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French speaking Switzerland, 1577
“Fire! Fire!” The calls filled the street in a haze of frenzied confusion. Thick smoke wrapped around Jean like a blanket of the roughest material, assembled from long coiled ropes rather than threads. Jean sputtered on the smoke. Her eyes burned and the heat of the flames lapped against her face, like tongues of hellfire.
“You feel that? You will soon feel it for eternity!” an angry voice shouted.
“Burn them, burn them all!” another voice said now, adding to the mayhem.
“Please sir, spare my child!” a voice cried in desperation. Jean could not see the woman who spoke the words, but from her crouched position behind the crates in the streets she could hear the agonized screams that came mere seconds later. As response to her pleadings, the man had killed both her and her child.
“We can't have anyone growing up outside of the true faith,” he said, to no one in particular, when the act was completed. Jean's stomach lurched forward violently, as the bile rose and mixed with the remains of her morning meal. Too afraid to move for fear of detection, she struggled to not faint as the smoke pushed in around her.
Shaking like a tattered leaf in a gale Jean sat and waited, forced to witness the terrible slaughter around her. Footsteps pounded loudly against the street now, as a long shadow fell over her hiding place.
“You! Come out here and face God's judgment!” a voice roared, angrily. Was he talking to her? She had seen no one else but others could be cloistered in the shadows, seeking sanctuary as well.
“Jean! I said come out!” Her heart became a leaden weight, as a cold dread crawled over her skin and seeped into her bones. Panicked, she looked for a way to escape, but there was none. She was trapped. Mercilessly, there was not even any stick within close enough reach to wield in defense as a club. Jean had no other choice. She swallowed hard and prayed that God might be merciful and the horror short. Broad shoulders towered above her now, as the man ripped aside the crates she crouched behind.
“Time to meet your maker,” he said, as he lifted her from her position by pulling harshly on her arm. His fingers gripped her neck. Jean's air supply dithered beneath the firm grip of his strangulation. His fleshy fingers pressed in stronger against her jugular. The man's eyes burned in conviction and seared his fingers to her neck. Jean struggled to break free.
“No, no, no,” she woke up saying, as she gasped for air through her heavy panting. Her heart beat ferociously within her chest, as if it had decided that it would be the means of escape through its quickened paces and racing. Jean sat up. Her hair clung to her, plastering itself to the back of her neck. As she sat up, the blanket pulled from the sleeping form next to her. Sleepy eyes opened. Seeing the terror in Jean's face, she gently said,
“Another nightmare?”
Jean nodded. Anne sat up and hoisted her legs over the bed to cross to the water bucket.
“Here,” she said softly to the younger woman.
Jean drank the water appreciatively, feeling it cleanse the fire of the man's grip and the weighty smoke that inhabited her lungs, though this reality had cleared five years before and not five minutes as it had in the dream.
When Jean set down the cup, her aunt opened her arms in a welcoming embrace to her. Ordinarily, those days were further removed from Jean. Painfully, their memory still could grip her in paralysis. At least, the everyday tasks of assisting a silk merchant, her uncle, usually kept her happily occupied to distract her from such thoughts. Nightmares could attack still though, unprovoked and unwelcome but still crippling, heartbreaking, and panic-inducing.
Certain that she would be unable to find peace if she tried to return to sleep now, Jean stood to pull her skirts and shawl over her shift. Anne was busy dressing as well, as she pulled up her long stockings. Jean shivered, more so from the chill that gripped her heart than from the gust of air that whispered through the crack at the bottom of the door.
The two ate breakfast mostly in silence. Anne knew that Jean would speak if she wanted to, but that sometimes the solitude was needed to restore a stillness to her heart. Five years ago, Jean had appeared at their doorstep in Paris, dripping wet from the rain and frozen in expression.
“What is it? What's happened?” Anne had asked her. Jean had been unable to speak.
“Come and sit beside the fire,” Anne had offered to her niece, in an attempt to learn what horror had transpired.
“No! No! There mustn't be a fire! Put it out! Quickly!” Jean said, her eyes grown wide in terror at the sight of the flames.
Anne looked at her husband, who shrugged as if to ask if he should put it out. Anne nodded to Matthieu above Jean's head.
“It's all out, Jean. See?” Matthieu said in comfort to his niece a moment later, when he had doused the flames. Her eyes leaped up to him, as if surprised that there were others present than just her aunt.
“Who else is here?” Jean said, her eyes wide.
“Just Matthieu and me, Jean. You know that we live alone.”
Jean nodded, but scanned the room to convince herself that they were really alone. Matthieu took a blanket from the bed and offered it to Jean.
“No! Don't choke me! Don't smother me!” she said, in near hysterics. Though she addressed her uncle, she looked through him and seemed to speak to someone else.
“Jean,” Anne said, “You are safe. You are with your Aunt Anne and your Uncle Matthieu. See?”
Jean's eyes focused on her aunt and then moved to her uncle and back again.
“Yes,” she said at last. Anne reached for her hand and squeezed it gently.
“Now, suppose you tell us what happened.” Matthieu stood behind his wife with his hand on her shoulder, so that Jean would feel their support but not be crowded.
“They're gone,” Jean said, in barely a whisper.
“Who's gone, Jean?”
“They're gone, all gone,” she repeated.
“Your mother, has something happened to your mother or to your father?”
Jean nodded.
“Which, Jean?”
“They're all gone,” she repeated, “Mother and Father and little Louis.”
Exhausted from the untold ordeal and having delivered so somber and heavy a burden, her head drooped and she fell asleep.
Early the next morning, before even the sun awoke, a knock pounded at their door. Matthieu stumbled from bed, having scarcely fallen back asleep after his niece's arrival.
“Matthieu, take Anne and leave. It isn't safe. It isn't safe for any of us!” their neighbor said, without first offering any greeting.
“What is this, Alain? What do you mean? What has happened? My niece arrived terrified in the middle of the night and now you say none of us is safe.”
“Your niece is here? Then, your family must already be affected. They are coming to kill us all!”
“Who is, Alain? The English? Have the English returned?”
“No, Matthieu. It is our own countrymen. It is the Catholics.”
Having learned of the imminent danger and of this horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew's Day, Matthieu had quickly packed what little belongings they could carry and fled Paris with his wife and their niece. They journeyed south, banding with other Huguenots along the way and eventually settling here in the French-speaking region of Switzerland.
Jean had grown from the young teenage girl, who lost her parents and brother and nearly her own life, into this sturdy and bright woman of twenty. Life with her aunt and uncle came easily, despite its difficult beginning. They had no children of their own and thus were able to devote their time to Jean. Pitying her loss and wanting to draw her from her darkness into the cheerful gilt of youth, Anne and Matthieu taught her their craft of selling silks. She learned to discern poorly made pieces from those that warranted a higher price tag. She became a valuable companion and source of help to them. With pride, Matthieu would remark that Jean could pick the best pieces and bargain for them better than any young apprentice. He observed her accomplishments with satisfaction, but he did not notice that one of these apprentices had set his sights on something else in the marketplace.
Paul had heard rumors of the terrible past that Jean had lived. Neighbors became concerned when a young girl awoke screaming, as she had so often in those earliest days. Questions had been asked and, when Jean was not present to hear, answers had been whispered. After all, they were among friends, many of whom had suffered similar fates of losing loved ones. Paul knew that if these rumors were correct, he would have to tread lightly lest he frighten Jean like a spooked horse and send her running. With a slow but steady persistence, he flitted around her that spring. Within a month, he was rewarded with a smile at their meetings. Within two months, there were discrete kisses at their partings. Matthieu had seemed surprised when Anne told him.
“But, I was right there. How could I have missed it all?”
She smiled patiently at her husband of fifteen years and kissed his confused face. By that autumn there were talks that when Paul accumulated enough money, arrangements would be made for their marriage. Anne would miss her constant companionship but Jean, who had endured so much, deserved this happiness.
Matthieu was away, helping a friend in a neighboring town repair his roof and so the two women were alone for now. The cold of night settled around them and it was warmer to share the one bed. It had been at least a month since the last dream and Anne wondered what had caused this one.
As their breakfast ended, she broke the silence to speak to her niece now.
“When Matthieu comes back, why don't you go to the market with him? There should be some lovely new pieces.” Jean nodded, though she looked distracted.
“Perhaps, you will see Paul,” Anne said, with a smile. Jean did not return her smile, but at least a look of focus appeared in her eyes.
***
MATTHIEU RETURNED TWO days later and was delighted to have Jean accompany him. In the marketplace, Jean became lost in a world of textured fabrics from embossed brocades to the decadent creamy silks that were her family's specialty. Aromatic spices, newly popular from the east, greeted her nose as she strolled through the stalls with her uncle. They both knew where they were headed— to the little stall wedged between the tanners and the dyers that was near the back of the market. Despite being small, the most sumptuous fabrics flowed from these boards like the cascading waterfalls of the towering Alps around them. The merchant drove a hard bargain; Matthieu and he often squabbled over a matter of difference in price barely weightier than the air. But, he sold the fabrics that were of the highest quality and always the most in demand. Whatever expense Matthieu incurred here, he was certain to make double the amount in his own sale.
“Hello, ah, I see you have brought your niece. Hello to you too, Jean,” he greeted them. Having returned the greeting, Jean asked,
“Anything new today?”
“So, it is straight to business young lady,” he said, with a chuckle, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have some new fineries from Venice. There are some beautiful pieces, dyed by a man named Francesco. A servant of a man was selling these pieces, told by his master to get rid of them. His wife or daughter or someone died and he wanted to be rid of everything associated with her. I am sorry for him, but it's good anyway for me and for you, my friends. I am sure you will agree.” He pulled out a piece of the most beautiful silk that Jean had ever seen, as he said this. She could not help but reach out and touch its beauty, as if it were calling to her.
“Oh my,” she said, softly.
“The lady likes!” the merchant said, clapping his hands together in delight.
Matthieu reached out his hand for his own inspection. Soon the deal was completed. The merchant smiled with the weight of the coins in his pocket from the agreed upon sum and Jean and Matthieu walked away with the box, well pleased with themselves at the purchase they made.
Later that evening, Jean unpacked the materials from the box. She held each up to admire its sheen in the soft flickering light of the fire. She no longer feared the flames and loved to watch them illuminate the silks, much as the moon sparkles on the sea.
“Oh that's beautiful!” Anne said in delight, at the deep blue that Jean held up for her to see.
“We certainly found treasures today, didn't we Jean?” Matthieu said, with a smile.
Jean dove into the chest of jewels to retrieve the next piece, a scarlet that seemed to burn with the intensity of the fire in the hearth.
“Oh, this is my favorite,” she said, happily.
“I thought the green was your favorite,” Anne said.
“Ah, but each piece is grander than the last, don't you think?” Her face shone as she spoke and Anne squeezed her husband's hand, both thankful for the upturn in Jean's demeanor.
“Well, you enjoy looking at the purchases, my girl. I must get some sleep,” Matthieu said now.
“Yes, goodnight, Jean,” her aunt said to her.
Jean sat closer to the fire, when the two had left for bed. The presence of another in a room has the ability to warm it, in a manner that is soon missed when one is left alone. The beautiful fabrics filled her lap. A handsome price would surely be gained for each piece, but it would be difficult to part with such objects of beauty. As the pile on her lap grew, she came to the bottom of the box more quickly than she would have wished. She began to refold the pieces to put back into the box.
“What's this?” she said, noticing something at the bottom. She set the silks onto the table and bent to loosen the piece from the box. She pried what seemed to be canvas free from the base. Lifting it out and turning it over, she momentarily forgot her silence to not awaken Anne and Matthieu.
“Oh!” she said, upon seeing the woman before her. She looked at this girl hidden beneath silks. From the painting, it looked as if she were dressed in some of these very materials or at least material similar. The silk mercantile industry captured her first observations, but her second thoughts were of the exotic nature of the painting. She had never seen a painting from so far south, assuming it was of Venice. Surely, it must be.
Jean tilted the painting in the light to better investigate this new style. A piece of silk at the top of the pile tumbled loose and fell against the painting, catching the light of the fire as it did in a sort of prism.
“Why did you leave me?” Jean jumped at the words. She looked over her shoulders quickly, but no one was there.
“You left me. Why was it me?”
Gripped with fear, she pushed the painting back into the box and piled the fabrics over it. She dove into bed, burying herself beneath the blankets. Her heart thudded uncontrollably. For a long time she lay awake, too frightened to sleep. If the nightmares had new power to be this strong in the day, what would become of them with all the advantages of sleep? It was not something she wished to face. When at last she did sleep, she was plagued by violent nightmares, not the one that repeated itself, but a nightmare of what had truly happened. She watched in horror as the baby that was killed was her own brother, Louis. Fear shattered her heart, as the man killed her mother moments later. From behind the box, she watched as her father was strangled. And then, most painfully of all, she watched herself run from them and abandon them. She awoke with the belief that she was a traitor and the fear that she would not be forgiven and cast aside, if she were found out. The painting had to disappear, before it told her terrible secret to Anne or Matthieu or Paul. She couldn't bear the thought of any of them turning on her, if they knew the truth.
When Matthieu awoke, she was already dressed and offered to sell the fabrics. Having noticed the night before what delight she took in them, he consented that she should be allowed to complete the sale. The silks were divided among three patrons and by the end of the day, she walked home with coins jangling in her pockets and freedom from the painted lady.