Beasts of the Bastille
Part 3
For Part 1 of this serial, read HERE
For the previous part read HERE
The Story So Far - orphaned grown-up twins Joseph-Marie and Marie-Joseph are held in separate prisons and contrive a way to write to each other.
After they were separated in childhood, Joseph was drafted into the army as a boy-soldier where he later meets the grotesque all-consuming glutton Tarrare.
Marie finds her way into the service of nobles who abuse her, but her desire for vengeance and early apprenticeship in magic has transformed her.
Joseph continues…
Sweet sister,
I weep to remember you calling me your Little Bear, those were precious moments in a life that seems built to make a hell of heaven for the unfortunate such as ourselves. We were born into an early world of birdsong and bluebells in the forest, of sunlight dappling the trees and the rainbow stretching over all in the spring shower. But for such as us this is a world of hunger and bruises, the welts of rods over our backs and the attentions of those who wish us nothing but harm. Those days of paradise dwindled away and I was no longer your Little Bear but instead a great monster of compulsion.
They say the fish rots from the head, and it seems to me that this is also the case with our kingdom. The king lounges in his palace at Versailles surrounded by rich tapestries and cakes and I-don’t-know-what-else. We scrabble through the ditches plundering decomposed bodies for brass rings and pewter trinkets, content to find a piece of stale bread. Something has to be done to remedy this situation and I know... but I’ve already said too much.
It’s only that, with my money run out, I need to take some other action to get the jailer, the bestial Gèrard, to bring me paper and ink, and to take away my letter and mail it to you. Instead of gold I now give him my body, and he consumes it greedily. There is nothing more repellent to me than to degrade myself to this vile man, but nothing is more necessary to me now than to communicate with you, so I do what must be done. It’s not the first time that such men have taken me for their own, though I pray it may be the last.
I was telling you of my army service, and the wretch we’d saved from hanging named Tarrare. That saggy, wrinkled peach, who smelled of the midden heap. I had a mind that his extra flesh was there so he could balloon when he ate, then deflate as he digested.
Each day he would eat all of his army ration in a single gulp, and go on to forage for whatever he could find: foxes in the bush, thrushes that he snatched from branches (for he had incredible reflexes and was like a great nervy cat), suet and offal thrown out by maids to rot in the farmyards. He would fight pigs for the slop in their troughs and then – true, my love, all true! – he would swallow their piglets whole. I don’t know how he did that, but he did, and I saw him consume dogs, cats and even horse foals, opening his maw like a great python to huff them down with a grunt.
The men in my detachment, though the most vile rogues imaginable (I include myself in this, as I had been obliged to descend to some detestable practices to survive) – these men, I say, the scum of France turned animal by the brutality of the army, hangmen and thieves all, they were deeply upset by the grotesque hunger of Tarrare, and by the emanations that would come off him as he digested. He was like a fairytale ogre but so unbearably real that it was impossible to sleep for his stink, his gurgling belly and his obscene eructations. Sometimes he would vomit up bones only to suck on them like toothpicks. In so many ways there has never been anything as real as him.
So the sergeant asked the captain and the captain asked the major, and up and up it went through what they call the chain of command but what is really a pecking order of vultures. And then they hit upon a scheme for what to do with Tarrare. It was a way for them to be rid of him, but also a way for me to escape the abject destiny of a soldier of the King.
Here comes the jailer Gèrard, he’ll be asking for his ‘pup’ to pleasure him again. Imagine if he called me Little Bear, as you used to... what I would do to him if he were to profane the only sweet memory I have of my entire life!
Rest well, my sweet sister
We’ll see each other soon as I feel a solution is nearing to
[THE DOCUMENT ENDS ABRUPTLY]
My Dear Brother,
I am- not well today. My Tormentor undertook a most hellish torture yesterday and I am fighting to recover. Even if I respected his office I could not call him a priest. None of his vows will stand against his depraved desires, but rather must cower to his baser self. And base he is. I no longer think he is torturing me to get a confession, rather he takes pleasure in watching me suffer. He is very close to his god in that way. Both cruel masters who promise far off rewards you’ll be far too dead to hold them accountable for giving. But no matter how he tortures me, this beast inside me will not let me die. I am creature who cannot die, yet who also cannot live.
Fortunately, I had set in motion a plan to help you before my Tormentor came to my cell, else I would not have the strength for it. As I said in my last letter, I spent some of the years we were apart amassing a small fortune. Nothing so grand as the people I stole it from, but enough to help me find you, and take us both far away to a better life. What I put in this letter about what I’ve done must be limited, but suffice it to say that women with my skills have friends who aren’t of earthly disposition. These friends are obliged to help when help is asked for. They are very clever friends who are unlikely to fail at their tasks.
You will get a visitor, likely after the next fortnight has passed. It could be a man, tall and thin, with dark hair and a scar across his right cheek. Or it could be a woman, her hair will be red, she’ll be young and pretty, but will have the same scar across her right cheek. Or, finally, it could be a fox. This fox has the same scar across his muzzle and is devilishly clever. No jailer will stand in his way. Whichever form this friend takes, they will deliver money to you. Not everything I have, that would be too dangerous to travel with. But they will also tell you where to find the rest.
They will ask for a little blood from you to sustain them for their long journey back to me. Please oblige. I know it is unpleasant, but it does secure their loyalty. And they will not do you terrible damage. Do not fear my friend, they mean only to do my bidding.
When last I wrote I told you of a man I was to meet at a salon. Such wretched gatherings. None of the noble women can even read and yet they gather ‘round to discuss philosophy as if they aren’t merely regurgitating what men have told them. ’Tis false agency, false intellect, false importance. I loathed them and only went when dragged scowling and complaining. This salon was no different, my dress was simple, my hair my own, no absurd powdered wig or vain frippery. The man my employer wanted me to meet would not look even once in my direction, but there was another man there, simply dressed as I was and, it seemed, as disgusted by the obscenity of wealth and willful ignorance on display.
With him I spoke, the revolutionary, Jean-Paul Marat. I found him intriguing and we spoke on several occasions afterwards. While we both hated the nobility, we spoke more often of science and medicine. He refused to believe in my skills and frequently called me a trickster, though he could never discover my ruse… Despite this, we became friends, and the wolf in me wanted to carry out every one of the deaths he desired. I became ravenous when I listened to him rail against the greedy, callus, and entitled of France. He said they could not, or would not change their ways and so must die. These were feelings I had as well, though I had not been able to articulate them as eloquently as he. I am, when all is said and done, a beast.
If ever we meet again, I swear to it he will have his revolution.
I would tell you more, but I am struggling with coherent thought. A mention of Marat and the beast in me begins to salivate at the memory of those days. I feel its teeth against my ribcage, oh how gnaws at me. We miss the warmth of blood flowing down our throat. We miss rending flesh with our teeth. We want more than gruel in our belly. Yesterday, I let a growl escape my throat as my tormentor thrust slivers of wood beneath my fingernails. He called me demon, but he will pale when he finds out the truth.
Oh brother! My claws rip through my fingertips. The sweet tearing of my own flesh is succor to my suffering. A howl escaped me now. They’ll be running to me soon. To see what beast is in here with me. There will be none but me, a small woman, beaten but still full of rage. And I’ll laugh at them as my beast’s muzzle pushes up my throat. I won’t let it out now. It isn’t time. It isn’t time yet.
Forgive the blood upon this letter.
I look forward to hearing from you. How you and that man with a familiar affliction escaped the King’s army. Don’t forget what I told you about my friend.
I will sink my teeth into living flesh again one day.
Your beast,
Marie-Joseph
END OF PART THREE
Check in next Tuesday June 2 for the next part!
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