Page 5

Cries of the Forgotten

The air filled with smoke and dust on the corner of Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine and Rue de Charonne.

Flour and soot marked the men and few women who had come to the community’s bakery, Au Pain Roux .

It was a place of sustenance filled with the hungry eyes of those unable to buy its limited reserves of bread.

The sun lowered in the west, and the crowd pushed inside the cramped, weathered building.

Two men, Malo and Yves, closed the wooden shutters on the windows decorating the store’s faded stone facade.

An additional oil lamp was lit from within.

The shadows gathered in the corners, and the glow of the wood-fired oven illuminated the rear of the bakery owned by the twenty-four-year-old Gabin Roux, who stood in front of the stove facing the crowd.

His stretched, large shadow swept over the small mass of people.

élise stood beside him with a tight jaw and downcast eyes. She adjusted her sleeves to hide the faint bruises Gabin had left her the week earlier. He had such a strong grip, and she had such a stubborn mouth.

élise glanced at the long, worn wooden counter and the near-empty shelves behind it.

Her mouth watered for warm, fresh bread, a delicacy she had only tasted a few times in her nineteen years of life when she had been especially good for Gabin.

It sickened her that he made her beg, but she was grateful to him that she had a cot to sleep on and something to put in her belly most nights.

It was better than with her father or her aunt.

She had a good life with Gabin. She bobbed her head at the reassurance.

Her thoughts were broken by Gabin’s heavy hand on her bruised shoulder. He squeezed, and she winced.

“Now, my little dove,” Gabin gritted. “You will only say what we have discussed, or we shall have another . . . talk.” He swept his finger down the underside of her jaw at the veiled threat.

She nodded, but stiffened under his grip.

Freedom called her but the price of rebelling against him would cost her the only place she had to sleep and eat.

His hold kept her prisoner. She envisioned taking his hand off of her shoulder in a defiant stance against his oppression.

But she remained still, letting him squeeze the fresh bruise.

He wanted her to whimper, but that she would not do. Her eyes hardened.

Freedom was a distant dream for herself, but soon, she hoped, freedom for others would come.

No one would have to go hungry again. No one would be forced to live the life she lived as a child and now lived as a woman.

It was her rallying cry. Her voice was the weapon she yielded, and her body marked the battle bruises of wielding it.

“My dear,” Gabin said. “You are so lucky I keep you fed and warm. You remember that. So many times, I could have kicked you into the streets, but I didn’t because I love you. Remember that, my dove.”

“I will,” élise responded in trance. “I love you too, Gabin.” Of course she loved Gabin, she told herself.

He had rescued her from her father’s drunken fists and her aunt’s ring of child thieves, who punished her if she didn’t meet the daily quota.

At least Gabin’s violence was tolerable, and he did share his food when he had it even if he did make her beg—it was more than what her father and aunt had done.

The corners of her lips turned up at her savior. Her shoulders softened and his grip solidified at the new slack in her body.

“That’s my girl,” Gabin said in a gruff whisper.

The warmth from the brick oven dominating the back wall cast a soft glow on his handsome face, adorned with chiseled cheeks and jaw.

His thick, auburn hair, reminiscent of his surname, reddened from the glow.

He was the man every man wanted to be and every woman wanted to be with.

If the women were pretty enough, he fulfilled their wants.

But élise was his woman, no one else dared to touch her.

He pressed his lips to hers while his fingers held her chin in a firm grip.

He bit her lower lip before pulling back.

“Remember, say only what we have discussed if I let you speak.”

“Yes, Gabin,” she whispered.

He released her, and she scanned the room. A few eyes watched her, some envious, some in pity, and some indifferent. But they all shared one purpose: the need for bread.

Gabin spread his arms wide.

“Brothers!” His voice boomed, and the place quieted.

“Thank you for coming to this week’s meeting.

” He cleared his throat and flashed a smile at the women in attendance.

“The price of bread and the gross taxes are what brings us here today. The reward of those who labor beneath the crown is that bread costs nearly a week’s wage.

Do I set the price? No. Ingredients are expensive, and I barely make anything, knowing I must feed my community.

So, who is driving up the price of flour and oil?

Not I, not you. It is the royals and the nobles and their wasteful spending, just as the former Minister Calonne said in his papers.

Our grievances must reach the king’s ears, and he’ll see the injustices we face and remember that we are his people.

We need to gather the courage to speak up and remind them that the common man matters and we are not backs of which the elite walk. ”

His words were rehearsed and repeated from the prior meeting.

Gazes turned inward. Chins drooped. Long blinks became commonplace.

élise could feel the fleeing passion. She wanted change.

She needed it, if not for herself, for her people.

The only way to get what they wanted was to act.

Gabin, for all his worth, was not an effective speaker to stir conviction, and she was.

It was one of the reasons why he beat her to silence.

He couldn’t afford to have a woman be better at him than something.

They all agreed with everything he said, but the call to speak up was not enough to ignite the spark or fan the flame of change.

They were hollow words, not sincere words to rally action.

One of the men who closed the bakery’s shutters, Malo, raised his hand and blurted out, “Speak up to who?”

Gabin scoffed at the disrespectful interruption of his speech, but before he could answer, a man named Yanis yelled out, “We should send someone to the king!”

“No, to the Parlements. Calonne said they rejected tax reform,” a woman’s voice echoed off the stone walls.

“The Parlements have no regard for us,” Malo cried, just as Gabin said, “The king might hear us.”

Soon, bickering ensued and Gabin lost control of the room.

élise stood silent, watching the division occur before her eyes.

They would never accomplish anything if they were not united.

She pushed her way to the corner and grabbed a wooden crate while forming the words she was going to say.

She calmed her nerves and pushed Gabin’s punishment from her mind.

He had tried and failed. She would save the night, and he would not take kindly to her rescue.

Ignoring the pain in her shoulder and her back, she placed the crate upside down in the middle of the bakery and exhaled the knots in her belly before stepping up to speak.

“Calonne published papers indicating how the king’s spending habits and stances on state affairs have left our children starving and the cost of bread soaring.

” Her voice deepened and garnered attention.

She let rage and purpose fuel her words.

Rage at the suffering and the purpose to end it.

She spoke before Gabin could reach her and pull her down from the crate.

“We, the people, bear the brunt of the elite, as Gabin Roux said. The injustices of the monarchy and the privileges of the nobility hinder us from having full bellies at night. The parlements rejected Calonne’s reforms, which would tax the nobility and the clergy, so they would pay their fair share in tax instead of overwhelming us to the point of starvation and depravity. ”

At the last words, Yanis cried, “Here. Here,” signaling his agreement.

Gazes were no longer inward. She had their attention; now, she needed to ignite the spark.

She drew from her past to relate as Gabin simmered, unable to reach her through the crowd.

At least he was not stupid to pull her down when the people listened.

“As a child, my father took nothing but rum and ale after my mother passed and beat me, his own child unconscious every night because I said I was hungry. He blamed me for his plight. Just as the king beats us to the brink of death, he blames us for the country’s empty treasury.

There is no more money, as Calonne stated, yet the elite looks to us to pay for it while they keep spending and spending and spending, not on us, not to feed us, but on their own luxurious and fanciful feasts and fine silks to wipe their dirty mouths after indulging in exotic meats and fresh vegetables and warm bread. ”

Heads nodded in agreement. Jaws grew taut, and brows grew heavy with the burdens they each faced.