Daughters of the Storm (16 page)

Some of the fiercest radicals who had gone to ground to avoid persecution by the still moderately inclined authorities – Marat, for example, who had hidden in the city's sewers – scenting that the tide was turning, began to emerge. On the Left Bank a series of small presses stirred into life and their pamphlets began to flood the city. Meanwhile, the Revolution presented a perfect opportunity for extremists and fanatics to exploit. These men were moving through the streets, constantly on the watch, constantly debating, nourishing their resentments and waiting.

Chapter 1

Pierre whistled to cheer himself up. It was cold, his horse was slow and his head hurt from the previous night. The tune was infectious and suddenly he grinned, feeling better. Last night had been worth it, and the girl he had finally lain with had been, unlike many he had known, fresh and wholesome. He had paid her with a lapful of walnuts and a bottle of good oil, knowing that nobody would enquire too closely where they had come from.

His horse lengthened its stride. He would be in Paris within a few minutes and back at the Hôtel de Choissy within the hour, where the cook would give him a meal. Pierre made some calculations. He would be the richer by a sack of good white flour and a large ham which were his fee for working as a carrier to and from the de Choissy farm just outside Étampes. Plus the bread and oil that he had quietly helped himself to from the stores. He planned to smuggle them through the
barrière
without paying the dues and to sell them to his good friend in the Rue de la Harpe.

Evading the toll was a game that Pierre often played. Once he had even hidden a sack of beans in a hole in the wall when the guard wasn't looking and had retrieved it later. There was no lack of willing hands to help with the smuggling. No one liked the levies, the women in particular – and women's skirts had their uses quite apart from the pleasure of lifting them.

At the big gates, the guard challenged him. Pierre ground to a halt and began his negotiations. The guard was talkative and friendly. Pierre exerted himself to amuse him with local news and anecdotes and the man quite forgot to look under the driver's seat or into the ‘empty' barrel at the back of the cart. They discussed the unsuccessful flight of the king from Paris the previous summer, a juicy titbit about the queen and the price of bread. Pierre handed over some money, cracked a joke and rolled off in the direction of the Rue de l'Université.

If he played his cards right, he would soon have enough money to buy a cart and two horses. After that he would begin his own business. After that he would rent his own house. And after that? Who knew? He was alone in the world, committed to no one, free with his favours and determined to make his way.

Meanwhile there were plenty of girls to amuse him and plenty of contacts to cultivate. There were the meetings he had begun to attend with his friends, ostensibly to discuss politics, but also to drink and to enjoy themselves with the women.

Yes, life was pleasant if you knew how to organise it. Very pleasant indeed.

Chapter 2

She picked her way down the street, ducking every now and again to avoid the carriages which bore down on pedestrians with absolutely no regard for life or limb. Bunching her skirts around her to avoid the inevitable lashing of mud, Marie-Victoire reflected that she would never get used to the dirt and the danger of Parisian streets.

The quiet lanes around La Joyeuse were far away. It was well over two years since she had seen them and she was often homesick. Like many other big houses in France, it had not escaped attack from local peasants. The news was that the villagers had marched on La Joyeuse one night and destroyed whatever they could lay their hands on. The de Guinots had been both devastated and angry. The marquis had travelled there immediately and returned ashen-faced and grim to report the damage. He had given orders for repairs to the house and garden, but the sacking had affected the family badly. Still, Marie-Victoire thought, with a wry twist of her lips, it hadn't stopped any of them spending money or demanding the best.

It was bitter-sweet. Funny-sad. Marie-Victoire mourned the old La Joyeuse but experienced a secret thrill at the news of the sacking. Part of her was with those who had taken up their pitchforks and staves that dark night to wreak their anger; part of her remained loyal to the family she served and who fed her. Was it Pierre influencing her? Or, perhaps she was changing anyway? Living in Paris made that more than likely.

She turned left into a street that was less than fifteen feet across, and flinched at the stench. Water overflowing from a gulley that served as a gutter spilled foul contents all over the cobbles. Marie-Victoire glanced upwards, but the houses were so closely set together that it was almost impossible to see the sky. It was bitterly cold and her cloak, although serviceable, only just kept her from freezing. She was wearing her best dress, skilfully adapted from a cast-off in Héloïse's wardrobe, and she was pleased by its pale green colour which was so very pretty and so totally impractical. But it set off her hair and her colouring to advantage.

Marie-Victoire had lost weight since she had come to Paris, and much of the healthy glow that comes from country air, but the mirror told her it suited her. Mademoiselle Héloïse was always generous with her lotions, and Marie-Victoire did not hesitate to use them. Why not? If they did not actually improve her appearance, they made her feel better.

Mademoiselle Héloïse was very generous to her these days and went out of her way to make her maidservant feel appreciated. She was now Madame la Comtesse de Choissy – and what a wedding that had been. The wedding breakfast had been laid for five hundred and favours distributed to the guests that would have kept several families for weeks. No matter that the new comtesse, dressed in a gown of white crêpe and Brussels lace with a cluster of orange blossoms in her hair, had stood stiff and silent while her groom made polished conversation beside her. Nor that Marie-Victoire had discovered the bride of two hours in her room, crying once again with tears of fear and unhappiness. Nor that Héloïse went out of her way to seek out Marie-Victoire and talk to her of that day at Versailles when they found Louis d'Épinon on the staircase. It didn't take much for Marie-Victoire to fathom the reason, and she puzzled as to why Monsieur d'Épinon had not reappeared on the scene when he, too, was so obviously taken by Héloïse.

Marie-Victoire wrapped her cloak more firmly around her and gave a little shrug of her shoulders. Fond as she was of her mistress (and she was more fond than she cared to admit), common sense told her that Héloïse was paying the price for the luxury of her position. This was the manner in which people such as the de Guinots conducted themselves, and Héloïse could expect nothing else. Even so, her pity for Héloïse was real enough and did all she could to help her.

A sharp wind laced with ice whistled down the street. Although it was only early afternoon, the street was empty. Occasionally, there was a burst of noise from one of the drinking dens that she passed and the sound of raucous laughter. Out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to see Jacques – the thin, menacing Jacques. There was nothing – but she could never rid herself of the feeling that one day he would be there.

She thought of Pierre instead, and the anxiety that flooded her whenever she thought of Jacques lifted. Pierre Labourchard. Black-haired, olive-skinned, quick-witted, mercurial Pierre. She was longing to see him, yet afraid to do so. Afraid that the meeting would fall below her expectations or that he would fail to look at her again with that expression that she liked to think was meant only for her.

Marie-Victoire had met him at the Hôtel de Choissy. He had discovered her huddled in the kitchen after attending Héloïse to a ball. She was eating some bread and cheese before dragging herself to bed. It was very late, and she was almost speechless with fatigue. Pierre had arrived earlier and had stopped to eat. He had stood over her, a glass of beer in one hand, and demanded to know who she was. Why hadn't he seen her before? Where was she from? His questions came thick and fast, and before long Marie-Victoire had forgotten her tiredness and was regaling him with the story of her life.

‘Can you read?' he asked when she had finished.

‘Why, yes,' she replied, surprised.

He had rummaged in his pocket.

‘Here,' he said. ‘You might like these.'

He thrust a bundle of papers into her hand. Marie-Victoire examined them. Badly printed, the black ink splotching the cheap paper, they were obviously the product of a back-street press. The first was called
L'Ami du peuple
and contained some biting satire on the royal family. Crude, venomous and scurrilous, it held her fascinated. The other, which was entitled
Père Duchesne,
was not so interesting. It was more obvious and very obscene, but the sheer force of its anti-monarchist invective was hard to ignore.

Marie-Victoire had read them again and again, and when she next encountered Pierre she had asked him to explain some things. He had been quick to oblige, and his explanations were clear and precise. His enthusiasm awakened an excitement in Marie-Victoire and gradually she began to understand what Jacques had tried to instil in her: that change for the better was possible and she, too, could play a part in it.

I
am
changing, she thought, and Pierre had much to do with it.

By now she had reached a narrow cul-de-sac, the opposite end of which was taken up by a house which stretched the width of the opening. Even by Parisian standards it was very old and must once have stood surrounded by fields and gardens. Now, the walls sagged with age and its windows stood crookedly on the sills. Some of the casements were rotten and many were stuffed with rags to keep out the cold. A light shone from the top storey and voices were carried on the cold air. Skirting a heap of rubbish, she made her way over the cobbles to a nail-studded door and pushed it open.

Upstairs she paused to adjust her dress and to brush away specks of paint that had fallen on to her cloak, before entering the room. She had been here before with Pierre so the sight that greeted her was a familiar one. A table occupied most of the space and it was strewn with bottles and the remnants of a meal. Six or seven men, with as many women, were sitting around it, and it was obvious they had been drinking. Marie-Victoire's heart sank. Drink made their hands wander and their comments sharper.

She saw that Pierre had been drinking too, but he got to his feet and came to greet her. His normally neat neckerchief was loosened and his shirt-tails hung down under his short jacket.

‘Welcome,
mon petit chou,'
he said, his beer-laden breath forcing Marie-Victoire to take a step back. ‘We are discussing the republic – when it comes.'

His words raised a drunken cheer from his companions.

Marie-Victoire had never seen him quite so flown with drink, but she was reassured by his smile. She shut the door and sat down in the chair that Pierre pulled forward. Someone shoved a pewter mug into her hand. Marie-Victoire took it. Normally she refused wine or beer, but today she was cold and nervous. Why not? she thought, and took an experimental gulp. She gasped as the liquid hit the back of her throat. It burned its way down to the pit of her stomach, and presently a sense of well-being stole over her. She leant over to cut herself a slice of bread. She had not eaten since early that morning and she was hungry.

She took another gulp of beer and concluded that, after all, the assembled company was very friendly. There was nothing wrong in enjoying a drink with friends, and she really did not mind the scuffles that came from the corner as one of the men flipped the skirts of a woman up over her dirt-streaked thighs. Where else were they to take their pleasures?

The afternoon passed in a pleasant haze. Pierre held forth on his theory that Paris should be declared a commune, to be ruled by the people. Marie-Victoire agreed with all he suggested and thought that he put his case well. A large, unshaven man jumped to his feet after Pierre had finished and advocated that those hoarding food should be strung up in the streets. He was cheered roundly. The door kept opening to admit more people, all of them clutching bottles, and despite the cold the heat grew.

‘You know, you are very pretty.'

Pierre broke into Marie-Victoire's reverie. One hand slid round her shoulders while the other teased the curls which had escaped from under her cap. ‘Shush, Pierre.' She need not have worried; no one was taking the least interest in either her or Pierre. She turned to look at him and was gratified to see that he was staring at her with an expression she had not seen before. It dawned on her that he was asking her a question, and triumph darted through her breast.

Recklessly, she allowed Pierre to refill her mug, and drank it off. Her head began to feel very muzzy and she jumped when Pierre took her hand.

‘Pardon.
I did not mean to startle you.'

‘It was nothing,' she said, and curled her fingers into his.

‘There are things I wish to say to you, Marie-Victoire.'

‘What?'

‘I cannot say them here. They are for your ears only.'

Marie-Victoire trembled, and her cheeks turned a deep pink.

‘Let's go,' breathed Pierre.

Obediently, Marie-Victoire looked round for her cloak and shrugged herself back into it. The close atmosphere, the unfamiliar alcohol and her excitement had combined to make her feel slightly queasy, and she was relieved to feel the cold air on her face as they descended the staircase.

At the bottom she leant against the wall for support and waited for Pierre. But instead his arms reached out and pinioned her. His face swooped down, intent and serious, and she stood quite still in the darkness. His lips searched for hers. Her head spinning, Marie-Victoire gave herself up to the moment and savoured his mouth. It was an experimental kiss. The memory of her rape... however hard she tried to erase it was indelible... it had marked her