Elizabeth Massie - Naked, on the Edge

“You take care, now,” said Marie. “He’ll be busy and so will you. He’s not a doctor to make excuses for your absences. Madame Duban may be old but she can smell the scent of sex like a horse can smell fire.”

Danielle grinned. “Then I’ll steal some of her cheap perfume. And we’ll make time. And aren’t you just jealous?”

Marie put the empty bucket down by Danielle’s stool and put the wooden churn lid in place. “I have my fun, don’t worry about me.”

The girls laughed heartily.

With the onset of April, planting time arrived. The Little Farm’s plots were plowed by one of the imbecile boys from the hospital who was strong enough to guide the sharp furrowing blade behind the old sorrel gelding. The girls followed with bags of seeds on their hips, sprinkling the soil and covering up the grooves with their bare feet. It took several days to put in the rows of beets, cabbage, beans and onions.

Yet her days were more pleasant, in spite of back-bending work and the flies, for at night she sneaked to the barn to make love with Alexandre on the blanket in the straw. Each encounter was a flurry of heat and joy, followed by the muffle of pounding hearts and the sounds of Paris’s night streets. When lovemaking was done and their passions spent, Danielle lay in his arms and asked him about his day. How many shoes had he repaired, how many new pairs had be requisitioned? Had he a cobbler’s shop within the institution, or did he carry with him tools from room to room? What was it like in the prison? She had seen only the kitchen and the cellar; did the men foam at the mouth and chew off their fingers?

But Alexandre gave up little detail. He had a wooden workbox with tools, purchased for him by Monsieur LeBeque, which he took around with him when he was called for repairs. Monsieur LeBeque himself had requested a new pair of boots for which he supplied the leather.

“It is work I know,” Alexandre said simply. “I shall do it until I must find something else.”

“Why would you need to find something else?” asked Danielle. “I know your lodging is poor, but surely they shall find a room for you soon.”

“I do not want a room, I want this barn and you.”

It was on the fourth night that, lying against Alexandre’s chest, her fingers probing his nipples, she looked at the makeshift shelf and said, “What is that book there, my dearest? The black leather?”

Alexandre wiped his mouth and then his chest, pushing Danielle’s fingers away. “It’s a Bible.”

“You?” marveled the maid. “A God-fearing man? I’ve yet to hear you preach to me, only to cry into my shoulder, ‘Dear God, dear God!’ in the height of your thrusting!”

Alexandre didn’t return her laugh. His jaw tightened, drawing up the hairs on his chin. “Don’t blaspheme.”

“I’m not, Alex,” said Danielle. Pushing up on her elbow, she took the book from its beam and brought it down to the hay. “I was raised Catholic, I know the wages of blasphemy, at least in the eyes of the clergy.”

“Put it back, please,” said Alexandre. He held out his palm, and the insistence in his voice taunted Danielle and made her laugh the more. She sat abruptly and flipped open the pages. “Book of Temptations? Book of Trials? I’ve not seen these in a Bible. What is this, truly?”

Alexandre shoved Danielle viciously against the stall’s scabby wall and snatched the book away. “I said put it back! Do you not know what to leave alone?”

Danielle blew a furious breath through her teeth. “Oh, but I do now, Monsieur Demanche! It is you I shall leave alone!” She scrambled to her feet, knocking straw dust from her breasts and arms. “I’m never worth more than a few days, anyway! Ask the doctors!”

But Alexandre’s face softened, and he grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Don’t leave me. I’ve been alone always. I couldn’t bear it should you go. Please, dearest Danielle, I’m sorry.” His voice broke and went silent. And she held him again then, and knew that she loved him.

The following day, a cloudy Sunday, Danielle, Marie and Clarice attended mass under the stern supervision of Madame Duban at the Chapel of St Matthew three blocks over, and then returned to Bicetre, for in spite of the Lord’s admonition to remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy, there were chores on Sunday as on any day of the week. Danielle had peered inside the barn before Madame had ushered them out the gate of the stone wall, hoping to convince Alexandre to join them, but the man was not there.

Surely he hasn’t shoes to mend on Sunday, she thought. Perhaps cows’ udders cannot wait, but a man’s bare feet can.

They returned in the mid-afternoon, and the barn was still empty. “Perhaps he’s gone to his own church,” Danielle said to herself as she gathered her stool and buckets and settled down by the pear trees. “His own peculiar Bible, perhaps his own peculiar sect. No matter.” She selected the first of the four cows and brought her down for the milking. The teats were slathered in feces, and she spent a good five minutes scrubbing off what she could. Shortly afterwards, Marie came out and took her by the sleeve. “Do you know what they’ve brought to Bicetre? Do you know what they have set up in the courtyard on the other side of the hospital?”

Danielle shook her head.

“Guess!”

“No, Marie.”

“The Louisette! The beheading machine! It’s been brought from the Cour du Commerce to us this very morning. Madame Duban told me just a moment ago that as she was crossing the courtyard the wagon came in, bearing the beams and blade. They mean to test it on sheep, and on the unclaimed corpses of prisoners and patients to see if it is ready.”

Danielle let go of the soft teat and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I should like to see it,” she said. “The Assembly promised the poor should have the right to a quick death as do the wealthy. No more rack or garrote for those who are covered with an honest day’s filth. How can we get to see it, Marie?”

“I don’t know. Unless you’d like to go as one of the corpses. I could tell Madame Duban about your trysts with Alexandre and she would choke you for certain.”

“Ah!” screeched Danielle gleefully, and she flicked milk from her fingers at her friend. “You are dreadful!”

When there was no more milk to be had from this cow, Danielle led her back to the paddock to get the last of the four who were producing. She hung the bucket on the fence post and kicked at the wall-eyed creature. “Come on, you little slut,” she said. “I let you have your peace until last. And don’t flare those nostrils at me.”

“Danielle!”

Danielle whirled about. Alexandre was there, hands on his hips, a line of sweat on his forehead.

“Dearest!” said Danielle. “I’d come for you for mass, but you weren’t there. Where have you been?”

“Shoes for Monsieur LeBeque,” said Alexandre. “He’s been after me these past days to come measure a new pair for himself and this morning insisted I take care of that business.”

“Indeed? Shoes on Sunday? God will not approve, I can tell you that.”

“Nor do I,” said Alexandre. “Come with me to the barn. I must speak with you.”

He glanced around anxiously, to the pear trees, the wall, the kitchen door up the path.

“I’ve got milking,” said Danielle. “The cook makes a great deal of bread on Sunday afternoon to last the week, though we aren’t supposed to labour on the Lord’s Day. It cannot wait. But I’ll come tonight as I’ve always—”

“Tonight I shall be gone.”

“Gone? Beloved, no, you cannot…”

“And you with me, yes? Dearest Danielle, I could not leave without you, but we must be very careful.”