The Queen's Dollmaker (29 page)

William’s first act was to engage a constable-for-hire to look into Claudette’s whereabouts. The man wanted an outrageous sum to perform any work having to do with the destabilized situation in France, but William agreed to his asking price without question. The man left Hevington knowing he should have doubled his quoted price, since this customer was not only rich, he looked desperate.

A week later, no word was yet forthcoming from the constable-for-hire. William returned to the house from a long ride through the Kentish countryside to work off his tension, and saw a fresh batch of newspapers on the table in the entryway. Giving the housekeeper orders that no one was to disturb him, he tucked the papers under his arm and headed into the library.

William snapped open the
L’Ami du Peuple
newspaper, as he had now done dozens of times. Marat was particularly malicious on the front page, relishing his broadcasts of all the “traitors, scoundrels, and thieves” that were being brought to justice now that the people were being allowed to determine their own fates. William wondered if Claudette was aware of all this lunacy. He returned his attention to the newspaper, scanning all of the usual headlines, and found a column of names on one side of the page. He ran his finger down the list, and swore.

William’s heart stopped beating as his body became encased in icy rage.
Damnation! Who has manufactured false evidence against her? And why? How did she get mired in this? I must find her myself
.

William barked out a series of instructions to his servants regarding care of Hevington during his absence, and hurriedly scratched out two notes. One he ordered taken quickly to Béatrice to let her know of Claudette’s predicament and his planned action; and a second note to immediately disengage the ineffective constable-for-hire. Dobry threw together essentials into a valise for William, who was galloping toward Dover within two hours of seeing Claudette’s imprisonment notice.

La Force Prison, Paris, August 14, 1792
. Claudette’s captivity had stretched from the first miserable day and night, into an everlasting sequence of endless days and nights. Initially, Claudette was certain that Lieutenant Napier, who had leered at her so lecherously upon arrival at the prison, would be imminently visiting her cell, but she had never seen him again.

The pervasive low lighting of the prison’s hallways made an actual determination of day and night impossible. The weeping and howling of the inmates, punctuated by periodic sounds of sharp slaps and beatings from jailers who grew tired of the noises, were Claudette’s primary source of company. A wooden bowl of thin, watery soup, sometimes accompanied by hard bread, would periodically appear at her cell, but not with any consistency that would have allowed her to track the cycles of the days.

Her food was almost always delivered by the woman who had provided the prison garb that now attired Claudette. After several visits by her female jailer, who barely acknowledged Claudette when delivering food or an occasional change of shift to something as equally malodorous as what her prisoner already wore, Claudette attempted to get some information.

“Please, can you tell me how long I am to be kept here?”

“Not for me to say.”

“Do you mean you do not know or you cannot tell me?”

“Do not know, do not care.” Claudette’s bowl was set down on the stone floor with a smart rap, causing some of the fluid to slosh out of it. The woman turned on her heel and left.

When she returned to pick up the empty bowl, Claudette tried again.

“Can you tell me what day this is?”

“Saturday.”

“Is it morning or nighttime?”

“You just ate supper. It’s around seven o’clock in the evening.”

“Thank you.” Claudette decided it was best not to push further on her first tiny success. The information gleaned was not much, given that there was really no way to track time from this point forward. And how long had she been in this filthy cell? A week? A month? Longer? Surely William was trying to find her. Was she to be formally charged with a crime, or just left here to die?

At the next meal interval, Claudette again forged ahead with conversation with her captor.

“Please, what time is it now?”

“What time is it? What day is it?” the woman mimicked. “What kind of idiot are you? You eat at seven o’clock in the morning and seven o’clock in the evening, on days that you are fed. It never changes, so why do you ask?”

Ignoring the jibe, Claudette took another step. “My name is Claudette Laurent. What is your name?”

The woman said, “I am Emeline,” then seemed startled that she had actually responded to Claudette with this personal piece of information. She turned on her heel to leave the cell area. Claudette leapt to her feet from her cot.

“Wait! Please, let me ask you one more question.”

Emeline turned back. “Let me guess,” she sneered. “You want a message taken to your sweetheart, do you not? Or perhaps you want to tell me you are related to someone most influential who will reward me handsomely for freeing you? I am no simpleton to be tricked, I can tell you. Better folk than you have tried to play me for a fool.”

Swallowing her impatience, Claudette said, “I would just like to know if I am to be formally charged and brought to trial, and if so, when?”

“Hah! That’s what everyone wants to know. I stay out of details, Citizeness. Trials and inquiries are handled by my superiors. I don’t want to know what happens to anyone in here.”

The days continued to pass. Claudette could not be sure, but it seemed as though about four weeks were gone. She received another meal visit from Emeline, but this time her life was to change a bit.

“You’re being moved, Citizeness Claudette. Come with me.” The door was unlocked and Emeline stepped into the cell.

“Where am I being taken?”

“Just another cell. Be grateful. You’ll have friends now.”

Friends? Claudette no longer knew what the word meant. Emeline led her down the passageway, in the opposite direction from where she had entered when first jailed. She was eventually brought to a large communal cell, at least fourteen feet wide, where several women were seated about on chairs, embroidering or playing cards, while one of them read aloud to the group. All of them looked up as their cell was opened and Claudette entered by way of Emeline’s shove. A plump, older woman, with deep lines furrowed in her forehead and a deck of cards in her hand, stood.

“My dear, welcome to our little troop of woeful captives. Gossip actually travels quickly within these damp walls. We heard that you were here and that you were the maker of those exquisite dolls the queen kept at the Trianon. We were anxious to meet you, and bribed Lieutenant Napier to relocate you with us. I hope you will find these quarters, and our company, adequate.”

“I am most grateful to be moved out of my cell.”

“Well, then, we welcome you to our humble circumstances.” The woman introduced herself as Madame D’Aubigne, and explained that she was remotely related to the Bourbons through her marriage to a bastard descendant of Louis XIV’s. Her husband had been killed in a hunting accident two years ago, but Madame D’Aubigne had continued in comfort thanks to her husband’s careful preservation of the monies that the former king had provided from the royal purse for his upbringing. The revolutionaries had, in her opinion, eyed her fortune avariciously and made some excuse that she was interested in promoting the future of the Bourbon monarchy so that she could maintain her status. Her fortune was confiscated and she was promptly delivered to La Force.

Madame D’Aubigne introduced Claudette to the other five women in the cell. All were either members of the nobility, or distant relatives against whom charges had been trumped up. None of them were exactly sure what their crimes were, other than being born aristocrats.

“But that is what happened to me!” cried Claudette. She told them that she was accused of treason involving assistance to the royal family, but she was not sure exactly what she had done.

“I would never commit a treasonous act, although had I known the king and queen needed help, I would have done so willingly.”

“Hush, my dear, do not speak so loudly. We are in much danger here, and such statements overheard by our jailers can do us no good. Now, I think the first thing we must do is make you more comfortable.”

The women went over to some shabby trunks in the corner of the cell and began pulling out hairbrushes, cosmetics, and clothing. Obviously, these women were given more privilege than a pitiful dollmaker was. They fluttered about her, tsk-tsking about her emaciated state, rubbing cream on her face, applying rouge and lipstick, brushing out the snarls and tangles from her hair, and stripping her filthy shift from her and replacing it with an ill-fitting, yet reasonably clean dress. It was missing buttons and ribbons and was a bit large, but was a relief from the tatters she had been wearing.

Madame D’Aubigne gave a helpless shrug. “My dear, I’m sorry. We had to use some of the accoutrements on that dress to mend our own clothing. None of us was given much time to pack to come here, and we have limited access to our friends and relatives.”

Claudette, however, was nearly teary-eyed in appreciation. “Madame D’Aubigne, in all the time I have been here, and I’m not sure how long it has been, no one has shown me the least kindness until now.”

“Those in our, er, reduced positions, must take care of each other, must we not? We have some small ability here to purchase goods that we need, although our captors are quite sure to line their own pockets well in the process. When was the last time you had something to eat?”

Claudette pondered. “I don’t know. I do not believe I am on a regular meal schedule, although I have been assured that I usually eat twice each day.”

“Bring some of the Cantal cheese for Mademoiselle Claudette.” She motioned to one of the other cell mates. “We shall also open a bottle of wine to celebrate the new addition to our living quarters. May we all survive these difficult times.”

Claudette fell upon the proffered food and drink. The fragrant wedges of hard, tangy cheese, so unlike the moldy breads and watery soups she had become accustomed to, spent mere seconds in her mouth before being swallowed. She followed the cheese with great gulps of the rich red nectar from the bottle, dribbling some down the front of her borrowed dress. She was embarrassed by her display of greed, but Madame D’Aubigne, clearly the leader of this group, smiled indulgently.

“I believe you have come to us just in time, Mademoiselle Laurent.”

Claudette spent the next several days getting to know her fellow captives, grateful to spend time with other human beings who did not show up simply to throw different dirty shifts into her cell, or to pass inedible food to her. She learned the basics of fine embroidery, but did not play cards, as she had no money to wager with. She also split reading duties with one of the other ladies in the cell, who was happy to be able to share that task.

Considering her previous quarters, Claudette was reasonably content, even sometimes forgetting that the threat of Madame Guillotine hung over her head. She received no further visits from Jean-Philippe.

Surely William was searching for her, but how would he ever find her here? All he could possibly know is that she had come to visit the distressed queen and he’d be no wiser as to what had really happened to her. What a fool she had been to trust Jean-Philippe! Why hadn’t she simply married William and settled down to raise a brood of children, instead of obsessing about her doll shop and its clientele? Even if William had searched for her, perhaps at this point he would have given up.

Béatrice would be running the shop, which meant that it was probably close to disaster. Maybe Marguerite was helping her. Poor Béatrice. A small smile flitted briefly across Claudette’s face at the thought. No point in contemplating the fate of the doll shop. She would never see it, nor William, nor Béatrice, nor anything outside these walls, ever again.

August 19, 1792
. A commotion in the hallway disturbed the relative calm of the group. Abnormal shouting and pleading could be heard above the normal din of the prison. They quickly realized that more prisoners were being led toward their cell. Claudette was the first to jump up from repairing a torn undergarment in recognition of the new prisoners.

“Princesse! Madame Tourzel! Why are you here?”

The Princesse de Lamballe was wild-eyed and disheveled. At first she did not recognize Claudette, then fell into her arms weeping. Loud, convulsive sobs exploded from the delicate princesse, and she clung to Claudette ferociously. The other cell mates looked on with interest, but without surprise. Hadn’t they each had the same reaction to being tossed into La Force?

The princesse related how they had come to be in this despicable prison. The Commissioners of the Commune announced that the queen’s remaining attendants were to be removed for interrogation. This instruction resulted from a new order by the Commune, which set up a special tribunal to try royalists for crimes allegedly committed during the overthrow of the monarchy. The queen had tried desperately to keep the princesse with her, on the grounds that she was a relative, sensing rightly that the Temple was a safer place than a regular prison. It was a futile effort, and both the princesse and Madame de Tourzel were whisked away.

Madame de Tourzel, who was also accompanied by her daughter, Pauline, added, “The queen urged me to look after the princesse, and I will try to do so. But I have no idea what is to happen to us or how I can help her.”

The princesse focused her attention on Claudette. “But how did you come to be in this wretched place?”

“I was deceived by my childhood love.”

This actually piqued the princesse’s interest enough to forget her own troubles for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the day I was presented to Her Majesty, and the gentleman who was with me?”

“Yes, I believe I do.”

Claudette explained her early betrothal to Jean-Philippe, her separation from him in the fire, and her reconnection with him years later. “I was a fool, Princesse, because I had once thought I might leave England to come back to France, make dolls here and marry Jean-Philippe. I did not know that he was being slowly indoctrinated into the madness of the Revolution. He has now somehow decided that I have committed a treasonous act involving the king and queen and tricked me into returning to France so that he could incarcerate me. It is simply preposterous. What is worst for me, though, is that I left behind in England the man who truly loves me and to whom I should be married now if I weren’t such a self-centered addle pate. William could not possibly know what has happened to me, yet I continue to survive, thinking that maybe one day I will see him again. I am a fool, am I not?”

“Perhaps there is hope for us both, Mademoiselle Claudette. Perhaps one day we will both have rescuers to free us from this horrible dungeon. I pray the queen and her family do not meet our fate.”

The princesse settled into the same tedious routine as Claudette and her cell mates. Cards, sewing, and reading were punctuated by a periodic delivery of special food or household goods, depending on the effectiveness of a bribe. Tedious days stretched into one another. One cell mate tried to scratch a line in the wall to mark each passing day, but either lost interest or was unable to keep track. At least one could always while away a few hours of time by sleeping. As long as no other prisoners were screaming or moaning to disturb the sleeper, that is.

A guard, one Claudette had never seen before, came to their cell. He pointed to several of them, including Claudette, Madame D’Aubigne, the princesse, Madame Tourzel, and her daughter Pauline. They were taken to a questioning room near a side entrance of the prison. The women could hear raised voices and periodic shouting floating in from outside.

Claudette was the first to be questioned, by a short, self-important official. He had a red, white, and blue cockade in his cap, a welcome distraction from his mouth, which not only contained uneven, yellowed teeth, but whose oily smile emphasized that one of his front teeth was much shorter than the other. The longer tooth had a tendency to extend over his lower lip exaggeratedly when he spoke, giving the impression of a lisping beaver. He pulled several papers toward him.