The Executioner’S Daughter

By Hunter J. W. Burke

Musette Lefvre, a peasant girl from a French provincial village abandoned by her father after the death of her mother, is put into the care of the local priest. Childhood traumas force her to flee to the capital, where the anonymity of eighteenth-century Paris encourages her capricious and impetuous nature. She delights in the follies and allegiances of a city dancing toward the madness of revolution.

The Executioners Daughter tells the story of this young woman who initially enjoys a privileged life in the great city, supported by a wealthy guardian. The famous seamstress Mademoiselle Bertin employs her, and through that engagement, Musette meets Queen Marie Antoinette. The young woman enjoys the friendship and protection of several influential figures of the day. Her life is good, but then fate entangles her in a brutal world, and she must fight for her survival. Taken hostage and held in the horrifying beggars slum called the Cour des Miracles, Musette is robbed, degraded, and threatened with rape. She manages to kill her oafish guard and escape on foot, merging inconspicuously with the turbulent crowds of people inflamed by revolutionary rhetoric and intent on capturing the dreaded Bastille. The revolution had started, and France teeters on the edge of an abyss.

Unwittingly, she becomes involved in upheavals that threaten her life and liberty. She spends time in prison for protecting the daughter of an migr, and as daily life crumbles, she seems set on a path of self-destruction, unable to extricate herself from the dangerous entanglements of revolutionary Paris. During the storming of the Tuileries Palace, Musette and her friends are captured and confined in the dreaded La Salptrire prison.

Later, during the taking of that prison and the accompanying massacre, she escapes the turmoil of the city and flees to the countryside, where she eventually finds refuge with a caring elderly couple. She is safe at last, but of her friends in Paris, she has no news. The past had scarred her heart, and she wondered if she could ever build a future for herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Sep 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781499099805

Hunter J. W. Burke

Hunter John Winton Burke was born in Armidale, N.S.W. Australia in 1945. At the age of fifteen he left home and travelled to Sydney where he rented a flat in the infamous King’s Cross and worked in a succession of dissatisfying dead-end jobs. He moved to Auckland, New Zealand, when he was 24, having just married. Now, divorced and retired he continues to write short stories and is currently working on a book about the Witch of Kings Cross, Rosaleen Norton. The Executioner’s Daughter is his first novel. He continues to live in Auckland.

Book preview

CHAPTER I

M USETTE LEFÈVRE WAS born in the early hours on the third of July 1770, sobbing inconsolably as if burdened by some dreadful fate. Her mother, a simple provincial woman, pretty but with a delicate constitution, was greatly concerned as she cradled the tearful child in her arms attempting to soothe it. She was anxious for the infant, hoping the child would stop its crying. She was fearful that it would antagonise the child’s father. Finally when the baby girl, after feeding on her mother’s milk, slipped into sleep, Madame Lefèvre lay the child down in its cot, only for Musette to awaken almost immediately, and scream tearfully as if witnessing some unperceived horror. Although relieved that her daughter appeared physically healthy. Madame Lefèvre could not help but worry about the child’s future. She had already lost one child, a boy who, reluctant to feed on his mother’s milk, was suckled by a cow from the barn, a common practice in the countryside. He died a few days after his first birthday, trampled by a bull.

Hunger, hardship and a smouldering discontent afflicted the countryside especially among the peasant class to which the Lefèvre’s belonged as if condemned by Providence. Rents and high taxes burdened poor farmers, who struggled on small plots of ground. Even fertile and well-stocked farms yielded a bare subsistence to those who laboured on the land. Monsieur Lefèvre was a surly, reproachful and humourless man by nature. Physically solid with strong wide shoulders and a stubborn determinism, who worked tirelessly on his patch of leased land. His only distinguishing feature was a curious birthmark on the right side of his neck, below the ear, in the shape of a sickle. The Devils mark, he jested laconically.

The vegetable gardens around the single storied half-timbered farmhouse, with its close-centred uprights, diagonal wooden braces infilled with puddled clay and clay tiled roof, combined to form living quarters and a barn, with space in the loft for the storage of sacks of grain and hay. The soil produced sufficient vegetables for the market and the family table. Several fruit trees, some hens, geese and a few straggly goats provided seasonal fruit, eggs and goat’s milk and an old Percheron horse to pull the cart to market remained robust in spite of its age. To supplement their income Monsieur Lefèvre occasionally offered his services as a farm labourer or woodcutter when work was available. But an excessive weariness dominated him.

Everywhere inequality was a visible reality set in law, power, position and privilege. There was dissension in Paris some said and the nation was in debt. Other people claimed that they had heard France was preparing to go to war against Prussia, Great Britain and their German Allies over colonial interests. But people were always talking, always grumbling. There were even rumours of unrest in Paris, lack of food, discontent with the extravagant lifestyle of the ailing, Louis XV, but no one knew for sure.

Even though most of the peasantry was illiterate, a surprising number could read thanks to the little schools promoted by the Catholic missions. Lawyers, clerics, merchants and other bourgeoisie were certainly aware of court intrigues and the political situation. Some were familiar with the new ideas of Voltaire and Rousseau, the Age of Enlightenment it was called, but for the lower classes life remained difficult and uncertain, their excessive poverty crippling. Hunger can create a desperation that ignites aggression.

Lifting his weathered face creased with worry Monsieur Lefèvre stared up at the sky. A few white cumulous clouds hung on the edges of its vast blue expanse. He was hoping for rain. The soil was rich around Sézanne. The countryside had once been covered in lush forests but an agricultural plan, started in the Middle Ages by the great abbeys, had transformed the countryside into a valley floor of meadowlands and arable fields up the slopes of the hills to the existing treeline. Land now owned by nobility. Monsieur Lefèvre could not afford to lease more land from the Château, besides the Marquis de Choiseul was not a very accommodating man. With weary resignation, Monsieur Lefèvre dug the soil in preparation for turnips and carrots. He heard the child crying.

A girl, he thought. What use is a girl?

A boy could work the farm, help put food on the table…what can a girl do? he muttered furiously beneath his breath as he hoed the soil, turning over clods of rich, dark earth, worms wriggling amid a tangle of roots, white and skeletal in the sunlight.

Every week, travelling the five leagues over a rough track, he took produce to the town market, vegetables, eggs, goat’s milk and sometimes cheese. The income from the sale of farm produce allowed the family to survive albeit precariously for several more months. If market days were especially profitable Monsieur Lefèvre would purchase seeds, some bottles of cheap wine and cloth to make clothing. He preferred to go to the market alone, it gave him a chance to listen to the gossip from Paris, talk to his friends and engage with townsfolk. It was a distraction from the farm and family obligations, an outing that satisfied his restless nature. He was an impatient man, an attribute common to most men.

Monsieur Lefèvre’s aging mother had moved in with him after his father had been killed in battle in the American War of Independence in 1772. The death of her husband on foreign soil embittered the old woman, and she grew difficult and meddlesome, making conditions in the small cottage cramped and privacy a luxury. Grandma Lefèvre was always goading her son to improve his lot in life, to better his circumstances. She would say,

You are making a peasant of yourself boy, turning your back on your fate!

How do you know what my fate is Mother? he would retaliate angrily but she would merely scoff indignantly, as if mortified by her son’s stupidity. The old woman hated life on the farm, found it boring and provincial and with a young child in the house she seemed to take delight in constantly criticising the mother for her wretched child rearing practices.

The child should have been given to a Foundling Home that would have been the best thing for it.

Grandma Lefèvre had lived most of her life in the small village of Troyes about thirty leagues southeast of Paris on the river Seine. A settlement dating back to the Roman era, according to Grandma Lefevre’s grasp of history. Her knowledge was confined to notable personages and slightly dubious stories. According to her, Joan of Arc had fought to defend Troyes from enemy ambitions and Hughes de Payens, the founder of the Knights Templar, was in someway connected to the village. She may have been right. Grandma had lived happily in the village with its many churches including the great Saint-Pierre-et-Saint-Paul Cathedral at its centre. She was a devout Catholic, attending services daily and every mass, always lighting a candle for her husband during his absence. But with the news of his death she was forced by the sudden change in her circumstances to take up accommodation with her son and his wife in conditions she never tired of describing as squalid and degrading. She had always imagined that upon her husband’s triumphant return from the war, securing for himself a distinguished career, they would move to Paris, purchase a small, comfortable house and become part of Parisian society. Her misfortunes, she irrationally blamed on her son’s tiresome provincialism.

You could have stayed in Troyes and learned a skill. Even that brutish, loathsome shoemaker Monsieur Simon is doing better than you, he at least has some ambition. She never tired of berating her son, and seemed to conveniently ignore the fact that Monsieur Simon was indeed a cruel, stupid oafish man.

As for Monsieur Lefèvre, unbeknown to his mother or his wife he did entertain notions of a better life for himself. The thought of fighting for the glory of France, performing acts of heroism and being decorated for gallantry, acts that would win him public esteem and a position of some standing, a public official of some sort he imagined. These thoughts he kept to himself but whenever he went to the village market he would visit his friend Monsieur Romme, the saddler in his small recess in the outer wall of the Church of Saint Denis. The two men would drink some wine together and discuss the weather, trade and the failing crops that were starting to have a very real effect on people’s lives, even in Paris. Monsieur Romme would share news he had received from his son in Paris.

Things don’t look good! he would say, shaking his head.

In this way Monsieur Lefèvre was kept up to date with some of the latest ideas circulating at the time.

Like his mother, Monsieur Lefèvre could read, although the ideas of Rousseau and Voltaire were beyond his understanding. He was not intellectually sophisticated enough to appreciate the convoluted arguments such writers presented and preferred a more commonplace conversation. His mother taught him to read and write, reading mostly religious and devotional literature and of course the many wonderful letters that his father sent home from America. It was this literacy that produced such bitter tensions between his mother and himself.

I don’t understand you Jacques you’re not a stupid boy, you can read and write but instead you’ve settled for turning sod, producing scarcely enough to live off and fornicating with that women whose pretty looks will soon fade, you wait and see.

She had a way of emphasizing the word woman as if to underscore her contempt not only for her son’s wife but also for women in general. Embittered old women have a tendency to heap scorn on the charms of younger women. Undeterred, Monsieue Lefèvre kept working his small piece of land, in the hope of somehow improving his circumstances. The saddler often talked of abandoning his enterprise in Sézanne and taking his skills to Paris, where he was convinced greater opportunities existed. The two men found pleasure in each other’s company and conversations. And after a bottle of cheap wine the difficulties of life were momentarily eased. A courier arrived from Troyes with news that a new parish tax collector had just been appointed a Monsieur de La Fouché. A no-nonsense man by all accounts who had lived in Paris and had once worked as a guard for the Ferme Generale. It was rumoured that he had been chosen for the job as a kind of promotion especially after what had happened to Monsieur Chambeau.

Another blood-sucker! Monsieur Romme said contemptuously.

Monsieur Chambeau, the previous tax collector, had conducted his duties with a little too much enthusiasm. He was a stocky man, short in stature who scurried around mouse-like, always busy and forever prying into the affairs of others, foraging for information that he could use to extract more tax from the peasants, non-noble households and merchants. Behind his affable smile lurked a most loathsome little man, whose meanness was matched only by his licentiousness. He was legally required to collect a certain amount in taxes for the King, but this encouraged him to extract higher taxes, the excess he kept for himself. He also had the power to enter, search and seize any property or household goods he suspected of having been acquired without paying the correct tax, the withholding of which was considered a direct insult to the King. But for special favours from a pretty young wife or ripening daughter, Monsieur Chambeau would overlook certain taxation obligations.

Those sordid little men who taxed in the King’s name were considered enemies of the people. Sang sue, contemptible bloodsuckers who gorged themselves on the honest hard work of decent people struggling to survive. But Monsieur Chambeau had gone too far. In the dead of night while the taxman slept, a small group of men entered his house in the village, aroused him from sleep and unceremoniously dragged him from his bed. Cursing with the foulest of language and unable to reach his weapon, he struggled, his arms flailing wildly, kicking and jerking violently. The men easily subdued him, restraining him with cords and inflicting several savage blows to his head, the impact of which knocked him to the floor where he lay whimpering, a smudge of blood staining the floor beneath his now expressionless face. The instigator of this attack was the husband of a woman who had suffered the indignity of the little man’s vile attack on her person. Monsieur Chambeau was silently removed from his house and taken out into the wooded foothills some distance from the village where his private parts were cut from his body before he was knifed to death. Later, his house was ransacked and burnt to the ground. Small communities protect their own on such occasions; collaboration promoted silence.

Several days later, a pack of staghounds excited by the smell of blood discovered the mutilated corpse. Brought to heel by the huntsman and riders from the Château the hunt was immediately postponed and the taxman’s twisted and bloodied body was taken back to the Château. There was much speculation as to the perpetrators of the crime as Monsieur Chambeau’s unpopularity was well known. Jacques Lefèvre grew agitated when his wife raised the subject in the course of general conversation.

Its has nothing to do with me, he snapped a reply.

The Marquise de Choiseul was duty-bound to report the incident and have the mutilated body delivered to the village representative of the Maréchaussée for sighting as the body had been found on his land. The head huntsman accompanied by one of the Marquise’s couriers was despatched with the body to the village. The Marquise being a nobleman did not bother himself with such mundane matters. It was more than likely that a small detachment of the Maréchaussée would investigate the murder, especially as the unfortunate Monsieur Chambeau had been a tax collector.

Before a stern faced inquisitor, the huntsman described how he had stumbled across the body when trying to separate the agitated staghounds in what first appeared as nothing more than a dog fight. When the hound master called the animals to heel, the body was discovered in a ditch, partly covered with brambles. When asked, the huntsman explained that he worked on the estate, as did the courier. Although both men were familiar with the dead man by his reputation as a philanderer and his absolute zeal for extracting taxes from those who fell under his jurisdiction, they had absolutely no idea of who could have committed such a crime; they like the villagers knew nothing.

Monsieur De La Fouche, the murdered man’s replacement considered it to be a privilege to be a state official and he took his responsibilities very seriously. Having worked for the Ferme Generale, he was well aware of his duties and intended to carry them out to the letter. He would not be intimidated. Always vigilant he carried out his obligations with a certain innate distrust of the lower classes of which he considered himself exempt.

This air of superiority did not endear him to the people of Sézanne, but he did not display a petty vindictiveness or appear corrupt and grasping like the now departed Monsieur Chambeau. Apart from a certain menacing nature which figures of authority naturally exude, he seemed a fair man but he was still the tax collector, the King’s representative.

Blood-suckers, all of them, Monsieur Romme hissed as he shaped a piece of leather and began stitching it into place. The new saddle was coming along nicely, it would be one of his finest examples and he was proud of his work. He accepted that his price for the finished product would have to take into account the minor duties he would be required to pay the new blood sucker for, commodities such as leather, metal rings and stirrups, but for such quality he knew the Marquis would pay well.

The nobles in their château had plenty of money for livery and indulged their excesses without a thought for the poverty and plight of the vast peasant class. In Paris there was talk of famine and the possibility of food riots should the situation worsen.

Members of the Maréchaussée aggressively investigated the murder of Monsieur Chambeau, houses were searched for items that could have linked the occupants to the deceased, nothing incriminating was found, but with a general silence prevailing and none of the murdered man’s possessions recovered, guilt for the crime was shifted to a group of gypsies reported to have been in the area around the time of the murder. Every crime needed a scapegoat, and gypsies were always easy targets.

Grandma’s disposition was not improving. She had nothing but complaints and criticisms and constantly berated both her son and her daughter-in-law for making her live in such squalid and isolated conditions. It inconvenienced her to have an infant in the house, she said. This was one of her many hurtful remarks, that imposed on the household a general state of unhappiness and tension, causing Monsieur Lefèrve to take his frustrations out on his wife often beating her with a stick.

He had inherited his mother’s quick temper, and his frequent outbursts caused his wife great suffering. The child’s crying irritated him, and he would rage out of the cottage with such a terrifying menace causing his wife to seize the child in her arms and crouch on the floor in the corner of room. As she did when there were violent thunderstorms, with wild winds and forks of lightning. The power and rawness of nature frightened her; its ferociousness gave her a sense of vulnerability and Grandma Leferve would tremble with rage at the sight of Charlotte’s ludicrous fears as she huddled shivering in the corner of the room like a frightened animal.

Charlotte Héquet, until her marriage to Monsieur Leferve, had been a happy, carefree girl untroubled by any of life’s serious difficulties. Her parents were hard working, honest, Church going people who approved of their daughter’s marriage to Monsieur Lefèrve. They saw their son-in-law as a hard working man of good character, a suitable match for a girl looking forward to making a comfortable home for her new husband, having children and perhaps one day visiting Paris. Although not physically robust she enjoyed good health. Her delicate appearance, attractive figure, white skin, lovely blue eyes and long wavy chestnut hair made her a true beauty. Those looks of yours will soon fade girl. Grandma had once declared bitterly, no doubt jealous of the young woman’s looks.

It wasn’t until after the birth of Musette followed by the arrival of Grandma Lefèvre that Charlotte’s health started to decline. The cramped conditions in the small cottage and Grandma’s unpleasant character imposed on the household, a suffocating sense of frustration. The old woman’s bitterness towards Charlotte and the baby increased daily and her hurtful remarks were frequent and unapologetic. So it was little wonder then, that when Charlotte showed signs of fatigue and complained of not feeling well Grandma Lefèrve grew even more agitated, complaining that old people should not be obligated to live in such conditions. She bemoaned the loss of her husband, her unfortunate circumstances, her son’s failure to make anything of himself, and the unfulfilled dream of her living in Paris and becoming a part of Parisian society. She would not accept that her husband’s gallantry on the field as a non-commissioned officer would not of itself guarantee her access to Parisian society. She was not, by birth, a woman of high rank and therefore of little importance to the coterie of the city’s distinguished ladies.

With the arrival of winter the domestic situation worsened and conditions inside the cottage became unbearably claustrophobic. Musette was two years and eight months old and remained a tearful soul much to the annoyance of the cantankerous old grandmother. Charlotte’s health was not improving and she had developed a chronic cough and a persistent fever that often weakened her and confined her to bed, much to her mother-in-laws disgust who accused her of having a weak constitution.

You expect me to do all the work around here don’t you, you lazy girl.

Outside, the garden surrounding the cottage assumed a miserable rain sodden look, dirt turned to mud, and the fowls huddled in the coop constantly scratching the sheltered patch of dirt, pecking for food. The goats and the donkey were enclosed in the small barn when it was raining heavily. A good supply of wood, built up over the preceeding months, kept the fire going and a store of food, although meager, was sufficient for the family’s needs.

Standing in the doorway of the barn Monsieur Lefèrve watched the figure of a man shambling along the road that passed by the cottage. A solitary figure stooping under the weight of his damp clothing, his shoes mud encrusted and his leggings dirty. His coat now somewhat tattered reached down to his knees, old brocade around the cuffs strangely incongruous with its present occupant. As the man walked closer to the cottage the rain came down in sheets sweeping up the wide valley and the overcast sky turned darker as if warning of some imminent danger.

You can stay in the barn until the storm is over. Monsieur Lefèrve called out loudly to the man as he drew nearer the cottage. The stranger accepting the offer moved awkwardly and clumsily through the mud towards where Monsieur Lefèrve stood and once inside the barn he thankfully and wearily introduced himself.

Bonjour Monsieur. merci, merci Je m’appelle Paul Muffat. He looked pale and steadied himself against the wall as if preparing to collapse.

The small forge inside the barn was ignited to provide warmth for Monsieur Muffat who huddled pitifully next to it, shivering and pallid. He smiled weakly at Jacques Lefèrve then falling backwards he lay unconscious on the floor. When his faculties returned he found the farmer kneeling beside him, the hour was dark and the rain incessant, buffeting the roof with a tremendous roar; gratefully he accepted the lumps of dry bread soaked in wine offered to him by Monsieur Lefèvre.

The glow of the forge lit the interior of the barn, its comforting warmth restoring a little of Monsieur Muffat’s energy. His charitable host offered him a bowl of vegetable and herb soup that had been kept warm beside the fire, apologising for the frugal meal. Monsieur Lefèrve arranged a bed consisting of some planks covered with hay for his hapless guest.

Feeling a little better Monsieur Muffat explained the reason for his appearance on the rain soaked road outside Jacques Lefèrve’s cottage. He was on his way to Paris from the small village of Vitry-le-Francois about seventeen leagues away where he had lived with his poor mother and frail sister, whose despair at the loss of her beloved father to syphilis caused her to take the veil in some distant convent. His mother already heartbroken at the loss of her husband could not cope with her daughter’s leaving, she saw it as abandonment and her health rapidly worsened. She became affected with a madness that exhausted both mind and body until no longer able to cope and afflicted with grief she physically deteriorated.

She resisted her son’s help, blaming him for his sister’s departure. He tried to console his mother in her hours of mental torment, but feeling helpless he summoned the local priest who conversed with her in private. The priest finally confided to her son,

Your mother’s soul is greatly tormented, I’ll pray for her Monsieur Muffat and I will visit her again soon, she is in God’s hands. The following morning she died and the priest came to the house offering condolences and prayers.

The funeral over, Paul Muffat, with a few keepsakes in his pocket, began his journey to Paris. Some local dogs snapped at his heel as he walked away from the village of his birth.

His days of walking had meant sleeping in the open and accepting whatever food and shelter was offered. The country people for all their simplicity were generally very welcoming but village folk were less hospitable, treating strangers with suspicion and sometimes malice. Encounters on the road were varied and at times very dangerous. There were robbers, beggers, sorcerers, army units returning from or on their way to conflicts, strolling players and pedlars with packs of chapbooks for sale.

With some food in his belly and the fire in the forge warming him he felt his strength returning, and with sleep he was confident he would be ready to continue his journey in the morning. Jacques assured Monsieur Muffat that he could stay in the barn overnight as the rain continued its torrential downpour. The two men talked, both sharing stories and aspirations and consuming the remainder of the wine used to soak the bread in. Monsieur Muffat’s stories of his journey to date seemed no more than wildly extravagant tales but he assured his generous host that everything he said was true.

He recounted his experiences with a group of bateleurs he had met on the road. Five men and a pretty young woman formed as a group of strolling players who travelled around the country. The women possessed a most beautiful singing voice, A voice as divine as her appearance. He enthused.

Her eyes, dark and mysterious, long ebony-black hair lustrous and wavy, a lovely figure and a complexion the colour of burnished copper. She so beguiled Monsieur Muffat that he found himself completely enamoured. He was sure that she was an enchantress, a sorceress with knowledge of herbs and healing and undoubtedly many other strange and arcane things. Sorceresses and magicians continued to function in French society, even after the seventeenth century scandal at the court of Louis XIV. The men in the troupe treated her with great deference. She told fortunes using a pack of cards with strange pictures on them and for a fortune foretold, superstitious folk paid a small fee or a large fee depending on their rank and desperation.

When the sun went down the troupe would camp for the night. The covered wagon un-harnessed and the horse tethered to a tree. The fire set, wine, bread and a tasteless gruel with lumps of vegetable hungrily consumed, stories told, songs sung and plans for the next performance discussed. On cold nights they all slept together in the wagon, its floor strewn with straw, on warmer nights and in summer they lay on the ground except for the lovely Seraphine who at night always reclined in the wagon on squares of coloured cloth and surrounded by pillows.

Details of a particular evening Monsieur Muffat described with a degree of wonderment and curiosity. The night was cold, the heavens starlit and all the performers, including Monsieur Muffat huddled together in the cart for extra warmth. A full moon bathed the countryside in an opaque white light that rendered shadows as black as nightmares. Monsieur Muffat was dreaming a strange dream about a flaming fountain when he was suddenly aroused by a strange rocking sensation and garbled noises hushed and fevered yet all the bodies seemed inert, lost in the depths of sleep. Not wishing to awake the others he lay still, listening, pretending to be asleep. All of a sudden a muffled gasping sound and heavy laboured breathing swelled rapidly and calmed just as urgently. The other men stirred, muttered grumpily, one man cursed through the sluggishness of sleep. Monsieur Muffat quickly sat upright only to glimpse, albeit briefly, the naked shoulders and breasts of Seraphine illuminated in a shaft of moonlight. She turned onto her stomach and appeared to look directly at him her back and well formed buttocks bathed in nocturnal light before she lay down beside the man whose heavy breathing quickly gave way to snores announcing the arrival of a satisfied sleep.

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