Bride of New France Page 4
When Laure stands up, a younger nurse enters the room. The stinking air fills with her words.
“We were sure that girl was going to live. She was talking to us so clearly. She told us that her father, a soldier, would be around to see her in the afternoon.”
“Her father is dead,” Laure says, wishing this new girl would go away. She should have gotten out of bed last night and listened to Mireille at least. Maybe if she had comforted her, things would have turned out differently. What would she tell Madeleine?
“Then the poor soul became convinced that we had her on water. That she was out at sea! We tried to tell her there was no boat. She must have been thinking about being taken down the Seine from the Salpêtrière.”
“She was going to Canada to get married.” Laure wonders if the locket is still under Mireille’s pillow in the dormitory. How useless that little piece of jewellery now seems. What will happen to the soldier waiting for her there?
“Canada? Well, it’s just as well she died, then.” The young nurse looks down at Mireille’s body. “Terrible. Just because we don’t know what to do with them here doesn’t mean they deserve to be sent over there to freeze in the forest.” She pulls the cloth back over Mireille’s face and says to Laure, “It’s best to keep them covered.”
Laure hurries past the sick people in their beds and down the long hallway of the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris before reaching the street. The guard at the door calls after her but she doesn’t turn around. She can think only of air, that she must breathe in something other than the smell of death. Outside, the business of living goes on. Some people, though poor, even dance in front of the cathedral. It is only a beggar, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, who reflects what Laure is feeling. She stares at the old man. Judging by his startled reaction, Laure imagines that nobody has looked at him in days, let alone dropped a coin into his tin cup. He flinches as she comes closer. “What are you waiting for?” she wants to ask him. “Protection? Someone to save you? Things to get better?” He recoils from her angry eyes, shrinking into the dirt. Laure shakes her head and moves on.
The church is old but not as old as the hospital. The carved creatures of centuries past feed on the bodies of the dead. Growing strong on extinguished spirits. It is ghosts that raised you, ghosts that tend to you. You are nothing but a thief. Laure’s thoughts are filled with rage as she stares at the indifferent magnificence of Notre-Dame. How can the old beggar and the crowd around the cathedral fail to see how terrible it all is in the end? They probably don’t know that behind the heavy walls of the building they dance beside there is that awful silent room. That the church they love so much is just an extension of the tired nurse and her rows of sickbeds and offers no consolation at all. Laure is numb to the activity on the parvis. She moves quickly past the shouts and market exchanges. The fine wheels of coloured glass high on the cathedral walls absorb the sun, but they reflect back nothing but hard stone.
Laure heads along the Seine, back to the Salpêtrière. She has nowhere else to go. Her clogs and feet and even her legs are covered in the mud from the road. She stops to drink from the river like a horse. The water reaches the bottom of her stomach and makes it ache. Laure isn’t afraid of the Superior’s wrath, isn’t even afraid of being sent to the Maison de la Force. All Laure cares about is her failure to speak to the dying Mireille. Now it is too late. The God of the Salpêtrière, of Notre-Dame, and the Hôtel-Dieu has robbed her of the chance.
4
It is a different guard at the door when Laure returns to the Salpêtrière. Laure doesn’t really expect to be shown any mercy. She has underestimated so much: the distance of the walk to the hospital and back on an empty stomach, the mud on the road that has reached even her cheeks and turned her into a bedraggled beggar in the eyes of passersby. Any strength she might have found for pleading her case to Luc Aubin or some other guard dissipated at the sight of the dead Bijou.
The guard takes one look at Laure’s dirty hospital dress and asks what dormitory she belongs to. When she refuses to answer, he escorts her down a grand hallway of the hospital, high ceilinged and lined with portraits of hospital officials, to the Superior’s office. The room is spacious, with bright windows that look out onto an expansive garden. Birds chirp and the air is fresh. The Superior is seated at a high-backed chair, a shrewd princess clad in black robes. The expression on her face is merciless. Laure cannot imagine a thing to say that could possibly soften those eyes. The Superior scans Laure’s face and her dishevelled dress as if she is thinking up the best possible punishment for her misdemeanour.
Laure turns as Madame Gage, the dormitory governess, enters the office with her shuffling footsteps. Her big face is filled with compassion, and Laure knows that she will do her best to plead on Laure’s behalf. The Superior arches her eyebrows in anticipation of a story she has heard many times before, some pathetic reason why she should bend the hospital’s rules to help a poor girl. Madame Gage’s eyes remain downcast as she mutters that the Bijoux aren’t accustomed as the others are to disease. The girl had been out of her mind with grief over Mireille’s illness. If only this were true, Laure thinks. The Superior reminds Madame Gage that the Sainte-Claire dormitory is no place for girls who have lost their minds. There are other dormitories for such girls. What sort of skill does this Bijou possess besides the ability to charm her way past our guards and out into the streets? Laure feels the anger rise in her chest at the mocking way the Superior calls her a Bijou, as if she is in fact a girl of loose morals all because she escaped for one day beyond the walls of this prison for the poor.
When the Superior discovers that Laure belongs to the sewing workshop, she orders Madame Gage to call in Madame du Clos. While they wait for the needlework instructor, the Superior moves to her desk and begins filling in documents without uttering a word to Laure, who remains standing beside the chair Madame Gage vacated. A servant carries in a tray of cakes, which the Superior leaves untouched beside her while she works. Finally Madame du Clos arrives in the office from the basement. The Superior extends a hand to the chair, and Madame du Clos takes a seat although she cannot sit still. Her nervous hands flutter, fixing her bonnet, straightening her skirt, twisting her fingers in her lap as if she is tying knots.
Laure can’t imagine how Madame du Clos, whose cheeks are flushed red, can possibly help her out. She has brought with her a sample of Laure’s point de France. It is the finest piece Laure has so far made and is destined to adorn the collar of a noble garment. It is more time consuming than the coarser bobbin lace the less skilled girls work to make, but will not unravel if one of the bars is broken. Only a girl with a fine imagination and the hands of an angel can attempt to create such an elaborate item using only a needle, scissors, and thread. Madame du Clos’ voice trembles as she raises the piece to the light. Laure knows that this strip of lace she has been working on since last fall is one of the finest ever produced in Madame du Clos’ workshop, but she doesn’t understand how it could possibly be useful to show this to the Superior. Using both hands, Madame du Clos passes the lace to the Superior. “It is not good to bring the lace from the basement,” Madame du Clos says. “The colour might spoil. I will need to return it soon.”
The Superior holds the material up over her head to examine it. She studies the stitches, the swirls of foliage and tiny silk bars linking one flower to another. Her fingers trace over the pattern, as if counting the many parts. Laure watches the Superior’s face and detects a flicker of emotion in her eyes as her fingers move across the pattern. She turns to Laure. “Do you know how much this is worth?”
Laure shakes her head.
“It is better for the poor souls that they not know. Better for the craft,” Madame du Clos says.
“Well, of course the value of a piece depends on the hands that make it. Also on that woman’s reputation.” The Superior turns to look out the window at her garden. “Last month nine coaches on the road to Versailles were attacked by criminals. Did yo
u hear about that? Do you know what the thieves were taking the time to steal? An elaborate plot to make away with fifteen headdresses made of lace much like this.”
Laure nods. The story of the stolen headdresses had travelled through a church service. The girls had found it funny picturing the men on horseback coming up behind the ladies bound for Paris and plucking their hats from their heads. Laure had laughed at the thought of these foolish women. How could a girl who spends her day in a basement workshop wearing grey flax be expected to feel sympathy for women dressed in fineries riding in coaches?
“Did you know that some of the women who lost those headdresses are now paupers?” The Superior runs her fingers over the months of Laure’s work. “If you are a smart girl, with the right reputation, someday someone might give their entire life’s fortune, just as those women did, to buy this piece.” She hands back the long strip of lace to Madame du Clos and turns to her garden. “I expect that both yourself and Madame Gage of Sainte-Claire will keep a special eye on this girl. It is always the way that those who cause the most trouble also have the greatest talents. We never know how such girls will turn out.”
The Superior informs Madame Gage that Laure is not to be given any food tonight. “If I so much as hear that a crumb of bread or a sip of water has passed through her lips, then this runaway will end up in a worse state than when she first came here.”
The Superior then addresses Laure. “Women are now advised to turn their backs to the horses when they travel by carriage. So they can see the thieves coming from behind.”
It was the point de France that spared Laure from being transferred to another dormitory or, even worse, to a basement cell or onto the street to fend for herself. Laure feels a tremble starting in her legs. She isn’t sure if it is caused by the Superior’s frightening voice or by the hunger that is making her whole body buzz. Or it could be that underlying it all is the horror she feels knowing that Mireille Langlois is really dead. Laure walks back through the hallways to the dormitory on the arm of Madame Gage, who has returned for her, who tells her that it could have been worse. The Superior is not known to be a merciful woman. She is the one after all who condemns girls to the damp dungeon cells. But Laure cannot imagine feeling worse than she does. She can still smell the Hôtel-Dieu on her skin and is relieved that she doesn’t have to eat dinner.
When she enters the dormitory, the other Sainte-Claire girls, who are combing their hair and straightening their work dresses for the evening meal, grow quiet. Madeleine rushes to Laure’s side and helps her into bed. Before long she is alone in the dormitory, the sound of the girls’ heels growing faint as they make their way down the hallway to eat. Laure’s knees are shaking as she pulls them up to her chin. How could she have been so wrong about Mireille? How could it be that the most beautiful and fortunate among them is now dead? She cannot quiet the tremors for the rest of the night.
Laure is still in bed in the morning when Madame Gage announces to the dormitory the news of Mireille’s death. She does so between the recitation of the Veni Creator hymn and the reading of L’Imitation de Jésus-Christ. In a soft voice, Madame Gage informs the girls that Mireille received all the sacraments including penitence, the final Eucharist, and extreme unction at the Hôtel-Dieu. Some of the girls continue talking, combing their hair, putting on their bonnets, as if she is telling them about work assignments or times for Mass.
A small funeral ceremony will be held in the Salpêtrière chapel after the regular morning Mass. Madame Gage then announces that Madeleine and Laure have been given the morning off from their needlework duties by Madame du Clos to attend the ceremony and to stay afterwards in the dormitory. Laure doubts that the Superior knows about this. An angry murmur rises at the news of this privilege. Madame Gage ignores the dissent and tells the girls to hurry up their toilette and to form a line for Mass. The governess then walks over to Madeleine and hands her two lilies for the ceremony. The other girls look with greedy eyes at the flowers as if they are candy or cheese.
Although Laure is weak from going without food, she rises from her bed at the sight of the flowers. When she stands, she feels for a moment as if she will fall to the floor. She steadies her feet and makes her way to the shelf where Madeleine placed the black shawl after Laure left it in a heap at the foot of her bed the day before. Laure also gets her comb from the shelf, but doesn’t have the energy to run it through the dark tangles. Instead of tying it under her scarf, she leaves her hair long and loose beneath her bonnet. It is forbidden to do so. The other girls whisper and look at Laure as if she is a country witch, but she doesn’t care. Laure’s long, knotty hair is a deliberate cloak to keep them out.
Madame Gage smiles when she sees Laure standing by her bed. She hands her a goblet of water mixed with a few drops of wine. Laure takes a sip and gives the cup back to the governess. When Madeleine comes over to help Laure put her hair under the bonnet, she swats her hand away and reaches instead for the flowers she has laid on the bed. Taking one by the stem, she brings it up to her nose. This is not the first funeral that Laure has attended. When Madame d’Aulnay died three years ago, Laure had worn this same cloak over a blue dress that was lent to her by Madame d’Aulnay’s cousin. After the funeral, the cousin sent Laure back to the Salpêtrière, saying she no longer needed a servant in the house. How deluded Laure had been to think of herself as the daughter of a wealthy woman. She would never be such a thing.
For Mireille’s funeral, Laure has no special dress to wear. This time the funeral Laure is attending feels like her own. She still has no appetite. Seeing Mireille Langlois’s dead face at the Hôtel-Dieu has left Laure feeling too light for the world around her.
The little chapel is so crowded each morning that the girls joke they will burst its walls when they all start singing. This makes them sing louder. Soon they will start building the Eglise Saint-Louis, over which Laure saw the men and the architect deliberating on her way to see Mireille. It will be large enough to hold a morning Mass for all the new women entering the Salpêtrière each day. Also, it will have more space for all the residents with a few coins still jangling in their pockets who want to be buried inside the church. These are the same old couples that when alive give business to the stalls in the Cour Saint-Louis of the Salpêtrière. In the meantime, the little chapel Saint-Denis is crowded each morning and reeks of the rotten bodies of the pensioners who have saved enough money to be buried in it. No amount of flowers or incense can cover the smell of the dead.
Laure usually finds going to morning Mass to be the most frightening part of her day. She is glad it takes place at quarter past six in the morning so she can put it behind her for the rest of the day. The only interesting part about going to church is the chance to hear a good story. If she prays at all in the stuffy little building, it is for the ceremony to end so she can follow the other girls of the Sainte-Claire dormitory into the fresh air and sunlight for the short walk to the dormitory before the start of the workday. But today Laure appreciates being trapped in the chapel. The priest’s Latin murmurings are a perfect echo for the whisperings of her own mind. When she walks up the aisle, she sees the bodies wrapped in shrouds. There are three of them, but Mireille’s is not among them for fear her disease might be contagious, which is ridiculous, Laure thinks, since she died of starvation really. But the hospital administrators are so afraid of the poor residents and their diseases. The day before yesterday there had only been one. Madame Gage stands beside Laure and Madeleine for the Mass.
She knows the story going from ear to ear today is the one of Mireille Langlois’ life. Her father was a prince, a washing girl says. It was her mother who couldn’t stand to see her. So pretty. Couldn’t have her around the house after the father died. She’d never get a second husband. Had to get rid of her. Usually Laure is glad to hear these exaggerated, invented stories. She would run the rumours around in her head, adding new details, while her fingers repeated hundreds of minuscule stitches in the basement throughou
t the long workday. But today Laure wants to scream at all the indifferent girls who are hungry for the usual entertainment. Unaware that one day, maybe sooner than they think, it will be their body lying near the altar, covered and silent. What kind of stories will they want to leave behind? Their lies make her sick.
Mireille is being buried along with two other women and a boy. The priest assures the dozen or so people gathered that one of the stinking mounds had died a quiet death, an old death. The best kind. The other woman had died in childbirth. There was no mention made of the baby. Presumably, it had survived and was fighting it out with the tough little bundles known as the enfants-trouvés. If a child of the crèche lived through its first year, it was because they were able to get the greatest share of the milk of some malnourished mother. For the privilege of having her baby in secret, a nursing woman at the Salpêtrière would be assigned a few orphaned nurselings to feed from her. Some of the milk from the cows kept in the Salpêtrière pasture was also destined for the crèche, but it was so diluted with water and flour that only the most determined infants could suck any life out of the mixture.
Several women had been brought up in chains from the Maison de la Force for the funeral, and they wailed without restraint when the final blessing was pronounced over the dead mother. Girls from other dormitories would have been punished for filling the church with such unholy lament. Mourning, like everything else, was best done in silence. But these women had nothing to lose. A few extra lashes, maybe a missed meal, but those things were expected, ordinary for them. Screaming at the loss of a friend is worth the extra punishment. Laure wishes she could join them. The last soul being put to rest is that of a small boy who arrived last week with a cough common to street dwellers. His father stood at the front of the church, his hat in his hand, a country man in shabby clothing. Laure covers her nose with her scarf. If she tries hard enough, she can still smell the lavender of Madame d’Aulnay’s perfume on it.