Madame Leyster looked up from her seat. A white snood pinned at the top of her head restrained her hair, but a few golden strands, a shade darker than Henri’s, escaped to trickle down her breasts. Her sharp face wore a frown, but her large brown eyes were so innocent that it looked as if she had stolen them from a baby. She didn’t seem to recognize him. He pointed at the barrel and grinned again. They were only a few steps away from each other.
“What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded small behind the thick window.
“Madame, your bath,” he said, keeping the words short and simple.
A hint of recognition appeared on her face.
“Has it been one month already?” she asked, examining her nails. “My hands are not yet dirty.”
As if to prove her point, she pressed her palms against the window to show him. Between her fingers, he could see the discoloration of grime, but he was not about to argue with her.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” he said. “I’ll come again next week.”
He pushed the cart away from her house.
“Hey, Auvergnat boy, wait!”
She glided through the room to meet him at the entrance. Her red underskirt dragged along the path, hiding her feet.
“How much heated water do you have?” she asked.
Henri stepped away from his wagon, at the same time lifting the heavy covering behind the barrel to reveal a copper pail of simmering water on top of a small stove.
“Thirty liters,” he said, and thought,
If you wish, I could make more
.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she said. “Carry the water to the basement and prepare my bath. You remember how I like it, don’t you?”
He had memorized every detail of her bathing habit. He knew how to pour just the right amount of water in the tub so it would not spill when she submerged her body. He learned to place the hard soap with soda—the scented kind from the Mediterranean coast that smelled like a field of hyacinths—on the floor within her reach. Now, as he stood near the bathroom door, he could hear her moans of pleasure coming from the other side, the water splashing. Through the gap under the door, steam escaped in fragrant wisps, a good indication that the temperature had met her satisfaction.
He inspected the bathroom door. It had a crack in one of the corners, the dark rim gawking back at him. His common sense told him to leave. When a lady took her bath, he had no right to linger. But the basement was empty. There was no one in sight, except for a small yellow cat taking a nap. Its furry body was stretched out by the foot of the stairs. He knew that as long as the cat slept undisturbed, he was safe.
Excitement and fright shot through his body. He held his breath and crept closer to the door until his cheek brushed against the rough surface of the unfinished wood. It was a tense, feeble grope for the right angle, but eventually his eye found the crack. Inside, the mist was heavy. He looked. And his mouth went dry.
For a moment, he thought he saw Madame Leyster soaring through the air. Her white blouse, the bodice, and the scarlet skirt rose through the fog, floating as though she were dancing. The writhing figure twirled and trembled like a ghost, stopping his heart. Then he saw the clothesline that held the items suspended in space and realized he was seeing just the garments, not her. Even so, the rippling air gave them an eerie aliveness.
He heard her soft voice, humming. In the middle of the room sat the large tub, made of wood and bound with hoops like his barrel. He saw her fair body steeping in the water. Her back was to him. Her lovely blond hair was wrapped inside a cap. He could see the glistening drops trickle down her long neck. Like nectar from a lily, he thought, and clenched his fist.
At the bottom of the stairs, the cat gave a muffled yelp, but Henri was too preoccupied to pay attention to it. Madame Leyster raised one of her elbows high so she could clean the fuzz in her armpit. He was drawn to the swell of her left breast, heavy and thrusting. The ring of her nipple deepened from the heat; its erect knob quivered in response to her vigorous scrubbing. He tried to take a breath, but something lifted the back of his coat, choking him.
What happened next was over in no more time than it took to blink. Henri found himself pulled upward by the nape of his neck. His body dangled a few inches off the ground.
“Emmanuelle,” the husband yelled. “This idiotic water boy is watching you bathe. Such filthy animals, these Auvergnats.”
He could feel the collar tighten around his neck, and his fingers fumbled to loosen its grip. All he could think was how disappointed Madame Leyster would be when she discovered his lewd act. He could hear her screaming from behind the door. The wigmaker puffed. He was a large man, and everything about him was oversized, including the odor of garlic on his breath.
He could no longer hear water thrashing in the wooden tub. Instead, he registered the sound of wet bare feet slapping the stone floor; then a small object struck the door with a hollow sound, followed by a loud thud and a scream that modulated into a muffled, painful whine.
Still struggling to breathe, he watched the bathroom door shake with each blow from his kicking feet until it flung open. Her husband spun him around, and the cloak ripped away from him. He fell, sagging on the ground as his hand came into contact with the bar of soap on which Madame Leyster had slipped. She lay on her back, naked except for the parts that were covered with her hands. One of her legs was bent at an odd angle. He saw the pointed tip of a broken bone jutting through her skin, and underneath, a small pool of blood spread from the wound. She was looking at him, her eyes glassy with agony.
The excitement he had felt as he spied on her was now overwhelmed by shame. He was trying not to think of the terrible consequences of his act, of the husband’s condemnation:
filthy animals, these Auvergnats.
He wished he could disappear like the steam from her bath. Desperation spurred him to spring up and run toward the stairs. The wigmaker did not stop him, nor did any of the servants. No one reacted to Henri’s escape because all attention was riveted on Madame Leyster’s broken limb.
He ran through the streets. Mounds of snow loomed like anonymous graves that had been sanitized in quicklime. He did not stop until he reached his home. He ascended the two flights of stairs and wept silently before he entered the little room, wishing the tears would wash away some of his humiliation. But he could not shed the memory of Madame Leyster’s haunting expression, and the way her brown eyes had turned icy when she stared at him.
He found his mother by the window, her blanket drooping to the floor. For the past months, she had spent most of her time sitting there. The frost etched new wrinkles on her gaunt face, turned her lips blue, and made her hands tremble. He wondered whether she had seen him running and crying through the streets.
“Forgive me, Mother,” he said. The words flew faster than he could think. “I must leave Paris at once, and I cannot take you with me. You have to go back to the Hôtel Dieu and wait for me. I will return in a few months.”
“Are you in trouble?” his mother asked.
He replied to her query with silence.
“Why can’t I go with you? I don’t want to go back to that place.”
The responsibility she placed on him felt like an iron yoke around his neck, cutting into his windpipe. “You have no choice, Mother.” His voice was uneven. “You’re ill, and I can’t take care of you anymore.”
She winced as if he had struck her. Without a word, she handed him the cloak of thick, felted wool that had belonged to his father. He put the coat on, fastening it tight under his chin and pulling the hood well forward to cover his face. They left the apartment in a grim mood, heading toward the Hôtel Dieu.
Silence gnawed at them, interrupted only by her convulsive coughs and sporadic murmurs. He avoided looking at her. At the Hôtel Dieu, under the scrutiny of the same watchman, he pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. She tried to kiss him, but he averted his head. If he showed his mother any love now, he knew he would be trapped in this place with her forever.
“Go inside, Mother, where it is warmer,” he whispered.
She clutched him to her with surprising strength. “I forgive you, son,” she said. “I hope someday you will forgive me.”
He wrenched himself away from her and ran.
The gossip at the fountains told him the wigmaker was looking for him for revenge. Paris became a forbidden city—a place of waiting punishment and dishonor.
From the boulevard du Temple he followed the route back toward his old home in the mountains. He was surprised to discover the trail was narrower than he remembered, and several new homes had sprung up next to it. So much had changed that he became unsure if he was still on the right path. He wondered what Plomb du Cantal would be like. But a volcanic mountain was a mountain like any other, where he would have to fight for a miserable existence. The prospect of a lifetime toiling in the coal trade, only to reenact his father’s final tragedy, was unsettling to him.
Halfway through the journey, Henri sat and rested under a leafless chestnut tree where his family had paused many times before. Ahead, the road forked. The unfamiliar path, which had always seemed alluring, now beckoned him to explore. There was no one to tell him what to do. He abruptly changed his mind.
Instead of returning to the mountains, he would go south to Marseille. The fantastic stories he had heard from the water carriers were still fresh in his mind. He imagined a city of wealth, adventure, and opportunity. It was also a distant land, far enough for him to be inconspicuous among the other strangers. He would find work there, and—most important of all—an ocean, where he could get a job at the port. He was young and alone. The sea offered the most exciting prospect he could hope for.
Marseille,
1773
T
hree months later, in mid-spring, Henri reached his destina- tion. It was noon, and Marseille was veiled in a light rain. He was footsore and hungry after a long journey, one he had survived through begging alms from religious houses and, occasionally, petty thievery. Unlike his picturesque fantasies, the city that stood before him was stricken with poverty and pestilence, and filled with refugees like himself. Outlines of sailing ships bobbed on the murky waters. The port and its waterside were clogged with animal and human waste, spilling a vile smell into the surrounding coast. The rats played on the dock under a dripping sky.
The noise of boat passengers shouting in the harbor rose to a hysterical pitch; animals crowed, barked, and neighed; and the rattling chains of ships’ anchors being dropped through portholes roared like thunder. The sweeping rain added moisture to the muddy ground, and stagnant water collected in green puddles.
Sailors from every nation strolled the twisted streets looking for whores. Brigands lurked in alleyways, waiting for an opportunity to rob travelers of what little money they might have. Peasants from the nearby countryside poured into the marketplace to exchange their supplies of meat, milk, and eggs for the cargos of grain and flour that arrived on the ships from America.
Henri watched in amazement. His stomach rumbled, a reminder of how hungry he was. He searched his pockets in vain, not sure what to do next. There must be some way he could exchange his labor for food and lodging. Near the pier, a merchant stood on top of a raised platform. A thatched rooftop shielded him from the drizzle. Henri’s heart leaped at the sight of laborers lining up before the man, anticipating work. He rushed to join the queue.
“I need twenty men to unload my cargo,” announced the merchant. His stout frame, barely five feet tall, was draped in finely tailored clothes and topped with a three-cornered hat. “The
Mighty Gale
has arrived from Boston.”
He pointed his index finger at the workers, selected a few faces from the crowd, and shouted, “You! You! You!”
The chosen ones moved away from the mass and walked toward the pier head, where they stood next to a train of mules and waited for the merchant.
He glared at Henri. “Hey, boy! Are you new here?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Henri, excited at the possibility of being chosen.
“How long have you been in Marseille?”
“I just arrived, sir.”
With a shrug, the merchant dismissed him and moved on to another laborer in the crowd.
Raising his voice above the noise, Henri called out in disappointment, “Why don’t you take me? I am strong. I can work hard.”
The merchant’s face was a mask of indifference.
“You aren’t qualified,” said a voice near Henri.
The worker was a tall fellow of about twenty-five, with jet-black hair and dark eyes. He could have passed for being handsome if his face weren’t so lean. His stooped shoulders, sagging eyelids, and tight mouth gave him a sinister appearance that troubled Henri. A piece of brass filigree hanging from a miniature S-hook dangled from his left ear.
Catching Henri’s questioning stare, the man bowed, folding one arm across his chest with exaggeration. “I am Jérôme Bianchi,” he announced, and chuckled. Even his laugh sounded unscrupulous.
“Henri Monange,” the boy replied.
The man grew serious. “You are inexperienced. To get the job, you have to be a citizen of Marseille.”
“A citizen?” Henri asked, mostly in disbelief. “What must I do to be qualified?”
“You must either be a resident for ten years, possess property, or be married to a local girl. You are too young and too fresh to have done any of those things. But that is the law.”
“Then how can someone like myself earn a living? I need to eat.”
“You can ask for a job on one of the large ships that will be sailing to the colonies. They’re always looking for sailors. I was fourteen when I was made a cook’s apprentice. With proper training you too can become a seaman. The ship I’m now on will depart in a month and two days, if the wind permits. I can speak to the first mate about you if you like.”
“Yes, yes, please,” he replied without hesitation, but in the same breath, a pang of fear struck him. “Does it mean I have to leave France?”
Again the tall stranger chuckled. “What do you have to keep you here, your wealth and castle? Or are you worried that Louis XV would miss you?”
They both laughed. Then a thought flashed through Henri’s mind. “But what will I do until the ship sails?”
The stranger scanned the harbor with a look of contempt. “Look at those rich merchants,” he murmured between his teeth, pointing at a group of well-dressed men. “Do you see their folds of fat? I wish I were a mosquito; I could feed off them and not have to worry about ever being caught. Do you know what I mean?”
Henri nodded, although he wasn’t sure he did.
“I am glad that you do,” his companion said. “Follow me. I know where we can get something to eat. But tell me, what brought you to Marseille?”
In a dark and muddy alley later that day, Henri sat near the back entrance of a tavern to keep out of the rain, slurping beef stew from a wooden dish. A patch of clouds, cranberry-tinged by the setting sun, made the gloomy sky blush. After the last afternoon rays died away, the town began to light up. Shimmering embers glowed through the windows of thatched hovels. He could hear the noisy chatter from the other side of the wall as customers squabbled over a game of dice.
While they were waiting for the food, he had told Jérôme about Paris life, his experiences as a water carrier, and the death of his father. But he omitted the story of his mother, the Hôtel Dieu, Madame Leyster, and the unfortunate incident that had expelled him from the city.
Now, as Henri ate his supper, Jérôme’s shadow loomed near the opening of the alleyway, hovering over a dark-haired woman. The strings at the front of his breeches were unraveled, exposing part of his buttocks as he clasped his hips to hers. She was the one who had brought them their dinner. Leaning against the wall, she bared her breasts to her lover. Her red-stained lips became a gaping hole in the dark. One of her hands rested across his shoulder, sharp fingernails clutching the night. Every time he thrust himself into her, she hissed as though he were punching air out of her lungs. After a while, the rain began to smell rancid to Henri as he listened to her growls of pleasure.
Ignoring an occasional glance from passersby, they coupled savagely, like two stray animals. With a loud grunt from Jérôme, it was all over. Henri watched his friend arch his back, then push away from her while clutching his pants. The woman lingered long enough to give him a kiss on the forehead before she retreated back to the darkness.
The sailor drew closer to Henri, fastening his trousers. A contented smile hollowed his face, and he seemed to be possessed with a new burst of energy. Whistling a tune, he splashed through a puddle.
“That is my wench,” he said proudly.
“She seemed very nice, Jérôme.”
The sailor spat in the air. “All women are whores. This one is a prostitute, but I always get it for free. Judging from the way you were gawking at her, I suspect you are still a virgin.”
Henri looked down at his feet.
Jérôme’s eyebrows came together, and he peered down at Henri from under them. “I thought so. We have to find you one like her—a benefactor to break you in and to take care of all your needs.”
“I don’t want a woman to take care of me,” Henri said.
“Then you will die! Or become a thief to stay alive. There is no job for you here. I am an experienced sailor, and I still have to struggle to find work. And while I am waiting, I have to eat. All those fat merchants, they just keep getting fatter. But someday I won’t have to persuade peasants like you to see what I am seeing. I am going to be an important person. You’ll see! And you’ll thank your friend Jérôme.” He caught Henri by the elbow for emphasis and pulled him to his feet. “Join me! I need a hand to help me. I’ll teach you how to survive.”
He pulled his arm away from the sailor’s grip.
Jérôme cleared his throat and spat again, this time aiming at Henri’s foot. When he spoke, his voice was filled with equal parts anger and disgust. “You have scruples now because my wench has stuffed your belly with her food. But wait till tomorrow when you are hungry again. Do you think anybody cares what happens to scum like us?”
He started to walk away. The truth of his words struck Henri, and the boy felt utterly alone. At least when he was living in the rue de Lappe, he had his mother.
“Please wait,” he called to Jérôme. “Don’t go!”
The tall man stopped. His back was to Henri as he said with a slight turn of his head, “Whether you realize this or not, I am the only friend you’ve got in this town. The reason I let you eat was that I thought you understood me, and that we could be mates. If I leave now, you will soon be rats’ food on the dock.”
“I understand you,” whispered Henri.
Jérôme wheeled around. “That’s better,” he said. “Why else did we end up in a backstreet of Marseille together? We need each other.”
The boy stammered, “W-what are we going to do?”
“Aha, a smart question! I’ll teach you everything I know. First, we need to set a trap.”
“A trap for whom?”
Jérôme did not reply. He was rummaging through a heap of trash near the back entrance of the tavern. With the door closed and the moon in its last quarter, hardly any light shone on the alley. Henri could not see what his accomplice was searching for. He felt foolish and frightened. He wanted to run, but curiosity held him in place. In the dark, the sailor seemed a large dog digging for a bone.
When Jérôme straightened up, a long, black, twitching object dangled from his hand. It was difficult to distinguish, but Henri was certain that it must be a snake, and he jumped back.
The sailor gave a coarse laugh. “Relax, it won’t bite you. It’s only a rope.”
He whipped it through the air, shaking off the excess dirt. To Henri, he continued, “I am going to catch myself a moneyed pig. Do you suppose you can help me trip him and make him fall?”
“With this rope?”
“Yes, doubtless,” replied Jérôme. “My plan is crude, but it will work if you follow my instructions. I’ve done it before.” He handed Henri one end of the rope and explained, “Take this and go to the other side of the street. Conceal yourself in the dark. When I pull on the cord, you hold it as tight as you can so we can trip someone.”
Henri nodded as he began to understand. “I know this game. My father and I did something similar to catch wild animals in the forest.”
“Very well then,” the sailor said. “Remember, tonight we are going for bigger game. Aim for his neck so that you can knock him back with as little force as possible. Do not attack a horse or a carriage. We just want to rob a person walking alone. We don’t want to fight unless we have to.”
Henri walked to the other side and crouched next to the wall. The rope swung gently in his hand. Sooner or later somebody would wander through the alley. He could only hope that it would turn out to be a drunken merchant instead of a vagabond. It was impossible to make such a distinction now, in the thick of night. He was nervous, and the fear unsteadied his hands.
He could hear the chatter of people talking in the distance, as well as the rumbling of horse-drawn carriages and the barking of a dog. He had other worries in mind. If this plan did not work out, and he got caught, the authorities might learn about the crime that he had committed in Paris. He feared that he would be put away in the most dreaded prison of all, the Château d’If. His mother would weep if she found out. The seething anger he had once felt toward her abated. The thought of her alone in the Hôtel Dieu flooded him with guilt.
The rope in his hands jerked three times. It was Jérôme’s signal that someone was approaching. Henri stiffened his back against the wall, held his breath, and listened. Footsteps reverberated in the night. He wanted to drop the cord and run away as fast as he could. But before he could move, a figure appeared at the curve of the narrow street, walking toward them at a brisk pace. He had no time to think. The rope tugged at his hands. He gave a mighty pull. It lifted, and the target let out a muffled cry before crumpling to the ground. A three-cornered hat flew in the air and landed on the cobblestone street.
Henri caught a glimpse of the victim’s half-hidden face. His thick, dark hair was shorn in a straight line over his brows. Beneath his bangs, his eyes seemed to have been bleached white with pain. The outline of a silver cross on the man’s chest reflected a weak trace of moonlight. Realization shot through him: he had wounded a holy man—a priest. Jérôme sprang from his hiding place. As though he had a sixth sense of where the money was hidden, he reached and found the purse.
“Curse my luck,” he howled, “it’s empty.”
In frustration, he kicked his fallen prey. Henri’s hands dug into Jérôme’s shoulders, pulling him back.
“Don’t hurt him anymore,” he pleaded.
The sailor spat contemptuously, “Don’t be afraid! He’s just a stinking Jesuit.” He bent down to the priest and snarled, “No judge would hang me for killing you.”
Then, to the frightened boy, he said, “Leave him!”
Henri stumbled to follow but stopped when he heard the man’s moan. Ahead, his partner’s shadow dissolved into the black ink of the night.
Henri hesitated, angry that his compassion outweighed his judgment. Behind him, the choking sound kept him still; he was unable to leave an injured person unattended.
“Help me, somebody!” came the cry.
Henri tiptoed back to get a closer look at the victim. The priest stirred. Confusion, then surprise, then acknowledgment registered in his eyes. Already the boy regretted turning back.
“Thank God you are still here,” the priest rasped. His voice was hoarse, probably because of the injury to his throat. He reached for Henri’s hand.
“No,” the boy screamed, jolting away. “Let me go.”