Chapter 3 #2
Alix heard his voice take on an apologetic tone, caught bits and pieces about crossing the Pont Neuf.
“Have to pass Saint-Germain-des-Prés... using the abbey as a prison... terrible killings there, bastards using bodies for tables, dipping their bread in the blood.” Henri shook his head and continued.
“Should be cleaned up by now.... Still, don’t look away if you see a bit of body or blood... might be taken as unpatriotic.”
Alix slowly absorbed the essence of the butcher’s disjointed dialogue. There had been killings in Paris again and recently. Black spots danced before her eyes, and there was a flat metallic taste in her mouth. For a moment Alix wondered whether she might slip off Agnes’ swayed back and be trampled.
Desperately, she tried to battle back mounting waves of fear.
What if her mother wasn’t home? What if she had gone into hiding?
What if... what if she was dead? She dug her nails into her palms, willing the pain to overwhelm the gibbering voices in her head.
Easy, Alexandre Charlotte, easy, she intoned and felt calm creeping along the edges of her panic.
Her mother was too fierce a spirit to have been imprisoned or killed.
She’d have seen and understood what was going on in Paris and found some way to escape.
Hadn’t her father always complained that his rebellious young bride would be spending his money long after he was gone?
Her father was gone, Alix thought digging her nails more deeply into her hand; she wouldn’t believe that her mother was, too.
And then they were caught in the traffic of the bridge, a crush of vehicles, animals and people so thick Alix had to clutch the butcher’s wide hips to keep from being swept off Agnes.
From her place in the crowd, she could barely see the dark waters of the Seine flowing beneath them.
People yelled and whistled in an effort to move forward, and, at one point, there was a great roar of laughter as a cow, riding sideways in a wooden cart, lifted its tail and splattered the red-and-blue-striped stockings of a passing dandy on a high-stepping bay.
After what seemed a noisy eternity, they crossed and turned west toward the Rue de l’Université.
The streets widened a bit, easing the press of traffic, and Alix loosened her grip on Henri’s waist. Her eyes lingered on the tops of the burgess houses with their peaked roofs, ornate dormer windows, and tall chimneys.
As Agnes carried them further west, the house fronts became increasingly ornate, with fanciful arches, classical columns, and elaborate stonework.
So many ordinary sights, she thought; a group of children were playing in a garden in front of one of the larger homes.
A couple strolled arm in arm. A group of young men engaged in a heated debate in front of a bookseller’s stall.
Then up ahead, Alix could see the familiar pointed porch tower of Saint-Germain-des-Prés high above the abbey walls.
And then they were passing the grounds of the monastery, the church, the cloisters, and the famous library.
How odd, she thought. If it hadn’t been for the armed guards at the gates with red, white, and blue cockades stuck boldly in their hats, one would never have known that the place was now a notorious prison.
It was clear from the stiffening of his shoulders that the stories of the gruesome killings that had taken place behind those walls made Henri anxious.
Shortly after they passed the abbey, he said curtly, “You best get off here, citizeness.” He gestured toward the side of the street with his head and sat waiting, making no move to help her.
Alix slid off the horse’s back. When she turned to thank the butcher, she saw that he was already guiding his nag’s bony head into the swirling traffic.
She stood for a moment, her head swiveling about to take in her surroundings.
She felt lost, abandoned as people pushed past her, jostling her with their elbows.
She’d been in Paris before, but most often she’d viewed it from the comfort and safety of a cabriolet or a carriage.
The few times she’d walked the streets she’d been accompanied by servants and her father or mother.
Alix felt a sharp stab of grief as she thought of her father and the pain propelled her forward, reminding her of why she’d come to Paris; she needed to find her mother.
As she wove through the crowded street, Alix tried to look beyond people’s faces, fearing if she caught someone’s eyes she might wonder if this man or this woman was among those who wished her dead.
Their clothes caught her eyes instead, the fashions another unwelcome reminder of how much had changed.
She had heard that Parisians were rejecting any fashions that smacked of the old regime—the jewels, wigs, and wide skirts—but she was unprepared for the bizarre styles and garish displays of red, white, blue that met her gaze.
A woman strolled by wearing a thin gauze dress and what looked to be nothing under it, and Alix fought the urge to stare.
She heard David’s voice in her head: “Look like you belong, mademoiselle. Don’t be gawking about.
Don’t be stopping, neither. Keep walking.
It makes folks think you’ve got places to go and people waiting on you.
” Thinking of David, she tried to imagine he was with her walking a few steps behind, just out of sight.
A tantalizing aroma rose from the waffle vendors’ carts, tickling her nose, and reminding her she hadn’t eaten in nearly two days.
She smelled butter and eggs, a hint of vanilla, and her mouth flooded with the imagined taste of a crisp waffle dusted with powdered sugar.
For a moment she considered stopping; then she fueled her steps by thinking about what she would ask Madeleine’s chef to prepare.
Alix glanced at the buildings on either side of the street.
She was fairly certain she was going in the right direction, but it was not always easy to find numbers on the facades.
In one of the few letters she had received from her mother, Madeleine had described a bas-relief of frolicking nymphs over the front door.
Surely such a distinctive feature would be easy to find.
With increasingly anxious eyes, she scanned the elegant facades, seeking the distinctive frieze among the columns and ornate brickwork.
From time to time she would linger in an archway in front of a shop window, pretending to examine the display, but really using the reflection in the glass to examine the buildings around her.
At one point, as she struggled to make her way through a crowd seated at an outdoor café, her heart leapt with certainty that she had found it, but the relief turned out to be a grotesque series of gargoyles.
And then, just as she was beginning to fear her tired feet could take her no further, she saw it.
“I like the way her hips roll when she walks,” said the heavyset man in the red, white, and blue striped trousers.
“I dunno,” said his companion, who had been scratching vigorously beneath his red woolen liberty cap.
“With them bum rolls on their backsides and the padding in their tits, it’s hard to know what’s woman and what’s horsehair.
That’s why I likes my women fleshier. When you gets their clothes peeled off, you still got something to squeeze.
” He threw his beefy arms around an imaginary woman, and his companions laughed.
The three men had been following Alix for several blocks, ever since they’d noticed she was unaccompanied.
They’d admired her figure and speculated coarsely on her availability.
Alphonse, the man in the striped trousers, felt certain she was a femme du monde.
Fraze, his friend in the red cap, was less certain.
Gerard, a scrawny young fellow with a spotted complexion and greasy yellow hair, was simply hungry.
They watched as Alix climbed the stairs of an elegant home and knocked on the front door. “Looks like she’s got business there; now can we get something to eat?”
“Quit your whining, Gerard,” Alphonse snapped, never taking his eyes off Alix. “Now what’s she doing? Nobody’s lived in that house for months.”
“So,” said the red-capped man shrugging, “maybe she’s a thief, not a whore.”