The factories closed down collectively at seven. All the workers began to head home. Mary walked out of the sugar factory at the front of the group of workers, as though she were in a hurry. Once an idea was planted in Mary’s head, there was nothing she could do to get it out. She felt the roots of it begin to spread. They wrapped around all the other ideas and countering opinions and strangled them.
The sunset was so beautiful that evening, it was as though men in scaffolding had painted it. Only Louis Antoine could have afforded to commission a sunset like that. The factory machines blocked out all other city sounds. Now that they had shut down, the horses began to make clopping noises again. The girls’ voices took on sweet, confidential tones. The bottles began to clink together lightly. The city began to play its evening sonata, which was much more melodious and pretty than its daytime one. Mary skipped to the rhythms of the city as she headed to the drugstore of Jeanne-Pauline Marat.
Whenever Mary Robespierre was truly anxious, she would go see Jeanne-Pauline. Jeanne-Pauline was older than her and could truly offer her advice. The store was so tiny, you could barely notice it. The words “Marat Pharmacy” were written on the window in gold paint. Mary stood outside the shop a moment contemplating Jeanne-Pauline, whom she saw through the window. Jeanne-Pauline was a tall, middle-aged woman. Her hair was white and she wore it in a bun on top of her head. The white of her hair had the effect of making her eyes sparkling blue.
* * *
Jeanne-Pauline’s husband had dropped dead of a heart attack one morning. The doctor was surprised, since the man had previously been in such good health. But he had seen stranger cases in his time. Especially with men who were prone to rage. He knew that flying into a rage could do great damage to men’s hearts. And he had seen similar fates arrive for men who were chronically upset with their wives. He noticed a bruise under Pauline’s eye and determined this to be the case here. Bad marriages caused cardiac arrest and sudden death in men.
Jeanne-Pauline had every sort of poison at her disposal, and it became a widespread rumor throughout the neighborhood that she had murdered her husband. This conclusion was exacerbated by the general improvement in morale and lifestyle that Jeanne-Pauline exhibited after her husband’s death. Despite trying to tone it down and project an illusion of grief, her joie de vivre was evident to all those who met her.
It wasn’t only that killing a man had set her free, it had changed her completely. She became a woman no one could mess with. Murder has a strange effect on women. Her hair became more voluminous. She seemed to grow two inches in height. Her clothes began to fit her better. It was as though her long black coat was proud to be worn by her. Her scarf flipped itself in the wind in an arrogant way.
Colors changed whenever she came into the room. Reds became redder and began to glow. The bells on the doors always rang louder. These were all known ways nature had of informing you that a murderer was in the room. Stray dogs would often fall in love with her. There was always at least one dog trying to follow her down the street.
She made people’s blood run cold. She made everyone feel insecure. Everyone felt awkward and self-conscious in her presence and couldn’t bring themselves to tell jokes. It was hard to believe she had once been abused.
After wearing black in mourning, she realized how much she liked the color. She added a string of fake pearls to her hair that resembled dewdrops, as though she had been out all night killing people.
Now Jeanne-Pauline was the person to see if you wanted a man to die in his sleep.
* * *
A young girl was at the register when Mary arrived that day. She and Jeanne-Pauline were speaking in French. The girl said she needed pills to fall asleep. Her nose was crooked, as though it might have been broken a couple of times. She also had a broken tooth and her hand was in a bandage. She was still beautiful. She refused to stop being beautiful. No matter what men did to her, no matter how many times she was knocked down the stairs. The same reason she was still beautiful was the same reason she was here. She was resilient. She refused to be ugly.
“How much of these should I take to fall asleep?”
“One to begin with. You can slowly try more.”
“I have to be careful, though, don’t I? Because these could kill me if I take too many, right?”
“Yes.”
“How many should I be careful not to take?”
Jeanne-Pauline stared at her for a long moment. The girl did not blink. “Never take more than four. Never grind them up and boil them. Always make sure you’ve disposed of any of the leftover tea. You don’t want it to get inadvertently lapped up by a cat. Here, these are particularly potent.”
The girl nodded, slid a bill across the table, and hurried out. Jeanne-Pauline promptly turned her attention to Mary. “Hello, Mary Robespierre. I suspect you’re here for your grandparents. Will it be the usual salves?”
“I haven’t come in for my usual medications. I just came to talk. I find myself feeling very unhappy.”
“How do we deal with women’s suffering?” Jeanne-Pauline asked. “We say there must be a point to it, but isn’t the point of being human to push back against suffering? If we don’t push back, then we aren’t human beings really. There are other ways to testify to injustice than silence and pain.”
“I feel too miserable to do anything at all.”
“Don’t think of melancholia as passive. Melancholia is a state of deep thought one’s body enters into when it is looking for a way to act.”
“What is permissible? How am I allowed to act?”
“Everything is permissible.”
Mary paused thoughtfully. “I am angry all the time. I feel that I need justice. I feel as though my brain is a monster that I let out of a cage.”
“The reason women aren’t free is because they haven’t shed the blood that allows them to be free. No matter how vehement and radical our words are, no one seems to listen. We need blood. Every revolution needs blood. Words don’t mean anything unless they are followed by actions. A woman’s freedom is the most important thing in the world. It is the end that justifies all means. One day you will figure out how to be free.”
Mary did not know what to say to all this. She was too young to launch into whatever action Jeanne-Pauline was advocating.
When Mary Robespierre got home that night, she took off her boots and rubbed her feet. All the girls in all the houses in the city took off their boots and began massaging their feet and toes. There was a slight tremor from the sound of all the boots falling off the feet of girls and hitting the ground at the same time. They made the sound of an army being called to attention.
CHAPTER 13
Sadie Arnett Discovers Her Life Passion