winced as if he had struck her. Without a word, she handed him the cloak of thick, felted wool that had belonged to his father. He put the coat on, fastening it tight under his chin and pulling the hood well forward to cover his face. They left the apartment in a grim mood, heading toward the Hôtel Dieu.
Silence gnawed at them, interrupted only by her convulsive coughs and sporadic murmurs. He avoided looking at her. At the Hôtel Dieu, under the scrutiny of the same watchman, he pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. She tried to kiss him, but he averted his head. If he showed his mother any love now, he knew he would be trapped in this place with her forever.
“Go inside, Mother, where it is warmer,” he whispered.
She clutched him to her with surprising strength. “I forgive you, son,” she said. “I hope someday you will forgive me.”
He wrenched himself away from her and ran.
The gossip at the fountains told him the wigmaker was looking for him for revenge. Paris became a forbidden city—a place of waiting punishment and dishonor.
From the boulevard du Temple he followed the route back toward his old home in the mountains. He was surprised to discover the trail was narrower than he remembered, and several new homes had sprung up next to it. So much had changed that he became unsure if he was still on the right path. He wondered what Plomb du Cantal would be like. But a volcanic mountain was a mountain like any other, where he would have to fight for a miserable existence. The prospect of a lifetime toiling in the coal trade, only to reenact his father’s final tragedy, was unsettling to him.
Halfway through the journey, Henri sat and rested under a leafless chestnut tree where his family had paused many times before. Ahead, the road forked. The unfamiliar path, which had always seemed alluring, now beckoned him to explore. There was no one to tell him what to do. He abruptly changed his mind.
Instead of returning to the mountains, he would go south to Marseille. The fantastic stories he had heard from the water carriers were still fresh in his mind. He imagined a city of wealth, adventure, and opportunity. It was also a distant land, far enough for him to be inconspicuous among the other strangers. He would find work there, and—most important of all—an ocean, where he could get a job at the port. He was young and alone. The sea offered the most exciting prospect he could hope for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marseille,
1773
T hree months later, in mid-spring, Henri reached his destina- tion. It was noon, and Marseille was veiled in a light rain. He was footsore and hungry after a long journey, one he had survived through begging alms from religious houses and, occasionally, petty thievery. Unlike his picturesque fantasies, the city that stood before him was stricken with poverty and pestilence, and filled with refugees like himself. Outlines of sailing ships bobbed on the murky waters. The port and its waterside were clogged with animal and human waste, spilling a vile smell into the surrounding coast. The rats played on the dock under a dripping sky.
The noise of boat passengers shouting in the harbor rose to a hysterical pitch; animals crowed, barked, and neighed; and the rattling chains of ships’ anchors being dropped through portholes roared like thunder. The sweeping rain added moisture to the muddy ground, and stagnant water collected in green puddles.
Sailors from every nation strolled the twisted streets looking for whores. Brigands lurked in alleyways, waiting for an opportunity to rob travelers of what little money they might have. Peasants from the nearby countryside poured into the marketplace to exchange their supplies of meat, milk, and eggs for the cargos of grain and flour that arrived on the ships from America.
Henri watched in amazement. His stomach rumbled, a reminder of how hungry he was. He searched his pockets in vain, not sure what to do next. There must be some way he could
Silence gnawed at them, interrupted only by her convulsive coughs and sporadic murmurs. He avoided looking at her. At the Hôtel Dieu, under the scrutiny of the same watchman, he pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. She tried to kiss him, but he averted his head. If he showed his mother any love now, he knew he would be trapped in this place with her forever.
“Go inside, Mother, where it is warmer,” he whispered.
She clutched him to her with surprising strength. “I forgive you, son,” she said. “I hope someday you will forgive me.”
He wrenched himself away from her and ran.
The gossip at the fountains told him the wigmaker was looking for him for revenge. Paris became a forbidden city—a place of waiting punishment and dishonor.
From the boulevard du Temple he followed the route back toward his old home in the mountains. He was surprised to discover the trail was narrower than he remembered, and several new homes had sprung up next to it. So much had changed that he became unsure if he was still on the right path. He wondered what Plomb du Cantal would be like. But a volcanic mountain was a mountain like any other, where he would have to fight for a miserable existence. The prospect of a lifetime toiling in the coal trade, only to reenact his father’s final tragedy, was unsettling to him.
Halfway through the journey, Henri sat and rested under a leafless chestnut tree where his family had paused many times before. Ahead, the road forked. The unfamiliar path, which had always seemed alluring, now beckoned him to explore. There was no one to tell him what to do. He abruptly changed his mind.
Instead of returning to the mountains, he would go south to Marseille. The fantastic stories he had heard from the water carriers were still fresh in his mind. He imagined a city of wealth, adventure, and opportunity. It was also a distant land, far enough for him to be inconspicuous among the other strangers. He would find work there, and—most important of all—an ocean, where he could get a job at the port. He was young and alone. The sea offered the most exciting prospect he could hope for.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marseille,
1773
T hree months later, in mid-spring, Henri reached his destina- tion. It was noon, and Marseille was veiled in a light rain. He was footsore and hungry after a long journey, one he had survived through begging alms from religious houses and, occasionally, petty thievery. Unlike his picturesque fantasies, the city that stood before him was stricken with poverty and pestilence, and filled with refugees like himself. Outlines of sailing ships bobbed on the murky waters. The port and its waterside were clogged with animal and human waste, spilling a vile smell into the surrounding coast. The rats played on the dock under a dripping sky.
The noise of boat passengers shouting in the harbor rose to a hysterical pitch; animals crowed, barked, and neighed; and the rattling chains of ships’ anchors being dropped through portholes roared like thunder. The sweeping rain added moisture to the muddy ground, and stagnant water collected in green puddles.
Sailors from every nation strolled the twisted streets looking for whores. Brigands lurked in alleyways, waiting for an opportunity to rob travelers of what little money they might have. Peasants from the nearby countryside poured into the marketplace to exchange their supplies of meat, milk, and eggs for the cargos of grain and flour that arrived on the ships from America.
Henri watched in amazement. His stomach rumbled, a reminder of how hungry he was. He searched his pockets in vain, not sure what to do next. There must be some way he could
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