Chapter 3
Three
Alix stood in the open ground floor of a butcher shop on a muddy side street in Paris, picking chicken feathers out of her hair.
“You know,” she said to David Chaumier, “I think this idea was better in the planning.” They both cast their eyes to the street where a cart with a false bottom was parked.
“Well, the crates of chickens did keep the guards from checking the wagon too closely,” David pointed out. “Nasty things though, chickens. Hate the way they’re always staring at you with them beady little eyes, probably thinking how to peck your fingers off with them sharp little beaks.”
“It wasn’t the birds that frightened me. It was the fear that I might expire from the odor. I wish I’d had my vinaigrette with me.”
“Here now,” David said in a whispered scold. “We told you. You can’t go waving fancy silver boxes under your nose like you’re too good for the barnyard or the streets. People will think you’re putting on airs, or worse.”
“I know, I know,” Alix replied quickly. “Don’t worry so. I haven’t so much as a lace handkerchief among my things. Speaking of which...” Alix swept a hand across her dress. It was spattered with detritus from the chicken cages.
David gestured toward an alleyway. “Henri says you can change your clothes in the room behind his shop, through the door over there.”
Alix picked her way carefully through the refuse-strewn passageway.
Pushing open a rough wooden door, she entered a small dark room.
From the light of a grimy window she could make out a bed, a table, and two crudely hewn wooden stools.
The smell of butchered meat permeated everything, and her gorge rose. She willed her stomach to be still.
It had been a rough trip, but it was almost over.
It was a stroke of good luck that one of the chateau’s former cooks, Henri, had set up a butcher shop near Les Halles, not far from the Rue de l’Université where her mother was living.
More fortunate still, he had been willing to offer his assistance, though Alix understood the gesture was out of friendship to the Chaumiers rather than to her.
She pulled off her kerchief and began to unlace her dress, eager to shed the clothes she’d been wearing since she fled the chateau six days ago.
She wished she could have changed her chemise, but without assistance she could not remove the stays that overlaid it.
She recalled Solange arguing that she should wear a corselet, a shorter garment that laced in front, or forgo them entirely since they were currently out of fashion in Paris.
Alix thought she would feel naked without her stays and so had refused.
Besides, they had proven a useful hiding place for her valuables.
She ran her hand along the lumps of papers and jewels sewn into the garment’s lining.
Heaving a small sigh, she wondered whether her linen would look less grimy if she folded under the lace of her chemise.
Henri, she saw with relief, had left a pitcher of water and a basin on the table.
Using the skirt of her yellow wool dress, she sponged her face and body as best she could.
Then she opened her cloth bag and pulled out her carefully chosen costume: a clean petticoat, cotton stockings, a white muslin dress sporting a print of gay red, white, and blue posies, and a waist-length red jacket.
At the bottom of the bag lay a lace cap and a somewhat crushed straw hat trimmed with red, white, and blue ribbons.
Clad in this attire, she should be able to pass as just another patriotic citizen attending to her business in the city.
She emerged into the alleyway, transformed, or at least so she hoped. She performed a graceful pirouette for David and Henri, and asked, “So, citizens, am I not a vision?”
Henri pursed his lips, uncertain of how to respond to his former mistress, but David crowed with laughter. “Oh, mademoiselle,” he gasped. “You’re a vision all right. I’m just not sure a vision of what.”
Alix eyed him. “I was given to understand such outfits are all the rage in Paris. Are you suggesting my attire is less than à la mode?”
“Well,” David offered, “maybe if you could do something with your hair?” He plucked off her hat, picked a pinfeather out her hair, and tried to smooth her tangled waves into a semblance of order.
Tucking in as many of the errant strands as he could, he replaced the hat, stood back, and surveyed his handiwork.
“I suppose if you walk with a purpose, don’t look anybody in the eye, you could make it to your mother’s without attracting too much attention.
” David’s voice grew serious. “I tell you, Mademoiselle Alix, I’d feel better if you’d let me take you there.
And you know Solange would agree with me. ”
Alix looked at him, her gray eyes softening.
“David, I can never thank you enough for everything you and Solange have done for me. You’ve gotten me this far, and I can’t bear to ask any more of you.
If I’m picked up by a district patrol, and you’re with me, you’ll be accused of aiding a fugitive aristocrat.
And we both know what that means.” She cast a look at Henri, and he nodded in assent.
“She’s right, you’ve no idea of the awful killing that’s been going on here. Those sans-culottes will string you up on a lamppost as quick as twisting a chicken’s neck. And no one will stop ‘em.”
Alix continued in a rush, afraid that if she didn’t get the words out at once, she might reconsider and ask him to stay.
“David, you know Solange and I practically grew up together. I could never look her in the face again if I were responsible for making her a widow. You must return to her now.” She stepped forward and took his broad callused hand.
In it she placed her maid’s identity papers and a roll of notes and coins.
She closed his fingers gently around the bundle and kissed them.
Looking up at him she said, “Every day without her identity papers puts Solange in danger. You both have risked so much for me, I only wish I had more to give you. This should be enough to see you safely home and perhaps to give you a fresh start.” Tears began to fill her eyes, and she wiped them fiercely away, “Go now, David, now.”
David looked down at the bedraggled figure before him.
He straightened her straw hat and tugged the cap underneath it down.
“I’ll go, mademoiselle, for Solange’s sake, not for the money, though I won’t be saying I’m not grateful for it.
You’ve got a good heart miss and a brave one.
” He paused, unsure of what else to say, then cast a look at the thickset butcher.
“Henri, my friend, you see she gets to her mother safe.”
With a last reluctant glance, David clambered up onto the seat of the chicken wagon, clicked his tongue at the bony nag waiting in its traces, and drove off. Alix watched him go till he was lost among the traffic of horses, carts, and carriages.
Henri cleared his throat nervously, and Alix turned. “Beggin’ your pardon, mademoiselle, I mean citizeness, would you like a bite to eat or would you like to set out?”
Alix’s stomach growled an eager response, but she could see by the way the butcher’s eyes darted to the street and the way his hands tugged at the wiry hairs of his balding head that he was anxious to have her gone.
“Citizen,” she said, “I thank you for your kind offer, but I think it would be best if I were on my way.”
The butcher’s face visibly relaxed, and he rubbed his thick hands together. Barely able to conceal the spring in his step, he said, “I’ll go harness up Agnes. Whyn’t you step back into the shop and rest yourself, and I’ll let you know when she’s ready to go.”
Alix made her way through the piles of crates and baskets, some with squawking or grunting inhabitants, past the hanging haunches of meat, and into the darkened interior of the shop.
A small door behind the counter led to where she had changed her clothes, and Alix reluctantly ducked back into the fetid little room.
After a mercifully short time, she heard a soft knock at the window and peering out saw Henri waiting in the passageway, holding the reins of a dust-coated mare so thin she looked more like an anatomy lesson than a horse.
“Here,” Henri said, biting back the mademoiselle.
“Here, citizeness, I’ll give you a hand up.
” He seated her sideways on the generous sway of the animal’s back and mounted up in front of her.
Henri flicked the reins, and Agnes set off at a slow roll.
“Hold on tight, citizeness,” he said over his shoulder.
“These streets are narrow and people just come dashing through on them fancy horses and in them big carriages.” He shook his head in disgust.
As they turned onto a larger street, Henri continued talking, and Alix had to lean close to hear him over the din of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels jostling and squelching through the mud.
It seemed to Alix that everyone on the streets was speaking as loudly as possible, competing with the street vendors in an effort to be heard.
From the words she could catch, Alix understood Henri was talking about the route they would take.
“Been here fifteen years... still get lost among these damn twisty little streets... think you know where you’re going and then, heh, you’re stuck in some cul-de-sac.
” He spat perilously close to an elderly couple walking their dog.
“Taking you across the Pont-Royal would get you closer to your mother’s but then we’d have to ride along the Place du Carrousel and that mess around the Tuileries...
” He muttered something about thieves, whores, and politicians and spat again.