Page 28

The Call of Change

élise pushed through the crowd to swipe a copy of the latest pamphlet. The Bastille loomed on the horizon. People were shoulder to shoulder. The stench of the poor mingled with the perfume of the bourgeoisie , the middle class, the uppers of the non-aristocracy.

A man wrenched her already bruised arm.

“I doubt you know how to read. Give it here,” he barked and yanked the pamphlet out of her hand before shoving her away.

She bounced back, grabbing it from his hands and dashing off.

Years as a child thief gave her the upper hand.

Her lithe, petite frame squeezed between bodies until she lost the irate man and found Gabin standing at the forefront of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine community, who had come to hear of the King’s latest decree.

“There she is!” Malo said, pointing at élise. His hand was quickly pushed out of the way by the growing mob.

Gabin grabbed her wrist and pulled her in close.

His eyes had never regained what little warmth they had when he gazed at her.

Apathy had taken residence there every single day since she had gone to the little cafe with Rollant.

The bruises had migrated to her neck and forearms. He still had not hit her cheeks.

She assumed it was because he liked looking at her. His hot breath blew in her face.

“You took too long,” he gritted and plucked the pamphlet from her hand.

He spun around, and the business owners took to the pamphlet, trying to decode the writing.

She maneuvered around the huddle, pressed by the crowd moving around them, before finding a place to peer over Malo’s shoulder where Yves blocked Gabin’s sight of her.

She only knew a few words and letters from running the bakery and dealing with suppliers and customers.

She tried to make out the title. Her fellow townspeople were struggling as well.

Eventually, they would be able to read it.

“What is the Third Estate?” Gabin finally read the title after all the inputs.

“We are the Third Estate,” élise said, but immediately regretted it. Gabin pushed Yves out of the way to glare at élise. He had not been expecting élise to be a part.

“This is no place for a woman. Go back to the bakery and stay there,” Gabin shouted over the crowd’s roar.

élise scoffed and glanced around at the women in attendance. “No place for a woman?” she yelled, hoping to garner at least some support from the strangers, but to no avail.

“Yes, that’s right,” Gabin said through his teeth. “Now go.”

élise crossed her. “No. I am fine right here.”

Malo turned to her and shook his head, and his eyes begged her to go.

Yves let out a shaky breath with eyes darting between Gabin and élise.

The others froze amid the crowd’s pushing.

They wouldn’t help her or stand up to the man who enabled them to feed their families.

She was alone then as she had always been.

Only Madame Marie asked if she was well during her last absence, and was the only one worried about her.

The others she had given her bread to were only mad that they had not received a free meal; they cared nothing about her.

Madame Marie would be the only family she would help if Rollant did as he offered.

In her isolation, especially after Rollant had instilled hope in her life for something better, defiance had fueled her mission to take control of her fate, whether it be death in Gabin’s grip or freedom from his oppression, just as was the goal of those gathered in the square.

Gabin’s eyes narrowed. He wouldn’t dare beat her in the middle of a freedom rally, but she’d wear a new layer of bruises by the morning.

It didn’t matter. If Rollant lived, he’d be back and offer her a new life, and she’d take it, not for him, but for herself.

She wasn’t going to have his pity, and she wasn’t going to treat him as a savior.

And if Rollant died, then Gabin would most likely kill her one day in her own attempts to escape.

But one thing was certain: Gabin would not beat a silent woman, not anymore.

If there was a God, as Rollant and Sister Francine believed, the deity had given her the gift of speech, and it would not be wasted.

Gabin’s lip curled. “The paper states the answer is, ‘Everything,’ you stupid woman.”

Her eyes slid down to the pamphlet. There were three lines below the title; the first line had the title repeated, so she assumed the one word after it was “Everything.” She would remember that.

She knew the word for the answer to the second line.

“I see that, Gabin. I am not so stupid. The answer to the second question is ‘Nothing.’ But I would wager you don’t know what the second question reads, do you? ”

A low growl came through bared teeth.

Malo’s eyes grew wide as his gaze fell to the floor.

The others with them shared glances. Yves held up his hands in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

“I don’t think any of us know the second question the pamphlet is asking, élise.

We could all try to figure it out together? ” He nodded, and the others did, too.

Gabin sneered at élise but took the lead on Yves’ suggestion. “The first word is ‘What.’”

élise almost let herself say, “I knew that as well, Gabin. Are you as stupid as I am?” But she bit her tongue. He could only be pushed so far until he wouldn’t care what her face looked like.

A drum beat echoed through the air, followed by a drumroll. A soldier from the French Guard Regiment stood in the center of the town square. He bellowed, but his voice didn’t carry as far as élise and her community members stood. They had to wait for the echoed sentiments. It finally came.

“What is the Third Estate? by Emmanuel-Joseph Sieyès.”

élise’s eyes dropped to the pamphlet, still in Gabin’s hand, and followed the words as the echo came. “We have three questions to ask ourselves: What is the Third Estate? Everything. What has it been up until now in the political order? Nothing. What does it ask for? To become something.”

The crowd erupted in chants to show agreement with the message: “What is the Third Estate? Everything. What has it been until now? Nothing. What will it become? Something!”

She’d remember those written words. The soldier beat his fist in the air, in rhythm with the chant. The crowd mirrored until he signaled the drum roll to silence the crowd.

The echo came.

“And yet King Louis XVI says this in his decree: The number of deputies for the Third Estate shall be doubled.”

A cheer arose but was silenced at the drumroll. The soldier continued. “And the traditions shall be observed for the Estates-General. Deputies must be members of the bourgeoisie , and a list of grievances must be drafted.”

élise’s jaw fell agape. The bourgeoisie would lead the Estates-General. The rest—the bakers, blacksmiths, farmers, and seamstresses—would remain unseen, unheard.

“What of the working class, the farmers, those who starve?” she yelled without another thought.

An angry echo took her question to the soldier.

Head nods and murmurs showed agreement with her question, all except Gabin, who glared at her.

He would likely tell her she stole his question and took his opportunity to speak and lead.

She ignored him.

“What of us?” a voice finally echoed, an older woman clutching a threadbare shawl. Her face was weathered, lined with years of labor and hunger. “Do we starve while the deputies speak for us?”

Soon, the plaza was filled with questions asking, “What of us?”

“The bourgeoisie are nothing more than merchants with finer boots,” another man spat, his fists clenched. “They will speak for their own profits, not for us.”

Divisions among the middle and lower classes rippled through the crowd.

“Necker!” Someone yelled, and a great cheer rose at the minister’s name. “Minister Necker will introduce the social injustices and gross inequality.”

Gabin approached her.

But she couldn’t stop. “If we are the Third Estate—if we are everything—then we cannot settle for deputies who won’t even look at us.”

Malo shifted uneasily beside her, his hand brushing her arm in warning.

“That’s enough,” Gabin growled, grabbing her arm in the crowd’s uproar. “It is time to close that pretty mouth of yours,” he gritted.

élise’s hands clenched into fists. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the crowd’s attention was already turning to others who were shouting for plans, for action. It didn’t matter. Gabin would not control her.

“Let me go, Gabin.” She yanked free from his grip, leaving red streaks down her arm, sure to bruise.

He gripped her tightly right under her shoulder joint and armpit. If she yanked, he’d break her arm. “Close your mouth,” he whispered in her ear with no further threat needed.

A wiry man stepped onto a crate, raising a hand to command attention. “We must draft our grievances, as the decree allows. Every district is to send its demands to the Estates-General. If the bourgeoisie won’t speak for us, we’ll ensure they have no choice.”

Cheers broke out. Gabin shoved élise aside to join the growing knot of men discussing the logistics. She stumbled back, her breath hitching as Malo caught her elbow.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered, his face pale. “Gabin won’t forget.”

“Good,” élise said, though her voice wavered. “Maybe it’s time someone didn’t forget.”

She dusted herself off and turned over a crate of her own. She had a voice—a gift—and no one would silence her.