Paris
October 7, 1793
God help me, Désirée said to herself, as she tried to ignore
the dull, persistent ache of her empty stomach, I cannot
even make a living as a whore.
The fashionable hurried past her, eager to
escape the chilly night air, toward the bright lights of the
cafés, restaurants, theaters, and brothels of the
Palais-Égalité. Along the stately length of the stone
arcades, the lamps burned overhead, illuminating the
restless swirl of humanity in its never-ending pursuit of
amusement.
The women lurking beneath the rows of sculpted
lime trees were banished from the light. Patient as the poor
who once had formed lines before church doors to receive
bread and soup, they waited, unsmiling, their eyes vacant,
until some solitary figure from the milling crowd might fade
away from the glitter and join them in the shadows.
She had waited hours in the dark, since before
the twilight had fallen on a gray, wet October day, and seen
the other women come and go, while only one man had
approached her.
“You,” he had said, out of the darkness,
plucking her sleeve. “You’ve a pretty figure. What’s your
price?”
She had jerked about, surprised. He was
middle-aged, stout, his neat frock coat cut in last year’s
fashion: a bourgeois from the provinces enjoying a holiday
in Paris.
“What’s your price?” he repeated.
That, at least, she knew; she had asked some of
the other women what the going rate was. Those who had not
laughed at her, snickering about amateurs, had been friendly
enough. “Th-three sous, and the price of the room.”
“If they rent by the hour, then. I’m not looking
to spend the whole night with you.”
“Yes, citizen.” She turned and gestured at the
arcades, toward a small hotel that charged lower prices and
turned a blind eye to what might go on behind closed doors
(as did all hotels in the Palais-Égalité, even after the
pleasure gardens had been “officially” purged of
prostitutes). The man followed her.
They had nearly reached the hotel when abruptly
he thrust his face in hers, squinting in the bright
lamplight shining through a café window.
“No wonder you women skulk in the shadows. How
old are you?”
“I--twenty-nine.” She had shaved five years from
her true age, but evidently no one wanted anything over
twenty-five or, better, twenty--
“And new to this line of work, from your manner.
Well, I’m not paying for mutton dressed as lamb.”
She had gazed after his retreating figure for a
moment, speechless. At last she had heaved a long sigh, half
in regret, half in relief, and fingered the coins in her
pocket. Her last two sous--less than the price of a single
meal. She had preserved her virtue for another half hour,
and soon would virtuously starve.
Of all the misnamed folk in the world, she
mused, not for the first time, I am the most absurd. Désirée
. . . but no one desires me, even as a whore.
“How much?” said a voice, a different voice,
close beside her. “Not too much, I hope--you’re a little
long in the tooth to be charging full price.”
“Two sous,” she muttered.
“Two sous for you? I don’t pay two sous for any
trollop who’s past sixteen.” He ran his hands over her,
snickering as he prodded her. “Not much meat on those bones.
Half a sou for a quick one in the alley.” His hand was on
her breast, clutching and kneading at her. “What do you say,
little chicken?”
“I say you keep it to yourself until you’ve
paid,” she said between clenched teeth, her cheeks burning,
as she attempted to push him away, “and don’t paw at me in
public.”
“Don’t paw at me in public!” he repeated in a
high-pitched voice, with a sneer. “Dear me, how modest we
are.” His other hand slid down and grabbed at her through
her skirt, between her legs. The prodding, grasping fingers
fumbled and groped and would not, would not let go of her.
She wrenched her arm away and slapped him.
“You little bitch!”
Suddenly her ears were ringing, and a sharp pain
was creeping along the line of her cheekbone to the back of
her skull, and the world was spinning about her. She was
sitting--no, lying--on something cold and wet. Struggling up
to a sitting position, through a dim haze she saw him dust
off his hands and saunter away.
“Bastard,” said one woman, a shabby one near her
own age, as another laughed drunkenly and swayed off in
pursuit of a customer. “All bastards, all of them.” She
reached down and offered her hand. “Here.”
Désirée lurched to her knees, gritting her teeth
in an attempt to swallow back her despair. The skirt of her
green gown, her last halfway decent dress, was dripping and
smeared with mud.
“Mademoiselle?” said a man’s voice beside her.
“Are you all right?”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, opened
them, and found herself gazing up at a tall, lean man in a
shabby overcoat. “Are you all right?” the man repeated,
bending toward her. “That was quite a blow he gave you.
Better you should sit down--you don’t want to faint. Someone
might seize his opportunity to rob you.”
“Rob me--” she exclaimed, and all at once, to
her hideous embarrassment, she burst into violent, gasping
sobs. “Oh, dear God, if only there were something in my
pocket to steal!”
The stranger shook his head and offered her a
hand to help her to her feet. “Come, come, it can’t be all
that bad--”
“Yes, it is that bad!” she screamed, no longer
caring who might hear her. “What do you know about it? Look
at me! Just a useless woman whom no one wants, not even as a
whore, and with two sous to call her own!”
“Here, now,” he said, handing her a handkerchief
and drawing her aside, away from the other women, “dry your
eyes, squeeze out your skirts, and let’s get something warm
inside you. You’ve not eaten, I suppose?”
“Eaten . . .” When had she eaten last? “Not
since yesterday morning. Some bread.”
“Come with me.”
Dazed, Désirée followed him. He strode along
with the easy step of one who was accustomed to walking,
leading her out of the Palais-Égalité to the narrow side
streets west of the gardens, at last pausing before a food
stall whose owner had not yet hung up his shutters. “Here,
some soup will do you good.”
She glanced up at him as he pulled out a few
crumpled assignats for the soup seller. Her companion was a
lean, dark-haired man of forty or so. A broad-brimmed,
low-crowned round hat shadowed a long, stern face, which she
could just make out in the gloom, though she caught the
glitter of eyes in the feeble glimmer from the soup seller’s
lantern. The man’s clothes were less than impressive; he
wore an old, well-worn black worsted suit that might have
belonged to a lawyer’s clerk, and hanging open over that a
dark overcoat of indeterminate color, which once had been of
good quality before moths and the passage of time had
ravaged it.
“You’re very kind, citizen,” she said, avoiding
his gaze. “After what I said to you. Anyone else would have
pushed me into the mud again for such insolence.”
“Such men are swine. You’ve not been long in
your trade, have you?”
“Only today. I had no more money, and nothing to
eat, and the rent is due. And there’s no work in Paris, at
least nothing I know how to do.”
The soup seller put a bowl and spoon before her.
She seized the spoon and began wolfing down the soup. Oh,
the exquisite feeling of having something in her stomach at
last, vegetables, a little tough meat, and plenty of thick
broth! The tall man watched her, smiling.
“Better?”
She glanced up at him, wishing she could scrape
the bowl out with her finger to get up the last few drops.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure, citizeness. You’re well-spoken,”
he added, turning away from the stall. “Who and what are
you, for God’s sake?”
“My father was the second son of a gentleman and
owned a little land, but we never had two sous to rub
together, and we lost the few dues from the property when
the Revolution abolished them. Then my father died, two
years ago, but not before he’d gambled away most of what we
had; and I had to sell our property to settle his debts. I
had a fiancé, but he jilted me in the end, because I had no
fortune.” An old, monotonous story, one everyone had heard a
dozen times before. She paused, but he merely nodded.
“So I came to Paris as companion to my mother’s
cousin, who’s married to a rich man. Then her husband made
advances, and when I--when I kicked him, he threw me out.
That was four months ago. I can’t get any work. I don’t know
any trade besides sewing, and half the dressmakers have shut
up their shops and the other half aren’t hiring anyone new.
I’ve sold everything I had, my bits of jewelry, my books,
even my clothes. So at last I came here, to offer the only
thing I had left to sell, but it seems I’m no good even for
that.” Her stomach rumbled and she clasped her hands over
it, embarrassed.
“I think your appetite wants more than some
soup,” her unexpected savior observed. “There’s an
eating-house nearby. Come along.”
She blinked away tears, so weary she had no
strength left to resist. “A favor for a favor--that’s it,
isn’t it? Do whatever you want. You can have me for the
whole night if you like. At least the room will be warm.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not looking for a
whore. Let’s say,” he continued, as he steered her down the
street and gestured to a narrow alley, “that I think you’ve
had more than your share of ill luck. The least I can do,
out of Christian charity, is to give you a hot meal.”
“Thank you, citizen,” she whispered, wondering
how many months it had been since she had heard the word
“Christian” used without derision. Many of the brutalized,
bitter sansculottes, day laborers, and prostitutes she now
saw every day had little love for the Catholic Church which,
for centuries, had taxed them and dictated to them while its
cynical, worldly bishops flaunted their wealth. Though the
Church, in its present state-sanctioned, revolutionary form,
was still tolerated, anticlerical feeling had been swelling
of late.
“This way--it’s not far now.”
He gestured her onward and she preceded him into
the empty alley, feeling her way along. The closest street
lamp was far behind them and the chinks of light from behind
barred shutters, and the tiny new moon above, cast only a
meager light, barely enough for her to see her groping hands.
“Are you sure this is the way?”
“It’s a shortcut. Keep going.”
She stumbled on a loose cobble, hearing it
clatter like a pistol shot in the silence, and stopped
short, heart pounding. She was all alone here with him,
isolated and helpless, just as he wanted her.
Fool, she told herself. You credulous little fool.
She was going to be raped in an alley, by a
degenerate with unnatural desires that a decent woman should
not even know of, for the price of a bowl of soup.
She twisted about, but in his dark coat and
broad hat he was invisible in the murk.
“Please--please don’t hurt me. I said you could
do whatever you wanted. Just don’t hurt me.”
Now she could hear his breath, close by in the
darkness. His arm slid about her from behind, clutching her
to him until she felt the warmth of his body.
“I told you,” he murmured, “I don’t want that
from you.”
“Then what--”
He whispered a few words. She thought they might
be “May God forgive me” in the last instant before the knife
was at her throat.