Читать книгу The Queen's Dollmaker - Christine Trent - Страница 10

Her lungs were gasping for air. She was drowning. No, water was dripping on her face. It was raining. Pain and soreness were making themselves uncomfortable companions throughout her body.

“Mademoiselle Claudette?” A face loomed over her. Papa? “You are awake, no?” It did not sound like her papa. “Mademoiselle, let me help you sit up.” Masculine arms pulled her unwillingly into a sitting position. She gradually opened her eyes. She appeared to be in a park. What was she doing here?

Focusing her eyes, she looked up into the face of Old Jacques. His kindly, wrinkled, unshaven face peered with concern into hers. It all clicked into place. Old Jacques had reunited her with her mother, then she and Mama had gone to look for Papa, then the rampaging carriage—

“Can you walk?”

She choked out an answer. “I believe so. I need to stand and walk, to clear my head.” He helped her struggle to her feet, handed her her reticule, and began guiding her through the pathways of the park. The early dawn revealed hundreds of homeless Parisians, some under makeshift tents of clothing and linens, some simply sitting in the elements. There was an eerie quiet to it all, as though her fellow city dwellers were stunned into silence that their worlds had collapsed around them so quickly.

“Jacques, how did I get here?”

“I was worried when you and your mother left the shop and I saw you turn in the direction of the fire. Étienne would have never forgiven me if I allowed his wife and daughter to wander about in that confusion, so I decided to follow you to make sure you were both safe. I did not catch up to you until you turned the corner and found your father working to put out the fire at the Bertrands’. I had just decided to turn back, when I saw Étienne fall, then your mother go to him—” He stopped this line of thought. “Well, then I saw you fall to the ground, and knew that you might end up trampled yourself. So I picked you up and carried you myself to this park. You have been unconscious for hours.”

“I must return and find my parents.”

He looked at her pityingly. “Claudette, there will be nothing to find, little one. The fire spread from there down to our block.”

“Someone may have found them and taken them to a hospital.”

“Cherie, no,” Jacques shook his head. “No one will have found them.”

Claudette blinked rapidly at him. She felt tears burning her eyes, but was unable to stop them. In a rush, she threw herself at her family friend, sobbing against his shoulder. He patted her head awkwardly while she grieved.

Raising her head eventually she declared, “But I must give them a proper burial.”

He shook his head again. “No, Claudette, it is best that you not return there, for you will find nothing but sorrow and wreckage. You will find nothing of the doll shop, either, as passersby have told me that our street is almost completely destroyed. I assume my wine shop is gone, but to fire, not vandals, as I had originally feared. I have a cousin in the town of Versailles, and I will head out there to stay. Why don’t you come with me?”

“No, no, I must return home.”

“But there is nothing left. We are all homeless.”

“I must see for myself.”

“Mademoiselle, where will you go from there?”

“I cannot think of that now. No, wait, I will find Jean-Philippe and his family, and they will take me in.”

“Jean-Philippe? The Renauds? Why would they take you in?”

“Because I—because Jean-Philippe is my—oh, because our parents know each other.” Claudette could see a mixture of skepticism and sympathy in his eyes for this girl who he obviously thought was out of her head from grief. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed.

“Farewell, Jacques. Thank you for saving my life. I shall never forget you.”

“Farewell, little Claudette. Remember, my cousin is Bertrand Jonceaux, and he lives just two blocks from the palace. You will always have a friend there.”

She looked up, saw the Notre Dame spire in the distance, and used it as her compass needle to find her way back home.

As she trudged her way back to whatever might be left of her home, she noticed that the farther she walked, the fewer people she encountered. An occasional dog or cat wandered by, but of course what Parisians would be wandering around in the rain through burnt-out ruins? At a street corner she saw a discarded bucket that was filling with rainwater. She knelt and peered down into the water, into a filmy reflection that shocked her. Her cobalt-blue eyes, normally sparkling and inquisitive, were overcome by the heavy dark circles under them. The rest of her face was thin and pale, and she had lost the band that had held back her disorderly golden hair, which now cascaded in a tangle midway down her back. She scooped water up to rub grime from her face, neck, and arms, and used her slightly clean hand to run a finger across her even front teeth. Her dress was still sooty, and now stained by wet grass, but the wash made a small improvement in her appearance.

Rising from the bucket, she felt distinct aches in her back and legs that not even youth would heal rapidly. She felt much older than her tender years. She continued her journey through the wreckage until she came to her father’s doll shop. She had called the E. Laurent Fashion Dolls shop home for sixteen years, and had been her father’s assistant for most of that time, spending her early years sweeping up sawdust and scraping wax drippings from the floor, and later helping her father carve doll figures and take care of customers. Looking around on the street, she saw that the fire had not been quite as devastating to their home as it had been to Old Jacques’s wine shop. Probably their stone storefront had kept the fire somewhat at bay. Claudette stepped through the remaining doorway.

The second story was gone, having mostly burned or fallen onto the first floor. The fashion dolls that were her father’s greatest pride, next to his wife and daughter, had all but disappeared in a heap of cinders. His newly acquired “baby” houses and their furnishings were nearly destroyed. The few remaining grandes Pandores, the mannequins that were Claudette’s favorite addition to the shop, were bizarre caricatures of themselves. The iron frames, mangled and probably fragile to the touch, still stood in the same arrangement they were in when Claudette left the shop the previous day. However, their wigs, gowns, and padding were completely gone. It was as though she were looking at a collection of empty birdcages, whose occupants had flown away from an irritating disturbance.

She stepped gingerly over scattered debris until she reached the workshop. The fire did not appear to have destroyed everything in here. Perhaps there was something to salvage? Rooting through the fragments of doll molds, scorched body parts, and tools, she attempted to find salvageable pieces, reminders of the father and life she loved. An hour of searching in the rain, which had now become a light mist, produced some carving tools, fabric scraps, some paints, and one of her father’s old wooden toolboxes, into which she put the remaining items. With this small box and her reticule, she left the shop.

In the street, she turned around one more time to look at the shop. Just twelve hours ago she was comfortably ensconced in her bed, secure in the affections of two doting parents and Jean-Philippe, whom she had loved as long as she could remember. Now she was alone, penniless, and beginning to notice a small gnawing of hunger in her stomach. What was she to do now? Her only hope was to find Jean-Philippe. Surely he was looking for her as well. But what if something happened and he had not survived? How could she find out what had happened to him and his family?

Even at the young age of twelve, Claudette could not remember a time that she and Jean-Philippe had not been the best of friends, preferring his company always above that of the girls she knew.

Jean-Philippe was unhappily apprenticed to a locksmith named Gamain. Jean-Philippe hated being trapped all day in a workshop, hammering away at metal and firing it in ovens that produced unbearable heat. He also found the detailed work of assembling lock mechanisms to be mind-numbing. However, the locksmith would sometimes drink, and drinking made him garrulous. During those times, he allowed Jean-Philippe to sit and listen while he aired his views on the French and Indian wars, on the rising cost of bread, on the evils of the aristocracy (no matter that they provided him with healthy commissions for work), and on the extravagances of the royal family. The boy did not understand much about what he was being told, but Gamain seemed very worldly, and Jean-Philippe was rapt when he had the opportunity to get away from his apprenticeship duties.

When Claudette arrived at the Renaud home, they always went for a long walk through nearby streets and parks, except when the days were cool and short. Then they simply stayed at his home huddled around the fireplace until twilight, and Claudette would then run back home to her parents. During the brutally cold days and long nights of the deepest part of winter, they sometimes went weeks without seeing each other, only to reemerge in the spring, each in wonder at how much the other had grown and matured in just a short time.

Jean-Philippe frequently shared Gamain’s stories and theories with Claudette, but he did not understand them well himself and so usually relayed them in a muddled way. Claudette found it impossible to comprehend Gamain’s personal philosophies, or Jean-Philippe’s translation of them, but listened politely. Conversely, Claudette would rattle off to Jean-Philippe exacting details about the latest carving or sewing technique she had learned, and Jean-Philippe would try to be interested.

After the first flush of chattering, the two would delve into what idle gossip they had heard, then settle into companionable silence, walking along quietly. Jean-Philippe would often stop to boldly pluck flowers from overflowing containers in front of windows, and Claudette would wind them together and trail the floral rope through her curly locks of hair. Sometimes they held hands on their return home, swinging them through the air as they sang silly songs they made up together.

Once they were scampering through the garden of a nearby convent, seeking out the largest tomato they could find. Jean-Philippe, streaked with stains and juice, shouted from where he was crouched, “Look! Here is the biggest tomato in all of France!”

Getting no response from Claudette, he looked up and saw her worrying over something near the west corner of the convent building. Forgetting his very important fruit harvest, he hurried to her side. “What have you there?”

“Shh,” she commanded. Her hands were cupped together, and she pulled them slightly apart to show him a bedraggled mass of white feathers punctuated by two blinking eyes. “It’s a little bird. I think it fell from the second story ledge. Do you think we should ask one of the nonnes if she will pray for it?”

“It’s a dove. Papa says they bring good luck. We could nurse it ourselves, then we will have luck.”

Always ready for an adventure with Jean-Philippe, Claudette agreed, and the two young teenagers created a nest that evening for the fledgling bird, with twigs, leaves, and material scraps, all loosely arranged in a doll box Étienne had discarded. They dug happily for worms, grubs, and other crawling creatures, experimenting until they figured out what the young bird would and would not eat, Claudette completely forgetting her sophisticated work in dollmaking. Two weeks later, they watched as the dove, now named Jean-Claudette, after hours of bickering about whether the bird was a boy to be named after Jean-Philippe or a girl to be named for Claudette, took wing from the box hidden in the convent’s garden, never having been detected by the residents.

To ensure what they were certain would be a very good run of luck, they tried for several weeks to find another dove in need of help, but little Jean-Claudette seemed to be the only injured bird they could find. Jean-Philippe suggested just finding another dove and capturing it, pretending it needed their help, but Claudette refused. Soon their attention moved on to other distractions as can be found when wandering just a few blocks from home in a large city.

Their strolls and explorations took them onto the beautiful Jardin du Luxembourg, located in the shadow of the century-old Palais du Luxembourg. They would sit next to the Fontaine de Médicis, enjoying the mist from its vast sprays and dipping their feet into the surrounding water. They also listened in on the conversations of the passersby, many of whom grumbled and fretted about the anxieties of daily life.

“How will we make it through another winter with so little for our bellies?” they heard.

Other people complained bitterly about the royal family, an enduring practice in monarchist societies. They listened to a man who promenaded regularly through the park selling newspapers. The man had a brother in prison for failing to pay a gambling debt. “The queen convinces fat Louis to give 12,000 francs to debtors in prison, but oh, not to just any debtors,” he groused to no one in particular. “She only wants to save those who failed to pay their wet nurses. Why? Because soon she will be plump with a child herself and she thinks France now forgives her all her own wasteful spending now that she will produce an heir. Mon Dieu, why would any woman need a 400,000-livre diamond bracelet? That could have bought every household in France a loaf of bread.”

The children looked at each other and shrugged. They only remembered the queen as a beautiful girl who gave them sweets by the side of the road. And wasn’t it exciting that she would be giving France its much-needed heir?

But now Claudette had no food at all, much less a luxury like candy.

She wandered about the four city blocks between her and Jean-Philippe’s home, searching for a familiar face that could help her. The streets were mostly deserted, except for a few shop owners who had dared venture back to examine damage to their livelihoods. Approaching a man she knew only as Félix, a baker, she asked, “Pardon, but I am Étienne Laurent’s daughter. Do you know what has happened to the Renaud family?”

“Eh? Who? What do I care about anyone else? Do you see what has happened to my shop? My precious oven! My sacks of grains! I am ruined!” He was clutching the side of his head and grasping handfuls of hair.

“Pardon me, monsieur, my parents were lost in the fire, and I am trying to find my friends who will help me.”

“My father and my father’s father ran this shop. And now it is over. Over!” He had a wild look in his eyes. “And who will help me rebuild? You? Is that what you want? To take over my business? Get away from me, you filthy morue.”

Claudette stood transfixed. Had this man actually just called her that? She was from a respectable family, and certainly no common woman of the streets. She moved on.

She drifted for hours before returning to the park where many of the homeless were encamped. Perhaps someone there would remember seeing Jean-Philippe and his parents. She descended a small set of steps into the park, and was taken aback by how the area had grown in population since she had left it that morning. It was as though all of Paris had moved into a square city block. She asked passersby randomly, “Pardon, do you know the whereabouts of the Renaud family?” No one seemed able, or willing, to help her. Finally, someone directed her to the local commissariat, located three blocks away. She asked a policeman sitting at a desk near the door of the station, “Please, I am trying to find friends. Can you help me?”

The policeman, tall, lanky, and with an air of utter boredom, responded, “Name?”

With relief, Claudette gushed, “Renaud. Charles and Michelle Renaud, and their son, Jean-Philippe.”

“Relation to you?”

Swallowing, Claudette uttered words that she had never voiced before outside of her beloved’s presence. “Jean-Philippe is my betrothed.”

He yawned in indifference to the pleadings of a dirty, bedraggled young girl. He picked up a grimy stack of papers and began casually looking through them. The longer she waited, the more a sense of dread came over her. The silence in the room created a deafening pounding in her ears. He looked up. “Sorry, mademoiselle, we have no listing for such a family. Try the docks. Many families have left Paris that way.” Dismissively he added, “If we see him, we’ll tell him you were here.”

Before giving in to the desire to break down in tears, Claudette turned and marched out of the commissariat. Far from the overnight soaking rain that had finally put out the fire, the day was now unseasonably hot. Pushing a fallen, disheveled lock of golden curl away from her face, she moved on to the docks.

The dock on the River Seine was again teeming with wandering subjects of the realm. How would she ever find Jean-Philippe’s whereabouts here? Approaching a man in a captain’s uniform, she once again inquired as to information regarding the Renaud family. The man’s uniform was ill-fitting on his thin frame, and his brown eyes were large and luminous in his gaunt face.

“No such family passing through here. Are you without family, mademoiselle?” He spoke awkward French; clearly he was English.

Bending her head to hide the lip she was chewing, she whispered, “Yes, monsieur, I am.”

He put a hand under her chin and said, “There, there, I cannot bear to see such a beautiful young lady in distress. My name is Simon Briggs, and I can help you. Do you see that group of young ladies such as yourself over there?” He pointed to a cluster of chattering young women, all seemingly from various stations of life. “They have answered my notice for domestic help over in England. Fancy ladies over there need hardworking girls as governesses, house servants, and so on. Just think, you could be nanny to an important family.”

“But I’m the daughter of a dollmaker. What do I know about such things?”

“You will learn. There’s plenty of training. Once we get to London, that is. Why don’t you join the fortunate ones over there? We’ll be putting up in an hour or so, and then we’ll be having a big meal. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

She was famished. But to get on a ship headed to such a far-off land just for a meal seemed absurd.

Briggs saw her indecision. He said gently, “Mademoiselle, are you by any chance a victim of yesterday’s fire? Hmm, I thought so. Many of the women boarding today are in your same predicament. Surely you will find a friend here.”

Was this a perfect opportunity for her? Her home and family were gone, and Jean-Philippe was nowhere to be found. Both her stomach and her purse were achingly empty.

Claudette made her choice. She numbly walked toward the other waiting passengers, still stunned that her warm, sheltered life had been so abruptly destroyed.