The Forgotten
By Natasha Buckler
Bastille Prison
Martin Laroche
September 9, 1793
Dearest Isabelle,
A fortnight ago you perished, and sleep departed from me. How can I sleep with whimpering children crowded around? Their slender, pallid faces, marked with the dirt of prison, haunt me in moments when I nearly attain that most-desired oblivion, and I struggle against that peace. They ask about their parents. What can I tell them, most cherished one? I would like to tell them that I, too, lost the one who most penetrated my heart.
But they do not know the horror, and I will keep it from them. You wonder at my imprisonment. I forebear from mentioning such things to you, for you alone can—and should--communicate the tidings of a happier realm. What harm can eulogies to dead kings do in that sphere where you rest? I will tell more tomorrow, dearest, as to the cause of my confinement.
Oh, my love, if le monstre sweeping through France had not devoured our lives . . . mon Dieu! We would flee Paris for the citadel of the Vosges, and I would endeavor, all my life, to provide for your happiness.
Enough. Tears scar the page, and you know the precious scarcity of paper. If I talked not with you through these letters, I may well stray into madness. I keep the handkerchief you gave me at parting either under the straw of my meager bed or tucked within my coat pocket. I finger it always, knowing your fingers caressed it. A fragment of you still exists in this world, Dieu merci!
Forgive me, dearest. I stepped away for a moment, hearing little Jean cry. His face contains the most luminescent eyes, like gray stones submerged in the clearest water. They executed his parents on Friday last, but as of yet he acknowledges not his loss. Children exhibit remarkable innocence and resilience. Would that I could follow my little friend’s example, but I fear, selfishly, that my loss proves greater.
Your voice echoes along these chambers. The sans-culottes rampage through here at all hours, voices barking. But all of this you know. Why do I harp upon this scene of terror? Please tell me where you reside; encourage me that all will yet mend.
Ever and most truly yours,
Martin
September 10, 1793
Most loved Isabelle,
Monday evening they found me at my lodgings. They knocked, but certainly under no pretence of politeness. Their red hats, shabby coats, and grizzled faces raise them not one degree in my estimation; fear did not come, as I thought it would. They allowed no time to gather any belongings, and indeed, what need I of any?
My little elegy to Louis angered them. Sour and hardened creatures! I claim no affection for the wealthy and the privileged (as you well know, considering how your ‘lady’ treated you), but I cannot dishonor a man killed in the street, a spectacle for the ravenous and depraved. What more shall I add? They killed you, a maid, for remaining loyal to your lady, and imprisoned me for being a poet. Folle sweeps through France, satisfied in destruction.
Several orphan children remain with me as of yet, and I desire their company for a long while. They resemble small dogs, wary of the sans-culotte’s wrath. Stale bread and water do not stave off hunger, and these innocents have lived here since before your time. They keep me from thinking of my own fate, though I know the inevitable. Death seems easy now, though I say that with no knowledge of the date of my dissolution. Were it tomorrow, I might rest easier. However, the uncertainty eats away at my peace. Will it be today? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? When?
I tire of such prattle. Do you want to know how I picture you now? I see you on a peak in the Vosges, your fine chestnut hair torn loose from its ribbons. What I would not give to touch a fine strand! The wind stings your virgin cheeks, and they flash scarlet, angry at the ill treatment. Turning your green eyes to the distance, then back to me, you wait for my words, undecided in your extravagant happiness as to whether you want to hear me speak at all, or to stand in eternal contemplation of the verdant folds and ridges of the summer landscape. Your mouth moves, but I cannot hear you.
Ah, Isabelle, that image hangs so far off. Why can I not hear you? I could yesterday; what changed? Perhaps you move further away each day? I smell your handkerchief: violet water and crusty bread. Do not leave me as of yet, my love; I crave your strength.
Ever yours,
Martin
September 11, 1793
My love,
Mon Dieu! Do not leave me here alone. Several things occurred which lead me to desperation. Your handkerchief and little Jean disappeared. Where the handkerchief went, I cannot guess; I fear the rats stole it. I hear screeching in the late hours of the night, and I rise to determine if their boldness extends to the attacking of the children’s limbs. They do not yet, but I fear what may happen as the children’s health declines.
As for Jean . . . please let me know what you think of him when you meet him. So bright for one so young. I. . . oh, Dieu! Forgive the ink smudge. I must write more carefully, for my ink runs low, and heaven knows how much longer I shall have to endure. The place fills everyday with new people, and everyday more depart. I maintain a constant guard near the window in this cell. Sunlight enters, and I raise my face to it, kissing the very beams. Two days, and I contemplate. . . no, I shall not say that to you. You, who know the best of me, shall never know the darkest aspect of my mind.
I now enjoy a great deal of room. Three young children, an elderly couple, a dissolute footman, and I occupy this cell. However, by this evening, the entire prison will ring once more with protests, sobs, and footsteps. The men react more violently than the women. Yesterday I noticed a tall man near a cell door. He wore a waistcoat and breeches of lavender satin, and though he lacked a coat, his linen appeared in fine condition. He stood by the door the entire day, beseeching the sans-culottes for his release. Not only ridiculous, but pathetic, as well.
Never should I demean myself before these creatures. Like ravens, they deprive sustenance from our fear. It amuses them; they cackle at those who plead for a little more time with loved ones. Hell itself spews forth demons in the shape of men, and we all become lambs to the slaughter. Ah, well. At least we do not suffer alone. I mean not to appear selfish, but if I had no other human being with me, I fear that I should entreat the sans-culottes for a place on the next tumbrel.
Forgive me for this most-depressing letter.
Ever yours,
Martin
September 12, 1793
Isabelle,
‘Tis Thursday. For the first time since my capture, I allow myself to listen to the cacophony in the streets. Hoarse voices, male and female, join in the Hymne du 21 Janvier:
If some want a master,
In a world from King to king
Let them beg for shackles
Unworthy to be Frenchmen,
Unworthy to be Frenchmen!
Above this noise another sound reaches my ears. I vainly try to ignore it. The indiscriminate blade falls and the crowd erupts with vicious joy. No quiet, no sanity anymore.
As for your precious voice, screams replace it. I no longer pretend to hear you. Your timbre and pitch, that most beloved song, fades away into the shadows of death. On that self-same brink, I encounter a strange barrier, one which forbids the communication of the doomed with those already at peace. Isabelle, will I see you again? Heaven opened for you—how could it not?—but for myself—
How can I continue to believe in this age of terror? Why should I believe in a deity who allows mankind to inflict evil upon innocent heads such as yours and Jean’s?
No, do not answer. I know what you would say, and I cannot bear to hear it. Your faith—that tenacious grip upon the unseen—exasperates now more than it did before. Where did you find this power? How can your wispy frame hold such force, and my own contain nothing?
Rats, sleek and much fatter than I, scuffle towards my empty plate.
Disappointment, my friends—you will find nothing. No lumps, no crumbs, nothing but nothing.
Apologies, my love, for my digression. To what depths I come to! The children and the elderly couple climbed into the tumbrel at seven o’clock this morning. I clasped the children to me, but could say nothing. How can one tell a child he will die within minutes? The man, one arm gripping his wife’s waist, bowed, and I knew he considered himself already dead. Droplets fell from the woman’s eyes, but she said not a word. As the door closed behind them, I turned back to my straw. The footman, my only companion, sleeps.
I realize the incoherent nature of my thoughts. I must write those things which I witness and feel. This grimy, bedraggled quill offers my only hope of salvation: a link to you. Tell me I lose not your love, that I never leave your thoughts. If I knew you forgot me, I would readily face the torments of hell, for such would be life without your affection.
Ever yours,
Martin
September 13, 1793
Most precious Isabelle,
Friday. Sometime in the short interval while I slept, they retrieved the footman, for I awoke to solitude.
I pace fifteen—sometimes twenty—times around the cell. When I stride out of those heavy doors of this prison, I will at least depart with physical health and strength. Other than writing to you, I observe the various guards and soldiers who enter and exit. What must their existences be? Are they happy with their work? Do their families know of their duties, or do they even have families? Are they, like myself, alone?
I have abandoned my poetic craft, for both pragmatic and fanciful reasons. I simply cannot produce a poem in this place. It hampers me. Four walls stare from morning to evening, and this disconcerts my thoughts. No audience will read my work. I cannot share it with mankind, and if I cannot do that, I shall not write poetry at all.
My one release comes in writing these letters. In spite of my heathenism, I know you peruse these lines. Nothing seems clearer. I care not for the notions of heaven, hell, and purgatory. I only care to know you exist somewhere outside of these walls. When I die, the knowledge of your being will remain within these letters.
That someone may find these scribblings I take precautions to prevent. Around eleven in the evening, many of the guards sleep or drink heavily, remaining oblivious to the actions of a poor poet. I raise a loose stone in the floor—which I found in one of my repetitive jaunts around the cell-and lay these pages within the slight depression. I need not detail how I raised that stone. I only regret the disappearance of your poor handkerchief.
I lie awake from night until morning, recalling my last glimpse of you. You remained unaware of it, but shall I tell you that I followed your tumbrel? I had slept outside the prison, and I saw when they put you into the cart. The jolt of the wheels caused you to grip the arm of a young man standing near you. You glanced into his face, and murmured something which I could not hear. He squeezed your hand gratefully, his eyes sweeping across the crowd. A shudder passed through me when his eyes briefly met mine. Purpose—steadfast and true—sparkled in the depths of those russet eyes, and I can never forget the calm with which he died, close after you. No fear lingered in that stoic countenance. Blessings upon this good man, who imparted his strength to you in the hour of your trial!
Ever yours,
Martin
September 14, 1793
Dearest and loveliest Isabelle,
My situation remains unaltered, except I again have companions! Several aristocrats arrived yesterday. Three pale men, along with two even paler women, followed a stout sans-culotte to my door. I welcomed them as heartily as I could, but their eyes scanned the paltry nature of the room, and such comfort as I offered remained beneath their notice.
Since then, they congregate into one corner, a ring of pretty, disheveled flowers: pink, blue, purple, green, and yellow. Such delicacies do not realize—as I do—their fate. They treat it as but a dream, speaking of Monsieur’s exquisite fete (which, you must know, occurred over a month ago). Not one of them dares to ask how it will end. The fools! I believe companionship a good, but their arrogance convinces me of solitude’s numerous benefits.
However, I found a minute fragment of your handkerchief in the straw of my bed! A ray of light—most fortunate!—lighted upon my side of the cell, casting the dirty straw into new radiance. I saw the besmirched white of the cloth, and I grasped it. I fear my companions thought me mad, for they moved closer to the other wall.
Why should their fear move me? The world robbed me of my dearest hope, and no ill opinions shall sway my intention of meeting you once again, even if only in the quiet of the grave.
Night falls, and now that I hold that precious fragment, I may at last sleep.
Ever yours,
Martin
September 15, 1793
Lovely Isabelle,
Sunday arrives at last. Nearly one week since my arrest, and I can—
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Natasha Buckler teaches high school and college English. While finishing her Master's degree in English, she also works on her first historical novel, set during the American Revolution.