Surrender to a Stranger (40 page)

It was late afternoon of the second day when the coach finally ground to a halt. Slowly Jacqueline stepped out onto the street, her back stiff, her joints aching, her legs weak from sitting in such cramped conditions for so long. The other passengers quickly murmured their good-byes and were on their way, none hesitating to see if the imaginary aunt Jacqueline had mentioned to them had indeed come to meet her at the coach stop. It was not their business, so they did not care, she realized with a mixture of relief and surprise. These days no one looked out for the other.

Clutching her bag tightly, she began to walk. The first part of her plan was to find Armand’s friend Justin. She recalled that he lived in the faubourg Montmartre, which was in the northern part of Paris, on a street called rue de Vent. If she could find that street, she knew she would be able to recall which house belonged to Justin. Once she found him, she would ask for his help in finding Armand. Thinking back to the intense loyalty the two men obviously shared, she did not doubt that if Justin knew Armand had been captured, he would be willing to offer assistance.

She walked along for perhaps a half hour, hoping she was headed in the right direction, but the streets were narrow and twisting and the cold, gray light of day was fading fast. She began to worry that she would have to stop and ask someone the way, which she did not want to do. Any interaction with a stranger could potentially lead to disaster. The citizens of the Republic were always anxious to demonstrate their loyalty to the new order, and therefore eager to denounce anyone whose dress seemed a bit too fine, whose speech was a touch too aristocratic, or whose attitude seemed incompatible with the murderous, self-righteous fury of a devout revolutionary. A wayward look, a casual comment or complaint that could be construed as critical of the government or sympathetic to the thousands who had suffered since the revolution began, and that was sufficient grounds for a denunciation and arrest. So she hurried along, hoping that eventually something familiar would appear.

She turned down a street that was crowded with vendors’ stalls, and thick with people arguing furiously over prices. She moved with haste, realizing this was not the street she wanted. Her body twisted and turned as she tried to avoid being shoved and jostled by the crowd. Just as she managed to steer clear of an enormous woman who was thrashing her way through the street without any regard for her fellow citizens, she was struck in the ribs and stomach by a small boy who had appeared out of nowhere and seemed desperate to get through the crowd. The sudden impact knocked her off balance and down she went, causing the boy to trip over her and drop whatever it was he held cradled in his arms.

“There he is!” bellowed a man’s furious voice. “Stop him!”

Before Jacqueline could draw a breath and sit up, a wall of people had suddenly formed around the two of them, effectively blocking any exit. The boy scrambled to his feet and balled his hands into fists, which he held out threateningly as he turned around and glared at his captors, daring one of them to try to lay a hand on him.

Since no one made a move to help Jacqueline up, she pulled herself to her feet and quickly took in the ragged appearance of the boy. He looked to be about eleven, certainly not more than twelve, but he was so thin and malnourished it was possible he was older. His angry, defiant face was filthy, his hair long, dark, and matted. The clothes he wore were threadbare, torn and dirty, and totally insubstantial for the middle of winter. His greasy jacket was held closed by an old piece of frayed rope that had been knotted in several places, and his pants, which might have fit him at an earlier age, were tight and ended at midcalf, leaving his red, rawboned legs and ankles bare to the bitter cold. His shoes were badly cracked, and through the slits Jacqueline could see that they had been stuffed with scraps of newspaper in a pathetic effort to keep out the freezing wet snow. Abandoned at his feet lay a loaf of black bread, the object he had been holding in his arms as he ran.

“Let me through,” bellowed a furious voice as a burly man shoved his way through the excited crowd.

He saw the boy trapped and he smiled, a twisted, malicious smile that caused the breath to freeze in Jacqueline’s throat. It was a smile she recognized, cruel and vicious, the smile of one who loves to brutalize and coerce, to punish with an iron fist in order to terrify and dominate.

“So,” he began menacingly as he slowly advanced toward the boy, “you think you can steal from me, do you, you filthy little pig?”

The boy trembled slightly as the man moved toward him, but he held his place and kept his fists high in the air.

“If you please, Citizen,” began Jacqueline, thinking she would simply offer to pay for the bread and the incident would be resolved.

“I will show you what happens to thieves who try to steal from me,” continued the man, ignoring Jacqueline and moving closer to the boy. “First, I am going to break every bone in your miserable little body. And when I am finished, I will let the National Guard cart away whatever mangled pieces remain. What do you think of that, you little son of a whore?”

The boy let out a screech of fury and lunged at his tormentor, fists swinging, legs kicking, teeth biting. The man swore in surprise as he tried to push him away, and then let out a grunt of pain as the boy’s teeth sank into his wrist.

“Goddamn little bastard—” He clenched his other hand into a heavy fist and smashed it full force into the boy’s face, knocking him back a few steps and stunning him in the process. Jacqueline screamed, but the sound was muffled among the cheers of the crowd. The boy stood frozen for a moment, and then shook his head to clear it, which caused the blood that had started to stream from his nose to spurt across his face. He eyed his opponent warily, and then suddenly leapt at the man with a snarl, realizing his only choice was to either fight or stand there and be beaten. He battered his fists against the man’s chest and stomach, his height preventing him from landing any blows against his face, and for a moment the man simply stood there and endured it, as if he was amused by the pathetic effort of the child to fight him. When he decided he had had enough he reached down, grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck, and began to smash him across the face with his enormous fist. The crowd whooped and hollered and cheered, obviously thinking that the beating of a young thief was fine entertainment.

Jacqueline screamed again, but even she could not hear the sound among the enthusiastic cries of the crowd. The boy continued to struggle, but he was no match for the massive brute who held him prisoner as he bashed him in the face and head. His lip began to bleed, as did a cut under his eye, and the blood spread with every blow until his face was a smear of red.

With a primitive cry of rage Jacqueline hurled herself against the massive form of the brute who seemed intent on killing the lad, and began to tear frantically at his hair and claw at his face.

“Let him go, you bloodthirsty bastard!” she screeched wildly as she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked down on it with all her might.

The man roared as he felt the roots of his hair leave his scalp. He released the boy and put his hands to his head in disbelief. As he did so Jacqueline pulled her arms together and drove her elbow into his exposed ribs as hard as she could. The man let out another bellow of rage and turned around to face her, momentarily forgetting the boy, who instead of using the opportunity to run simply stood there and watched, as if confused by this turn of events.

“Evil, loathsome son of a bitch,” raged Jacqueline as she reached out and slapped the man soundly across the face.

“The boy stole from me,” sputtered the man, obviously stunned by Jacqueline’s attack. “It is my right to protect what is mine.”

“And so you have the right to beat a starving child to death?” demanded Jacqueline furiously. “Is that what this new Republic has done—given filthy peasant scum like you the right to bash a defenseless boy in the face until he collapses in a mangled, broken heap at your feet?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “And just who might you be, Citizeness, that you would call a man filthy peasant scum?”

Instantly Jacqueline recognized her mistake. Once again she had spoken in a manner that betrayed her aristocratic background. Her mind began to race as she tried to correct her error. “I beg your pardon, Citizen, I meant no insult, I simply wish to pay for the bread—”

“Looks like we got ourselves a little aristo here,” boomed the man triumphantly as he stared hard at Jacqueline.

The crowd began to murmur in surprise and agreement.

“No, you are mistaken,” protested Jacqueline, suddenly gripped with panic.

“She’s an aristo all right,” called out a woman in the crowd.

“Knew it from the moment I saw her,” affirmed another.

“But I have done nothing wrong,” rushed out Jacqueline defensively.

“You complained about our government,” insisted the man. “That would make you suspect, now wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her, clearly pleased that he had found a legal way to have his revenge on her for interfering.

The boy, who had been watching this exchange without making any attempt to flee, suddenly dropped his mouth open in horror. “Oh my God,” he breathed as a look of recognition crossed his blood smeared face. “She ain’t no bloody aristo, that’s Camille Dubé, whose husband just died of the plague not ten days ago.”

The crowd let out a gasp of fearful uncertainty.

Jacqueline stared at the boy in confusion.

“Get her away from here,” he shrieked in terror as he began to back away from her. “Take her away—lock her up—she shouldn’t be allowed to wander the streets so, spreading her poison everywhere—oh my God,
she touched you
!” he screamed at the man who had beaten him before suddenly turning and starting to run.

The crowd immediately began to break away, leaving Jacqueline alone with the man, who had by now taken a step back.

“Here now, what’s he talking about?” he demanded suspiciously as he took in her black mourning costume. “Did your husband really die from the plague?”

“Well—yes,” stammered Jacqueline, quickly gathering her wits enough to play along with the boy’s ruse. “But it was over two weeks ago now—his body was covered in festering sores—well, in some places he was totally blackened by the disease and that’s the truth of it—but I’ve got no sign of it at all, none, other than this one small sore that came up not three days ago, on my arm—” She began to roll up the sleeve of her coat to show him.

“Get away from me!” roared the man, his eyes bulging in horror. He began to rub his hands frantically on his jacket, trying to cleanse himself of her. “Get off this street—we don’t want your kind here, spreading your poison everywhere—be off with you!” He took another few steps away from her, clearly terrified.

Jacqueline slowly looked around at the crowd. People were staring at her with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, waiting to see what she would do next. The boy’s trick had been unbelievably effective. She had to keep herself from smiling. “Very well,” she sighed meekly. She went to pick up her bag, which she had dropped when the boy ran into her. The crowd crushed itself against the sides of the street, giving her as much room as possible. Jacqueline gave them a mournful look and then began to slowly walk down the narrow street, trying her best to appear dejected and miserable.

She wandered the streets of the faubourg Montmartre, determined to find Justin’s home without any assistance. After her latest encounter she decided it was safest not to interact with anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. The paranoia of the times made it dangerous even to open one’s mouth, with everyone so anxious to prove themselves a loyal citizen by turning in another. But after two hours of walking in the cold, it became painfully clear she had absolutely no idea where she was going. She was freezing, she was exhausted, and the light of the afternoon was quickly disappearing. She stood on a corner, dropped her bag, and rubbed her hands together, wondering bleakly what she should do next.

“Do you know you are walking in circles?”

Startled, she spun around. The boy was standing behind her, casually leaning against the brick wall of a building.

“Are you following me?” Jacqueline demanded.

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. “I wanted to make sure you got away all right.”

His answer only partly appeased her. She did not want anyone following her, regardless of their motives. “Thank you for your concern,” she said stiffly. She noticed the blood had been wiped from his face, but the damage the man had done was substantial. His left eye was puffy and turning black, his lip was swollen and cut, and purple bruises were starting to show beneath the pale skin of his cheeks. “I should have killed the bastard,” she swore softly.

“You were stupid to interfere,” the boy remarked. “You almost got yourself arrested.”

“You were stupid to steal,” countered Jacqueline angrily. “You almost got yourself killed.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve taken a beating,” he informed her, casually shrugging his shoulders. “If I don’t steal, I don’t eat.”

The stark reality of that statement defused the harsh lecture she had been about to give him on taking things that were not his. “Do your parents know you steal?” she demanded instead.

“They’re dead,” he replied. His voice was flat and emotionless.

“Oh.” So much for ordering him home to his father. “Whom do you live with?”

“No one,” he returned irritably. “I’m on my own.” He straightened up and stared at her defiantly.

“I see.” She did not think he could be more than twelve years old. The idea that a child so young was trying to survive on his own, having to steal when he wanted to eat, was appalling. “What is your name?”

“Philippe Mercier,” he told her. “And yours?”

“Pauline Duport,” she answered without hesitation.

The boy studied her a moment. “You’re not from Paris, are you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” he remarked with satisfaction. “Where are you going, walking in circles?”