Pernelle's Escape : A Rhetoric of Death Novella (9781101585832) by Rock Judith

Author:Rock, Judith
Language: eng, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2012-07-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Pernelle’s husband, David, had told her once that in Paris, there was a merchant who helped fugitives along the route. All she could remember about him was that his name was François, and that he sold grain at a market called Les Halles. But when she found Les Halles and saw its size, its long crowded halls and the thronged vendors’ booths and carts outside, her courage failed her. A flare of suspicion, a hard grip on her arm, and a yell for police, and she would be shut up again in the convent, or some far worse place.

Wanting a better disguise while she tried to think what to do, Pernelle plucked a broken-sided basket from a rubbish heap, tied her cloak around her waist like a rough apron, and mingled with the crowd, passing well enough as some slatternly household’s slatternly servant. She found the grain hall easily enough, a long building, well roofed but open-sided. She walked slowly along it, squinting through the dusty air and watching narrow-eyed merchants and wary buyers. Many of them argued across tables that held only empty scales. They were arguing over what didn’t yet exist, she realized. This year’s crops were still ripening in the fields. But they were banking on the good enough weather lasting long enough to produce a good enough harvest. She wondered whether that was audacity or faith, and whether there was a difference. Whichever it was, it somehow shored up her own hopes.

But how to find the man called François? Such a common name--there was no telling how many men in the grain hall were called that. She walked slowly along the hall, watching and listening, but learning nothing. Finally, she withdrew to the shade of a tree beside the market wall and sat down to eat a little of her bread and cheese and try to think. She could ask someone in the hall for François. But the way she looked, no one of quality was likely to listen to her. She looked covertly at a ragged man and boy dozing against the wall. They looked like beggars, but François sounded like a man who would give alms.

She turned toward the man. “Monsieur?” His eyes flew open and she saw that he was blind. “I beg your pardon,” she said, “But do you know a man called François who sells in the grain hall?”

The man’s whitened eyes seemed to stare at her. “Why?”

“My master sent me with a message, but I can’t—” Pernelle broke off as a familiar voice turned her throat dry with fear.

“No luck here, damn the bitch. We’ll go toward the river.”

The guard from New Converts was coming toward the tree. Pernelle slid close to the startled blind man and nestled against him. “Please,” she whispered, “help me, pretend to sleep. I beg you.” She felt his shrug and nestled her head on his bony shoulder.

Boots tramped past. She opened her eyes just enough to see the New Converts guard and his fellow going toward the market gate.

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