Memoirs of a Courtesan in Nineteenth-Century Paris (7 page)

Oh!’’

And she ran to the table and picked up a knife.

‘‘If he touches my child, I shall kill him.’

She was listening. I saw her run to the door.

‘‘It is too late, they are here!’’

She ran into my cabinet, closed the door and removed the key, leaned over my bed and put her hand over my mouth. ‘‘Be quiet, be quiet. . . .’

The front door opened and closed. We heard the footsteps of several men in the room.

‘ This is not all of us,’ said my stepfather.

‘‘No,’ a voice answered, ‘ the others are coming. We did not want

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to all come at once for fear of being noticed downstairs. The miser on the first floor always fears for his coins. He is constantly watching who comes and goes.’

There was a knock at the door and the voice was silent. The newcomers were talking in low tones. There must have been eight or ten of them.

Gradually the conversation became animated, the sounds more dis-tinct.

My mother and I were listening with all the lucidity of fear.

‘‘It is impossible,’ G

was saying. ‘‘If, while we are over there, things do not get going here, we shall all be arrested. We have to start here.’

Another voice interrupted him, ‘ Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

When things are set in motion here, it will be too late over there. You have to scare off the hen to get to her eggs.’

‘‘But are you certain,’ said G

softening his tone, ‘ that there is as much money as you have been told?’’

‘‘Rather than less,’ said another voice.

‘‘How long will it take?’’ asked G

.

‘‘Barely six hours. It is three leagues from here. We shall leave tomorrow at first light.’

Some of the men in the room left. Once their footsteps were gone, G

told the men still in the room, ‘‘We have to watch Antoine: he could expose us for no reason.’

‘ That’s a good one!’’ the others answered. ‘ The two of you suspect each other. Just yesterday he was saying that you cannot be trusted!’’

A voice near the window said, ‘ This is a good location. We shall have a good view and we shall be able to help.’

‘‘You are welcome,’ said G

.

Since they were all near the window now, or were speaking very low, we could not hear any more. Then the words ‘ farewell,’ and ‘ see you tomorrow,’ reached our ears.

My mother sighed, ‘ Gone. They are gone!’’

I sensed, because of the fear that I still felt, that she was mistaken, and I motioned for her to wait.

After a few minutes we heard someone walking, opening drawers, closing the window, and going out, carefully turning the key in the lock.

My mother opened the door to our cabinet.

‘‘We are locked in. What are we going to do?’’

She thought for a while, then knocked on M. Raoul’s wall. He came

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to our door. We told him that we were locked in, and we entreated him to go get a locksmith.

‘‘It is not necessary,’ said Mme Raoul, who had followed her husband. ‘‘Here is the key. It was given to me downstairs. I met M. G

on his way out. He asked me if his wife was in the building. I said that I did not know. He asked me to give you the key that he took with him by mistake.’

M. and Mme Raoul came into our room. My mother told them what she had heard.

‘ They are going to plunder, maybe even commit a more serious crime. We must try to warn those poor people.’

‘‘But do you have their names and address?’’

‘‘Unfortunately, no.’’

   

The next day a storm descended on the city. Around four o’clock G

came home, ashen, grim, his clothes in disarray, his tie partially undone.

There was perspiration on his brow.

‘‘Hide this,’ he told my mother. ‘ That is an order.’

And he threw a sack full of money on the table and a package on the floor. Turning toward the door, he told two men who had followed him,

‘ Come in with your trunks. There is no one here but my wife, and I can vouch for her.’

Motionless, my mother was looking at the scene.

‘‘Let us see,’ said G

, ‘ let us open the packages.’

He pulled out of them silk dresses, lace, some jewelry. Once he had stashed his loot, G

left without a word.

For a few minutes my mother remained pensive, then, taking me in her arms, she told me, ‘‘Let us go to Raoul’s. I just had an idea!’’

She spent a long time talking to M. Raoul who then stood up and said, ‘‘You can count on me.’

The next day, very early, a man was knocking on our door. G

jumped out of bed and hid in my cabinet. The new arrival asked in a loud voice, ‘‘You are Mme G

?’’

‘‘Yes, I am.’’

‘‘Where is your husband? We need to talk to him.’

‘‘He is not here, but if you wish to leave your name, I shall be able to tell him that you came.’

‘‘No,’ the man answered, ‘‘we are going to wait downstairs for him to come home. He was one of those who plundered

’s château. Do

you have anything here that comes from this robbery?’’

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‘‘No,’ my mother answered in a firm voice.

‘‘Watch yourself; hiding the truth would make you an accomplice.

Good-bye, madame.’

And he went back downstairs.

G

came out of the cabinet, his face distorted by fear.

‘ Oh! Jeanne, my good Jeanne, you saved me!’’

‘‘Yes, for an hour maybe, but the police will be back. They are going to search the place. Your only recourse is to flee tonight. Until then, you must hide. There is an attic off the landing.’

An hour later five men came and made a lot of noise. G

, hidden

in his attic, did not miss one word of the conversation.

‘‘Is your husband back?’’ asked the man who had come earlier.

‘ No,’ my mother answered.

‘‘I regret it, madame, but we cannot rely on your statements. We must see for ourselves.’

On that note, two men entered the room, the cabinet, and pretended to search everywhere.

‘‘Nothing,’ they said on their way out, ‘ but he will not get away; he has been betrayed by one of his accomplices.’

They left.

G

was more dead than alive. My mother had the devil of a time making him leave the attic.

‘‘Now,’ she told him, ‘‘you can see that you are doomed if you do not flee far away.’

G

left at midnight.

Raoul was waiting for us. As soon as he saw us he said, ‘‘Well! You are now rid of him. Did my men not play their part well?’’

‘ Splendidly!’’ my mother said. ‘‘You have done me a great favor!’’

Indeed, the men who had come were none other than canuts engaged to frighten G

and to force him to leave.

The next day Lyon was put to fire and sword.

Fire had been set at each end of the bridge across from us. The naval toll booths were there and contained much flammable material: oil, alcohol. . . .

We could see the poor employees throwing the furniture out the windows and everything else they could save. We could hear their pitiful cries, soon lost amid a huge uproar intermittently interrupted by savage bursts of laughter.

We saw a poor man jump from a window. He broke his leg when he landed, could not get up, and was trampled by the crowd.

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   

Suddenly an urgent rumor erupted through the crowd of men assembled on this one spot. We saw them flee in all directions. Troops were arriving from the other end of the bank, now deserted. But it was a false alarm; we heard the steady steps of the cavalry horses departing, leaving behind a cloud of dust.

Once the cloud had vanished, we saw everything return to the way it had been. The dark mob had re-formed even more terrible than before.

The most excited ones took advantage of the time they had left before new troops arrived. They smashed every door, raided every house.

‘Arms, arms!’’ they would yell.

Our door opened and we were asked the same thing.

‘ Nothing here, there are only women. . . . What about you, old man, do you have a rifle?’’

They were addressing M. Raoul.

‘‘I do not have any more arms. I gave them all away.’

The house shook under this avalanche of wooden clogs and steel shoes charging up and down the stairs.

The cavalry returned. This time it was coming in our direction.

Swords drawn, the soldiers were charging. Furious cries echoed through the crowd.

‘ They’re murdering citizens; they’re slaughtering our brothers! To the houses! To the houses!’’

On that signal, they went through stores, through alleys. In less than an hour the roofs along the bank were covered with rebels. The worst were the twelve- to fifteen-year-old children. They would make slingshots with leather straps. Others, using their shirts as bags, would haul the sharp pebbles that paved the streets of Lyon in those days to the rooftops. With their makeshift slingshots, they could send their projec-tiles a long way. Others aimed at windows. Those who had no weapons would toss whatever was handy through windows.

I can still remember a caged parrot someone had rushed to the third floor of a house; for a half hour it emitted such sharp cries that its voice could be heard above the fighting.

Our house was totally occupied. The firing from the street had smashed every window. They had just destroyed M. Raoul’s looms, and they were throwing the parts down on the troops. M. Raoul and his wife were crying. . . . They were ruined! Part of our furniture suffered the same fate.

After several hours of fighting, the riot seemed to subside. My mother took advantage of this lull.

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‘ Come,’ she told me taking me by the hand, ‘ tomorrow this area will be up in flames. We must try to get to the Mathieus’.’

It was almost nighttime. Once I had reached the second floor, my foot slipped and I fell flat on my face. I got up, and we went downstairs to a place with more light. My mother screamed. I was covered in dried blood. They had killed the second story lodger.

A group of armed men was guarding the entrance. My mother approached them resolutely.

‘ Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘‘I must leave this house. I want to seek refuge at the house of some friends.’

‘Are you going far?’’ said a husky voice.

‘ No, just a few feet from here.’

‘‘You will be escorted part of the way. You, men, go!’’

And he turned toward two of his comrades who were sitting on some hay.

We walked in silence. Once we had reached a military encampment, the two men stopped.

‘‘I am not going any farther,’ said one of them. ‘‘We do not want to throw ourselves into the lion’s jaws.’

They turned right around without looking at us. My mother talked to a captain who ordered two soldiers to accompany us.

The Mathieus were having dinner. Everyone shouted in unison when they saw us.

They had not heard anything in this part of town. They only knew that there was fighting going on elsewhere, but the sound of shooting had not been heard in this neighborhood.

The days that followed were bloody, but we were fortunate enough to no longer be witness to the fighting.

    

Peace had been restored for some time when we received a letter from City Hall asking my mother to appear the next day. I wanted to go with her, but she would not let me.

She came back half an hour later, all out of breath.

‘‘Friends, my dear friends, my husband is dead!’’

‘‘Your husband is dead! . . . Well, that is good riddance for you!’’ exclaimed M. Mathieu.

Maman did not give any sign of approval, either for the sake of appearances, or because her heart was less austere than her reason.

G

had been found at the Croix Rousse with two bullets in the

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head. The papers found on his person, a card with his name and several letters that were not addressed to him but that were in his wallet with his passport, meant there was no mistake possible. G

did not exist

anymore.

This event changed all of my mother’s plans. Nothing was keeping her from returning to Paris now, and she was even more inclined to do so now that her furniture had been smashed during the riot. She announced her intentions to the Mathieus.

A few days later we left Lyon.

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4

o

M. Vincent

A Peculiar Family Reunion—The Stonemason Was Chasing Skirts—M. Grange and His Daughter—Tragedy at the Saint-Martin Canal—Horrible Domestic Scenes—The Enterprising Cohabitant—Alone in Paris

    in Paris we had to live with my grandfather.

That was very painful for my mother. After his divorce from his first wife her father had remarried. Maman had much to complain about her stepmother, who did not like the children of her husband’s first marriage.

There were three of them: two girls and a boy. They zealously learned their trade so that as soon as they could support themselves, they could leave a house that the memory of their mother, replaced by a stranger, rendered unbearable.

Adèle, the oldest, was placed with a lace merchant. One evening she was carrying a box of Mechlin lace 1 on Rue de la Lune around ten o’clock when a man assaulted her, knifing her three times: in the cheek, piercing her tongue; in the breast; and in her side.

Nearby, a woman saw a man run away shouting, ‘ Oh! What have I done, I made a mistake.’

The victim was taken to Hôtel-Dieu hospital where she died a few hours later without having a chance to reveal her name. It was thanks to the box of Mechlin lace that what had happened to her was later revealed. The identity of the murderer was never discovered.

My mother was placed with a milliner. Her brother wanted to learn how to paint. My grandfather had a slight preference for this son, and, except for the disagreements with his wife, he was more hospitable to him than to his sisters.

On a day that he had been refused some money, he returned with