CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
Before the Blood:
The dream came like a whisper; it was probably my own voice
I heard beckoning me to remember. “Justine, remember us…”
It was my
mother’s voice—I heard it without a doubt. It was so clear I thought her spirit
had manifested itself. Sometimes I think she does come, Papa too. Such was this
moment. There they were smiling down at me, looking at their child. They called
my name as they used to do when I was little. “Tine…”
I recall them before they were sick, sick from
being poor—from lack of food and not having enough heat in the winter or warm
clothes. Paris’ poor were not highly regarded. Of course things would get much
worse but no one knew that until they did.
As for my mama, my gentle sweet mother, she died
quickly, between a cough and a seizure of some kind. Her chest was stained with
blood. Her lungs you see. Papa sat so still by her bed; bed, indeed; a pallet
on the floor with ragged blankets under it.
“She is gone, Justine Mama is gone.” I cried as
any child of ten would. There was a funeral of sorts; a pauper’s funeral—where
she would be taken to an open burial pit outside of the city. They were no
longer burying the dead in Paris. The awful business of the rotting dead of
Paris had ensured that. The Holy Innocents Cemetery had been closed as a
result. Now the newly dead were taken away.
Mother’s poor corpse was put onto a wagon. It
trundled away, its uneven wheels making such an awful noise along the
cobblestones. No church for us, no kind words to lessen our grief. People like
us didn’t live that way. Yes, one of the nails in the coffin that was to be the
downfall of the aristocracy and their priests.
But I wanted something said to ease her passing. I
asked my papa
where the priest was. “Mama deserves him!” I cried.
where the priest was. “Mama deserves him!” I cried.
Papa kissed my forehead. “They do not care for the
likes of us, Justine.”
Father and I were lonely, never had we clung to
one another more than we did then. I tried so hard to look after him, but I
could see he was no longer willing to live, though he pretended he was.
Some years passed. He continued to take whatever work
was available—which was never much. Charity was not something he accepted
readily. Still by this time, he did what was best for me. “I will not let you
starve.”
I did not, as I had taken in sewing. I was adept
with a needle like my mother Papa said. When I was fourteen, he looked ill;
worse each day in fact. After he began coughing, he didn’t last long. I wanted
to die too when he did. They took him away and I was alone. A man came. I had
seen not him before. He was an acquaintance of both my father and mother. “I am
Monsieur Coulon,” he said.
“And I am sorry for the suffering you and your
family endured. Pride makes victims by its very nature. You know how proud your
father was. Had I known his circumstances I could have helped.”
I knew that was no boast. He had a kind face. He
said he knew father through my mother. “Yes, Justine—I did know them both. Your
father was a fine man and you’re mother a skilled seamstress.”
Skilled yes, but too ill to sew; I wondered if he
knew.
He told me she had done sewing for his family,
shortly after she arrived in Paris. I knew she had come from Normandy, I knew
her to be a farmer’s daughter.
“There was none finer with a needle. Tell me young
miss, can you sew?”
“I can sew … a little.”
When he smiled I knew I would be alright. I did
not look back. There was nothing to look back to.
He took me to his carriage. There were people
milling about, dirty and in rags, even those who knew me, refrained from
speaking to me. The mood was such that they resented someone escaping from the
mire.
I stared straight ahead as the carriage pulled
away. My life begins again I thought.
*
The Coulon family had a fine house in the Marais
district. I had never seen such a fine home as theirs. There were gardens with
roses and enough food to eat. I caught the aroma of goose when I was led
inside. Not through the front door I hasten to add, but through the back one.
Very well, whichever door they wished me to enter I would have lodgings and a
position as well.
The house was noisy with children but I didn’t
mind. A servant took me in hand. “You are small for your age,” she announced,
this pinched face woman who would have been remarkably ugly had it not been for
her kind eyes. “Yes,” she went on. “Small fingers are good to thread needles
and such. Let me see what you can do.”
With that she handed me a handkerchief. “The lace
is coming apart. Let me see you stitch it up. Tomorrow is Sunday and Mme. is
attending church she cannot be seen to take a raggedy looking hankie!”
I said nothing. I wanted to show her how efficient
I was so I threaded the needle quickly. My fingers were not shaking,
surprisingly. I had willed it as so much depended on it.
In a few minutes the task was done. And I was
complimented. “Mme. Coulon was pleased, and told me so.”
I did have questions but not the courage to ask
them. I wanted to know where I would sleep and how I would get on. But I had
nothing to fear. If I went about my tasks quickly and efficiently and did not
draw attention to myself, I got along fine. My employers’ children were
slightly older than I was and they were rarely in my company. Their governess
minded them, taking them into see their mama and papa twice a day.
Time passed pleasantly, six years in fact. I had
enough to eat and grew better skilled at my work. In fact I became so competent
I found I pleased my mistress with the gowns I was making for her. Nothing was
too difficult for me; no trim too hard, nor decoration too intricate for my
nimble fingers. There were balls and dinners and a banquet too and at court no
less!
“The Queen will be in attendance! Imagine,
Justine! She will be there – for my eldest daughter is to be presented at
court.”
Such was the custom of the day before the world
changed and blood ran through the streets of Paris.
“Think of it, Justine. You will see her!”
I begged off. That is I tried so hard not to go.
It was intimidating. However, after a great deal of coaxing I did go. Mme.
Coulon was delighted. “You will attend to us as our personal maid. Paulette and
I shall be so lucky to have you there.”
Paulette was the daughter I felt certain was being
groomed to search for a husband. The Coulons were committed to raising
themselves ever higher. If there was dissatisfaction with the monarchy it was
not known in their house. Not with an unmarried daughter and social climbing
parents.
“There are so many suitable gentlemen,
Paulette—please try and act less awkward. Do try and be at ease.”
The night came at last. Mme. Coulon was so excited
she was stumbling over her words. “That is it! Have you ever seen such beauty?”
Paulette was delighted. “No, indeed Mama! I feel
like royalty myself!”
I thought my mistress would say something to keep
her daughter’s feet on the ground. Yes, they were a wealthy merchant family,
but they were not aristocrats.
When Paulette saw me looking at her she smiled,
“Don’t look at me, silly! Look out there!”
I did just as our carriage was given permission to
enter the palace gates. That’s when I took my first look at Versailles.
It was stunning and I gasped. My eyes filled with
tears at the sheer beauty of it. There were the famous gardens even I had heard
of. And there, just beyond them—was the great glittering palace. It seemed to
be filled with golden light.
My mistress only stopped chattering when the
carriage drew to a stop. I had already been instructed to follow along behind.
There were other guests milling around, each
judging the other’s importance by their apparel and demeanor. Mme. Coulon was
giving her daughter step by step instructions of how to move and what to say.
Two liveried servants ushered us inside.
“We are entering Olympus!” Mme. Coulon exclaimed.
“The home of the Gods and Goddesses.”
And so we were. The opulence and splendor was all
around. Clearly it could be nothing else!
We passed from one hall to another. Officials of
varying importance saw to this, each haughtier than the next—even in their
subservient state, they exuded snobbery.
When we passed through the Hall of Mirrors I
thought I would faint. Mme. Coulon whispered, “This is only the beginning. Look!”
A handsomely dressed man, in lavender frock coat,
smelling divine bowed slightly. I would soon learn that different levels of
bowing—varying from deep to less deep were associated with class and standing.
The bow accorded Mme. Coulon and her daughter (I didn’t count, of course) was a
bit shallow.
When I heard Mme. Coulon’s hoarse whisper, “The
Queen!” I almost stumbled.
She was there, resplendent in a gown the likes of
which I could not have even dreamt of. What a poor excuse for a human being I
was to be so impressed!
I had quite forgotten the poverty I sprang from.
Would my poor parents be turning in their graves? I should think they would
have.
But it didn’t matter! The spell was too strong—the
magic of wealth and beauty too powerful to overcome.
We all curtseyed. And when the Queen complimented
my employer and Paulette on their gowns and insisted on knowing who the
seamstress was, I could barely breathe. But the royal command received an
instant answer and I was introduced.
“It is my seamstress’s handiwork, your Majesty!”
There she was! Queen Marie Antoinette herself,
smiling down at me. She was a goddess, a beauty, like something come down from
heaven to dwell among lesser mortals, Olympus indeed!
Whatever I had sprung from the recollections were
gone—blinded by the light that emanated from this real goddess.
“Shall I be naughty?” she winked at me. “Shall I
steal you away?”
That was the first I heard of it. If I thought my
employer would look horrified she did not. She looked proud. It was a great
compliment to her taste for her own seamstress to be plucked away by the queen
of France! As for myself, I felt I was dreaming.
(end of chapter)
(end of chapter)
Born in pre-Revolutionary France and orphaned as a child, Justine Bodeau is taken in by a family friend who employs her as a seamstress. Eventually, she winds up to work in the court of Queen Marie Antoinette.
A strong-willed survivor, defeat does not occur to her. When she fights off an attack by an aristocrat and kills him, she is given refuge but is soon betrayed and winds up on the streets of Paris, where she is attacked and killed by rogue vampires. But for whatever reason, love will not let her die.
Justine goes from wishing to be destroyed to wanting to survive, when she feels passion for the one who brought her back, Gascoyne — the one they call the Vampire Prince of Paris.
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