Page 9 of Nosfer-Meet You

Chapter 4

Juliette

IT COULD ALWAYS BE WORSE

AUGUST, A VILLAGE OUTSIDE OF LYON, FRANCE, 1793

The weeks slip by like sand through my fingers until we are in the final days of August. Soon, the hazy, sweltering days will cool into a brisk autumn. The sun is already setting earlier in the evenings. Most people in the village are sad when the weather turns, but I welcome the winter months. The cold and snow gives me an excuse to hibernate and turn inward. No one ever asks why you are not out enjoying the weather, because no one is.

I have always felt more at home in the darkness, perhaps because I am constantly hiding in it. When everyone else is snug in their beds, fast asleep, I am toiling away at my canvas. My “waste of time and energy,” as my mother puts it. “No one is going to put your paintings in a museum,” she likes to remind me. No, I know that. But the painting is…

It’s for me. It’s always difficult to explain to people, since I seem to be the only artist in the village, and all they see are clouds and trees and buildings on the canvas. They don’t see my soul in the brush strokes. You can’t sell it or eat it, so therefore, it’s useless. But to me, my paintings are everything. It is the way I express myself. The way I see the world. I take emotions and transcribe them with paint, putting a little bit of myself into each piece.

My father, on the other hand, always smiles and pats me on the head when he takes in one of my finished paintings. On one particular morning, before going down for breakfast, he even showed me affection. He allowed himself to linger and sift his fingers through my silky locks before praising me on my latest piece.

“Très bien, my sweet,” he said, and followed the rare praise with a kiss on my cheek. Then he went downstairs to be with my mother.

They have always bickered about me at breakfast. About my paintings. About my lack of marriage prospects. But there is one other morning I remember. A morning where things were different. Where Papa was different.

“Mon coeur,” my father said to Maman, his voice the very softness of rain against windowpanes. “At least she is not painting anything that would get her in trouble. You have heard what they did with that horrible Jacques-Louise David.”

My throat tightened as I listened from the bottom step of the staircase, too afraid to move and make the wood creak, alerting them to my presence.

My mother’s muffled voice quickly followed. “Again? That’s the second time this year for him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is. So you see, my sweet … it could be worse,” he said. “She could be out galivanting for that no-good Robespierre!”

It was odd to hear my father discuss politics. I never even knew he had an opinion on them. My father was a quiet man who never bothered anyone. Another layer of my own flesh and blood revealed himself to me at that moment. It was like the first time I learned that my mother and father had actual, real names. Eye opening, yes, but discomfiting.

“That tyrant will get what’s coming to him eventually,” mother spat out. “And then, hopefully, this madness will end. They are making a mess of our country.”

“We are fortunate enough to live here and not in the city,” Papa said. “But just last week, they executed Colin and his wife.”

Maman gasped. “Putain! But they were bakers! They wouldn’t harm a fly!”

“Does not matter to the National Convention. They hear whispers about you? You’re done for. Mass executions on a nightly basis, these days. We should take Juliette to Namur soon until this whole thing can blow over.”

I blinked. Namur? Clearly, my parents had been shielding me from the harsh realities of the world, because … I hadn’t been aware of any mass executions. Bile rose in the back of my throat at the thought of regular people being put under the guillotine.

The chairs groaned across the kitchen floor, and the back door to the cottage opened and swung shut. Papa had gone out to work, finally, and left me alone. With her.

Before my mother could find me sitting on the step in my dressing gown, I tore up the stairs and planted my butt down in front of my painting.

“Yes,” I murmured to myself as my eyes dragged across the canvas. A noisy mess of gray blobs that I intended to be the sky overlooking the Rhine smeared in the corners. “Barely art. Nothing that will get me in trouble. Just stars and flowers smeared on a canvas. That’s all you are, and all you’ll ever be.”

I threw my paintbrush down and stalked out of the room, no longer in the mood to create.

But tonight, the balmy air floats through my window to caress my cheeks in a goodnight kiss. The scent of the river tickles my senses, and instinctively, I reach for my paintbrush. My motivation may have been lacking earlier, but I can never stay away from the canvas for long. Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I get to work, filling the blank canvas with strokes of blues and greens.

I’m so transfixed by painting that I don’t even notice the smoke billowing in the distance, or the glowing embers on the horizon toward the farmlands. It’s only when I draw in a deep breath that I notice anything is wrong at all. Smoke fills my lungs as the flames lick upward on the horizon.

“Juliette!” my mother cries. “Get down here at once!”

Without thinking, I grab my paintings and wrap them in the cloth I saved over the years, then tuck them underneath the floorboards beside my bed. My mother calls for me again, and I throw my robe on before descending the stairs to find both of my parents pacing in the kitchen.

“We have to leave.” My father takes my mother by the shoulders and shakes her. Not out of malice but panic. I can see it in his eyes, the worry. He is normally such a calm man, so when he is concerned, I am, too. “We have to leave. Only take what you can carry. I will fetch the horses.”

My eyes widen as he runs out of the house, and I turn to my mother. “What is happening? Why are we leaving?” She doesn’t answer me. She is too paralyzed to even move, and stares at a bag of flour in the corner. “Maman!”