Anne-Marie de Parthenay
New France
After all this time, Anne-Marie thought she was used to misery. All the years of her childhood spent under the thumb of her birth father, all the years of her adolescence being groomed by her adoptive one. If there was a silver lining to all of this, it was that she had hardened her heart through all these trials, strengthened herself and her resolve. Or at least, that’s what she had believed until now. How wrong she was.
Le Vicomte had kept true to his word. He made it a point to ensure her every waking moment was spent in fear and despair. Anne-Marie spent each day in the confines of her room again, forbidden to ever leave. The only contact she had with other people was when Catherine delivered her meals, or when Dr. Gusteau came to check on her “health”. She knew it was all intentional, that Le Vicomte was deliberately starving her of himself so she would eventually yearn for his presence. And despite her best efforts to steel herself against it, she was only human. As the days dragged on, she longed for any escape, anyone to speak to at all. Except Le Vicomte, of course. No matter what happened, no matter what she might suffer, she would not succumb to him. She could manage that, at least.
Worst of all was the fear, constant and inescapable. She knew that it was Le Vicomte who killed La Madame, and that meant that anything was on the table now. What wouldn’t he do to get his way, to bend the future to his will? In the first few days, she refused to eat her meals, worried they’d be drugged with the same concoction that subdued La Madame in her final weeks. After all, why wouldn’t they be? Le Vicomte wanted the same for her—to become a mannequin, mild-mannered and unoffensive, an empty vessel to fill with whatever he liked. But even that protest could not last forever. There were only so many days she could go without eating, so many nights kept awake by the pangs of hunger. After the third day, Anne-Marie could bear it no longer, and she relented, eating a few bites of the breakfast Catherine brought in. She wondered what else of herself she’d be forced to abandon, given enough time, enough torture.
It was the mark of a cruel world, to be sure, that the machinations of one wicked man could harm the lives of so many innocents. In the days since La Madame’s murder, the whole Indian quarter was placed under martial law. The marines “investigated” the area for the culprit, which meant they shook down random men and women and beat them until they provided some answer, whether it was true or not. When the Doctor Gusteau visited, he would tell her of the things they were doing. She had begged him to tell her everything once she learned he spent his days there, tending to the sick and ill among them. And though he hesitated at first, he had never been able to deny her so far. So, he relented, telling her of what he saw. She hung on his every word, terrified of what Ezekiel and his family were no doubt being forced to suffer.
The marines were more brutish and savage than she could have imagined—the doctor told her many used the lockdown as an excuse to break into the Indians’ houses and “confiscate” their money and valuables, all under the guise of this false investigation. Having lived there for a time now, she knew—none of those who lived there were wealthy. All of them struggled to eke out a living, and yet what little they had was being stolen right in front of them. This was the governor’s justice, the justice of New France. A manufactured crisis that fanned the flames of virulent racism, all to distract from a noble murdering his wife. It made her sick to her stomach to think about, and even sicker to think about what else lay in store for her and everyone else. This was just the beginning, the first step in Le Vicomte’s master plan. And through it all, she could do nothing but sit in her cage and wait.
One day, the doctor came in looking more haggard than usual. Dark circles had grown under his eyes, and Anne-Marie could smell liquor on his breath. He staggered into her bedroom, setting his bag down without saying a word. She watched him fumble through the bag for his equipment. In the past few days, he had grown disheveled and restless, but nothing like this.
“Are you alright?” She asked him.
“Fine,” he said absent-mindedly. He stumbled over to her bed and knelt by it.
“Shirt,” he said. She lifted hers, and he began to inspect the bruising on her stomach from where Le Vicomte had hit her. He touched it with none of his usual grace and care, and Anne-Marie winced from the pain.
“What’s wrong with you?” Anne-Marie asked.
“Nothing,” he grumbled.
“You’re lying. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
He tried to continue, but she stopped him, taking his head with both hands and holding it firm to force him to look her in the eyes.
“You have to tell me if something happened,” she said.
The doctor shrugged her off, and rustled around in his bag for something. In response, Anne-Marie curled herself into a ball and retreated to the edge of her bed.
“Come here,” he said impatiently.
“As soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”
Doctor Gusteau sighed.
“Come here. Please.”
“No.”
She waited for him to do something, to say something. To her surprise, he just sat on the floor, leaning back against the ottoman. He looked up to the ceiling, then closed his eyes.
“They found the killer,” he said, keeping his eyes closed.
“What?” Anne-Marie asked. “But there can’t be one. Le Vicomte killed her, or hired someone to do it.”
“That is what you say, and I have a mind to believe you. But the marines don’t care. They have found a ‘suspicious’ man in the slums, and he will be their scapegoat. He is to be hanged in two days.”
“Not even a trial?”
The doctor shrugged.
“Trials are for people, for subjects. The governor considers the Indians to be neither. He will die, and there will be no justice.”
Anne-Marie swallowed.
“Did you know him?” She asked.
The doctor said nothing, which told her everything.
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“What’s his name?” She asked.
“I can’t tell you.”
“What? Why not?”
The doctor sighed and stood up. He grabbed his bag, and started for the door to leave. Anne-Marie leaped out from her bed, running for the door, standing in front of it to block him.
“Please,” the doctor begged. His tired eyes began to well with tears, his words choked out. “Please don’t make me say it.”
There was something about the tone of his voice. A knowing. There was a reason he refused to speak his name. He knew him, and she knew him, too. That was why he couldn’t tell her.
“No,” she began, the realization dawning on her. “No, it can’t be.”
Gusteau could not look her in the eye. Anne-Marie collapsed, slumping down to the floor.
“They tracked him to his home,” he said. “Le Vicomte said it must be one of the savages his wife bought gifts from in the city. He spun some elaborate yarn of nonsense—claimed that being so capricious and violent in their nature, one must have tracked her down after selling her something. Like that makes any sense.”
It was like the weight of a thousand stones fell on Anne-Marie all at once. She struggled to even breathe. It’s not possible, she thought. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
“But why?” She asked, as if she were asking God, and not the doctor. “What right could they possibly have to arrest him?”
“They found a sword in his hut,” Gusteau said. “A french sabre.”
Anne-Marie’s eyes widened in horror. She opened her mouth to say something, to scream, perhaps, but nothing came.
“They claimed he must have stolen it. Apparently, it’s proof enough of his supposed desire to kill. They’re even saying it proves a seditious intent, that he aimed to strike at family members of all the nobility.”
Anne-Marie sat there, frozen in horror. Though a hundred different things ran through her mind, all she could focus on was a singular, terrifying thought. I killed him.
“He didn’t steal that sword, did he?” The doctor asked her.
I killed him. He saved my life, and I ended his.
“Anne-Marie?”
Two days, and he will walk to the gallows. And I will have led him there. My hands will tie the rope around his neck, and pull the lever.
The doctor knelt in front of her.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he said.
“Do you believe in God?” Anne-Marie asked him.
“What?”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, ma chérie. I believe in God.”
“And you believe that he’s all-knowing? And all-powerful?”
“The Bible tells us so.”
Tears came to Anne-Marie’s eyes.
“And he sits in heaven,” she said. “And watches the evil of the world unfold? He sees all of this, knows the truth, and does nothing?”
The doctor said nothing. He looked down on the floor, trying to find the answer between the cracks in the floorboards.
“I don’t know,” he said.
Anne-Marie could think of nothing else to say, no retort, no protest against this grave injustice. All she could think about was the part she played in her savior’s doom. She thought about what would happen to Ezekiel’s wife and children once he was gone. None of them spoke any French, and besides, they were women. They wouldn’t be able to sell anything at the market. What little they had would be reduced to nothing. The winter was still here, and they would starve, dying slowly and alone without the man who kept their home together. She could not allow it to come to pass. She had caused it, and she would do something, anything to end it now.
“We have to do something,” she said suddenly. “We have to save him.”
The doctor chuckled. Not a dismissive one, but a sad, powerless laugh, the only response he could muster.
“What will we do, ma chérie?” He asked. “Will we storm the jail with pitchforks and torches? Will we demand he be set free?”
“I’ll tell them the truth,” she said. “I stayed with Ezekiel all these months. I was the one who bought him the saber. He didn’t even want it—he scolded me for buying him a weapon.”
The doctor looked at her coldly. His usual friendliness was gone, the light from his eyes empty.
“Be honest for a moment,” he told her. “Do you really think that will help him? Telling them you lived under his roof for months?”
“I… I don’t know. It couldn’t make things any worse than they are.”
“That’s where you are wrong. It would make things worse. Far worse. It would bring suspicion on the rest of his family for kidnapping you. It would bring suspicion on me for introducing you to him.”
A dry hurt welled up in Anne-Marie’s throat. He was right. Once again, she wanted to help, and once again, she would make things worse by doing so. She began to grow despondent. What is wrong with me? Why does everything I touch turn to ash? Why does everyone I love disappear?
Still, she could not surrender to despair. If she did, Ezekiel was surely doomed. There had to be a way out of this. There had to be some solution. Wasn’t there?
“So that’s it?" She asked. "We just give up, and send an innocent man to his death?”
The doctor said nothing. She scooted closer to him, trying desperately to sway him.
“Please,” she begged him. “You’re well-connected—you said it yourself. You’ve worked here for decades. You could talk to someone. Do something. You have to do something.”
Gusteau sighed, and moved away from her.
“Perhaps I have misled you,” he said. “I am not the man you believe me to be. I helped you because I thought I was doing you a kindness. I realize now that was a mistake. I should never have asked Ezekiel to ferry you to your brother. Now, he will be hanged, and I am to blame for it. I… I cannot do any more. I am not some knight in shining armor. I am not some miracle worker who can wave a wand and make the evils of the world disappear. I am just a doctor, and not a good one, I’ve realized. After all this time, I still can’t save the people that matter most.”
The doctor stood, and grabbed his bag. He could not bear to look at the miserable pile of a girl on the floor.
“I’m leaving now,” he said. “Your bruises will heal in a few more days. There’s nothing more I can do for you. I doubt you will see me again.”
“You can’t leave,” Anne-Marie said. “If you let Le Vicomte get away with this, what else will he do? He will force me to marry, and if I displease him, he will dispose of me just the same. And Ezekiel will have died for nothing. We can’t let them hang him. Please.”
Gusteau took one look at her. The old man’s eyes were haunted by something else, something she could only wonder about.
“You look just like her,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, ma chérie. All these years, and I haven’t changed at all.”
He reached for the door, and she no longer had the strength to stop him. It closed behind him like a death knell, leaving her alone with her despair.