Le Colonial (4 page)

“You must give me a reason not to.”

Tears fell on François’s cheeks. “The mention of my name could be enough to kill Father Dominique. My disgrace is a heavy burden on his frail shoulders. Please do not trouble him.”

“Enough of your evasion,” the priest shouted. “Stop this dance of deceit and tell me the truth.”

The mare skittered.

François was being swept away by the priest’s force of will, with no strength to retaliate. “As you wish,” he said. “That dagger in your hand belonged to my rival, Vicomte Étienne de Charney, son of the governor of Villaume. You can see the vicomte’s initial carved in its handle.” He looked away and lowered his voice. “I killed him in a duel. It was an accident, but he died—all because of my selfish indulgence, led blindly by a licentious woman. I keep his weapon as a reminder that I have lied, fornicated, and taken a life. Because of these crimes, as well as the anger of de Charney’s family over the loss of their firstborn, I was forced to abandon all that was dear to me in this world: my childhood home, the monastery.” He covered his face with his hands. “So you understand my reckless effort to leave France and begin a new life elsewhere.”

The monsignor dismounted from his mare and extended his open hands.

François jumped to the ground, grabbed the priest’s fingers, and buried his tear-streaked face in the sweaty palms.

“Hush,” whispered the monsignor soothingly. “Be still, my son, and let us pray for your sins.”

François nodded without looking up.

The priest intoned, “Dear Lord, I am very sorry to have offended Thee.”

François repeated the words.

The prayer continued. “For Thou art infinitely good, and sin is revolting to Thee. I firmly pledge, with the help of Thy grace, never to disappoint Thee again and to do penance humbly and sincerely, from the depth of my soul.”

He lifted François’s chin and stared at him with his honey-colored eyes. “By the rite of confession, I grant you absolution of your immortal soul. Will you wholly submit yourself to God? Will you become His shepherd, a painter for God, secluded and shut apart from society until you are ordained? Will you rescue the souls of others and turn God’s house into a temple of beauty?”

François nodded. “I will.”

“Then I shall send you to study discipline and virtue for the next two years at the University of Avignon. As soon as you complete your education and are ordained, you will join me. I have no fame or fortune to offer you. What I can give is the single most valuable secular gift our Lord has granted me: freedom. Once you step onto the soil of Annam, you will be free to perform God’s work in whatever way you see fit. You can travel to any Annamite city, accept novices, teach the Bible, serve the Annamese king as a counselor, or even join in his army—anything to wrest Annam from impiety. My son, your choices are endless. Through your hands our Lord’s magic shall prevail.”

François wiped the tears from his eyes and said, “I am glad to have heard you speak so candidly. My mind is clear now. Take me, Monsignor. I want to go.”

“You may join my next expedition to Annam,” announced de Béhaine. “But first you must be ordained a priest. As a missionary, you must swear allegiance to the pope, as well as undergo questioning as to your fitness for this mighty undertaking. It is, I must warn you, an extreme vow, not for the weak at heart.” He raised his voice. “
Iustum necar reges impius
—it is just to exterminate impious kings, heretical governments, and barbaric rulers.”

“When will your next voyage be?” François asked.

“My son,” said the monsignor, “there is more. You will be taught to act the dissembler: among the Roman Catholics you are to be a Roman Catholic. Among the Reformers, to be a Reformer; among the Calvinists, to be a Calvinist; among the Protestants, generally, to be a Protestant. You must obtain their confidence to gather information for the benefit of our order as a faithful soldier of the pope. For without the shedding of blood no man can be saved.”

The severity of his words dampened François’s enthusiasm. “But would God desire bloodshed?” he asked, sniffing.

“The pope is the vicar of Christ—the purest form of the divine in human flesh. A true gentleman needs nothing more but to give his word. You have shown your sincerity. Now it is my turn to show mine. I have a good friend who is the captain of a sailing ship called the
Wanderer
. It is now January 1771. You have much to do to prepare yourself to leave France. You must be in Marseille by May of 1773 to embark on this ship. I will arrange for everything, including your passage. I need new missionaries. You have a choice, my son, either to join us in an adventure that few have dared to dream of in an unexplored world, or to return to the streets and paint your insignificant pictures. The next time we meet, I hope it will be in Pondicherry, India. That will be our intermediate stop on our way to our holy mission in Annam.”

And so, on the moss-covered path that led to Villaume, François surrendered himself to God.

CHAPTER SIX

Paris,
1772

A
t the age of thirteen, Henri Jacques Monange had already acquired the habit of looking back at his life. In a few short years, he had accumulated more experience than many could in a lifetime. Often, his memories were saturated with despair, but he had learned that the best way to overcome his disappointments was simply to accept his fate.

The decision to entrust himself to destiny had proven its merit, considering that the events of his life had always seemed beyond his power to change. Like many before him, he had been preordained to a lifetime of destitution. Born in Geneva as the oldest of seven children, he became the only surviving child at the age of ten. None of his siblings lived beyond a few years.

Henri’s family descended from the Auvergnats, who originated in the volcanic mountains known as Plomb du Cantal. His father, Maurice Monange, devoted his life to the occupation he had learned from his forebears, that of a coal merchant. When Henri was still a young boy, he too was taught the skills of the trade.

The sole possessions of his family consisted of a farm cart harnessed to a horse and a barrel in which to store coal. From these meager tools they earned a living, coming to Paris by way of the Allier River and the Briare Canal to sell wood as well as coal. Afterward, they would return home to begin the migration all over again. The difficult journeys wore away at his father’s health, like the rust that ate through the yoke of his family’s cart.

One night, as they entered the city, the temperature had dropped more steeply than usual. The winter came early that year. The winds, blustery and penetrating, whipped at their tattered figures, searching for what little skin was exposed through the holes in their cloaks. Henri, then twelve, walked between his parents behind the wagon, their bodies shielding him from the squall. His frozen fingers gripped the cart’s handles, and he let himself be drawn along by the weary horse. The streets were so rough that wooden planks had been thrown down to provide smoother access. Far away in the mist, their destination, the boulevard du Temple, was dusted with snow, silent and empty except for a few passing beggars.

In a small clearing outside the Hôtel Dieu, the hospice for the poor, a man sat on a bundle of rags near a small torch, a heavy club in his hand. He stood up to search their faces, lingering on Henri’s mother’s. Henri watched as she sank farther into the shadow of her cape.

“I cannot allow all of you inside,” the man said. “The place is overcrowded, and the rule is that only sick people are welcome. The child and his mother can enter as they wish, but there won’t be any room for you.” He jerked his bearded chin at Henri’s father.

The boy felt his father’s hand against his back. In the still night, the horse rasped through its flared nostrils.

“Go on in,” his father said, baring his teeth in a forced smile. “You’ve been walking without rest for days. Get some sleep. Besides, I must stand guard over our barrel of coal.”

“No,” his mother replied, shaking her head. “We stay together.”

“Don’t be stubborn. Think of the boy and sleep well, for me too.” He pushed them toward the warmth of the building.

His mother took off her cape and spread it on the wagon, making up a bed.

“Roll under my cloak when you lie down to sleep,” she said to his father; then she turned away, pulling Henri along with her.

The man stepped away from the entrance to give them admission. He whispered in Henri’s mother’s face, “Welcome to the Hôtel Dieu. But don’t forget that you now owe me a favor.” Henri could smell the alcohol on his breath.

Without waiting for them to respond, the man threw his scarf over his shoulder. Henri could tell that under that thick layer of wool, he was smiling as they walked past him.

Inside, the dwelling was packed with vagabonds. Some twelve hundred beds were occupied by more than five thousand people. Many sat on their haunches, propped upright in their ragged clothes and stacked against one another to keep warm.

Henri and his mother poked around in the forest of human limbs, hoping to find an unoccupied space to rest. At last they were forced to bed down beside the dying and the dead. A dozen or so corpses had been sewn up in sacking, piled in a heap near the entrance, where they waited for the morning pickup. From there, in the shelter of the carcasses, Henri could look out a window at his father, who was positioned behind the barrel of coal. The guard came in a few minutes later, humming. Recognizing them, he walked over and wedged his boots between Henri and his mother.

“What do you want from us?” his mother asked.

Henri could hear the weariness in her voice as she sat up from her reclining position.

“I come to ask you for the return of my favor,” the man said.

He ran his club along her blouse, tracing the outline of her breast. A grin deepened on his face.

She shrank away from his touch. “I don’t have anything to give. That is why we came here to find refuge, for the sake of my son.”

“Leave us alone,” Henri whispered. “Or I’ll fetch my father.”

“Why don’t you just do that?” the man asked. “Or better, why don’t I just throw the two of you outside?” Turning to Henri’s mother, he said, “For your son’s sake I gave you both a place to sleep. You don’t have anything to give? What I want won’t cost you a sou.” He crooked an eyebrow at her.

His mother sighed.

“Do not look at me,” she said to Henri. “Turn to your side and go to sleep.”

He turned away. His eyes were wide open. The man gave a hollow laugh before he hovered upon her. His cloak spread like the wings of a gigantic bat and swallowed her in its pouch. Their bodies pressed against the mountain of body bags. She did not resist him.

Outside, Henri’s father’s gaunt face melted into the darkness, but there seemed to be two drops of water where the eyes had been, mirroring the sky. The winds howled. Snow was falling in earnest, rippling across the streets in soft, fluffy clumps like raw wool. Henri watched the shine in his father’s eyes grow duller as sleep came, even as he endured the rocking of the sacks that he was leaning against. The guard’s panting mixed with the incessant coughing throughout the room. An odor, like pig’s urine, stung his nostrils.

The next morning, they discovered the frozen body of his father, wrapped around the barrel of coal in a final attempt to safeguard the goods. He had died sometime during the night, at the age of thirty-two. His wife’s cloak was clutched in his still fingers.

Unceremoniously, the dead man was thrown into a sack and buried in the paupers’ cemetery at Clamart. Henri’s mother sprinkled the grave with quicklime, and then they went to the market and sold the coal.

Without his father’s strength, he and his mother were forced to abandon the hard labor of transporting fuel. For a few months they lived off the money from the sale of the coal, renting a room on the second floor of a cheap hotel on the rue de Lappe, commonly known as the “Street of Crime” among the residents. The dingy, derelict alley was home to an assortment of foreigners, common laborers, and thieves. Many of its ground floors served as shops, bistros, and rudimentary cafés, selling coal and wine not only to the locals but also to the bourgeois of neighboring precincts.

Henri was all too aware of their dwindling savings. His mother had been ill ever since the night they had spent in the Hôtel Dieu. She spent most of her time in bed, wheezing and coughing into a handkerchief. No longer was she able to bake bread in the stove or boil soup in her iron cooking pot. They hardly talked to each other. At night, when he caught her stare in the dark, he would look away, wrapped in his father’s cloak instead of a blanket and pretending to be asleep. He could not forgive her for accommodating the guard, and he blamed her for his father’s death. Silently, he mourned the loss of his father, but he would not share that grief with her.

To further avoid his mother, he was obliged to eat in the cafés, and this was much more expensive than having his meals prepared at home. He indulged himself sparingly, realizing in desperation that his growing body was getting longer and lankier. But he was not the only one who was being tormented by a food shortage in the city. Thousands of laborers were unable to support their families. The winter wore on, bleaching the city white with snow.

By late January, most of the populace of the rue de Lappe was suffering from hunger, the death toll escalating. The animals that were left outdoors endured the same destitution. Often, in the morning, when the city workers raked through the streets, Henri would help them load the carcasses of dogs, cats, and birds onto their hand-drawn carts. One day, he added his beloved mare to the heap of the winter’s casualties. The frost had grayed her eyes to the same dullness he remembered seeing in his father’s not long ago. As hungry as he was, the thought of eating her flesh was repulsive to him.

In the third month of their stay in Paris, Henri announced to his mother that he would begin a new career as a water carrier. He needed her help to pull the wagon. The same barrel they owned could be cleaned out and used as a vessel to bring fresh water to the rich households, where it would be sold for bathing. Paris was inherently grimy. For his new trade, the demand appeared high.

But there was much that he needed to learn about the water business. Quickly he discovered that the water carriers fell into two categories. The first group, the more successful and wealthy Auvergnats, had their own wagons and horses, which could haul eight to nine hundred liters per trip. They also paid an official to reserve certain fountains so they would not have to wait in long lines. The less fortunate would have to be satisfied with two buckets of a few dozen liters per day, which they attached to a yoke and carried over their shoulders.

At first the sight of the long queue of people outside the public reservoir was shocking to him. The men bundled in their leather and fur coats resembled a trail of animals coming to the river for a drink. With his cart, he stood in line, waiting for his turn at the tap. To pass the time, the laborers gossiped about opportunities to obtain work on the sailing ships that were exploring the New World. According to the older men, the fastest-growing city in France was Marseille. Even though Henri had never heard the city’s name before, he listened with keen interest, allowing his imagination to come alive.

The waiting drove him mad, and he could not conceal his anger. Mostly he was furious with himself for not learning about this work sooner. He could have saved some money all those wasted months. The rage inside him mounted, pulling him deeper into loneliness.

Drawing and selling water grew difficult. The city was overrun with wretched souls like him, all competing for the same business. The rich consumers took advantage of the water carriers’ plight by demanding higher levels of service. For a few sous, they wanted their baths delivered with heated water, and if one drop were to spill, the carriers would be penalized.

Each morning up and down the boulevard du Temple, men and women clad in rabbit pelts dangled pails of water over their shoulders. One after another, they bellowed the familiar street cries to attract the customers’ attention,
Oia! A l’eau!
Each syllable was sung from deep within their diaphragms, guttural and resonating so that the invitation could travel all the way to the top floors.

Henri, with his hands clasping the handles of his pushcart, followed the stream of people as they sidestepped mounds of ice that sparkled like broken glass. In spite of the cold, beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He had gotten used to the weight of the barrel. His body grew stronger and taller, and he no longer needed his mother’s help with the cart. How many months had it been since they migrated to the city? Twelve, maybe fourteen, he could not remember. It did not matter. Every time he pushed his wagon down the boulevard, his loneliness reminded him that he did not belong in Paris and never would. The gloomy buildings threatened to close in around him, and the shadows of merchants lurked like wolves under the scant rivulets of sunlight. He kept a fast pace, his eyes focused on the splashes inside the barrel, and his mind clung to joyful memories of the days when his father was alive.

But Paris was not always an intimidating place. There were days when the crowd did not bother him as much, and delivering water was in fact exciting. He especially enjoyed the mornings when Madame Leyster, his favorite customer, took her bath. The young wife of a busy wigmaker, she was one client he always desired to see, and the thought of her would make him smile behind the brim of his felt hat.

Over the months, he learned her disposition. He did not mind her habit of haggling over the full price of three sous to fill her tub. One Christmas, she hid money in a pair of green wool socks and gave them to him as a present. These he wore with great care underneath an older pair of stockings so that they would not get ruined. They made him think of her—the soft fabric rubbing against his feet, suggesting the velvety texture of her skin. The sensation got so overwhelming at times that he felt he would burst with longing.

At the turn of the street, Henri hoped to see Madame Leyster on the front stoop of her home. He would prefer to approach quietly rather than shout for her attention in his cracked adolescent voice. He shuddered at the thought of how absurd he must sound. She had made fun of him before. As a result, he avoided conversation, only speaking when he needed to. Despite his attempts to modulate his tone, his traitorous voice, without warning, would shriek like the crowing of a rooster. Sometimes the pitch would get so high that it became inaudible.

Her house came into view, one of the few that had been converted from wood to a stone foundation and brick walls to protect against the risk of fire. No one was in the clearing outside the front door. He ventured closer, and around the shutter of a small window, he saw her. She sat behind the glass panes, using a pointy tool to try to replace a clump of hair in a wig. Red flames roared in the fireplace. The sun shone through the glass, but its weak rays faded before the aggressive fire. He watched, marveling at how the heat had ripened her cheeks until they glowed, before he tapped a finger on the window, grinning.