Cadoville (unfinished)

Chapter VIII

Gabriella had her perks – venturing outside, alone, wearing something different that would have certainly made my parents blush – different, coarse, inflammatory, beneath me.... That day came soon enough, a windy February afternoon, treading through Châtelet's tight, busy streets, shadowed by belfries and crooked houses looming over me, Revolutionary banners rippling loudly overhead.... "Go to the Halle aux Blés," Dr Spice had said, "Mme Legrand will be giving a speech." The Halle aux Blés, a big, round building, capped with a dome and flags billowing from its arches.

Pamphlets and scraps of paper surfed the wind in the bustling market outside, untamed locks of hair blowing in my face.... I was alone and invisible in the crowd – a nobody, staring at my reflection in a barrel of water. A green dress courtesy of Dr Spice, cheap, frayed at the edges and a little itchy. A glass eye filled my empty socket. Ceruse and rouge hid my scars and a wig covered my boy's hair. And, of course, no young Revolutionary's ensemble was complete without a tricolour sash and red cap.

It felt so good to be in girls' clothes again, almost like slipping back into my own skin. Although I envied Gabriella – the interesting life she must have had – just a little, I was about to step into the wolves' lair, the wolves who had driven us away. Bound my Dr Spice's ultimatum, I had to pretend to be a wolf if I stood any chance of getting justice for my family, but I had lived the life of a pampered pup, nestled in front of a warm fire....

Drawn by the noise inside the Halle aux blés, I followed the crowd inside under a high arch leading to a wide open-space stretching up to the dome, barrels and dusty sacks piled high all around me. A single voice stood out over the others. An angry voice, spitting and shouting, although it was impossible to decipher the words. Driven by curiosity, I convinced my legs to take me up some creaky wooden stairs behind some crates to a gallery overlooking the space, where it was quiet – nothing but hessian sacks and dust drifting between streaks of sunlight. Amidst the mob below, two men stood atop great stacks of barrels, facing each other. One a military man, an important one by the looks of his fancy sash and sword. The other, less impressive – like a weathered scarecrow in a long red coat.

"Quiet please! Quiet!" A disembodied voice came somewhere in the mass of people. "Citizen Marat, you may continue!"

Clutching his lapels, the ragged figure facing the soldier nodded gratefully and looked into the crowd and spoke in an accent I knew only too well...

"Citizens, just two weeks ago we crossed the point of no return.... We delivered on the Will of People. We executed the King, the Tyrant! What we have done has sent shockwaves across Europe. How sour breakfast must've tasted for those fat kings over the border – one eye on their cakes, the other on the streets!" ....Swiss. The mob howled and applauded, the timbers beneath my feet even vibrating. However, Marat wasn't finished, raising his hand and pointing to the soldier. "But these people still tell us, when we stormed the Bastille, when we marched on Versailles, when we dispatched the King, that we had no idea what we were doing...."

The crowd erupted again like hungry lions in a feeding frenzy. Still firmly gripping his lapels and flashing an exceptionally smug, tight-lipped smile, Marat took a step back and gestured to the disembodied voice below.

"You have the floor, General Deschanel."

The general cleared his throat.

"Which Revolution do you want, Marat?" He asked with open palms. "No one was advocating for a Republic when we marched on Versailles, no one...," his words drowned in a wave of jeering and booing. "When the People stormed the Bastille four years ago, you didn't tell them we would murder the King, you didn't tell them we would go to war with Europe, you didn't tell them we would have Revolutionary courts.... France is now poor and alone thanks to your cabal!"