Daughters of the Storm (50 page)

No, thought Marie-Victoire, this cannot be right, to send such a one to her death. And before she could stop herself she raised a wooden crucifix that she kept in her pocket so that the girl could see. Thank God she had for the condemned girl's face glowed with thankfulness.

But others were watching too and, as quickly as she had produced the cruxifix, Maire-Victoire hid it and the cart rumbled on.

Marie-Victoire smoothed the bed sheets and pulled a woollen blanket over them and closed the wooden chest which contained her clothes. An odour of lavender and rosemary filled the room and she stooped to savour it.

The kitchen was in as much disorder as the salon. Two cooking pots were draped over the stove and dirty dishes were piled high on the table. Marie-Victoire issued orders to Louisette, a slatternly girl from the neighbourhood who came in to prepare their meals. Louisette was more of a hindrance than a help, but Marie-Victoire had found no one else to take her place, nor was she likely to. She knew the mixture of fear and dislike with which Maillard was regarded, and actually Marie-Victoire did not much care. As long as Marie was safe, she could put up with anything. Louisette brushed a filthy hand across her apron and picked up the water bucket.

‘La petite
has been crying again.'

‘Where's Katrine?' asked Marie-Victoire.

‘Out.' Louisette jerked her head in the direction of the street.

Marie-Victoire put down her shopping basket and hurried down the corridor to the second bedroom, where she bent over the wooden cradle. Marie had cried herself to sleep and lay flushed and sweating on the mattress. As Marie-Victoire watched, the little body tossed and turned as if searching for a cool place to settle. A tremor shook Marie-Victoire and her throat constricted. She reached out to caress Marie's cheek and exclaimed at its heat. On each of the baby's cheeks burned a bright red spot. Where the lashes fanned out in a semi-circle on Marie's alabaster skin was white. She touched them with her fingertip: Beneath them she knew, with the passionate possessive-ness of a mother, lay little blue veins as delicate as a spider's web and the sparrow-like bones that formed the perfect oval of Marie's face.

Marie-Victoire picked up her skirts and ran to the kitchen.

‘Heat me some water,' she ordered Louisette, ‘and then go and buy meat and vegetables for the bouillon and a chicken for tonight. Hurry.'

She pushed the unwilling girl towards the stove, opened the cupboard where she kept her linen and pulled out an old shift. Using a kitchen knife she tore it into strips. Pocketing the knife, she then searched in the cupboard for a shawl.

She poured the warmed water into a bowl and carried it into the bedroom. With infinite care, she began to bathe Marie's face and hands. Halfway through, the baby woke with a wail and began to cry in earnest. Marie-Victoire crooned to her in an effort to keep her quiet, and continued in her task. When she was finished, she was relieved to see that the baby seemed easier. Marie-Victoire wrapped her in the shawl and, cradling her head on her shoulder, walked her up and down the room. She talked to Marie, telling her of her grandmother and of La Joyeuse, and described the woods and fields of her childhood and the animals that lived in them.

Marie's body burned in her grasp, but the sound of her mother's voice seemed to soothe her. The baby slipped into a fitful doze, but her breath sounded alarmingly hoarse in Marie-Victoire's ear. At last, Marie-Victoire settled her back into her cradle and stood watching her anxiously. Marie lay still. Marie-Victoire returned to the kitchen to supervise the making of the bouillon.

She was dicing carrots when Marie wailed, a piercing, terrified sound. Marie-Victoire dropped what she was doing and ran to scoop her up in her arms, but the baby's body was so convulsed that Marie-Victoire had difficulty in holding her.

‘Louisette,' she shouted. ‘Go at once to the doctor and tell him to come immediately.'

Louisette's head appeared around the door.

‘Go!' screamed Marie-Victoire and Louisette disappeared.

‘Marie,' she begged her. ‘Please get better. You are all I have. Without you there is nothing. Please, please, listen to me.' Tears began to spill down her cheeks. ‘Listen to me, Marie. I love you. You must try. You must get better. Please get better.'

The words trailed uselessly into the room while the baby tossed in her arms. Fear slashed at her heart.

‘I must do something. But what? What?' Seizing the cloth, she bathed Marie again and swept back the downy baby hair from her forehead. Marie sighed and turned her head from side to side. Marie-Victoire went over to the window and flung back the casement. No sign of Louisette or the doctor. Biting her lip hard as a distraction from her rising terror, she sat down beside the cradle.

An hour went by. This was ... this was the longest hour of Marie-Victoire's life when the angel of death settled over the room, his wings outspread. Once Marie flung out her hand and Marie-Victoire clasped it in her own, willing life and strength back into the small fingers. Then the baby lay quiet again.

The doctor arrived. Brisk and self-satisfied, he offered no comfort.

‘Keep her cool,' he ordered. ‘Guard her against the night air, and if she gets worse I will bleed her. There is nothing else I can do.'

Marie-Victoire stared at him, hating his well-fed outline and bland face, and directed Louisette to give him a coin from the chest in the salon. Louisette would more likely than not take one for herself while she was doing so – but what did she care?

Towards noon, Katrine staggered back into the apartment. It was obvious she had been drinking, and Marie-Victoire let her have the full force of her anger. Under the whiplash of Marie-Victoire's tongue, Katrine turned mutinous and gave as good as she got. She then ran into the courtyard where she was sick. A few minutes later, she reappeared and made her shamefaced apologies, offering to keep watch while Marie-Victoire worked in the kitchen.

Marie-Victoire forgave her and surrendered her place. Somehow the chicken became a stew and the bouillon was made. Marie-Victoire managed to get some down Marie, who sucked it thirstily. Then, feeling utterly exhausted, she threw herself down on her bed.

When she awoke it was dark and the apartment was quiet. She sat up and pressed her hands to her aching head. Her mouth was dry and her eyes burned. She swung her feet to the floor.

Katrine was watching over Marie. Marie-Victoire saw at once how concerned the maid looked.

‘I bathed her again because she was sick and she has slept a little,' she informed Marie-Victoire.

Marie-Victoire knelt down by the cradle. Even in the short space she had been sleeping, Marie seemed to have dwindled... was more wasted... was...?
Oh God.

‘Will you help Louisette prepare the supper for Monsieur Maillard and his friends?' she said dully. ‘I must stay with Marie.'

She sat staring at Marie, dwelling on every curve and shadow of her baby's face, until she heard the door bang and the sound of feet on the stairs. Then she went out to meet Maillard.

Maillard was in a good humour, and he smelt of wine.

‘Marie-Victoire,' he said, giving her his hat. ‘Citoyens Montane, Théry, Souberbielle and Naury have come to supper as I promised.'

Marie-Victoire indicated the salon with a pointed finger.

‘Entrez,
citoyens,' she said. Then she turned to Maillard.

‘You must tell them to go,' she said. ‘Marie is ill. I think she may be dying. Tell them to go.'

Her voice rose and tears choked the rest of her sentence.

‘Merde,'
said Maillard. He hustled Marie-Victoire into the baby's room and glanced down at Marie.

‘She looks all right,' he said indifferently. ‘You're hysterical.'

Marie-Victoire grabbed at his arm. ‘I tell you she's very ill,' she cried. ‘Get rid of them. Do something.'

Maillard shrugged. ‘I don't think a sickly baby is a good enough reason for me to offend my friends, do you?' he told her.

Marie-Victoire picked up Marie and backed away from him.

‘You are a devil,' she hissed, dropping kisses on the baby's protesting head. ‘There is nothing human in you any more. I thought perhaps there might be something, but I was wrong. You belong to the devil.'

Maillard advanced on her.

‘Put the child down,' he commanded. ‘Put her down and pull yourself together. I wish supper to be served. Now. If the child is still ill tomorrow, I shall call the doctor. You will leave her here and attend to me.'

His eyes bore into hers.
Obey me.
Reluctantly, Marie-Victoire did as she was told and stooped to kiss Marie.
‘Reste tranquille, ma fleur,'
she told her as she tucked the shawl round her and caressed her tiny head.
‘Reste tranquille.'

Forcing herself to be calm, she followed Maillard out of the room and went in to the kitchen. She worked automatically. Every so often, she would drop everything and hurry in to check on Marie. The baby lay quiet. By ten o'clock the men were so drunk that they were flinging glasses into the fireplace. All of them had dined hugely and they sprawled, replete and wine-flown, across the chairs and on the floor. One of them was singing a popular obscene song and Maillard was expounding on a highly satisfactory day's proceedings. None of them gave Marie-Victoire a second glance. Irritated by her frequent disappearances, Maillard had ordered her to stay in the room. He had need of her services, he said drunkenly, and she sat, frozen with hatred, in the corner.

Maillard caught her eye and beckoned her over. ‘More wine,' he demanded, and forced his hand into the bosom of her gown.

‘Don't touch me,' she said, loud enough for his friends to hear. He tightened his lips and gave her a warning glance.

‘Mind your tongue.'

I hate him.

I hate him. I hate them....

The hot thoughts swirled around in her head and made her dizzy but she collected herself, cleared plates and knives and carried them into the kitchen.

They are monsters...

So thinking, she pocketed one of the kitchen knives. Experience had taught that if any of these men desired a woman that they went for the first one on which they clapped eyes.

On her way back from the kitchen, she looked in again on Marie. The room was curiously hushed and very still.

Too still.

Marie-Victoire's heart missed a beat as she approached the cradle. Marie was rigid and pale, oh so pale. At the sight, she dropped the flagon and the wine spread over the floor in a red pool.

‘No,' she said. ‘No.'

In an instant, she was through the front door and running into the street, heedless of the curfew and of the danger, running as she had never run before.

‘Please, please,' she sobbed as she banged on the doctor's thick wooden door until her knuckles were raw. ‘Please hear me.'

A surly, sleepy maid opened it a crack.

‘The doctor,' Marie-Victoire begged. ‘My baby.'

The doctor finally appeared. His plump, irritated face did nothing to reassure Marie-Victoire.

‘Go away,' he said, shielding his taper. ‘Come back in the morning.'

Marie-Victoire summoned her remaining strength.'If you don't come, I will denounce you as refusing to attend to a citizen judge,' she spat.

Even in the murky light, it was possible to see the doctor's cornered expression.

‘All right,' he gave in angrily. ‘Wait here.'

He banged the door in her face.

Marie-Victoire sagged back against the wall. ‘If she dies, Lady of Mercy,' she prayed, ‘then I shall know that you have no mercy. If she dies, I will never forgive you and I will curse you from the depths of my soul. Do you hear me, Lady? I shall not forgive.'

There was no answer from the black night above, not even a glimmer of the moon, only the silence of the street.

Muffled in a long cloak and holding his bag, the doctor reappeared. Glancing frequently over his shoulder, the doctor cursed as Marie-Victoire urged him on.

‘Hurry,' she cried. ‘Hurry.'

The house was silent when they made their way up the stairs and through the door. Marie-Victoire snatched a candle from the table in the hall and tried to light it.

‘Let me,' said the doctor. He shielded the flame as Marie-Victorie pushed him into the room where Marie lay. Once there, he shone the light full into the baby's face and bent over.

Marie was exactly as Marie-Victoire had left her, a small waxen statue from whom life had apparently fled.

‘This child is dead,' the doctor said, straightening up. ‘You have called me for nothing. A malign fever, there was nothing I could do.'

‘For God's sake woman...' He snatched at the candle as Marie-Victoire slid to her knees and into an abyss...

When she came to, Maillard was supporting her head and the doctor was forcing some brandy down her throat.

‘There,
citoyen,
' said the doctor. ‘She's conscious now. It was a passing seizure. I will take my fee and go back to my bed, if you please.'

Maillard felt in his coat pocket and threw a coin at the man.

‘Go,' he said. ‘You've been no use.'

‘Maybe', said the doctor. ‘I do what I can. We have so little knowledge. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last.'

Without saying anything further, the doctor went.

‘You fool,' said Maillard to Marie-Victoire. ‘Did you have to go waking the neighbourhood and disturb the guests? I am sorry about the child, truly, but you will have others. Don't waste your feelings. There are plenty more where she came from.'

Marie-Victoire raised a hand, trying hard to blot him out of her sight. ‘You filthy murderer,' she said, slowly and clearly so there could be no ambiguity. ‘ The life of my child meant nothing to you, nothing, and yet you pretend to love me. You have a black soul, Jacques. You love nothing and no one. May you rot in hell.'