Page 8 of The Darkest Oath

His words were rehearsed and repeated from the prior meeting. Gazes turned inward. Chins drooped. Long blinks became commonplace. Élise could feel the fleeing passion. She wanted change. She needed it, if not for herself, for her people. The only way to get what they wanted was to act. Gabin, for all his worth, was not an effective speaker to stir conviction, and she was. It was one of the reasons why he beat her to silence. He couldn’t afford to have a woman be better at him than something. They all agreed with everything he said, but the call to speak up was not enough to ignite the spark or fan the flame of change. They were hollow words, not sincere words to rally action.

One of the men who closed the bakery’s shutters, Malo, raised his hand and blurted out, “Speak up to who?”

Gabin scoffed at the disrespectful interruption of his speech, but before he could answer, a man named Yanis yelled out, “We should send someone to the king!”

“No, to the Parlements. Calonne said they rejected tax reform,” a woman’s voice echoed off the stone walls.

“The Parlements have no regard for us,” Malo cried, just as Gabin said, “The king might hear us.”

Soon, bickering ensued and Gabin lost control of the room. Élise stood silent, watching the division occur before her eyes. They would never accomplish anything if they were not united. She pushed her way to the corner and grabbed a wooden crate while forming the words she was going to say. She calmed her nerves and pushed Gabin’s punishment from her mind. He had tried and failed. She would save the night, and he would not take kindly to her rescue.

Ignoring the pain in her shoulder and her back, she placed the crate upside down in the middle of the bakery and exhaled the knots in her belly before stepping up to speak.

“Calonne published papers indicating how the king’s spending habits and stances on state affairs have left our children starving and the cost of bread soaring.” Her voice deepened and garnered attention. She let rage and purpose fuel her words. Rage at the suffering and the purpose to end it. She spoke before Gabin could reach her and pull her down from the crate.

“We, the people, bear the brunt of the elite, as Gabin Roux said. The injustices of the monarchy and the privileges of the nobility hinder us from having full bellies at night. The parlements rejected Calonne’s reforms, which would tax the nobility and the clergy, so they would pay their fair share in tax instead of overwhelming us to the point of starvation and depravity.”

At the last words, Yanis cried, “Here. Here,” signaling his agreement. Gazes were no longer inward. She had their attention; now, she needed to ignite the spark. She drew from her past to relate as Gabin simmered, unable to reach her through the crowd. At least he was not stupid to pull her down when the people listened.

“As a child, my father took nothing but rum and ale after my mother passed and beat me, his own child unconscious every night because I said I was hungry. He blamed me for his plight. Just as the king beats us to the brink of death, he blames us for the country’s empty treasury. There is no more money, as Calonne stated, yet the elite looks to us to pay for it while they keep spending and spending and spending, not on us, not to feed us, but on their own luxurious and fanciful feasts and fine silks to wipe their dirty mouths after indulging in exotic meats and fresh vegetables and warm bread.”

Heads nodded in agreement. Jaws grew taut, and brows grew heavy with the burdens they each faced.

“And why is this?” she cried. Glances were shared, but no one answered. “Why?” she asked again from the depths of her belly. “We were promised bread. We were promised safety and security. As an older child, my aunt saved me from my father but only to exploit me as a child thief, stealing from the poor to feed my aunt’s family. My cousins and I stole; if we did not steal enough, we were left to sleep outside with nothing but our clothes and nothing to eat or drink except the water from the gutters. Her family ate while her kin lay in the dirt with grumbling stomachs! Is that not how the elite, the king, the nobility, and the clergy all eat while we, their countrymen and women, lie in the dirt, unable to make bread and eat the most basic food of all? They feast while we starve!” she yelled, pointing west toward the Palace of Versailles.

Fists raised with angry growls of agreement.

“So I ask you again. Why? Why do we stand here in the shadows, starving and poor, forgotten, while they hoard gold in their coffers and eat as to fatten a calf?”

Nostrils flared, and feet shifted.

“Is it that we are less than them?”

“No!” The response blasted her in the face.

“Is it that we are not worthy?”

“No!” The people yelled.

“You want to know why?”

“Yes!”

“Because we allowed it to happen!”

The people shut their mouths and looked upon her with wide eyes.

“Yes, that’s right. We let them take our money and waste it. We let them take the fruits of our fields and squander them and hoard them for the wealthy and the powerful. We let them squeeze every drop of sweat and blood from our brows and veins. We were promised bread in return. What a weak deal we made. They kept it all for themselves. So what should we do?” She asked with a heartbeat in her ears. “What should we do?!”

“Take it back!” a man yelled.

“Take. It. Back!” she repeated and pointed at the man who answered correctly.

The people chanted. “Take it back. Take it back!”

Her cheeks flushed with triumph. Gabin’s eyes found hers. He was not chanting. She couldn’t hide her smile of victory. It was odd how Gabin claimed to fight for the same cause, yet he was no different than the elite. He used her in the same way. She assumed every person would use someone for their own gain. It was all she knew, but she hoped it might be better in another world than the current one. The only way to truly know was to fight for a better France, one with equality and justice, where suffering would be no more. It was her dream. It didn’t matter how strong Gabin was or how hard his fists hit her body; it was worth it to have the people rally aroundherwords, captivated byhermessage of unity and rebellion.

A tall stranger slipped into their meeting place—she alone saw as the others were engrossed in chanting, jumping up and down with fists in the air. Upon first glance, he seemed to be the same as the others—an ordinary man there to hear the words of the meeting. But the details slipped through her initial glance. Her focus faltered momentarily as her gaze returned to the stranger who came to lean upon the side wall with an unreadable expression. Though he wore the clothes of a commoner, his shirt was pressed cleanly and bright white beneath an untorn coat. He was well-fed, not with a round belly but with firm muscle beneath his breeches and poet blouse. No soot graced his face, and any sweat he might have had was dabbed away. Her first thought was a king’s informant. There was an air of unforced confidence and authority around him, the way his eyes surveyed the place—measured and detached. He seemed unfazed by the dirt and desperation around him. There had been rumors that entire meeting places would go silent because the attendees were thrown into prison.

---