The Tapestry of Time

Chapter 4-2

“To ensure the peace and quiet of public and private individuals, to purge their city of whatever may cause disturbances, with each and every citizen living according to their station and their duties.” “Come along quietly. No fuss, no cuffs if you behave yourself. Take us to your house this moment and, no doubt, we’ll find a collection of fine silverware.” The man, reluctantly, agreed and prayed they would not find his booty buried in his back yard.

“Come along quietly. No fuss, no cuffs if you behave yourself. Take us to your house this moment and, no doubt, we’ll find a collection of fine silverware.” Baudet continued along the quayside, revelling in the atmosphere created by the now swelling numbers of workers and visitors to the port. It was, indeed, for this innocent young man from Vordan, a heady, intoxicating sensation and so lost was he in his rapture that he crashed inadvertently into a man, sending him sprawling to the ground. Stricken with remorse at his clumsiness, he helped the old gentleman to his feet, picking up his walking stick and started to dust him down.

“Please forgive me, monsieur, I did not see you.”

“Neither did I see you, my friend,” came the reply. Around his neck hung a sign in bold letters: “AVEUGLE – AIDEZ-MOI, JE VOUS EN PRIE. MERCI.” (Blind – help me please – thank you.)

“AVEUGLE – AIDEZ-MOI, JE VOUS EN PRIE. MERCI.” “You’re… b-blind!”

“Ay, and I’d be obliged if you would make sure no coins have fallen out of my cup.”

Baudet checked all around them and confirmed,

“There are none.”

“Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Wait! A moment.” Reaching for his money pouch from inside his tunic, he dropped a couple of coins into the receptacle.

“God bless you, M’sieur.” Feeling the way ahead with his stick, he moved on. Baudet had never seen a beggar in his life, and certainly not a blind one. He felt ashamed, frightened, and pitiful from the event, all in one.

Further on, a young woman approached, greeting him with: “Hail fellow, well met!” Not knowing how to answer, he smiled at her and she smiled back provocatively. Over her arm she carried a basket loaded with bunches of purple lavender, white hydrangea and golden yellow marguerite flowers.

“I’ll wager young sir would like to take some of my fine blooms home to his good lady… remember, they stand for love…”

Realising she was selling, he recoiled and began to walk away, saying: “Thank you, but no.”

“A pox on you then!” The girl spat the words in his direction.

“This is not a reassuring introduction to Marseilles,” he mused ruefully. “But who’s this unfortunate fellow?” Ahead, an old man, bent almost double through a deformed spine, looked up at him with obvious pain and implored: “Alms, sir, alms for a poor cripple!” He held a plate towards Baudet who, moved as he had been with the sightless man, dropped a coin on to the dish.

“This is not a reassuring introduction to Marseilles,” “But who’s this unfortunate fellow?” “May the Lord bless and keep you, kind sir. I know you will achieve good things.” Baudet went on without answering and was struck, even scared, by those words that he had heard before. “Good things? He’s a stranger, how can he know?”

“Good things? He’s a stranger, how can he know?”For the rest of his stroll to reach the Butte Saint Laurent and its church, perched on a rocky outcrop that marked the end of the port and start of the sea, he came across a few more beggars – some with physical deformities, others merely old, feeble and down on their luck. He resisted throwing them coins. “They seem to be everywhere and if I’m not careful I’ll soon run short of money!” Climbing the steep steps to get to the church left him out of breath and he sat down on a stone bench. Taking out his bottle of brandy, he had a welcome, reviving sip. From this vantage point the panorama amazed him. Below, the whole port was visible – its boats, its people, the beating heart of the city. Behind him extended the Panier district Madame Dizier had described and, over the water to the other side of the harbour mouth his eyes rested on one building that he noticed because of its unusual design. Was it a fort? It had massive stone walls and crenellated towers, like a castle. Then, out of the blue, someone tapped him on his shoulder. Jumping to his feet, he feared he was about to be attacked and raised his clenched fists, ready to fight. However, his “assailant” was no less than a priest, in a dark cassock and with a silver cross on a chain around his neck.

They seem to be everywhere and if I’m not careful I’ll soon run short of money!” “Please, accept my apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” Baudet lowered his clenched fists and took a deep breath.

“N-no, Father, it is of no matter.” He extended his hand and the cleric shook it warmly.

“My name is Baudet.”

“And I am Father Philippe. This is my church of Saint Laurent. You are most welcome and I assume you are a stranger to this part of Marseilles?”

“How do you know that?”

“You have climbed the steep steps but there is a far easier path on the other side of the Butte.”

“Yes, father, I’m newly arrived in Marseilles and will be seeking work.” He offered his bottle to the priest who readily accepted, taking more than a respectful sip of Madame Dizier’s best liquor.

“Are you of the faith?” Father Philippe asked, in a friendly tone of voice.

“Of the faith? What does that mean?”

“Do you believe in the Christian religion?”

“I suppose I do. At least my parents would take me and my sister to Sunday mass.”

“I am pleased to hear it and, whosoever you are, we will be happy to accept you among us in Saint Laurent’s holy church.”

Baudet was not giving the man his full attention but was staring once more across the harbour.

“What is that building, over there, the one that I assume is a castle?”

“It is the Saint Victor abbey.”

“What, pray, is an abbey?”

abbey“The home of the order of Benedictine monks although, as I understand it, they nowadays call themselves Cistercians. They are not a closed order and can been seen around the city in their white tunics. I believe they perform charitable acts but I do not pretend to be an expert on their lives. One church here tends to keep itself to itself, if you understand me.”

Cistercians. “I think I do, Father, and thank you for your time. I am simply curious.”

More than curious, he was experiencing a bizarre attraction for this order he knew nothing about, housed in that intriguing edifice with its thick stone walls and crenellated square towers. The priest resumed,

“Maybe you should knock on their gate and ask to be shown around – I’m sure they wouldn’t mind, in fact, I doubt they have many visitors.”

“I might well do that but, first, there are districts such as the Panier that I’d like to investigate. The landlady of the Auberge Fabien, where I am lodging, has told me much about it but I need to see for myself.”

“Of course. You say the Auberge Fabien… ah, yes, Madame Dizier. She attends our church regularly. She’s a good woman. Well, when you meet a potential employer, don’t hesitate to mention my name – it will be of help for you.”

“I am grateful, Father. I must return to the inn now, I can smell Madame’s supper from here!”

Father Philippe smiled and disappeared into the church behind them.

* * *

Criou was a young man of about Baudet’s age: tall, slim and handsome with curly black hair and deep blue eyes that could melt the heart of any girl, an asset he regularly made use of. In and around the Panier, he made his living from a trade that, should he be apprehended by the magistrate’s men, would result in time in the stocks or even a judicial flogging: pickpocketing was his art. As well as providing him with the wherewithal to live and care for his sick mother, he regarded stealing money or other valuables from a person, usually out of a pocket, as a challenge. After all, he reasoned, the reward was p*****t for the risks he took. Among his like-minded roguish friends, he boasted his considerable dexterity and knack for his distraction of the wealthy citizen who was, in his estimation, a legitimate quarry – a stumble here, an “accidental” nudge there, and his hand was in and out of the person’s coat or jacket in a flash, apologising profusely as he made away before the felony was discovered.

Later that evening he put his ailing mother in her bed, as usual, and helped her to swallow the herbal drink he had managed to procure from the apothecary. To have a doctor visit was out of the question, the cost being way beyond their means. She was a lady to whom he owed a great deal.

Leaving their humble cottage in Rue du Refuge, he walked along the streets of the Panier to the Auberge Fabien where he would join in a card school – with the same group of men that Baudet had observed playing, with cards whose breathtaking illuminations had kindled a latent desire to reproduce the same, one day, by his own hand.

To Criou, gambling was tantamount to pickpocketing. He explained it away: “You place a bet, that’s your hand moving close towards the pocket – you raise your bet, and your hand’s inside, no turning back – you pull out a watch just like you collect up your winnings – but, the justice’s fist on your shoulder then locking you in manacles, that was your luck gone, your queen trumped by a king. Life’s one eternal game.”

“You place a bet, that’s your hand moving close towards the pocket – you raise your bet, and your hand’s inside, no turning back – you pull out a watch just like you collect up your winnings – but, the justice’s fist on your shoulder then locking you in manacles, that was your luck gone, your queen trumped by a king. Life’s one eternal game.”Baudet sat at the same table to eat supper, next to the one where the men, including Criou, were playing cards.