The Queen's Dollmaker. Christine Trent
“Jean-Philippe? The Renauds? Why would they take you in?”
“Because I—because Jean-Philippe is my—oh, because our parents know each other.” Claudette could see a mixture of skepticism and sympathy in his eyes for this girl who he obviously thought was out of her head from grief. She offered her hand, which he took and kissed.
“Farewell, Jacques. Thank you for saving my life. I shall never forget you.”
“Farewell, little Claudette. Remember, my cousin is Bertrand Jonceaux, and he lives just two blocks from the palace. You will always have a friend there.”
She looked up, saw the Notre Dame spire in the distance, and used it as her compass needle to find her way back home.
As she trudged her way back to whatever might be left of her home, she noticed that the farther she walked, the fewer people she encountered. An occasional dog or cat wandered by, but of course what Parisians would be wandering around in the rain through burnt-out ruins? At a street corner she saw a discarded bucket that was filling with rainwater. She knelt and peered down into the water, into a filmy reflection that shocked her. Her cobalt-blue eyes, normally sparkling and inquisitive, were overcome by the heavy dark circles under them. The rest of her face was thin and pale, and she had lost the band that had held back her disorderly golden hair, which now cascaded in a tangle midway down her back. She scooped water up to rub grime from her face, neck, and arms, and used her slightly clean hand to run a finger across her even front teeth. Her dress was still sooty, and now stained by wet grass, but the wash made a small improvement in her appearance.
Rising from the bucket, she felt distinct aches in her back and legs that not even youth would heal rapidly. She felt much older than her tender years. She continued her journey through the wreckage until she came to her father’s doll shop. She had called the E. Laurent Fashion Dolls shop home for sixteen years, and had been her father’s assistant for most of that time, spending her early years sweeping up sawdust and scraping wax drippings from the floor, and later helping her father carve doll figures and take care of customers. Looking around on the street, she saw that the fire had not been quite as devastating to their home as it had been to Old Jacques’s wine shop. Probably their stone storefront had kept the fire somewhat at bay. Claudette stepped through the remaining doorway.
The second story was gone, having mostly burned or fallen onto the first floor. The fashion dolls that were her father’s greatest pride, next to his wife and daughter, had all but disappeared in a heap of cinders. His newly acquired “baby” houses and their furnishings were nearly destroyed. The few remaining grandes Pandores, the mannequins that were Claudette’s favorite addition to the shop, were bizarre caricatures of themselves. The iron frames, mangled and probably fragile to the touch, still stood in the same arrangement they were in when Claudette left the shop the previous day. However, their wigs, gowns, and padding were completely gone. It was as though she were looking at a collection of empty birdcages, whose occupants had flown away from an irritating disturbance.
She stepped gingerly over scattered debris until she reached the workshop. The fire did not appear to have destroyed everything in here. Perhaps there was something to salvage? Rooting through the fragments of doll molds, scorched body parts, and tools, she attempted to find salvageable pieces, reminders of the father and life she loved. An hour of searching in the rain, which had now become a light mist, produced some carving tools, fabric scraps, some paints, and one of her father’s old wooden toolboxes, into which she put the remaining items. With this small box and her reticule, she left the shop.
In the street, she turned around one more time to look at the shop. Just twelve hours ago she was comfortably ensconced in her bed, secure in the affections of two doting parents and Jean-Philippe, whom she had loved as long as she could remember. Now she was alone, penniless, and beginning to notice a small gnawing of hunger in her stomach. What was she to do now? Her only hope was to find Jean-Philippe. Surely he was looking for her as well. But what if something happened and he had not survived? How could she find out what had happened to him and his family?
Even at the young age of twelve, Claudette could not remember a time that she and Jean-Philippe had not been the best of friends, preferring his company always above that of the girls she knew.
Jean-Philippe was unhappily apprenticed to a locksmith named Gamain. Jean-Philippe hated being trapped all day in a workshop, hammering away at metal and firing it in ovens that produced unbearable heat. He also found the detailed work of assembling lock mechanisms to be mind-numbing. However, the locksmith would sometimes drink, and drinking made him garrulous. During those times, he allowed Jean-Philippe to sit and listen while he aired his views on the French and Indian wars, on the rising cost of bread, on the evils of the aristocracy (no matter that they provided him with healthy commissions for work), and on the extravagances of the royal family. The boy did not understand much about what he was being told, but Gamain seemed very worldly, and Jean-Philippe was rapt when he had the opportunity to get away from his apprenticeship duties.
When Claudette arrived at the Renaud home, they always went for a long walk through nearby streets and parks, except when the days were cool and short. Then they simply stayed at his home huddled around the fireplace until twilight, and Claudette would then run back home to her parents. During the brutally cold days and long nights of the deepest part of winter, they sometimes went weeks without seeing each other, only to reemerge in the spring, each in wonder at how much the other had grown and matured in just a short time.
Jean-Philippe frequently shared Gamain’s stories and theories with Claudette, but he did not understand them well himself and so usually relayed them in a muddled way. Claudette found it impossible to comprehend Gamain’s personal philosophies, or Jean-Philippe’s translation of them, but listened politely. Conversely, Claudette would rattle off to Jean-Philippe exacting details about the latest carving or sewing technique she had learned, and Jean-Philippe would try to be interested.
After the first flush of chattering, the two would delve into what idle gossip they had heard, then settle into companionable silence, walking along quietly. Jean-Philippe would often stop to boldly pluck flowers from overflowing containers in front of windows, and Claudette would wind them together and trail the floral rope through her curly locks of hair. Sometimes they held hands on their return home, swinging them through the air as they sang silly songs they made up together.
Once they were scampering through the garden of a nearby convent, seeking out the largest tomato they could find. Jean-Philippe, streaked with stains and juice, shouted from where he was crouched, “Look! Here is the biggest tomato in all of France!”
Getting no response from Claudette, he looked up and saw her worrying over something near the west corner of the convent building. Forgetting his very important fruit harvest, he hurried to her side. “What have you there?”
“Shh,” she commanded. Her hands were cupped together, and she pulled them slightly apart to show him a bedraggled mass of white feathers punctuated by two blinking eyes. “It’s a little bird. I think it fell from the second story ledge. Do you think we should ask one of the nonnes if she will pray for it?”
“It’s a dove. Papa says they bring good luck. We could nurse it ourselves, then we will have luck.”
Always ready for an adventure with Jean-Philippe, Claudette agreed, and the two young teenagers created a nest that evening for the fledgling bird, with twigs, leaves, and material scraps, all loosely arranged in a doll box Étienne had discarded. They dug happily for worms, grubs, and other crawling creatures, experimenting until they figured out what the young bird would and would not eat, Claudette completely forgetting her sophisticated work in dollmaking. Two weeks later, they watched as the dove, now named Jean-Claudette, after hours of bickering about whether the bird was a boy to be named after Jean-Philippe or a girl to be named for Claudette, took wing from the box hidden in the convent’s garden, never having been detected by the residents.
To ensure what they were certain would be a very good run of luck, they tried for several weeks to find another dove in need of help, but little Jean-Claudette seemed to be the only injured bird they could find. Jean-Philippe suggested just finding another