First tango in paris, p.11
First Tango in Paris, page 11
“That didn’t take much courage,” Ryan said, returning to his scornful manner and lighting a cigarette.
But Eva didn’t let his attitude faze her and told them how a French dentist possibly fixed Marie’s crooked teeth—by using pliers to straighten them. When Ryan shrugged, Eva reminded them that anesthesia and other painkillers were probably scarce back then, but he said, “How about a good shot of schnapps, or whatever was popular in Vienna at the time?” He laughed.
Brigitte wanted to slap him. Instead, she said, “I doubt if they would have risked spoiling their valuable bargaining chip. They probably convinced her she owed it to her family and her country and guilted her into enduring the pain.” She knew a lot about bargaining chips and guilt trips.
Eva smiled again, in seeming agreement. “Yes. I like to think the dentist used the other method I read about—a metal band with gold wires through it that encircled the problem teeth and gradually straightened them. Even that couldn’t have felt too pleasant.”
Brigitte sighed. “Yes. That would have been more humane, though still probably uncomfortable. All this reminds me of Chinese foot binding. We consider that barbaric, but women in our society will go to painful extremes to make ourselves attractive.” God knows she’d been guilty of that.
Leigh spoke up in her usual blunt manner. “All this is interesting, but I’m getting wet. You were talking about Marie Antoinette’s courage. Can you finish your point so we can go somewhere dry?”
Ryan nodded vigorously, though Clover and Emily didn’t seem to mind the dampness.
“Sorry,” Eva said. “I’ll be brief. I see Marie as both courageous and innocent. We’ll drive by the Place de la Concorde later today, and I want you to think about her final words before the blade of the guillotine dropped: Pardon me, sir. I meant not to do it. Any idea what she was talking about?”
“A clear admission of guilt if I ever heard one,” Ryan said, appearing vindicated. “She was probably apologizing for saying Let them eat cake and ignoring the peasants’ demands.”
Though Brigitte chuckled along with the others, she didn’t like herself for doing so. It was so easy to stomp on the underdog. “I doubt that’s it. Tell us, Eva.” She had to give Eva credit for trumping her in the research department.
Eva appeared satisfied, as if she’d finally won a point in a game only she knew the rules to. “After she climbed the scaffold, she accidentally stepped on the executioner’s foot.”
Clover and Emily looked horrified, and even Ryan and Leigh stopped fidgeting.
“If the Princess de Lamballe wasn’t her lover, she should have been,” Brigitte said. “She deserved the love of a faithful woman.”
“Exactly.” Eva gazed at her with an expression of triumph and something else, something more intimate.
“Thanks for answering my question,” Brigitte said. “I think I’m going to enjoy this tour.” Perhaps Eva wasn’t as boring and dictatorial as she’d thought. Perhaps they could even become friends.
*
Finally, a major breakthrough, Eva thought as she led the group toward the spot where the van was scheduled to meet them. Not only was Brigitte sympathetic toward lesbians, but possibly she was one herself. She herself had practically been born a lesbian, and seeing the way her father treated her mother had confirmed her choice long ago. She’d loved to cuddle up in the lap of her favorite babysitter and rest her head on her comforting breasts.
She ushered her charges from the damp Tuileries gardens into their waiting van and directed the driver to take them past the site of the old Temple prison, in the Marais district. Nowadays, the Metro sign was the only reminder of it. She tried to condense her comments about the Temple’s history as a medieval fortress, realizing now that the group preferred to focus on the more personal aspects of the story of Marie Antoinette and her associates.
Ryan called from the back row of seats, where he and Clover sat peering out through the misting rain at the busy street. “Exactly what happened to the Princess de Lamballe?” She was surprised he recalled her earlier comment. She never knew if he was listening or thinking up nasty remarks. But she instructed the driver to take them along the right bank of the Seine, to the Rue du Roi de Sicile, before they went to the Temple.
“It’s not a pretty story,” she said. “Everyone up for the gory details?”
Though Clover and Emily blanched, all of them nodded as they drove through the city.
“The princess was separated from the royal family when they were in the Temple and imprisoned in La Force, a nearby jail reserved primarily for prostitutes,” she said. Brigitte visibly stiffened, and Eva absently wondered why. “The other women’s rough language and taunts horrified the princess, who was sensitive and nervous. However, she did have some companions confined with her—a female friend and the friend’s daughter.”
If that part of the story had bothered Brigitte, Eva hoped the grisly details, which she’d have to mention before long, wouldn’t upset her. She provided a little background to ease into the Princess de Lamballe’s fate. “Though the princess’s friends were released, the princess refused to say she hated the queen and the monarchy. So the judges declared her guilty and handed her over to the mob in the courtyard.”
Everyone sighed, and their van pulled to the curb. “Here’s where the entrance to the La Force prison once stood,” she said, and they all peered out the window.
“What did the mob do to her?” Leigh asked the question this time.
“No one knows exactly. Have any of you come across any details? Brigitte? Obviously you like to research such things.”
Brigitte gazed at her, seeming startled she’d finally referred to the day they met in the library. Brigitte shook her head. “Not many I want to recall. I read that they raped her, bit off her breasts, and cut out her entrails. Yet they tried to keep her alive so she’d suffer. Evidently, they hated Marie Antoinette and took their feelings out on the princess, her supposed lover. Royal gay bashing.”
The fierceness in Brigitte’s tone and the agony in her eyes revealed Brigitte’s distress, and Eva realized she’d added some black humor to cover her disgust. Brigitte had shown herself able to deal with gore readily, so evidently something else bothered her. Eva sighed. Maybe she’d learn the secret later in the week. One thing was certain—Brigitte really was interested in the women of Paris. How nice they had something like this in common.
She resumed her story. “The pamphleteers, who were the paparazzi of the day, took full advantage of each famous victim of the French Revolution in order to sell their scandal sheets.”
Even Ryan looked like he disapproved of the way certain members of the media abused their power to form people’s opinions. This group was much more responsive than any she’d led so far. She could do this. She motioned for the driver to leave the site of La Force, and they pulled out into the swirling traffic just behind a huge blue-and-white tour bus that lumbered in front of them for a while. “I doubt if we’ll ever know the truth, but I did find a reputable account of a clerk who actually inventoried the contents of the princess’s pockets. So at least the crowd didn’t carry her maimed body naked through the streets.”
Leigh frowned. “I doubt that mattered much to her at that point.”
“Exactly.” Eva nodded. “However, the clerk does say her head was missing, so the crowd probably stuck it on a pike and paraded it around as a victory sign. Supposedly they even carried it by the prison cell of Marie Antoinette in the Temple and held it high so she could see it.”
Emily and Clover sighed again as they pulled away from the curb, and Brigitte said, “Marie Antoinette reportedly fainted when she heard what had happened to the princess.”
Eva turned around to face the women. “Yes, but most sources say she refused to look out the window of the Temple prison as the mob paraded her severed head past it.”
Silence filled the bus for a few moments until Emily said quietly, “It’s hard to imagine such outrageous behavior, given our civilized society today.”
Clover nodded, but Brigitte winced and spoke up. “Not if you live where I do.”
Eva wanted to ask Brigitte to elaborate, but Brigitte seemed so upset that Eva merely nodded again and turned back around. Brigitte looked like she was taking some of her private time, here in the bus, and Eva would respect that.
What was going on in Brigitte’s head, which thankfully was still very much attached to her sumptuous body? Maybe they could spend some time together so Eva could find the answers to some of her questions about this mysterious American.
Chapter Thirteen
All these prisons were making Brigitte’s head spin, so she tapped Eva on the shoulder as they drove through the sloshy streets and asked her to help distinguish between the sites they’d just visited. When she touched Eva, her fingers tingled and Eva jumped. Odd. They were both as on edge as if they were the ones headed to jail. Or maybe it was something else.
What was going on between her and Eva? Could they be attracted to each other?
She had a difficult time digesting Eva’s physical response. The idea of feeling anything meaningful for Eva confounded her. They didn’t have much in common except their admiration for the women of Paris, their love of research, their enjoyment of jazz…Well, maybe their reaction wasn’t so strange. But Brigitte wanted to find someone who liked her instead of antagonized her the way Eva had—until today.
She barely registered Eva’s no-doubt detailed catalogue of the different palaces and prisons, ending with, “…and we’ll be able to tour the Conciergerie, which is our next stop, after lunch.”
Good. She needed a break from the roller-coaster feelings that listening to Eva and being so near her were causing, and she was starving.
They ate at a small, expensive café near Notre-Dame cathedral, where Brigitte sat back and observed how easily Eva talked with the others. Eva was very attractive, and as she held her glass of pinot noir to her lips, Brigitte had a sudden urge to take Eva’s plump lower lip between her teeth and taste it.
But she ordered another glass of merlot instead.
By the time they reached the Conciergerie, she felt warm and content, despite the cold rain pelting them as they drove up to the huge gray building. But her mood instantly changed. The medieval towers loomed over her like giants wearing gray-slate dunce caps, their mottled brown-stone exterior magnifying the gloom of the day.
Once they were inside, Eva took charge. “When the members of the royal family were imprisoned in the Temple, they were constantly exposed to damp, cold conditions, but the Conciergerie was much worse,” she said as she led them down a narrow corridor. She explained that some of the royal family members became ill in the Temple, especially Marie Antoinette’s son, who was sickly anyway. “But Marie,” she said, “suffered even more than before from the harsh conditions, as you can imagine just by being here.” She explained that the royal family had been able to live together in the Temple, unless a hateful jailer kept them apart temporarily. They’d even had a maid, books, writing material, decent furniture, and some privacy. “Here,” Eva said, “Marie was isolated in the small cell you’ll see in a minute.”
As they entered a claustrophobic hall, quite a change from the openness of Marie Antoinette’s elegant Trianon and farm-like hamlet, Brigitte shivered. She suddenly longed for the summer heat of New Orleans and the warmth of Rosa’s smile. Eva’s voice began to fade into the distance.
Brigitte touched the cold wall of the hall they walked through and then found herself forced to bow her head in order to walk through a low door. A rough-looking man sneered at her, and a deep sense of mourning filled her. Her husband was gone, beheaded, and the new French government had taken her beloved son and sent him to live with a shoemaker.
She examined her loose-fitting black dress, made of a much-cheaper fabric than she was accustomed to, and ran her hand through her hair. It was unaccountably thin, and the lock of it she drew in front of her was white, though it didn’t feel powdered. Ugh. It was filthy, and something crawled in it, making her want to claw at her scalp. She blinked—she could see out of only one eye! What had happened to her, and where was she?
Coins clinked, and she looked up with blurry vision at two leering men who stood outside staring at her through her barred door. They moved on after an eternity, and then a vile-looking couple gawked at her through her open door. She felt like one of the wild animals the nobility customarily kept for entertainment and spectacle. The couple taunted her, yet finally left her alone. Hopefully the wretched viewing hours had ended.
She coughed—or, rather, hacked—repeatedly, which made something gush from between her legs and trickle down them. Rather than embarrass herself by letting what she knew instinctively was blood stream onto the floor, she tottered to one of the two rickety chairs in the small room. At least her dark dress wouldn’t show the stains, and she had a window to look out of, a crucifix on her wall, and a prayer book.
After she regained a little strength, she wet a rag in her stone water basin and retired behind her privacy screen to attempt to clean the sticky mess from herself. Then, exhausted, she trudged to her small trestle bed and lay down in her tiny kingdom. Only her plum-colored, high-heeled slippers, which rested at the side of her lumpy bed, remained—her sole reminder of her once-extravagant wardrobe.
As the light faded in her cell, the prisoners in the ones nearby began to moan, their groans keeping her awake. At least she had a bed and a blanket. The other prisoners slept on straw and used it to cover themselves. She’d once had a life of extreme luxury, but now it had ended. Oh, how she missed her poor Louis, and her two remaining children, and her faithful Lamballe.
“Modern scholars believe Marie Antoinette may have had uterine cancer.”
Brigitte shook her head at the sound of Eva’s voice, trying to refocus. She glanced around the small, dark cell in which she and the rest of their group stood.
Damn, she’d slipped into the thoughts of Marie Antoinette so completely, for a few minutes she’d almost become her. Why couldn’t she control her fantasies like she used to? Her vivid dream about Simone seemed to have affected her in a drastic way, let loose a coping mechanism she’d always been able to use for her own purposes.
She trembled. What a terrible place to stay. How Marie Antoinette must have suffered. She gripped the cold stone wall to steady herself.
Eva stopped talking long enough to glance at her with a mixture of alarm and concern.
Wonderful. Brigitte shook her head once more. Now she’d set Eva off again. And they’d been getting along so well.
*
Every word Eva tried to roll up her throat and out of her mouth seemed like a boulder that might fall back down and crush her internally. She tried to describe how horrible the conditions here in this stone cell had been for Marie, but she couldn’t think of anything but her father’s eyes aimed at her during lunch.
Why hadn’t she remembered that café was one of his favorites? Was she purposely putting herself in his way? But by now he and her mother should be enjoying themselves away from the hot, crowded city.
Seeing him there with one of his women had unleashed murderous thoughts about him. Why wasn’t he at the seashore with Mother, like he was supposed to be? He must have driven her there and dumped her. But he was definitely back in Paris and had sat there smoking, his eyes constantly flitting over at Brigitte.
Thank God he didn’t seem to have seen Eva. She hadn’t greeted him because she didn’t want to be forced to introduce him to any of her group, especially the alluring Brigitte, who was just his type. And she certainly didn’t want to meet the woman he was with. Oh, he and Ryan would have seen eye to eye immediately, and she’d have gladly sent them off together. But she didn’t trust him around any woman.
To make things worse, Brigitte had just zoned out again, like she had in Marie Antoinette’s bedchamber at Versailles. Did she have an aversion to bedrooms? Eva should have felt like laughing at her own idea, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood there heaving words from her throat and trying to lob them at those few members of her group who appeared to be listening.
She should have been excited to be here in this ancient, revered building. Someday she hoped to serve here as part of the Bar Council. She’d have to spend long apprentice years as a lawyer before that. Maybe eventually she’d become a member of the French Court of Cassation, the highest court in the land. She’d have more prestige than her father, who’d sold out by accepting a lucrative job as a corporate lawyer.
She stopped and caught a breath. Here she was, in a narrow cell, trying to leverage words out of her mouth for a tiny audience, yet she dreamed of being a member of the highest court in France. How ridiculous. If Brigitte would just shake herself out of her stupor, return from wherever she’d gone, and show even a flicker of interest in the presentation, maybe her words would stream out like they had yesterday afternoon at the hamlet.
But why did she let Brigitte have such an effect on her? It was almost stronger than her father’s power over her, and she resented both of them.
Emily and Clover seemed focused on her, their eyes kind. Leigh and Ryan appeared restless, occasionally walking over to the one window in the gray cell or staring at the meager furnishings, but they did seem to be covertly listening. However, Brigitte stood near the bed like a stone, apparently caught up in her own inner drama. In other words, she was bored, even though she’d refused to admit it even when Eva had questioned her directly yesterday. Well, she’d merely asserted her own rights, not commented on Eva’s ability to maintain her interest.
