Daughters of the Storm (42 page)

Knowing she had few avenues open to her Marie-Victoire made some inquiries and, one morning, she packed up the remaining stock in the shop – a roll of material (slightly waterstained), a pair of brass candlesticks, gloves, a shawl, a pair of torn stockings embroidered with clocks, two chemises and a serviceable leather travelling case with most of its contents intact and carried them down the street to a certain Monsieur Quivebeck. There she stammered out her request.

Monsieur Quivebeck was reluctant to help. Why would he be? He had other, more lucrative business to attend to. In the end, however, he could not resist the appeal of her worn but still pretty face. Sighing deeply, he pawed over her things and told her that she was never to mention anything of what passed between them. Instructed to sit on a bench, Marie-Victoire obeyed and Monsieur Quivebeck issued a stream of orders through the leather curtain drawn across the back of his shop.

After an hour, he disappeared behind the curtain and reappeared with a handful of coins and a ration card which he pressed into Marie-Victoire's hands.

‘Here, it isn't much, but you didn't have much. I have taken most of it in payment for the card.'

Marie-Victoire tried to thank him, but he cut her off and showed her out as quickly as possible. Outside, she examined the card, Had her luck held? Yes, the forgery was excellent. Made out in the name of Citoyenne Bonnard, the card entitled her to an additional ration of bread, a whole two-pound loaf extra. Trembling with excitement, she tucked it into her pocket and went into the street, almost bumping into a tall, heavily veiled woman who was entering Monsieur Quivebeck's shop with a diamond ring clutched in her hand. Eyes averted, Marie-Victorie hurried away.

It was Jeanne who solved the problem of work, turning up one blustery day in March at Marie-Victoire's shop. The place was in a mess. Marie-Victoire's once clean floor and windows were filthy and what belongings she still possessed were scattered everywhere. But there was no time... never any time... to put the place to rights.

Jeanne's eyes sparkled. ‘I've found you a situation,' she announced.

Marie-Victoire looked up from her suckling and lifted a sleepy Marie on to her shoulder to wind her.

‘Shush,' she said, ‘I think she might be going to sleep.'

‘Listen, you wooden head. I have found work for you.'

Marie-Victoire tucked a shawl round the baby and settled her in the cardboard box that did as a cradle.

‘Where?' she asked.

‘At Monsieur Danton's.'

Marie-Victoire whirled round, and her jaw dropped open. Everyone had heard of Monsieur Danton, and indeed few who lived in the close-knit community could have failed to have seen him or to have heard his booming voice in the Cour de Commerce.

‘You will give up this place,' said Jeanne with decision, ‘and live with me. I'll mind the baby in the day and you can look after my children at night when I go out.'

She chuckled coarsely and winked. Marie-Victoire regarded her friend for a moment and then went over to the stool and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Thank you,' she said simply.

Jeanne said nothing, but she blushed.

Marie-Victoire packed up her few possessions, including the pamphlets that Pierre had given her so long ago, and locked the room for the last time in the Rue des Sts Pères. Holding Marie tight to her bosom, she deposited the key with the old lady who lived opposite, with strict instructions for her to pass on her new address in the Rue St Benoît should a soldier ask for her. Then she walked down the streets towards the peeling stone house that was to be her new home. She had not allowed herself time to consider that she was taking a step backwards and her dream of independence was as far away as ever. Somehow, it did not matter so much any more. What mattered was Marie and keeping alive.

*

The Dantons lived in a house situated in the heart of the Cordeliers in the Cour de Commerce. Marie-Victoire passed through an entresol, up a stone staircase and found herself outside a pair of doors. She had no idea what lay ahead of her.

A diminutive maid answered her knock and ushered her into a good-sized anteroom which was furnished with two walnut cupboards, a table desk and a mahogany chiffonier. Beyond that was the salon where the windows, draped in fine cotton, overlooked the street. Elegant arabesque wallpaper had been pasted on to canvas on which had been hung two fine mirrors. At the far end of the room was a sofa upholstered in straw silk, six armchairs covered in green satin and a number of lyre-back chairs with straw seats.

Madame Danton received Marie-Victoire in the main salon. She was heavily pregnant and obviously feeling ill and distraught. Monsieur Danton, she informed Marie-Victoire, was away in Belgium on government business. She herself, she said while she twisted her chatelaine round and round, she was waiting to be confined and required someone to take on some of her household duties while she was incapacitated. It was a long time since she had felt anything like compassion but this sad and nervous lady bought out a protective instinct and Marie-Victoire agreed to help out as a personal maid for as long as madame wished. Gabrielle Danton's mouth twitched into a nervy smile and Marie-Victoire fancied that she relaxed a little.

‘Let me show you around,' she said and Marie-Victoire followed her new employer into a bedroom containing two beds, hidden by yellow curtains, and a study containing a large polished desk with copper fittings and an enormous number of books stacked pell mell on the shelves.

Ruled over by Emilie and Katherine, two friendly-looking young women, the kitchen was admirably stocked and maintained, and a delicious smell of beef stew wafted from a pot suspended over the fire. If nothing else, Madame Danton appeared to be an excellent housekeeper.

The girls welcomed Marie-Victoire and it wasn't long before they were regaling her with titbits from a promising stockpot of gossip.

Marie-Victoire learned that Monsieur Danton was a devil (but an exciting one), that he liked his home comforts, that he neglected his wife (indeed, the rumours of his womanising were all over Paris), that madame was pining and feared this coming child would kill her and they heard her at night sobbing in her bedroom. Marie-Victoire listened and exclaimed at appropriate intervals, relieved that Danton was away from home.

‘Do they have many visitors?' she asked at last.

‘Endless...' Katherine was sharpening a knife on a whetstone. ‘Madame has to give dinner at least once a week and, my God, they do go on. Talk... talk, talk.' She lowered her voice. ‘Politics, you know. I don't understand it. Still, we have the work and madame is a good mistress – poor thing.'

Slapping a chicken down on a board, she gutted it with enthusiasm.

‘You'll like it here,' Emilie told Marie-Victoire. ‘They treat you well.' Lifting the lid of the pot over the stove, she stirred the contents. Marie-Victoire's stomach rumbled. ‘Here,' she said . ‘Have some of this,' and she shoved a plateful of beef stew towards Marie-Victoire, who did not have to be asked twice.

At first, she was unhappy. She missed the baby more than she had imagined. Marie-Victoire had grown used to being with her and to attending to her every whimper. She worried, too, that Marie missed her. Mutinous at the change in routine, her breasts ached and a tell-tale stain spurted on to the front of her gown whenever she thought too hard about her. At the end of each day, when she got back to the Rue St Benoît, Marie-Victoire snatched up her daughter, ripped open her bodice, and then both of them would settle back with a contented sigh.

Jeanne offered no comment, except to remark that Marie was fine and did not appear to miss her mother at all. Half of Marie-Victoire did not want to believe Jeanne, and she had to stifle an occasional pang of jealousy. It was for the best, she told herself and, gradually, she came to believe it.

If Marie-Victoire was truthful, she enjoyed being back in a well-run household among nice furniture and pretty objects. Her work was not onerous and Madame Danton was a gentle and undemanding mistress. Much of Marie-Victoire's day was taken up by ministering to her ills and helping her through the last stages of a difficult pregnancy. Once that was done, she was free to arrange her time as she pleased. There was plenty to do and she began, once more, to take pride in her work.

‘Eh bien,'
she said, as she dusted the china that was arranged on the table in the salon. ‘It could be worse.'

She gazed thoughtfully at her reflection in one of the mirrors. Except for her full and milky breasts, she was slimmer than she used to be, but not unpleasingly so. The haunted look on her face had disappeared, and, thanks to helpings of Katherine's stews, she looked clear skinned and well fed. True, her face was thinner, but it suited her. The girl from La Joyeuse had gone. In her place stood a woman.

Marie-Victoire tucked a strand of hair under her cap, then decided it looked too severe and pulled it back again. That was better. She twirled and peered over her shoulder at her back view. The effect was not so pleasing. Her skirts were rumpled and there was a large black stain by the hem. She was so busy trying to remove it that she did not hear the front door slam or the salon door open. When she did look up, her hand was arrested in mid-air.

He was lounging against the door frame, smiling the smile she knew so well and had hoped never to see again. By now, his face was almost skeletal but the brown eyes still reflected a mad light. He looked like ... indeed, he was... a man eaten up by hatred and by obsession. All traces of humour and compassion had been burned away and in their place was the determination and single-mindness of a zealot. She knew without being told that here was someone who had tasted blood and had developed the taste for it.

Marie-Victoire crossed herself and backed away.'So the devil returns.'

Maillard pushed himself upright. He might have been as surprised as she was at the encounter but he was in no hurry. This was the moment he had waited for and had every intention of savouring it. Besides, he enjoyed seeing the fear on her face. Fear in other people gave confidence and ratified he was in control – and the best thing of all was that it was happening on a daily basis. In fact, he relied on it; it offered him as much nourishment as food.

‘What are you doing here?'

She was not going to let him see her panic.

‘I came with a message for
Citoyenne
Danton from
Citoyen
Robespierre,' he replied. ‘Little did I think I would kill two birds with one stone.'

He held out a hand. Marie-Victoire ignored it.

There was a silence.

‘Come,' he said, ‘I have been thinking about you a lot. I've been busy lately, but a friend of mine told me where you're living and I knew you were working in the area, so it was only a matter of time. Did you really think you had given me the slip?' He shrugged. ‘We may not have thought so once but Paris is a small place.'

Marie-Victoire's mouth went dry. ‘You devil,' she said.

‘Perhaps,' he said, ‘but a faithful one. You're mine, Marie-Victoire. I had you first, remember?'

‘How could I not?'

‘I've been patient, Marie-Victoire and, now that I have found you, the time has come for action.'

‘You have no power over me,' she cried.

‘But I have. I have a great deal of power. I am not the Jacques you flung aside any longer. I have friends in high places and a reputation for getting my way.'

He indicated the tricolour sash that was slung across his short coat and tapped a finger against his lips in a gesture that was almost obscene.

‘I have an apartment on the Rue St Honoré quite close to where Citoyen Robespierre lives. It is waiting for a mistress.'

Marie-Victoire shook her head. ‘Never'.

Maillard took a step towards her and she shrank back against the console-table.

‘Go away,' she panted. ‘A
foutre
on you.'

She needn't have wasted her breath for he ignored her. His body pressed up against hers. She could feel his warmth and smell the garlic and tobacco on his breath.

‘You will never say that to me again,' he warned.

‘A
foutre,'
she spat at him.

His face tightened and Marie-Victoire tensed, waiting for the blow to fall. It never came. Instead he released her and flung himself down in one of the chairs.

‘I don't think you understand.' Jacques was quite calm. ‘You will be coming with me because, if you don't, you will be putting others at risk.'

She looked bewildered and Maillard laughed.

‘Where have you been all this time, Marie-Victoire? Have you not seen what is happening? Think, my pretty. You are living with Jeanne
la putain
are you not? An immoral woman. You used to be in the employ of one
Citoyenne
de Choissy, known to me as Héloïse de Guinot.
Citoyen
de Choissy, her husband, is not known for his republican views.'

Again, he laughed. Wicked. Satisfied. Vengeful. Marie-Victoire clutched the table with enough force to mark it.

‘
Citoyen
de Choissy has been greedy, like all of his kind. He has tried to transfer his money out of the country. A mistake. Luckily, the matter has not been investigated by the authorities – yet. But it is only a matter of time... unless... unless I forget to put the case in front of them. Equally, your friend Jeanne could find that the authorities take exception to her activities and decide that prison is the place for someone like her. Do you understand what I am saying?'

Marie-Victoire pressed her hands to her ears.

‘What has happened to you, Jacques?' she asked. ‘How can you say and do such things?'

With a quick movement, he was up off the chair and seized her by the waist.

‘You did,' he said. ‘You did when you left me like a dog in a ditch. I learnt then that the world had no mercy unless you were bigger and stronger than everybody else. I learned that if you don't take where you can, then you have nothing. I want to take as much as I can from
canaille
like the de Guinots and I want to make you suffer for leaving me.'