installment # 2
More of my story...
When I was twelve, I grew up. My mother had always had a difficult time bearing children. There were four gravestones behind our cottage, each of a baby not yet two days old. But the day my brother Phillipe was born, it was my mother who gasped for breath, and died looking so tired. She could have been saved, had anyone been there to staunch her blood. But no help had come from the house across the fields. My father had rode there, but came back with no one. He watched me stare in horror at my mothers blood on the sheets, and walked out the door. I was the one holding my mothers’ hand when she died.
I didn`t know how to care for Phillipe. During the day, one of the workers wives would come to feed Phillipe along with her own newborn baby. The woman was skinny and hunched over with a pinched mouth and she barely had enough milk for both infants. During the night Phillipe would cry from hunger and my father would sit in front of the fire and ignore him. My father even took to spending the night at the stables, so I would wrap up Phillipe as tight as I could and lay with him, stroking his dark hair. He was a good baby; he would sleep, sucking on the neck of my dress. When he was three months, he stopped crying in the night. And he and I would lay every night on my cot and I would tell him about momma. And I would sing to him about the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus.
One summer day, when Phillipe was crawling, I set up my mothers’ loom outside. She had taught me how to use it the winter before Phillipe was born and I was determined to take up with where she left off and provide cloth for our surrounding neighbors’ again. They were good to me, always making sure we had enough food and milk for Phillipe, making sure I was alright when my father failed to come home. I wanted to repay them, as I was sure the Virgin Mary would do. Phillipe played at my feet as my hands mimicked my mothers’ in those long ago days. At the sound of hooves, I looked up and froze. The Comte rode with his train of foremen, and next to him rode Collette. She looked very much the same, but she wore her dark hair piled on her head. Around her white throat hung an ornate cross. She looked at me, but quickly looked away. The Comte however, drew his horse back and called to me.
"Girl, is your father out in the fields?"
"No, Comte," I answered, shading my eyes, "He is up at the stables."
"Ah, I see," he said, looking keenly at me. "And what do you do here all alone?"
"I weave, my lord," I said, indicating my loom.
"Sometimes you will have to weave me a bit of cloth, my child," he said, grinning slyly at me. I was very confused, and only bowed my head. As they rode on, I lifted my head to find Collette gazing back at me. She smiled sadly, but I did not smile back. I was beyond accepting pity from her.
Hatred was born in my heart the day my father died. No, my father did not care for me and Phillipe like he should, but in one final attempt to lay claim on me as his daughter, he was killed. The comte has sought my father out, saying that he was going to bring me up to work in the house. My father said no. He knew what the Comte did to the servant girls that he personally brought up to the house. My father was a bit drunk, but he still said no. He said I had to care for my brother. The Comte brushed it off, saying that Phillipe would be cared for. But as it came down to it, the Comte was not seeking my fathers’ permission to make me his mistress. My father ended up with a bullet in his brain when his objections began to annoy the Comte. When the news was brought to me, I did not weep. I was too cold inside to cry. Instead, I picked up little Phillipe and asked Tomas, one of our neighbors, to help us leave for the City. I would not end up imprisoned in the Comte`s house, unable to care for my brother, my beloved child. I cursed his house and his family, not even stopping to remember that Collette was part of that family.
I will not relate my journey to Paris. For one, the memories are vague in my mind, and the other, it has no bearing on this narrative I wish to tell. But do not look on me as a child traveling the roads. I was 14 and I was older than I ever wished to be. I had no fear for myself, only for Phillipe. I would have given him up long before for some farmers’ wife to take care of and raise, but I was selfish. I needed him more than he needed me. He was my purpose in life, so I kept him with me, begging rides off of vegetable carts and sleeping in barns till I reached Paris. I did not know what to expect, but the first thing I noticed was the wide dirt roads starting to have broken up stones on them, as if once they had been cobbled but was now ancient and worn down. The stones grew more numurous, as did the people. None of them even looked at me. Why would they? There was a million of them walking around, dressed in rags, holding babies, a perpetual tired look in their eyes. Why did I never see how good we had it when I was young, I thought as I choked on the smoke and the rank smell of bodies and a smell I couldn`t identify, but that scared me nonetheless and caused me to try and breathe through my mouth.
I asked several people where an inn or a hostel was. Poor people, they did not even have the time to stop and answer me fully, but they went on, their eyes darting around in a sad way. But I am resourceful if nothing else, and I made my way to one. My arms ached with carrying Phillipe, and I set him down. He started to scream as I put him on his own legs, clutching me, babbling to me not to leave him among all the people. "Idiot," I said, hugging him, and half carried him into the Inn.
As the door swung shut behind me, a hush fell over the place. I tried to take it all in, pretending to adjust my eyes to the dark interior, while quickly scanning the scene set before me. A lone man sitting at one of the small round tables gulped from his mug loudly, set it down and openly looked at me. Three men crowded around another table, their swarthy skin and dark hair making them fade into the woodwork, eyes hid in shadows that yet could somehow see everything. I noticed a few women and children over by the window, quietly talking among themselves, but aware, so aware of me. I felt a shadow cross my soul as I stepped into a world I did not know and did not recognize.
Sound started up again as a man wiping his hands on a cloth came out from the shadowy back. "May I help you, young one?" he said. His eyes were blue, bright. His beard lighter than the others. He seemed painfully thin, but he moved agilely enough. I lifted my chin and smiled at him. "You wouldn`t charge for a cup of water would you? For the baby?"
He laughed and laughter rang out from the people around him. He spread his arms out. "Times will never be so hard that we could not spare a cup of water for a child and" indicating Phillipe, "her child. Annette!" he called, and a pretty young woman came out from the back. "A cup of water for the baby and a glass of wine for the lady!" She disappeared and came back bearing both. Gratefully, I gulped the wine, feeling life returning to my weary body. The woman called Annette made over Phillipe, stroking his dark curls and trying to coax a smile from him. He smiled hesitantly. He looked fascinated at Annette`s large dark eyes. I smiled gratefully at her and turned back to the blue-eyed man. "I cannot pay you for the wine," I said, "But I will work for it."
He shook his head. "No charge," he said, "You looked about to die. There is color in your lips and cheeks now."
"I will work for you," I said firmly.
"For future glasses of cheap wine, yes," he said, squatting down to look at Phillipe, "But not for that one. That one is a welcoming gift."
"You must be mad Sir," I said, "I don`t understand."
"Do you have a name, little Madame?" he questioned me.
"Yes," I answered, "I have a name as you do likewise and everyone in this room."
He laughed loudly again. "Clever child. Wary too. I am Gabriel, owner of this fine establishment. My wife, Annette. These" and his arm swept the room, "are all my close friends. I, my child, see that you are in an unfamiliar garb. You are not from around here. You are new to Paris and you have nowhere to go, I`ll wager. I cannot watch you go to an uncertain fate. You will stay here, help me tend the customers and in return, Annette will take care of the young boy -and you." He peered at me while he said it.
I still had retained some of my innocence, though I tell you I was so old. Maybe another time, if I wasn`t so tired, so hungry, so alone, I would have known better than to trust someone so soon. My life up till then should have taught me. But his voice was kind and his eyes were so bright, and in my innocence I thought the God of Heaven was watching over me; so I held out my hand to Gabriel Chandler, and entered into my new life.