

I am desperate for my poor husband, and try to comfort him. He has now lost seven children.
Dieu merci
Madeleine and the twins were spared the sickness.

Alas, this is not the only bad news from our hearth. Two weeks previous, the plough pierced Armand’s leg. The healing woman comes daily with her marshmallow cataplasms, but the wound is surrounded by an angry halo of swelling, and causes him dire pain.

Since Armand is no longer able to work the farm, his children — Léon, Joseph, Adélaïde, Pauline and even the two youngest boys — and I are working harder than ever. Everyone is anxious. I am terrified.

As in Paris, and all over we are hearing, the weather has been unkind to us too, made even worse as the previous spring rains never came to Lucie. Along with the great drought, this volcano killed much of the vines, fruit trees, animals and crops. The price of hay, wine and wheat is elevated. With little stock, some days I wonder how I will feed my family, let alone the inn guests. Though travellers are far fewer these days. As if, since they witnessed its fury, people are afraid of Nature, constantly staring at the sky and fearing what poison it will rain on them next. Or perhaps it is simply that the burden of feeding and sheltering families has become too much for men to stray far from their own hearths?

Finances are desperate once more and I fear
la mélancolie
stalks me again. As when I left Rubie, the darkness crouches on my shoulder like a feral cat whose hunger has driven it from the forest, wild and searching for prey. I am less and less able to fight it. Some days I can no longer even find joy with my sweet children.

It angers me to hear of the Marquis’s terrible crime. He must be stopped from killing more girls. As a simple scullery maid, I could do nothing, but I am a free woman now, helping my husband run a respectable inn, and thus able to ponder over such injustices.

I know you value your position in that noble house, Claudine, but do you not feel vengeful for your poor carter husband? After my time in Saint-Germain, and the murder of my father at the cowardly hand of a noble, I can no longer passively accept this kind of behaviour. The day I am able, my friend, my revenge shall be savoury, my hand steady, my conscience uncluttered with guilt.

I must hurry back to my husband. It comforts me to know you will be praying with me for his recovery. We cannot lose him.

Yours affectionately,

Victoire

***

Armand was too ill to accompany us to
la fête des morts
in the cemetery that November, to commemorate our dead.

‘We should not leave him alone for long,’ I said to Léon, as we cleared and groomed the family tombs. ‘I am afraid the fever comes upon him.’

I knelt before the resting place of my siblings and my parents, and crossed myself. ‘We must hurry.’

Back at the farm, I took wormwood tea to Armand for his fever. ‘Sorry we had to leave you,’ I said.

He took sips from the beaker I held. ‘It is only right you tend to our dead, my dear,’ he said in a voice that seemed to come from some distant place.

His wound was still inflamed, and the edges shone a dusky crimson, as if left for days under a hot sun. I recalled what Maman used when a wound became like this, and hurried back to the hearth.

I peeled garlic cloves into boiling water with thyme, then added strips of old linen. As I dabbed around the wound with the garlic solution, I could see he was trying not to flinch with the pain.

I swabbed the sweat from his burning brow, though the poor man shivered under the covers.

‘Pray I die soon, my dear,’ he said, his eyes glittering with the fever. ‘For I have become a burden. With barely enough food for the living, the mouth of the dying is but an obscenity.’

I held his limp hand and we sat in silence.

‘Do you regret returning to Lucie and marrying me, Victoire? You, so young and lovely.’

‘I regret nothing, Armand.’ I squeezed his damp, frail hand. ‘You are a hardworking, pious man, who shows me nothing but kindness. We have a good, happy life together, and for that, I feel only fortunate. Hush now, save your energy to fight the sickness,’ I said, stirring the air about him with slow waves of my fan.

‘I die in comfort, Victoire, knowing you and my son will not be alone. Léon is a good man; he will take care of you.’

My pulse quickened. ‘Don’t speak of such things. You are my husband.’

‘Léon needs a new wife.’

The heat rose to my cheeks. ‘My loyalty to you has never wavered, Armand.’

With what little strength remained in him, Armand clutched my hand. ‘You have been the perfect wife; I couldn’t have asked God for one better.’

***

My dear Victoire,

Oh là là
, my child, you must show prudence with your mind of revenge. The Marquis is respected and well connected. To fight against a blue blood is to invite disaster. I would hate to watch the spectacle of your public execution on la place de Grève. I hope you are not serious and you’ll stay safe in Lucie with your good merchant, innkeeper husband.

It bereaves me to hear of the death of Armand’s children. I know you cared for them as if they were your blood, and the love and attention you showed them deserves a high place in the character of the Good Wife. Here in Paris too, many are dead from this outbreak of
la tuberculose
.

Marie and I pray constantly for Armand’s recovery. Please send me more news soon, but I understand the children, the farm and the inn must occupy all of your day.

We are all still shocked at the murder of the scullery maid. Marie can’t sleep and Roux chases his tail like a mad thing. Another young girl, Margot, who will no doubt lose her innocence before long, replaces the maid.

I have some news I hope brings you a smile. An apothecary by the name of Monsieur Parmentier is, would you believe, trying to convince folk to eat potatoes! “The flesh is good and healthy,” he says, of that suspicious root. He says grain is easily destroyed in wartime, and from storms, hail, even volcanoes (!!), but the potato, growing below ground, is safe.

But doesn’t this apothecary man realise that digesting such root vegetables will only invite some awful phlegmatic disease? Mind you, he must have great influence. He has persuaded the King to give him two acres of land outside Paris on which to grow these potatoes.

If this food situation worsens, Victoire, we may all have to succumb to M. Parmentier’s humble potato, and every other root the good earth pushes up!

Yours affectionately,

Claudine

***

Armand’s fever never truly broke. His wound turned the colour of a toad and gave off a pungent odour. He screamed when the healing woman tried to touch it.

One afternoon a grey mask dropped over his face, one I was afraid no human could lift.

‘What about the hospital, Léon?’ I said.

‘That filthy, airless place, with so many crowded onto the one straw mattress seething with lice and fleas.’ He sighed. ‘If we were wealthy enough to make a charitable donation, we could get my father a bed of his own. Apart from the very rich, Victoire, hospital is only a gateway to the grave. I fear it is time we called Père Joffroy.’

The priest came with his white cloth and candles. Léon brought in the twins and Madeleine, to kiss their father. Armand’s children came too, to say goodbye — a circle of pale faces and watchful eyes full of sadness. Grégoire and Françoise were with them, and I saw how each of them respected his piety, admired his strength and now lamented his death.

Léon was the last to take his father’s hand.

‘Look after her, my son,’ Armand said, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘Take care of them all.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

The two men kissed tenderly and the son left, unable to stay and watch his father die.

For a time, there was no sound, save Armand’s spasms of breath, as he slowly lost his hold on life. His limbs grew cool, his lips white, and his face damp. Yet, through the painful hours, my husband’s eyes never lost their tranquillity, and it seemed I was staring straight into his bared soul.

Scarlet streaks of dawn creased the blue-grey night sky. Armand raised himself slightly, turned his head and gazed outside to the rising sun. His face creased into a strange smile, and he slumped back on the pillows and never spoke another word.

I held his hand until the end, so tightly that when he was asleep at last, I could not draw it away and I remained sitting there, clasping my husband’s cooling hand. 

‘Come, Victoire, he is gone.’ Léon’s hand rested on my shoulder. ‘You know it is unsafe for the dead and living flesh to touch each other for long.’

I didn’t reply and I shrugged off Léon’s touch. I could not cry. I could not think, or move. The numbness paralysed me. I felt I had gone somewhere beyond grief, beyond pain. I kept my hold on Armand’s hand as if, that way, he wouldn’t truly leave me. 

Madeleine and the twins came running to me; towards their dead father, their cherub faces tilted, their arms outstretched. I didn’t have the strength to pick them up, and I looked away as Léon gathered my children into his arms and took them from the room.

Later, when Léon prised my hand from his father’s, Armand was cold and stiff and marble-grey.