Spirit of Lost Angels (9 page)

‘But — ’ Armand started.

‘You know the King has accepted our demand for a fair in Lucie, well those merchants, traders and visitors coming to the fairs, and the travellers — more and more, between Paris, Marseille and Lyon — will need somewhere to sleep,’ I said. ‘We could turn the farm into an inn.’

Armand’s coal eyes brightened, and shone, as I continued.

‘Adélaïde and Pauline could help me cook and clean and fix beds. The boys will help you make the wine and till the soil. An inn could be the answer to our problems.’

‘Innkeepers?’ Armand’s face spread in a smile.

‘We’ll call it
L’Auberge des Anges
,’ I said taking my husband’s hand. ‘The Inn of Angels.’

‘For all the angels who have flown from us,’ Armand said. ‘My children, my wife, your family.’

I nodded, stroking Madeleine’s dark curls from her forehead.

***

Once she was suckling my own milk again, Madeleine thrived. I never stopped thanking the Lord for sparing her but Armand was right, God did send me more children — twins, a boy and girl — just a day after my twentieth birthday in March of 1782.

‘Look, Armand, how lovely and healthy they are — our little Blandine and Gustave.’

Their father ran a hand through the twins’ chestnut wisps of hair.

‘
Dieu
merci
they survived the birth,’ he said. ‘And I thank the Lord you survived it too, Victoire.’

I held a baby to each breast and felt the tingling rush as my milk flowed for my children — for them alone. I pushed away the pain of my lost sibling twins, Félicité and Félix, as I nursed my own babies.

Never again would I have to feel the guilt of risking my own child’s health for a few miserable sous — the unjust lot of a peasant woman.

I held two-year old Madeleine up to the window. ‘See how lovely the dawn is, my pretty girl.’ The sky was just coming light that May morning, streaked with pale blue ribbons, and over the snowy Alps a pink ball of sun rose, like heaven set on fire.

‘And look at all the people, Madeleine,’ I said, as the countryside came alive with fair visitors, horses and loaded carts.

‘Don’t you love this first day of the fair, Armand, of the crowds flocking to Lucie from all over? How the streets fill with people, and every house turns into a shop.’

‘Such a grand day,’ Armand said, breaking off a hunk of bread. ‘
L’Auberge des Anges
will be overflowing, with even more guests bedding down in the stables and barn,’ he said, joining me at the window and wrapping his arms around my waist. ‘I know you work hard, my dear, sweeping out the inn and preparing beds. It is relentless, but how important the fair is, to help our meagre income.’

‘Oh but I don’t regard it as work, Armand, our inn is my greatest pleasure.’

I kissed his weather-worn cheek. ‘So, what should I serve them for the meal this evening? A tasty lamb ragout?’ I said, memories of Claudine’s kitchen smells teasing my nostrils. ‘Or perhaps beef with chestnuts?’

‘Nothing surpasses your
médaillon de veau
with vegetables,’ Armand said with a wry smile. ‘If only we could afford to be so extravagant, but your creamy herb omelette from our best eggs will suit famously.’

My husband kissed us both and left with Léon and his brother, Joseph, to set up their brandy and wine stall at the fair.

When I had finished preparing
L’Auberge des Anges
, I left the twins with their half-sisters, and took Madeleine down to the meadow, which was fast becoming crowded with booths. Stallholders, recognising acquaintances from previous fairs, shouted and clapped one another on the back.

I hurried across to Grégoire, who was displaying his finely crafted furniture, engraved boxes and trunks.

‘Hello, my favourite princess.’ My brother kissed his niece, who giggled and tugged at his hair.

‘You’ll never guess, Victoire … Françoise’s parents have agreed to our marriage.’

I clapped my palms together. ‘I’m so happy for you, and I wish you a cottage full of lovely babies. I only wish our parents could see how successful you’ve become,’ I said. ‘They would be proud of you. I am proud of you.’

‘You’ve not done so badly yourself,’ my brother said. ‘You have three healthy children, and Armand Bruyère is a good man. One of the best.’

‘I know, Grégoire, and I am being a good wife.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, sister … very glad.’

Madeleine and I walked on, amidst the noise of the people exchanging ideas, news, rumours, and organising seasonal work.

‘Look at these pretty dresses, Madeleine,’ I said, admiring the merchant’s garments of muslins and painted silks, the scents, pomades and liqueurs. ‘I hope you might wear a gown like this one day.’

Baskets of eggs and rows of goat’s cheese, their rinds rolled in ashes, sat beside sacks spilling grain, rice and sugar, the edges rolled back to boast the quality of the merchandise. Rabbits and chicks of all kind huddled in cages. Lambs, mules and cows were bought, bartered and sold as écus, sols, livres and louis d’or
coins jangled against the thud of measuring weights and the swing of scales.

Dogs barked, children darted about, horses whinnied and booth-holders laughed and shouted as they bantered awful jokes back and forth.

A mountebank touted his magic elixir from his position on an upturned crate. ‘A cure for all eye problems, Messieur Dames!’ the charlatan proclaimed. To attract attention, a woman was dancing, a young boy juggling. ‘Treats skin ailments too, stomach problems, even bad breath.’

Another magic healer had set up a large pool with a statue of a mermaid, which had captured my daughter’s gaze.

‘Ladies, gentlemen,’ the man shouted, ‘gather and sample my special potion to change the colour of hair, beards and eyebrows!’

I laughed, wondering why ever someone would want to change their hair colour.

I had no idea what the mermaid was for, but the grand spectacle of it all made me smile, as I recalled Maman telling me their magic potions were probably only harmless vegetable juices and herbs.

For lunch, we feasted on grilled sausages, crêpes and fruity wine with the other villagers and fair-goers, our chatter and trills of laughter chiming across the meadow in concert with birdsong.

Oh yes, my life was certainly charmed these days, and a contented warmth coursed through me as I returned to the inn for Madeleine’s afternoon nap.

***

‘Best turkey I’ve tasted,’ the merchant from Marseille said, wiping his mouth after the evening meal. He raised his beaker. ‘To m’dame’s succulent food and m’sieur’s full-bodied wine.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried the inn guests gathered around our long wooden table. Everyone lifted their beakers. ‘A toast to the food and wine of
L’Auberge des Anges
.’

‘You wait till you taste madame’s orange and lemon marmalade
à la bergamote
at breakfast,’ the man from Normandy said, kissing his fingertips through his thick red beard. ‘Or her moist
macarons
, buttered brioches and strawberry jam.’

‘I believe m’dame’s
escargots de Bourgogne
are the talk of all the travellers,’ the Marseille merchant said, beaming at me. ‘As is her reputation for
fricassée de boudin
with
petite grise
apples.’

I smiled at our guests, silently blessing Claudine for her instruction on stewing and roasting meat, preparing vegetables and
pâtés
, and whipping up creamy desserts.

‘What I truly appreciate here is the dry storage for my wares, and the stables for my horses,’ a large man from Clermont Ferrand said. ‘I’ve had the misfortune of staying in inns with not a strand of fodder!’

‘
Oh là là
, I could lie on your soft feather mattress all day long,’ his wife said to me.

‘Unlike many a villainous hole I too have encountered,’ the red-bearded Normand said. ‘With rude hosts, food burnt to a crisp, abominable wine and kitchens black with smoke.’ He patted his paunch and pushed his empty plate aside. ‘Not to mention beds of wooden planks in draughty rooms.’ 

He swallowed a last mouthful of wine. ‘So, I imagine everyone has heard the latest news from Versailles?’ he said, looking around the room. ‘The Austrian has birthed a son. Last October — the Dauphin Louis Joseph. An heir to the throne, finally, after twelve
years. That’s if there is still a throne by the time he inherits.’

Everybody laughed. It was time to serve dessert, so I lay Blandine and Gustave in their crib, smoothed down their shocks of chestnut hair and stroked their pink cheeks.

The Clermont Ferrand trader handed his empty plate to Pauline, who was clearing the table.

‘The Queen, that daughter of fortune, is bored and unhappy,’ he said, raising his eyebrows in mock concern. ‘Bored with her homely husband who devotes his time to hunting, clocks and his workshop.’

‘It is rumoured she threw herself into the skin pleasures with the Swedish count, Axel Von Fersen, before he left for the war in America,’ his wife said with a smirk. ‘Apparently she can’t keep her eyes off his breeches. Of course, everyone knows it was the Swedish scoundrel who sired the little Dauphin.

‘All the Queen cares for is fashion and masked parties,’ she continued. ‘The people hate her more and more and the gossip at Versailles is vicious.
Madame Deficit
, they are calling her.’

‘
Oh là là,
’ Armand said as he poured the brandy — another of Claudine’s recipes — while I served the
crème brûlée
. ‘What a sin to waste such money on gambling and diamonds, when our country faces economic ruin.’

‘Well,’ the Marseille man said. ‘Gambling and diamonds aside, we all know the commoners’ condition — the tithe, the
corvée
, the dreaded salt tax — is wretched and unjust, but what can a man do when our so-called thinkers advocate passivity?’

‘The people
are
reacting,’ the Normand said. ‘And without violence. Our recently deceased enlightened scribblers … Rousseau, Voltaire, have reached all of society with their sheer delight in discontent, their questions, and their prying scrutiny.’ He paused for a mouthful of brandy. ‘It is no longer enough for a man to say something is so, or for the Church to continue enslaving the human mind.’

‘And you think this is a good thing?’ I jumped as the Marseille man thumped his fist on the table. ‘That without the least embarrassment people can question the authority of God’s Church?’

He nodded at the Normand. ‘You speak of Voltaire. Did you know, on his deathbed, the priest asked him to renounce the devil and turn to God? And what did Voltaire say, my friends?’ He gazed around the table. ‘He said, “For God’s sake, let me die in peace!”
Dieu merci
the man was denied a Christian burial.’ He swallowed his brandy in a single gulp.

‘People dare to describe God Himself, the Almighty, as dispensable and claim the maintenance of order and morals could be conceived of without Him!’ He shook his head. ‘What has our world — our spiritual existence — become?’

‘But people are seeing it as their right not to blindly accept things, like the church, any longer,’ the Clermont Ferrand man said. ‘Wherever you look there buzzes this sort of hectic excitement. People are reading books, women even.’ He glanced at his wife.

‘The commoners are, at last, fighting their poverty and the capital seethes with the fury and energy of people marching in the streets!’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Revolution will soon be hammering on the gates of Paris, my friends.’

Revolution.

The word arose in me a timorous kind of excitement; the longing to atone all those slights to myself, and my family.

It was late in the spring of 1783, but the rains had not yet come across the Massif Central to Lucie. Square patches of meadow, still brown and greyed from winter, bordered the flanks of the hills rising behind — naked and thirsting for new cover. Few birds flew overhead, and none shrieked with the joy that usually heralds fresh growth.

I headed towards the Vionne River with Madeleine, Blandine and Gustave, waving at Grégoire and his wife, Françoise, bent over in the cottage garden. They smiled back, Françoise massaging her lower back and arching with the awkward gait of the heavily pregnant woman.

Madeleine jumped up and down, her curls bouncing around her face like hundreds of black coils. ‘I want to stay here,’ she said. ‘Will Uncle Grégoire tell me a story?’ It seemed my daughter loved her uncle’s tales as much as my father’s had enchanted me.

‘We won’t be long,’ I said to Grégoire. ‘I must gather bugle flowers for the infusion. Armand’s poor children are sick again.’

I left with Blandine and Gustave, gripping their hands as I helped them cross the river at its lowest point, where the Vionne was so sluggish my petticoat barely got wet.

‘Hold my hand tight,’ I said, leading them through the willow trees until we reached the bend in the river, and the place where the water rushed into the deeper pool in which I’d so loved to swim as a girl.

I’d not returned to my special place since that stormy afternoon with Léon, but the heat rushed through me as I remembered it, the guilt and shame shrouding me as I felt the same stab of desire for Léon Bruyère.

I barely thought of him these days though, because Léon was busy, and happy with his new wife, who awaited the birth of their first child. When I saw them in the evenings, we exchanged only the minimum of conventions.

I gripped the children’s hands as we crossed a clearing where, on rising ground, a woman and her three sons were building a simple hut, the boys cutting and driving stakes in.

I recognised her as the woman who’d come to the farm the previous day, Noëmie, whose husband was travelling the country in search of odd jobs. They could ill-afford to rent a house, and had to build a hut in the woods. They’d been sheltering in the old witch’s hut, but it was draughty and leaked when it rained. She asked for the loan of an axe and a mallet.

I thought of my journeyman papa and I warmed to the woman and her boys. After all, what could a destitute peasant child become? Only poorer than his absent father and his mother, already halfway to the grave. Was there coarser, cheaper cloth than they wore? Was there anything worse for the feet than rope? What was more tasteless than boiling up nettles and bark for meals?

I handed Noëmie the tools, and a basket, and when she saw the bread, wine, cheese and eggs, her hand flew to her toothless mouth. ‘You are too kind, good Madame Victoire.’

‘
Bonne chance
, Noëmie,’ I said, because good luck was about the only thing a beggar woman could count on.

I led Blandine and Gustave up the opposite bank towards another wooded area that bordered the Monts du Lyonnais, to a place where, as a child, I’d gathered bugle flowers with my mother.

Bent over around the shaded trunks of trees, I filled my basket with the cobalt blue petals with which I would make an infusion for three of Armand’s children.

As I plucked the flowers my thoughts drifted back to Léon and his pregnant wife, and I forgot, for an instant, the twins playing nearby.

A fly settled on my forehead, jolting me from my thoughts of Léon. I swiped at it and realised I could no longer see the twins. I was not yet anxious, but my pulse quickened and my head whipped around, left and right.

‘Blandine, Gustave!’ However could they run off so quickly? True, they had begun walking at scarcely ten months old, but they were slow and ungainly.

I dashed about, calling their names, my heart lurching. The river flashed through my mind; how they loved playing at the edge, as if the moving water bewitched them. The river was running low but there were still ditches and holes into which they might stumble out of their depth; twists and bends that caught the currents and transformed them into whirlpools.

La Vionne violente
.

I had always scorned those words of the villagers, but now I raced back towards the river my breathing faster and more ragged with every step.

I stopped to catch my breath, at the spot where the people were building their hut. Noëmie was bent over, collecting twigs from the brushwood. I saw she had already assembled a pile of moss from the roots of trees and rush from a pond margin.

‘Have you seen my children?’ I said. ‘A boy and a girl, only one year old.’

‘Sorry, Madame Victoire.’ She shook her head and threw her handful of twigs onto the pile. ‘But I will help you search.’

‘Blandine, Gustave!’ I kept calling. No sign of them. I tripped on my skirt hem and stumbled. Noëmie took my hand and helped me to my feet.

‘Don’t be afraid, we will find them, Madame Victoire.’

Gripped with a heavy dread, my breathing laboured, we reached the ridge of the slope that led down to the river.

‘There they are!’ Noëmie cried.

Blandine and Gustave were on the riverbank, wobbling about on their stumpy legs and throwing handfuls of shore gravel. ‘Luck is with you today, Madame Victoire.’

‘
Dieu merci, Dieu merci
.’ I held a palm against my sprinting heart, my fingers groping for my angel pendant. The empty place felt warm, as if it was still resting against my breastbone; as if the little sculpture was still protecting me.