Like ashes in the wind: Like ashes in the wind, #6

By Sibylle Baillon

The touching life stories of three women in France in the 18th century. 

To save them from starvation, farmer Cotin found accommodation for his daughters in Paris. But while Madeleine and Marianne were placed in well-off houses, Jeanne had to flee from the abuse of her sleazy employer. Left to her own devices, she takes her life into her own hands and, step by step, builds her own future. Time and again, fate leads the three girls to come close to each other - but they never meet. Nevertheless, Marianne, Madeleine, and Jeanne do not give up hope of finding each other again. Then the revolution breaks out, and the country falls into chaos …

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Sep 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667405797

Book preview

The Daughters of the Storm

Historical Novel

by Sibylle Baillon

About this book:

Three touching life stories of women in France in the 18th century: To save them from starvation, the farmer Cotin found accommodation for his daughters in Paris - but while Madeleine and Marianne were placed in well-off houses, Jeanne had to flee from the abuse of her sleazy employer. Left to her own devices, she takes her life into her own hands and, step by step, builds her own future. Time and again, fate leads the three girls to come close to each other - but they never meet. Nevertheless, Marianne, Madeleine, and Jeanne do not give up hope of finding each other again. But then the revolution breaks out and the country falls into chaos...

About the author:

Sibylle Baillon was born in Frankfurt am Main in 1966 and now lives with her two sons on the Côte d'Azur. In 2006 she started her own business in France and since then, she has been training image consultants and life coaches. Ever since she devoured her first historical novel at the age of seven, she has been fascinated by stories from bygone eras - both as a reader and as an author. 

The website of the author:   www.sibyllebaillon.wixsite.com/sbittnerbaillon

***

Legal Notice

Texts:  © Copyright by Sibylle Baillon

63, Rue Jean Devos

83400 Hyères

[e-mail]

Copyright © 2018 Sibylle Baillon

Cover: 

Translation:  Sarojini Seeneevassen

Proofreading:  Kristyn Naidoo

All rights reserved. Duplication, distribution, transmission, translation, or reprinting, even in part, only with the written consent of the author.

Even if the story is based on true events, the characters and the plot are fictitious. Any similarities with real people are purely coincidental. Brand names and trademarks used in this book are the property of their rightful owners.

***

For Tristan and Roméo

"What is the future?

What is the past?

What are we?

What is the magical liquid substance that surrounds us and hides from our sight the things that we urgently need to perceive?

Surrounded by miracles,

we live and die."

Napoleon Bonaparte (1769–1821),

French general and politician, Emperor of the French

Prologue

Brienne-le-Château, 1784

The cold autumn day was coming to an end. Colorful leaves lined the avenue of the military school, and the air smelled of snow. Too early, he thought, sitting on a bench at a distance. He watched his classmates who, as was usual for young men of his age, were fooling around and seemed to be having a great time.

He sighed. He had never understood this stupid, boyish banter and, as so often, felt different. He was only nine years old when he was sent here, and despite the many years spent together, he had few friends.

He was often teased for his small size and heavy accent. He knew the local language, but he would never be able to deny his origins. Actually, he didn't want to do that either. On the contrary, he was very proud of it.

What most bothered the others, however, was his dictatorial tendency and his quick temper. Behind his solemn facade, one could sense the seething volcano that slumbered within.

His gloomy gaze wandered over to the practice area for horse riders. He loved horses, which is why he was enthusiastic about this school, even if he was very unhappy at first. He had been bullied, pushed around, and teased until he finally defended himself effectively.

Since then, he would take command whenever the opportunity arose so that some initially harmless snowball fights would take the semblance of a strategically planned military attack.

His classmates had understood that it was better to fight for him than against him. Otherwise, they left him alone and kept a respectful distance. He was well aware of their whispering as soon as he turned his back. He had only two real friends among his comrades.

In the past, the negative attitude of his classmates had weighed on him, but he was long past that. They didn't like him; they found him too serious and arrogant. But what did they know about Charlemagne, whose nature and personality he felt so close to, or about Rousseau, whose works he devoured?

He watched his classmates, at times with pity and then contempt, as they spent their free time with stories about women, wines, and gossip.

Women, he thought wistfully. They looked through him as if he were invisible. As a boy on his island, he had secretly been in love with a girl. She was as beautiful as the morning dew, like a rose, like the rising sun. Her round, blue eyes radiated pure joie de vivre, and boys his age would melt at her doll-like face. Every morning, she happily hopped past him on the way to school but she never greeted him, never looked at him. Every night before going to sleep, he decided that he would talk to her, imagining what he could say, what she would answer. But he always lost courage beforehand. What should such a beautiful girl, desired by all, find in him, this slight little boy? The thought always gave him stomach cramps.

But then came the day when he met another girl who looked exactly like his childhood crush. Two years ago, when he was returning from home leave to military school with his father, that girl had looked at him, talked to him, and shown interest in him. Little did she know how touched he was by her attention, but he had pretended not to care. Whenever he was overwhelmed by loneliness at school, he wrote poetry, thinking about her. She gave him courage and became his guardian angel.

Would he ever see her again? It was very unlikely. At that time, she was with her parents on her way to Paris where there were as many people as stars in the sky. But still, he never wanted to forget her. He would be eternally grateful to her for this brief moment of affection, for the kind, curious look from her big, round, blue eyes and for the fact that he had not been invisible to her.

In the meantime, he preferred to read and study whatever he could lay his hands on. Yes, these decadent good-for-nothing comrades can keep laughing at him, for tomorrow would be different. They had no idea who they were dealing with! 

Because he was certain about one thing, and although still in the distant future, he yearned for with it all his soul, with a mixture of inexplicable foreboding, anticipation, unbridled impatience and desire: he would do all in his might to imitate his idol Charlemagne and become un grand homme.

***

Chapter 1

Jeanne - Cholet, 1782

Morning dew lay like small pearls on the meadows and fields of the seemingly dispirited land. It lay there as if it knew what was going to happen on that special day; as if it foresaw that soon, the world would never be the same again, that the bright laughter of girls would never be so carefree and that the wind would never carry the same fragrance again. But it was still hidden from most people. It was just a whisper, like a soft melody that someone hummed to himself without knowing where it came from, without knowing what it would bring. Despite the rising sun, the air was ice-cold. Shivering, Jeanne pulled her thick woolen shawl closer around her shoulders. She lay huddled with her sisters in the back of the wagon and was afraid of what was in store for her. She seemed to be the only one to worry about this unusual journey. Although everyone looked sad, they also looked indifferent and withdrawn. Her father, Jean-Louis Cotin, a Breton farmer, drove the old plow horse, and their mother sat on the box next to him, wrapped up and silent. In the distance, a rooster announced the dawn.

They didn't say a word. It was almost scary. An important and promising trip to Paris had been announced to the children the previous evening and come morning, their parents had shooed them out of bed so early that it had seemed incongruous, even to a farmer's daughter. They had dressed and climbed onto the wagon; each of the three sisters was only allowed to take the bare essentials.

Jeanne, the youngest at ten, had taken the ragdoll made by her mother.

It was a pretty little doll with a traditional peasant costume typical of the area, which her mother had sewn from rags and scraps of fabric from a seamstress. The bonnet with the turned-back edge was set with a starched crown made of delicate lace, and over the wide red dress was a large yellow apron with big pockets. Jeanne hugged the doll as if it were a treasure. Her mother was a skilled seamstress, but the only child who had inherited this talent seemed to be Jeanne's older sister, Madeleine.

Jeanne looked at the serious faces and seemed to be the only one who did not understand this hasty trip to Paris but suspected it had something to do with their poverty and the hunger they suffered. Maybe Papa had a job prospect? Or did he want to join the military? But why did her mother and the children have to come along? As much as she brooded, she could not explain the reason for this trip. From under the scarf tied around her head, she peered at her older sisters, who were staring ahead in silence. Did they know more?

Marianne, not yet married at fourteen, was a beautiful brunette with dark eyes. Her love for Jacques, the neighbor's boy, was vehemently suppressed by his parents. They were unwilling to agree to the marriage because they couldn't feed more mouths.

Twelve-year-old Madeleine, with her long, light blond curls and blue eyes, was considered the prettiest of them all. She was bursting with zest and curiosity. Jeanne could well have imagined her sister as a princess or a rich baroness at the court of Marie-Antoinette. Jeanne's eyes were blue as well, and her hair was dark blonde, but she liked Madeleine's sun hair - as she called it - better. She had often spent hours brushing her sister's hair like a doll's, who happily allowed her to.

The air smelled strongly of freshly plowed fields. Jeanne felt and endured every pothole in the street. As they crossed forests and fields and drove through numerous villages, Jeanne compared the surrounding farms with hers. They looked just as pathetic and shabby; the residents appeared to be starving just like her own family.

Every place they passed, emaciated figures with tired and worn faces stared at them. Jeanne noted that her family still fared relatively well.

Hours later, they stopped at a traveler's inn and took a break. Jeanne's father took the opportunity to untie the horse and led it to the water trough. Their mother split the remaining arrowroots between them, and the girls nibbled on them listlessly.

Jeanne looked around curiously. The run-down inn seemed to be popular. Many carts and horses stood in front of it, and they could hear noise coming out of the windows. What would it be it like, Jeanne wondered, if you had enough money to make a stop in a house like this? She sighed out of sheer vexation because she was sure that would never happen.

A carriage stopped next to them, and Jeanne looked around in surprise. A gentleman wearing a powdered wig got out, followed by a young soldier who, Jeanne suspected, was most likely his son. With an annoyed gesture, the gentleman removed a hair from his clothes. The young soldier looked at them, and his serious gray eyes seemed to want to pierce right through hers. Embarrassed, Jeanne lowered her eyes. She knew that her blue eyes could be irritating.

Her grandmother - who was now in heaven - had always said that those eyes would bring a lot of trouble, and everyone had laughed. Jeanne, however, hadn't understood the joke. She didn't know if her sisters understood it or just pretended to do so.

That was before the great famine. Many farmers had to go hungry because of the harsh winter and the floods, as did her family. It was said that even the wolves could not find enough food and had come up to the villages and farms to snatch away the few cattle that the poor people still had left. Jeanne had often overheard her parents in the evenings when they thought she was asleep. That is how she learned that her family had held out longer than the neighbors. But it hadn't been long before hunger had plagued her family as well - like a disease that crept up inconspicuously and seeped through the draughty cracks in the houses and attacked their residents; or like a monster that ate its way through the forests, fields, and farms, relentlessly, inexorably and destroying everything: courage, strength and ultimately hope.

Jeanne got off the wagon, followed her sisters to the well, and stood in the queue. When it was her turn, the bucket was empty. She looked around for help. Her family was already getting back on the wagon. Her father was checking the vehicle's axle and wheels. Jeanne hunched her shoulders and snorted. Suddenly, the young soldier approached her.

May I? He took the bucket carefully from her hands and let it slide neatly into the well. The rope snaked after it like a worm until there was a muffled splash. Jeanne smiled. The boy, who was probably not much older than herself and who smelled of fresh lavender, kept a straight face.

What's your name? he asked.

Why do you want to know?

You are cheeky for a girl, he replied. I'm helping you, so I guess I'm entitled to know your name! His gaze still seemed to pierce through her.

My name is Jeanne. Why have you been staring at me?

Because you remind me of someone from my homeland. The pale boy's cheeks flushed.

A sweetheart? Jeanne giggled. The young soldier laboriously pulled up the heavy bucket.

You're still too young for such questions. He looked at her carefully.

I'm not, Jeanne replied pertly. I am ten!

Aren't you too old for something like that then? The boy nodded at her doll. Involuntarily she pressed it closer to her and actually felt suddenly childish, and ashamed.

No, she whispered. He seemed so worldly and she, so inexperienced. He didn't need to go hungry either. But Jeanne quickly pushed her thoughts aside, because her curiosity regained the upper hand. So? Was she your sweetheart or not? Jeanne smiled mischievously at him.

No, she was a childhood playmate. Now stop babbling and drink.

Jeanne drank in quick gulps, put down the bucket, wiped her mouth dry on her sleeve, thanked him, and left him standing there. Despite his gruff manner, the guy fascinated her, but there was no way she would grant him the satisfaction of showing it. A small struggle broke out inside her because if she drove away now, she would probably never know. And she knew herself well enough to know that this would keep her mind busy for days, even weeks. So she did turn around to him halfway. What is the matter with me, she thought, because she was immediately annoyed at herself for giving him this little victory. He had just lifted the bucket to drink.

And you? What is your name? It was out now, but instead of answering, he continued to drink greedily, ignoring her. When she turned away, offended, he called after her: Napoleon. Napoleon Buonaparte. Remember it!

Jeanne looked over to him and their eyes met. His serious gray eyes were full of meaning as he looked at her; then turned to go. Jeanne would have liked to find out more, drive him up the wall with questions, as her mother called it when Jeanne became too curious. She pondered over the sentence, racked her brains, and tried to make sense of it. Either he was a clairvoyant or a completely conceited ape, she thought angrily. She opted for the latter assumption. Suddenly, she realized that he had actually managed to penetrate her thoughts, something that she would much rather have avoided.

When the parents resumed the trip, Jeanne was still thinking about the young man. To her amazement, he too looked back at her thoughtfully. She whispered his name softly.

Napoleon, Napoleon Buonaparte. Remember it, remember it... Why did he say that? She would have liked to run back and ask him.

*

Exhausted but without incident, the Cotin family finally arrived in Paris. Jeanne knew from her mother that her father had often spent time in Paris in the past, but did not know why. She assumed that, as was often the case, she was too young to understand. Did it have anything to do with today's outing? Jeanne kept her eyes open, and her heart thumped wildly as if it wanted to tell her something important, something that it already understood before her. Something too painful to speak out, or something that was simply beyond the imagination of a young creature like her. And still, her heart would not calm down or stop flooding the message from her subconscious into her veins.

The girls were amazed when they drove into the streets of the big city. An unbearable stench suddenly seemed to come from nowhere and wrap itself around them. They held their shawls up to their noses so as not to breathe the foul air, but that did not help much. Jeanne retched.

Pull yourself together, whispered Marianne, who was clearly trying to make a good impression despite her poor manner of dress. On whom? Jeanne wondered defiantly. What did they care about this stinking city, where they did not know anyone and would not stay for long?

People ran about in hectic confusion, loaded carts rattled through the narrow streets, and boys waved with written papers.

Dysentery has struck again. Already 500 dead!

On the outskirts of the city, the misery seemed as great as in the countryside, perhaps even greater, more massive. But the closer they got to the heart of the city, the nobler the buildings were. Expensive six-horse carriages drove past them on the large boulevards. Huge palaces lined the streets and ladies in fabulous clothes strolled on the cobblestone. Jeanne was agape. Grandmother had often told her stories of beautiful princesses, but real life exceeded Jeanne's fantasy. It distracted her from her inner restlessness without attenuating, but even increasing it.

Suddenly her father turned the wagon into a larger street and stopped in front of an elegant villa that also seemed to come from a fairy tale. Jeanne's eyes sparkled and she felt hope rising in her. Would they live here now, in this beautiful house? She looked expectantly at her sisters, who kept staring ahead gloomily. Jeanne was just opening her mouth to babble excitedly when her mother suddenly turned to them from the driver's seat. Her otherwise lovely face seemed twisted in pain. Jeanne didn't understand, looked for the answer in the faces of her sisters, who further sat in silence.

Marianne? the mother asked her eldest as if she would know exactly what that meant. Marianne gulped. Mother and daughter got up at the same time. Marianne gave her sisters one last look, gently stroked Jeanne's head, and let herself slide composedly from the wagon. When she passed the driver's seat, the mother also got down and they both walked to the gate of the property. The poor and neglected appearance of the two stood in sharp contrast to the stately surroundings. Jeanne wanted to call out something to them but couldn't get a word out. She broke out in a sweat, although she still couldn't figure out what this was about. Marianne rang the bell at the gate and waited. A finely dressed page appeared immediately and opened it for them. With a frown, the man inspected them from head to toe, and after a brief exchange of words, he reluctantly let them in. Mother and daughter disappeared inside the pompous building, and it seemed to last forever.

Jeanne looked for Madeleine's gaze, who just gently shook her head as if to make her understand that she should be quiet. Jeanne sighed because she knew that nobody would tell her anything anyway. Was that why they came? To bring Marianne here? Suddenly she caught her breath ... Would she be getting married? But she immediately dismissed this thought because of Marianne's poor appearance and was almost certain that it had to be something else. Was Marianne sick and had to see a doctor? A special doctor who was only available in Paris? It had to be. The thought startled her and she sat up stiffly. They didn't want to tell her anything about it because they were probably afraid that, sensitive as she was, she would worry too much about her sister. Oh, dear God, Jeanne prayed fervently and closed her eyes, please make Marianne feel better soon, please make the doctor heal her.

After a while, the mother came back alone, got on the wagon without a word, and the father gave the horse the signal to go on. Something revolted in Jeanne. Should Marianne perhaps stay there? Was her condition so bad?

Mother, why isn't Marianne coming back with us? she asked. What is she doing in this house? But the mother just sat stiffly on the driver's seat, stared straight ahead, and said nothing. Jeanne's throat tightened.

Why didn't anyone answer her? The mood seemed more and more depressed, and she wondered when they would finally go home again, hopefully with Marianne.

The streets became narrower and busier again; the noise level rose steadily, and the odors grew stronger. Many houses had elegant shops and stores on the ground floor. Brightly colored goods shimmered in the shop windows, and fine gentlemen went in and out across the doorsteps. In sheer amazement, Jeanne almost forgot her grief when she saw the variety of hats, shoes, baskets, and pots ... It was overwhelming. Looking down at her bare feet, she imagined wearing the elegant shoes from the window she was passing by.

Look, Madeleine, those beautiful shoes, she whispered to her sister, nudging her. Madeleine forced a half-hearted smile.

What's going on? Jeanne whispered again. Madeleine started to explain, but tears welled up in her eyes and she swallowed the words. She shook her head and didn't give Jeanne an answer. Jeanne pouted, crossed her arms, and leaned back against the boards of the wagon. It was slowly getting too much for her. If it goes on like this, she would eventually lose her temper, like her father when he got upset about the miserable conditions in which they lived. Why did everyone treat her like a baby? After all, she was ten already and understood more than everyone seemed to think.

The next stop was at the entrance of a large, elegant shop. The store's signboard was written in huge letters and adorned with fine oriental drawings that seemed to depict clothes from distant lands. Since Jeanne could not read, she guessed from the shop window, which was decorated with lovely models of clothes, wigs, and hats in various colors, surpassing in splendor those of the ladies strolling in the streets, that it must be a tailor's shop. Did people really wear clothes like this?

Out of the corner of her eye, Jeanne suddenly noticed that Mother was looking at Madeleine as if she expected something from her. As before with Marianne, a secret scenario seemed to be taking place, each of them knowing her role except Jeanne. She wanted to scream.

No, Mother, please don't ... whined Madeleine.

Jeanne didn't understand. Why wouldn't anyone tell her what was going on? Why was her sister crying? Jeanne instinctively moved closer to Madeleine, who had now completely lost control. The sisters clung to each other, whimpered, and trembled.

The father seemed suddenly inclined to intervene. He cleared his throat, seemed to wake up from days of numbness, got off the driver's seat, and walked to the back. With a stern look, he separated the girls from each other. His face was riddled with deep furrows that Jeanne hadn't noticed before this winter. He pulled Madeleine into his arms.

Please, my little dove, we spoke about this. You know that we don't have any other choice. Be sensible.

The father's calm, deep voice had the right effect.

Madeleine straightened up, valiantly dried her tears, and boldly walked towards the store door.

Madeleine, Madeleine! Jeanne screamed desperately after her. But her sister didn't turn around, most certainly because otherwise, she would not have had the energy to go through what she had come for.

Even before her sister could touch the doorknob, a lackey dressed in green with his chin raised high opened the door from inside the store. The doorbell rang, and Jeanne had to watch a stern-looking lady approach her sister and talk to her. A pink striped dress with crinoline gave this stranger a somewhat fairylike appearance. Matching pink ribbons hung in her curls. Madeleine curtsied, and the lady looked outside to the father and nodded, put her hand on Madeleine's back, and led her gently but firmly behind the counter. Then the door closed once more, like the mouth of a monster that had sucked her sister in and would never spit her out again. That was when Jeanne completely lost control. She felt the biting, caustic feeling of panic rise in her, scorching her from within. The scream that stuck in her throat hurt like hell.

As if nothing had happened, her father returned to the driver's seat with a sigh and drove off again. Jeanne was trembling all over. A terrible foreboding dawned on her. Would her parents drop her off somewhere too, like a sack of potatoes?

Mother, please tell me, what's going to happen to me? she whispered, hugging her doll tighter. But her mother seemed not to hear her. What have you been talking about? Why doesn't anyone tell me anything? Tears of fear and anger ran down Jeanne's cheeks. Jeanne saw her mother press her lips together. The wagon lurched on over the bumpy cobblestones towards the city center, where it stank more and more, where the people looked more like them. Then suddenly - and Jeanne's heart skipped a beat - they halted in front of a grocery store. Like a hunted animal, Jeanne looked from the shop to her parents and back again. The mother gently lifted her out of the wagon and carried her into the store as if she were a small five-year-old. It smelled musty, of unwashed clothes, rancid grease, and cigar smoke. She put Jeanne down carefully and, sobbing, hugged her. The shopkeeper, a squat, elderly woman, grinned at her, baring her rotten teeth.

Jeanne didn't want to understand, could not accept what was happening. Her tears now flowed freely as she clung to her mother, who held her close one last time and then her pushed away.

Be good, my little Jeanne, and don't fret. We love you very much. Never forget that, do you hear? This has to be.

Mama, Jeanne called out, where are you going? Will this be for a long time? Can't I come with you? She grabbed her mother's skirt and clung to her again to keep her from leaving. Don't leave me alone, Mother, please don't leave me here. Please, please, Jeanne pleaded, her whole body trembling. The mother freed herself and ran to the door, spurred on by the stern gaze of the father, who stared at her through the greasy shop window as if he wanted to call her to her senses with just a glance. Jeanne wanted to run after her, but the shopkeeper held her roughly by her stained cloak.

You stay here now. You'll get used to it, she barked at her.

Her mother did not turn to look at her again as the wagon drove away. Jeanne screamed piteously, cried, and wanted to tear herself away. But she did not have a chance against the stranger, who held her firmly until the wagon was out of sight.

Stunned, Jeanne stood in the shop with her eyes puffy from crying. The world did not make sense to her anymore.  What had she done for her parents to get rid of her, like one would discard a troublesome cow that was no longer giving enough milk? Had her father perhaps sold her?

As the enormity of the events slowly became clear to her, she understood that there was no going back.

The withered woman gave Jeanne a heel of bread and a glass of milk.

Go to the attic and cry yourself out, little one, because tomorrow you will be needed at work with all your strength. I hope your father didn't promise too much and that you will turn out to be as skillful and hardworking as he claimed you to be, the old woman muttered towards Jeanne after she had already climbed the first steps. To just get away from this woman, Jeanne thought. An attic room seemed to be the right place for her because all she wanted was to hide in a hole and never come out again. The anguish raged inside her and burned in her stomach.

Finally, Jeanne shyly entered