SONG OF INNOCENCE

SONG OF INNOCENCE by Margery Harkness Casares

LAST OF PROLOGUE:
Gabrielle came to stand beside Pietro.
She clasped his hand and asked the handsome Baudoin,
"The time has come?"
The young general nodded. "The emperor sent us
for the girl. Her father was recently assassinated and
his imperial majesty wants her in Paris where he can
provide for her safety."
* * *
Sounds from the parlor invaded Mignon's dream.
Footsteps advanced toward her dark hiding place. Some-
how she knew she must stay hidden and make no sound.
She held her breath. The footsteps came closer. The
doorknob rattled. Dream images fled like the abrupt
ending of a badly damaged picture book, and Mignon's
eyes flew open. She sat up, her heart in her throat.
Recognizing her room, she exhaled her relief. She
caught her hand to her breast to still her thudding
heart.
Rubbing her sleepy eyes, she yawned and reach-
ed for the little blue and white beaded bag on her bed-
side table, a birthday gift from Papa Pietro.
The door opened abruptly. Two strange men enter-
ed her bedroom. Alarmed, Mignon tumbled from the bed
and sank to her knees, pulling the blanket around her.
Mama brushed past the men and knelt at Mignon's
feet. "Dieu vu garde," she whispered, making the sign
of the cross. She helped Mignon to her feet and drew
her into her arms. "You must accompany these men. They
will take you to Paris to Uncle Etienne Gaspard. You
will live with him for a time."
Mignon caught the look of anguish on Papa's face
and terror curled up in her stomach. Whirling away
from Mama, she ran to the gray-haired man who stood
wringing his hands and blinking back tears.
Papa!" she cried, throwing her arms about him.
"I don't want to go with them! I want to stay here
with you!"
Pietro tenderly brushed the curls from her face
and whispered, "Ma chère, you... must go. Don't be
afraid. No harm will come to you. I promise. When you
are older, you will understand."
Gabrielle dragged a trunk from beneath Mignon's
bed and packed her belongings. Numbly, Mignon dressed
in a chemise and pantalettes over which she slipped a
pale yellow wool frock. A knot in her chest settled
l in her throat as she pulled on her small black leather
boots. This wasn't real. She would wake up and her
heart would stop pounding. This was just another bad
dream.
They emerged from the bedroom. Mama fastened
Mignon's blue wool cloak and covered her curls with a
cap of dark fur.
Baudoin took charge of the trunk. Rodolphe lift-
ed Mignon into his arms and started for the entrance
door. She buried her face against his shoulder and
cried, "My bag! I want my bag!"
Pietro hurried into her bedroom, found the
little beaded bag, and brought it to her.
They left the house. Rodolphe lifted Mignon
into the waiting coach. She turned to see Mama and
Papa standing silent and unresisting in the front
entrance. Drawing in her breath, she looked at her
clenched hands and sat silent and withdrawn, trying
to swallow her fear.
Both men sat opposite her in the coach. They
rode in obvious discomfort, looking above her, beyond
her, avoiding her frightened, outraged stare.
Rodolphe said soothingly, "The uncle is a good
man. You'll be safe with him. All this will be explain-
ed to you one day. Are you cold?"
Mignon glared at him. Her fear had grown into
an aching angry resignation. What was happening to her?
Why was she being sent to an uncle she didn't know?
Fighting tears, she held a hand over her mouth. Her
breath escaped through her nose in little convulsive
gasps.
"Are you hungry, child?"
"Let us leave her in peace," Baudoin suggested.
"She should try to sleep. We have a long tiring jour-
ney ahead of us."
Rodolphe leaned over and touched Mignon's hand.
"Let us know if you require anything, mademoiselle."
Mignon's stunned thoughts became jumbled and
confused, as in the bad dreams. But this wasn't a bad
dream. This was real.
Flashes of jagged lightning lit the night sky
and distant thunder rumbled. Moving in rapidly, the
storm broke. Puddles filled the ruts in the road,
slowed the creaking wheels, and made it difficult for
the horses to keep their footing in the slippery mud.
The animals struggled on, their wet flanks lashed by
the coachman's whip.
In a stupor, Mignon listened to the downpour,
shivering under the cloak. General Baudoin covered her
with a coach blanket. She pulled it up around her,
stretched out on the seat, and closed her eyes.
* * *
PARIS:
Mignon stood at the table in the narrow dining
alcove and looked at the cake Uncle Etienne had bought
to celebrate her birthday. She was briefly puzzled by
the sixteen candles Uncle Etienne had placed around
the cake. She shrugged, thinking the extra candles
symbolized the two years she'd been with him. A gentle
warmth of well-being flowed through her.
Distracted by thoughts which continually plagued
her, she arranged the small table for their celebration,
placing in its center the special bottle of sparkling
burgundy, Uncle Etienne had saved for this occasion,
and pulled up two chairs.
She missed Mama and Papa with a lingering, ach-
ing sadness, but she was not unhappy with her life in
Paris. The old uncle had proved to be kind and thought-
ful, and she had grown to love him, but she was still
troubled about being sent away by Mama and Papa San
Marco.
Had they sent her away because of the blood
stain Mama found on her bed sheet? Mama made her wear
a soft cloth in her pantalettes and told her nothing
was wrong. Mama said she was growing up and her time
of the month had come, but both Mama and Papa seemed a
little distant toward her afterward.
Maybe she was wicked, and that was why they had
sent her away. She had begun to suffer an awful bitter-
sweet awareness of her body. Her breasts felt too full.
She was sure the feelings she experienced were wicked.
She was constantly aware of her body, no longer the
body of a child, and no longer under her control.
Powerful stirrings and yearnings Mignon experi-
enced left her drained and frightened, and she wondered
why she was different, wondered if she should go to
confession and tell Père Frederic about the strange
feelings.
Uncle Etienne, unaware he divulged a secret, had
told her enough about Mama and Papa for her to know
they were not her blood relatives, and she doubted he
was. What had Papa meant when he'd told her she would
understand when she was older? And hadn't General Ro-
dolphe said all this would be explained to her one day?
All what? If the San Marcos were not her grandparents,
who were they? And if she was not Mignon San Marco,
who was she? How did she come to be with the San
Marcos? Mignon would not ask Uncle Etienne. Perhaps
Père Frederic would help her solve the mystery.
She reasoned that her recurring nightmares were
the result of flashes of memories of earlier years,
memories of huge rooms, of wide stairways and shadowed
corridors.
But most disturbing was the memory of being
taken amid fierce and violent men, fighting each other
with swords, to the frightful hiding place. She had sat
enveloped in a world of darkness, inhaling sour-sweet
odors, dank and musky, mixed with the scent of her own
terror. And those odors still hovered in the secret
places of her mind. She'd been hidden in a wine cellar,
she knew that now. The images flashed into and out of
her consciousness so quickly she could not focus on
them.
A sound at the side door shattered Mignon's rev-
erie, and she turned in its direction. Uncle Etienne
stumbled into the room. Sinking slowly to his knees,
he clutched his stomach to stanch the flow of blood
oozing between his fingers, staining his dark coat.
Mignon gasped in horror and rushed to him. She
knelt and leaned close to hear his whispered words.
He'd witnessed a murder, was repeatedly stabbed, and
left for dead.
In shock, she watched him roll onto his back.
His hat fell off. Mignon's fingers frantically brushed
his thin white hair back in place, as though that
would make things right. The old man's pale blue gaze
rested on her. He sighed a long sigh. His eyes glazed
over, and his face slowly relaxed.
"Don't die, Uncle Etienne!" she screamed, tears
She tried to rise but her legs gave way. She
collapsed on the floor, cradled his head in her lap
and gave in to her grief, knowing he was beyond help.
She had no idea how long she held him, rocking her body
back and forth, sick with shock and a crushing sense
of loss.
When she could trust her legs to support her,
she got to her feet and stumbled from the apartment.
She ran the three blocks to the fourteenth century
stone church of Notre Dame de Navarre, paying no heed
to the beautiful stained glass windows and magnificent
arched entranceway that she loved and never failed to
admire. Nor did she acknowledge the biting cold that
stung her.
She cut across well-tended grounds and walked
beneath giant oaks whose leafy arms, for more than a
hundred years, had spread their pleasant shade over
the gravel path leading to the rectory. The branches
of the trees, now heavily laden with snow and buffeted
by the wind, sent small avalanches onto the icy gravel
crunching beneath her boots.
Père Frederic would be at the rectory resting
or working on a sermon. His housekeeper admitted her
and led her to his study. Upon hearing her news, the
priest accompanied her back to Etienne Gaspard's small
apartment and knelt by the body, feeling for a pulse.
He arose, shaking his head. He attempted to console
her with scripture; then took his leave.
He went at once to notify the authorities,
make arrangements for the funeral, and to post a letter
to Tournai to inform the San Marcos of Etienne Gaspard's
death.
* * *
After the burial, Mignon left the cemetery with
the priest. Heart broken and alone, she fell into a
state of deep despondency. The priest tried to comfort
her, but his words failed to soothe her aggrieved
spirit or ease her emotional turmoil.
"Come inside, Mignon. I would speak with you."
Mignon followed him into the rectory. A light
lunch prepared by his housekeeper awaited him. She
immediately set another place for Mignon.
The father beckoned Mignon to the table. She
sat down reluctantly. "Père Frederic," she said. "I'm
not hungry. I can't eat."
"Ah, but you must. I insist. I'll ask the Lord's
blessing, and we shall dine."
Mignon bowed her head, wondering what made him
think the Lord would hear his prayer. He'd never heard
any of hers. He'd deserted her, just as everyone had.
She forced herself to eat, because the priest kept
glancing at her plate, and she couldn't face his re-
proach.
During his coffee, the priest said unexpectedly,
"Mignon, the San Marcos have left Tournai; I've been
unable to locate them."
Mignon's heart jumped into her throat and she
spilled her milk. "What do you mean? Surely someone
knows where they've gone?" Her voice broke. "They're
all... all I have left. I have no one but Mama and
Papa. We must find them!"
The housekeeper appeared and wiped up the spill-
ed milk. Ignoring the woman's bustling about, Père
Frederic alarmed Mignon further by insisting she go to
live with the Charvéts, whom Uncle Etienne had not
liked and had warned her against. The priest touched
his fingertips together and eyed her. "'Tis is the
only reasonable solution for you, Mignon," he said.
"The Charvéts are good Catholics and will take proper
care of you."
Mignon no longer trusted anyone. She defied the
priest and returned to the apartment. The moldy birth-
day cake, untouched for more than two weeks, evoked an
empty feeling that settled in the pit of her stomach
as intensely as hunger pangs.
She searched the apartment for something of
value that had belonged to Uncle Etienne and found
only a few sous and a silver ecu. She could not re-
main there; she had no money with which to pay the
propriétaire.
Afraid Père Frederic might force her into the
care of the Charvéts, Mignon took a last look through
the little apartment where she had found a measure of
contentment. Frightened and confused, she donned her
wool cloak, scarf, gloves and fur cap. Clutching her
beaded bag and a valise packed with a few articles of
clothing, she slipped out the door and fled.

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