Spirit of Lost Angels (24 page)

I looked around me. Nothing and nobody, the calm broken only by the noise of the drizzly rain.

As an upholstered carriage drew up in front of me, I was certain I glimpsed the bird-woman in her feathered hat, slinking away into the street shadows. Whatever was she still doing here?

The coach door opened and a man in a black cloak stepped out, his hat drawn low over his face. I didn’t know him but in those seconds, as he stepped towards me, fear prickled my senses and I knew he meant me harm.

‘I’ve finally found you.’ His voice was tight and husky, his hand firm on my arm. ‘The Scarlet Enchantress.’ He tightened his grip as the rain fell harder and his hand slipped on my skin. ‘I’d like a word, about your plays. Causing quite a scandal amongst the nobility. We cannot have that, can we?’

‘It’s purely entertainment, nothing serious!’ I tried to fight him off, and scream, but as he placed his free hand over my mouth, the shriek died in my throat.

‘I am far stronger than you, madame. Don’t waste your energy struggling.’

His grin spread into a leer as he shoved me into the carriage. ‘Besides, after I’ve finished with you, you’ll need all your energy simply to survive. That is, if I let you live.’

My abductor spoke to the coachman in clipped tones as the coach lurched off into the rain, gathering speed, and careening along the narrow streets. The blinds were drawn, but I could picture the startled people, carters and dogs leaping from its path.

‘Where are you taking me? What do you want?’ My arms flailed as I tried to writhe from his grip.

‘Keep your mouth shut, whore.’ He reached back in a wide arc, his hand clamping down hard on my face. I was too shocked to retort, the fire in my cheek burning as fiercely as my pride, as he roped my wrists together.

The keepers of la Salpêtrière, binding my wrists to the spinning stool, loomed in my mind. As the other prisoners had taught me, I pressed a thumb into the opposite palm.

‘And that’s only Act I,
ma petite enchanteresse
,’ he said, his face so close to mine I could tell from the sun-creases and the hard jowls, he was simply a common, dressed-up thug. ‘You’ll think twice about what you put on stage next time. Or perhaps you’ll never write again, if I cut those hands off.’

I glared at the stranger, hardly believing what was happening. Of course, I was aware of murmurs of threats against me. What playwright isn’t? But not for a minute had I taken them seriously. My anti-aristocracy satire offended certain nobles — the Marquis amongst them. Had he learned the identity of the Scarlet Enchantress, and sent this thug for me?

I recalled the bird-woman lurking in the shadows of the rue d’Artois, and wondered at her involvement in this. Doubts, questions, hurtled around my brain, as deeply as the fear that sliced into my thoughts.

Unbalanced, the rocking movement hurled me from side to side of the carriage, as the horses galloped on. My bladder threatened to burst and a band of tears formed behind my eyes. Whatever happened though, I would never show fear — or tears — to this man.

‘There won’t be any nobility left soon,’ I shouted, over the noise of the rain on the carriage roof. ‘The poor are starved, the people of Paris are restless.
The days of the aristocratic sweetness of living are numbered.’

The man withdrew something from his pocket. ‘I said shut your mouth, filthy whore.’ His knuckles white, gripping the handle, he touched the blade of his knife to my chin.

I inhaled sharply, shrank away, and collided with the carriage wall. I was certain I could have wriggled my hands from their binds, but for what? To have him tie me up again? No, better to wait for the right moment.

The man smirked and lowered one shoulder of my dress. I dared not move, or breathe.

‘I told you, no point fighting me,’ he said, as he traced circles around my breast with the tip of the blade.

He thrust a knee between my thighs and I stumbled backwards, landing hard on my hands. I tried to scream, but over the noise of the rain and the horses’ hooves, I knew it was nothing but a token protest.

His hand dropped to his breeches. A wad of hair came loose from his ponytail, and fell across his leering face. As the hard, shiny cock burst from his breeches, images of the Marquis clouded my mind, and I felt my blood as cold as marble.

He pressed himself between my legs, his fingers fumbling to raise my skirt. I tried to kick out but my skirt folds hampered me. He grabbed my raised foot. I bristled as he ran his hand up my leg and wrenched my skirt and chemise aside.

I felt his hardness about to break me apart, and with all the strength I could muster, I let my bladder go in a hard stream. I felt not a trace of humiliation, only a silent thrill of power as copious amounts of pee — an entire afternoon of wine and tea drinking — covered his hand, his cock, and the smart leather seat of his carriage.

‘Bitch,’ he said quietly, with far more menace than his previous shouts, ‘you’ll lick up every drop.’
A darkness crossed his features and he glared at me with such rage I thought he would kill me right then.

I said nothing, as I wrestled with the ropes behind my back, slowly — silently — freeing my hands.

As he jerked away from me, holding his pee-soaked hand as far away from him as possible, I brought my knee up, hard, into his groin.

The man gasped and reeled backwards, wavering about the carriage. I grabbed his walking cane and whacked him on the side of his head. My breath coming fast, I hit him over and over until he let out a muffled grunt, and lay still. From the gash on his temple, a thin curl of blood snaked across his half-closed eye, down his cheek and between his parted lips.

I inhaled deep, hiccupy breaths, unable to move for a minute. With shaky fingers, I reached over and felt about the man’s neck. The pulse still beat strongly.

‘Stop, coachman, stop!’ I hammered on the carriage wall. ‘There’s been a … an accident!’

My shouts must have scared the horses, their sharp whinnies and the coachman’s curses as he urged them on, swallowing my words.

I perched on the edge of the seat and peered around the blind. The coach was approaching an intersection, and I felt the horses’ slowing down. At the driver’s shout, the horses’ pace slackened further to turn the corner. I flung the door open, and tumbled out into a muddy puddle.

I gave a short, sharp scream, leapt to my feet and fled into the blur of the night, through the steadily falling rain.

I had not gone far when, in the pools of lamplight, a young man strode towards me. He held an umbrella so low, shielding his face that he almost walked straight into me.

‘Oh, madame, I am so sorry, I didn’t see you. Did I hurt you?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Really, just fine.’

In the pale light, his eyes met mine. ‘You do not seem all right … you look troubled and … and quite dishevelled.’

‘I am quite well,’ I said. ‘I only want to get home, out of this rain.’

‘But, whatever are you doing out alone, on such a grim night?’

‘My … my carriage broke down,’ I said. ‘I thought it would be quicker to walk home.’

‘Well perhaps I can ensure madame reaches home safely?’ he said, holding the umbrella over me.

‘No, really, I will be all right. Can you just tell me where are we?’

‘The rue Neuve Des Petits Champs,’ he said, pointing down the street.
‘You’re not far from la place Louis-le-Grand.’ He thrust his umbrella at me. ‘Keep this at least, so you’ll not get soaked.’

Relieved it was only a short walk from la place Louis-le-Grand to the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I took the umbrella. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very kind,’ I said, hurrying away.

Perhaps it was the
contrecoup
— the terror of what the kidnapper would have done to me, and my miraculous escape — that stopped me, as I reached the square laid out during the reign of Louis XIV.

I thought about soaking the man with my pee, and cackled loudly, like some mad woman. I thought of the rain too, which had come like a blessing, camouflaging a urine-soaked dress.

Ideas rushed in; notions I pictured so clearly on a stage, and I yearned to note them all down right then. I tilted my face to the inky sky, and closed my eyes to the rain coursing down my cheeks. I trembled with the cold, the fatigue, the shock, but a new, raw energy infused me; an even fiercer determination to wreak my vengeance the best way I knew — behind a theatre curtain.

I opened my eyes and pointed the umbrella at the moonless sky. My fingertips rubbed the place on my breastbone where Maman’s little bone pendant had sat. I felt the absent angel folding me into her maternal wings, sheltering me with her warmth on that wet autumn night. I shivered, but inside I was dry and warm.

***

The following day, Monsieur Jefferson stood in my doorway.

‘What a surprise, monsieur,’ I said. ‘To find you here. I’ve not seen you since our celebration for
Les Barreaux de la Liberté
. I assumed you were still angry with me for lashing out at the monarchy?’

‘Excuse my absence but I’ve been busy, as always,’ he said. ‘I just came to tell you not to worry yourself over our last meeting. I was not angered but you understand, as appropriate to my diplomatic status, I must be seen to preserve the character of a neutral spectator, particularly in the presence of all those people — stagehands, scene-shifters — and a restaurant no doubt seething with spies.’

I nodded. ‘I understand, especially about spies. I’m certain one of the women at the salon I attended yesterday was a spy, and led me to the kidnapper.’

‘You were kidnapped?’ The Ambassador’s eyes widened. ‘But … are you unharmed? What did this man do with you?’

‘By a great stroke of luck, I managed to get away,’ I said. ‘But thank you for asking, I am unharmed and quite recovered.’

‘Oh dear, I should have known that might happen,’ he said. ‘Theatre and libertinage are amongst the greatest of French passions these days, and no celebrated playwright can hope to remain unnoticed for long. This type of incident is common, and liable to recur. Have you considered protection?’

‘I appreciate your concern, Monsieur Jefferson, and yes, I have hired a few thugs of my own, for when I go out unaccompanied.’

‘I am relieved to hear that. Now, so you are aware, Mademoiselle Charpentier, you may be frank about the royals with me. I believe the French Court’s overindulgence, especially Marie Antoinette’s, is both ridiculous and scandalous. It is no wonder they are the butt of such slanders unimaginable in any other Kingdom.’

‘Yes, incredible, isn’t it?’ I gestured into the apartment. ‘Would you like to come inside, or do you prefer the doorway?’

Monsieur Jefferson shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I have pressing business.’

I couldn’t resist a smile. Ever charming and concerned for the welfare of others, the ambassador remained, as usual, elusive.

Monsieur Jefferson dipped his head, took my hand and kissed the back of it. ‘I hope to see you shortly, Mademoiselle Charpentier, perhaps to accompany me to another play in the countryside?’ He backed away to his waiting coach.

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ I said. ‘And thank you for coming.’

***

Dear Madam Wollstonecraft,

I hope you don’t think it forward or impolite of me to write.

I recently had the pleasure of reading your book,
Thoughts on the Education of Daughters
. As a Parisian playwright known as the Scarlet Enchantress,
Thoughts
greatly inspired me both for my stage scripts and for these times of ardent zeal in which I live, as well as for the education of my own daughter, Madeleine.

I cannot agree with you more that, in general, women remain silly and superficial, and could achieve far greater things if men stopped denying them the right to education. We must convince them to view us as human beings deserving of the same fundamental rights as them.

This autumn I made some new acquaintances — women of the same mind as myself — with whom I meet from time to time to discuss the important role the well-educated wife and mother must play in the downfall of our archaic governing system.

That is why I intend to be here, Madam Wollstonecraft, for every battle ahead of us — as the voice of women, the nurturer of a fledgling nation.

With the honour to be,

Mademoiselle Rubie Charpentier

The winter and spring of 1789 passed in a kind of tremulous expectation, like a sunny morning before an afternoon squall. On May 4
^th
, it seemed every Parisian was talking about the meeting of the Representatives of the Estates-General at Versailles, who would bring their
cahiers de doléances
— grievances booklets — to the Assembly.

Several days later, when the first eyewitnesses returned to Paris, Aurore, Sophie, Olympe, Manon and I jostled with the crowd in the gardens of the Palais-Royal, craning our necks to hear the first-hand reports.

‘This meeting will have changed everything!’ Aurore said, bouncing with her usual excited energy. ‘No longer will we have to live with this unjust, corrupt system we have borne for so long!’

‘It won’t be that simple,’ Olympe said. ‘This is only the beginning of a long and bloody journey for us commoners.’

‘Such a pity there were no women amongst the Representatives,’ Sophie said.

‘Women weren’t allowed,’ Manon said, with a scowl.

‘To quote Rousseau: “Man is born free, and is everywhere in chains”,’ I said. ‘Should it not be: “Man is born free and woman is everywhere in chains”?’

‘But I heard a woman did write one of the grievances booklets,’ Olympe said. ‘How I would love to meet her, and kiss her for her bravery.’

‘What did the booklets say?’ a man shouted, as the eyewitnesses appeared.

‘Will something be done about our grievances?’ another cried.

‘All three estates expressed their loyalty to and love for the King,’ one of the eyewitnesses said, ‘but declared that absolute monarchy is obsolete. The booklets also demanded the church and the nobility pay their share of taxes and justice be less costly, the laws and punishments more humane.’

‘Hear, hear!’ shouted the crowd.

‘You are wrong to rejoice,’ a noble-looking young man cried. ‘All this will be the source of great misfortune to France.’

‘Ah, go hang yourself,’ someone said and several people laughed.

‘Hang all the nobles!’ Aurore shrieked.

‘Temper your rage, Aurore,’ I said. ‘It will only cloud your thoughts and lead to reckless actions.’

‘Shouldn’t you be the one concerned about recklessness, our Scarlet Enchantress?’ Sophie said. ‘After that frightening kidnap attempt, of which I am mortified. Aren’t you afraid someone will silence you for good?’

‘Perhaps you won’t invite spies to your salon next time?’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t blame you, she was a clever woman to deceive us all. Besides, the incident was nearly eight months ago and, thanks to my two guards, there’s not been a whiff of trouble since.’

‘The Archbishop of Aix spoke for the clergy,’ the eyewitness went on. ‘He even produced a mouldy piece of bread to show what the poorest people have to eat, but a deputy of the Third Estate — a young lawyer called Robespierre — overshadowed him. He suggested the Archbishop tell his fellow clergy to join forces with the patriots, and if they wanted to help they might give up some of their own luxurious ways of living.’

‘I know this Robespierre,’ a man said, his ragged hair streaming in the breeze. ‘We’ll hear more of him, depend on it.’

‘Most of the
cahiers
listed the same grievances,’ another eyewitness explained. ‘Taxation, road-repairing duty, hospitals that no one can reach though we pay for them in taxes, billeting troops and their horses, ineffective policing.’

‘The greatest grievance, by far, was hunting rights,’ the first man went on. ‘To see a furry feast scampering across a field and to know catching it means death by hanging is more than hungry peasants can bear. If the local lord spends his time in the city or is not a keen hunter, his domain might be overrun by game. The people want the right to hunt; they want freedom from poor soil and hailstorms, fire and flood, from wolves, and famine!’

‘What of the booklet
written by this heroic woman?’ Olympe called out.

The man cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, it seems this certain madame had the nerve to appeal for representation of woman, by women, in the Estates-General!’

‘He looks as shocked as if she’d requested to bed the King,’ Manon said.

‘And whoever would want that?’ Aurore said. ‘When everyone knows the King is a hopeless fuck!’ The women dissolved into peals of laughter.

***

Dear Miss Charpentier,

I am acquainted, in fact, with your satirical works, and it is with great pleasure that I received your letter and learned the identity of the Scarlet Enchantress. I am humbled too, by your compliments on
Thoughts,
and pleased it has inspired the social messages inherent in your plays.

I admire your choice of career as an author, although it is a radical one, with few women attempting to support themselves as such, or even daring to pen the things we do. Men regard a writing career for a woman as precarious and improper, a notion which I find ridiculous. We should have the right to voice our opinions as they do.

As much as I respect your choice of profession, I do fear for you, Miss Charpentier. You will create male enemies, as I have, who will want to silence your voice. However, I am sure you feel as I do — if we ignore their threats and hold our plumes steady, we can become the first of a new genus of women for the future.

I imagine you too, have suffered at the hands of men, dear Miss Charpentier. The germ of my battle was seeded during my childhood, suffered at the hands of a violent father who beat my mother in his drunken rages.

On another issue, we were saddened here in Great Britain, to learn of the little Dauphin’s death from consumption. While I can appreciate this was a disaster after his long-awaited birth, and sympathise the loss of a child, I do find it shocking that the passing of his sister, Sophie-Beatrix, was met with the indifference of both the Court and her family. Is it inconsequential to be born, and die, a female — two sexes the creator formed from the same mould, who worship the same God? Why is it that one sex has everything and the other nothing? This can only be another bad omen for Marie Antoinette.

I sincerely hope our correspondence continues. Please keep me abreast of the progress of your enchanting works, as well as the political and social situation in your country.

I hope to visit France in the near future, and would be delighted to make your acquaintance.

I have the honour to be,

Mary Wollstonecraft

As I folded her letter, my mind drifted back to the villagers of Lucie huddled around Armand’s warm hearth, listening to my papa tell us of the terrible omens surrounding Marie Antoinette. I envied my young self — my blithe insouciance of the foreboding in my father’s fireside tales.