When Madame left, Justine did not sit to finish the chocolate but carried it up the stairs to the attic to give to Séverine. She brought the raisins in the little saucer as well.
Séverine was on the bed in their room, humming to her doll, Belle-Marie, telling it stories. They all sat together and held a small celebration on top of the blankets, passing the chocolate back and forth between them, and the raisins, making sure the doll had a portion. Séverine ate those, since Belle-Marie, for reasons of indigestion, could not finish them.
The window of her room looked out over the back of the whorehouse, where there were stables and a shed behind them. Already, men were coming and going with their horses. The business of the house had begun.
Séverine lay down, holding her Belle-Marie tight in her arms. Justine held Séverine.
She would sleep for a while, then begin her own work, when it was evening, and cooler. There would be wind moving through the streets soon. The country people called that hour between evening and night the hour between dog and wolf. She had chosen to be the wolf in life, not the tame dog.
Twenty-one
MARGUERITE RODE WITH THE CARRIAGE WINDOWS rolled down, leaning forward on the seat, looking out at the streets.
The sun was hot as bronze overhead. The streets were crowded. The cafés of the Boulevard des Italiens were filled. At first glance, nothing had changed.
Five years ago, we were not afraid.
Restauranteurs pulled tables out onto the walkway, as always. Women in bright print dresses and wide hats drank wine or coffee. They gathered like flocks of birds under the trees, perched on rush-bottomed chairs, their skirts spread wide, fanning themselves and chatting, surrounded by their maids and their children and their dogs. Young men, the flâneurs of the boulevards, lounged their way from group to group. They leaned over the backs of the chairs, trading witticisms, flirting.
It was a species of courage, this laughter and the crumbs of biscuit shared with the strutting pigeons. A mile away, to the east of Paris, men died on the guillotine. Death and the most humorless brutality held the high ground. But not here. This boulevard was the front line against the barbarians who had destroyed her Paris. Wit and le bon mot and talk of the theater made a stand at these barricades. The ribbon on a bonnet, the lace of a starched cap, were the weapons.
Another jolt and the fiacre pulled to a stop in front of the Chinese Baths.
A boy from the baths ran to open the door of the carriage and let down the steps. He climbed like a squirrel to pass her payment to the driver. He followed her inside, carrying her basket, chattering about the heat. Oh yes, many fine citoyennes, many dashing young men, came today to relax in the waters. He had been busy since the morning, carrying lemonades and coffees upstairs. What heat. Everyone complained.
One entered this most fashionable of public baths between artificial hills on either side of the gate. Statues of Chinese gentlemen, holding umbrellas, sat atop promontories. The central court held a red and yellow pagoda with the café and garden where the bathers might refresh themselves. The chambers for the baths were above. The left-hand side for men. The right for women.
Whether this Chinese bath would have passed muster in Peking or Shanghai, she did not know. But it was Chinese enough for Paris. She climbed the stairs to the righthand side and found an old friend, Olivie Garmand, the matron on duty. She stood behind the counter, neatly compact, with smooth night-black hair. In La Flèche she was called the Quail. She was as discreet and unobtrusive as her namesake.
Olivie kept the gate to one of pathways out of France. Men and women entered the baths and were not seen again till they were safe in England.
Olivie nodded, polite but not curtsying, as if she were the most staunch of revolutionaries. “Citoyenne. It has been a long time. It is good to see you again.”
“Citoyenne Olivie. Good day.” She put a coin in the boy’s palm and sent him away. Under cover of setting her basket on the counter, she passed the note that was ready in her hand. She whispered, “For the Gardener.”
A glance along the hall. The letter disappeared. Olivie said, “How may we serve you?” and under her breath, “Are there orders?”
“None.” She raised her voice. “The hot bath today, even though it is so unpleasantly hot outside.”
A maidservant came then, with towels and a robe de chambre piled flat across her arms, holding them carefully for they were still hot from being warmed over the little braziers. Olivie, herself, led the way. They went to a cabinet far down at the end of the row, where silence and discretion were abundant. To her left was the inconspicuous door between the men’s side and the women’s. These rooms had seen many discreet meetings. It was a sad commentary on life that adultery and the intrigues of La Flèche had much in common.
The bathing cabinet was a bright room with huge windows covered by screens that let the light through. The walls were painted to resemble marble. The maid placed the stack of towels and the folded linen robe on the sideboard and went to prepare the tub.
Olivie, who had brought the basket, set that down also and uncovered it and began to lay out the clean clothing from inside and the hairbrush and the bottles of bath oils. “May we bring you wine? A light meal? No? You are right. It’s too hot to eat. There is a compress of crushed mint leaves for the forehead, if you would like to try it.” Olivie uncorked one of the bottles of bath oil. “This is nice. Neroli and coriander?”
“Exacte. From that shop in the Palais Royal. Near the end, next to where they sell the fans. You know the one.”
Olivie sniffed again. “It would not suit me. For you, though, it is good. Fresh and forceful. Uncommon. I would have said it is not the scent of a young girl.”
I am not so young. A mirror hung over the sideboard. In it she saw unremarkable brown hair. A wide, stubborn-looking mouth. Her nose was sunburned. Her eyes were sunk deep with weariness. A bruise shadowed the side of her face.
Guillaume said she was beautiful.
What part of this face is lovely? What does he see? Maybe it was Maggie that Guillaume found beautiful. She had lost Maggie in the last hours. In the mirror she saw only Marguerite.
The maid leaned over, giving the copper bathtub one last scrub. It was only to demonstrate more thoroughly that all was entirely fresh and perfect. Nothing had been skimped in cleaning before. The woman arranged cloths inside the tub so one did not rest against the hard metal and turned on the faucets, both hot and cold, before she made the silent, sagacious exit of a well-trained servant.
All was silently, gracefully done. Marguerite said, “Is she one of us? I do not recognize her.”
“No. A police spy, we think. I shall set her to some distant task for the next hour or two. Something unpleasant, if I can manage it.”
In Paris every café and bookshop, every corner market, was political. The Chinese Baths, as well. Here, was a stronghold of the most radical Jacobins, ardent supporters of Robespierre. It was an excellent place for La Flèche to hide, of course, in the very lap of the fanatics. But one must be circumspect in such a lap.