14 Days in July

Carl Baker & Marc Heberden

Copyright © 2014 Carl Baker & Marc Heberden

All rights reserved, no reproduction in

any form may be made without written consent of the authors

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All characters and incidents in this book are fictional, any resemblance to any person, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

© P.Catalog, U.S. Library of Congress: PAu003458747/ 2010-04-26

ISBN-13: 978-0615955872 (Camerado Press) ISBN-10: 0615955878

Carl Baker:

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the inspiration for this book to all of those willing to stand up and take action against those in power who try to oppress us through their

tyrannical actions.

Marc Heberden:

To Christine, Maurine, Joyce, Cliff,

La Famille, quoi,

& to Mike O’Neil.

14 DAYS IN JULY

CHAPTER 1 13 July 1789: Paris backstreet near the Bastille - Monday night

The night before the Revolution

A strangely bitter wind for a muggy mid-summer blew through the darkening, volatile streets of a turbulent Paris. As though a storm was brewing. Those who had actually managed to work and whose day was drawing to a close came out from buildings onto the cobblestoned streets and alleys and walked with as much speed as they could muster, hopeful of finding warmth and a decent meal. But especially to get behind closed doors. The streets had an ominous feel to them.

But there were also others coming out onto the streets and these were not looking for shelter. These were the people for whom the working day did not begin until it was over for everyone else.

This particular evening, along with their usual habits, they emerged from the shadows to now join in with the strangely nervous crowds forming here and there in the working quarters, in order to see if there wasn’t some way to earn, or pick, a coin or two.

Some of the crowds were quite large, although there still didn’t seem to be any particular organization or explanation for them. The only thing possible to say was that they seemed dangerous. Powder keg dangerous.

Colette, making her preparations for the evening, didn’t give a damn about the crowds. They wouldn’t be gathering where she planned to ply her wares.

She lifted the candle and admired herself in the small looking-glass propped up by the window. Her wig was frizzed

and stiffened with tallow and she’d covered it with the powder she’d acquired only yesterday from the wigmaker. Clouds of white dust billowed out as she strained to stop herself from sneezing.

She pulled some strands of hair into an artful whirl that crawled down her left shoulder. Her face was as white as any gentlewoman’s and the generous rouge she’d applied to her cheeks trailed from her eyes to her chin. Now that dark had fallen, it was time to seek business.

She took small, delicate steps down the staircase. The shoes she had bought from the market matched her gown perfectly, and, because of the stain on the toe, she had managed to barter a good price for them. Unfortunately, they pinched at her toes causing her to grimace as she found her way onto the street. No matter, she didn’t intend to spend too long upright anyway.

She stood in the doorway, trying to affect an air of nonchalance as she watched the passersby, wondering if any were worth approaching.

Hearing a low hiss, she leaned forward out of the doorway and saw Élise, who gave her a cocky grin.

“You’re a little late tonight.” Élise coughed wheezily. Colette nodded down to her feet. “It’s these shoes, I could

barely get them on and they’re impossible to walk in.” Élise strolled over from the doorway a few yards farther

along, where she’d been waiting hopefully for some time. She was a short, dumpy woman and her wig was already

askew—a sure sign that she’d already downed more than a bottle of wine. She was at least ten years older than Colette and had marked out at least five years at the same street corner.

“Did you do well last night?” Colette asked. Élise made a face. “I got that idiot joiner at the end of the

night. I should have been able to smell him coming.” Colette shook her head in sympathy. “Even in these times I

couldn’t bear going with him.” “There’s not so much of him to bear when it comes down to

it,” cackled Élise. “It’s getting too uncomfortable to stand around for long. I

don’t like all these people in the streets. It’s bad for business…

and it’s beginning to make me nervous,” observed Colette, shivering involuntarily. “Has anyone come along yet?”

“Not while I’ve been standing here. You’re not the only one feeling uncomfortable. These days, you feel like you’re trying to carry on with a lynch mob milling around. It’s going to be a long summer.”

“It’s been bad all year. And now it’s getting worse. They don’t want to pay for anything extra. It’s been days since I got a meal from one of them. All they want is five minutes jigging.”

“They blame the economy for shrinking their soldier fast enough. Anxiety.”

“I could really eat a hot dinner now,” mused Colette. “I’d take on any number of soldiers for that, regardless of their anxiety.”

Élise sniggered, keeping a watch on the street. Over on the boulevards there was a huge crowd gathering,

and they could hear a muffled din from that direction. But on their side street it was exceptionally quiet and the few men, who did walk past, lowered their heads and refused to catch her eye.

For a few minutes, Colette and Élise gossiped about the shortcomings of their recent customers, Élise’s stories reducing Colette to fits of giggles. No one showed any interest in them and finally Élise sighed in frustration.

“I have to make something tonight. That old thief Morel said he’ll throw me on the streets if I don’t give him his rent soon.”

She smiled hopefully as a well-dressed young man drew close and then shook her head when he looked her up and down, gave her a horrified glance and sped up.

Colette laughed. “Keep scaring them away like that and you’ll have to offer

Morel rent in kind.” “Tried it,” said Élise dismissively. “His tastes run to young

boys.” “Sure? I thought that was just talk.” “Sure enough. I’ve seen them come out of his room.” Élise, who was well past her prime, unconsciously pushed her

breasts back up into a more favorable view for the street, then stamped her feet a bit with impatience.

“It’s worse than that,” she said miserably. “Every week I make less and every day the price of bread creeps up. The few times I do get a customer, they haggle as if I was a piece of meat at the market. That bastard from the baker’s promised me some bread last week if I gave him a quick ride. Never paid up. He said it’s the Revolution, and we all need to chip in.”

“Fuck the Revolution,” Colette said amiably. Élise looked out onto the street and came to a decision. “We won’t make anything by chatting. I need to pull in some

business. Good luck.” She moved down the street a few yards until she was back in

front of the doorway she’d been at earlier. Placing one hand on her hip, Élise smiled broadly as a fat merchant strolled toward her.

“Monsieur Jourdain! It’s always a delight to see you. My goodness, who gave you that black eye? Ha-ha! Looking for a little company to relieve your sorrows? It’s a cold night, surely you’d appreciate being warmed up?”

Colette could hear a mumbled conversation as Élise argued the price with him and then saw the two of them wander away. Emile Jourdain tended to pay well. She’d seen to him herself several times. With luck, Élise might manage to persuade him to pay for a meal and some drinks, depending on how lonely he was feeling tonight.

Colette stood up straighter and walked down the street a few paces, trying not to wince at her pinched toes. Men were strolling by but paying her no attention. She smiled coquettishly and beckoned to one after another. No one responded. She moved against the wall and lifted a foot to inspect the blister growing on her heel. As she lifted her head, she jumped to see a well-dressed gentleman looking down at her. Swiftly, she composed herself and gave him a smile.

“Perhaps you need some company Monsieur?” “Perhaps I do.” Colette looked at him pensively. Well dressed in fine, dark blue broadcloth, he looked vaguely

familiar with his handsome, distinctly aquiline features, a somewhat long but strong, pointed chin and the heavy-lidded

eyes. She knew she didn’t actually know the man. It was more the familiarity of someone well-known or of a famous nature.

But then, there had been so many… who could really be expected to remember?

In any case, her spirits picked up a bit. A man like him might be prepared to take her somewhere a bit warmer for drinks, or a game after. She could be set up for the night.

She stepped back further into the shadows. If he was well known, he’d soon disappear if he thought anyone was likely to notice him. Obediently, it seemed, the man followed her. But then he raised his eyebrows, speaking impatiently.

“Are you offering your company or are you trying to trick me into something?”

Colette looked at him in surprise. “I have a room upstairs Monsieur, it’s passably discrete and

clean. Afterwards, perhaps we could take the air and have a few drinks.” She stroked his arm and smiled hopefully.

The man laughed derisively. “I’ve taken more than enough air for one evening. Let’s get

on with it.” Colette turned and moved to open the door to take the man

up to her room. The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from the door.

“As I said, let’s get on with it.” Colette snatched her hand back and looked around

nervously. Now that Élise was gone there was no one she recognized on the street. Then she shrugged. She needed the money too badly to be fussy about where she did it, let alone with whom. She smiled at the man and plucked at his sleeve.

“Perhaps Monsieur prefers a little outdoor exercise? We can take a stroll around the corner.”

The man nodded. Colette led the way, swaying her hips as she walked, trying not to shiver. The man followed close behind her and she prayed he would be quick. For all his smart appearance there was something not right about him.

As she turned the corner into the alleyway, he pushed her forward so hard that she let out a shriek of panic. She turned to look at him.

“Monsieur ....” The man slapped her across the face hard and she looked at

him in shock. What was wrong with him? She hadn’t said anything that could offend.

“There’s no need to put on airs. I don’t have all night. Let’s get on with it and you can have your money and get back on the street.”

Dumbly, Colette nodded. It would probably be best to service him as fast as she could and then warn the others.

She opened her mouth to say something placating and the man grabbed her. Holding both of her arms, he pushed her deep into the alley, kicking boxes aside and slamming her against the wall.

Colette bit her tongue, too scared to cry out, but she did frown and began to protest. At that, though, he slapped her across the face again. She bit her lip hard and looked at him blankly. Waiting. She suddenly knew she had picked the wrong place to go with him.

The alley was almost completely dark. Only a dim light penetrated from the street. As he pushed her further back, she realized that no one would be able to hear her if she screamed.

With her nearly cringing there against the wall, the man took a step back and looked at her thoughtfully. Before Colette could react, he tore her bodice, exposing her breasts to the air. She grabbed at the cloth and tried to cover herself. The man laughed.

Now severely frightened, Colette tried to pull away but the man put one hand at her throat and held her firm. With his other hand he unbuttoned his breeches and began to stroke himself with a methodic determination, eyeing her with a sneer. Cold, animal. Suddenly he lifted Colette’s skirts and letting go of her throat grabbed hold of her hips and then plunged himself into her, hard. Colette gave out a screech of pain and he paused in what he was doing just long enough to put his hand roughly across her mouth. Colette began to weep as the man pushed harder and harder into her, gasping with exertion. Faster and faster until, finally, he shuddered and groaned, slamming into her hard one last time. For a second, he held her pinned against

the wall like that, enjoying his last spasms of pleasure. Then he was done.

He took a step back away from her. Colette, although she was used to all manner of men, had rarely come across someone as viciously brutal as this man, hard and violent.

In a near swoon of fright, she dropped to the ground as he rearranged his clothes. Looking at her down at his feet, the man snarled, kicking her dress away from where it had fallen across his shoes.

“Dirty whore.” Colette curled up tightly as if she expected a real kick to

follow. But he stood there over her, unmoving, looking at her with an icy stare of disdain and barely concealed contempt. At that she stood up as gracefully as she could and pulled her torn clothes tightly around her body.

He turned to leave. She followed him back towards the street. Frightened as she was, she wasn’t about to let him just walk away.

“There’s a matter of payment, Monsieur.” He paused, nodded, and pulled his purse out. While he did

that Colette straightened her dress. Luckily, nothing seemed to be torn.

She gave him a sour look. “You’ve had me once Monsieur, but there won’t be a second time,” she said while he picked through the contents of the purse.

The man, his handsome face impassive, made his selection of coins and then dropped them into her open palm. The strict minimum.

“No worry about that,” he said. “I shan’t be wasting myself on you again.”

His manner was deliberately insulting and she was angered enough to riposte. “If you try ... if you’re here again ... I have friends. I can make sure you’re taken care of.”

The man laughed coldly, his voice taking on a hard, flinty tone. “I can imagine the sort of friends you have.”

As she watched, the man drew from his pocket a wicked looking folding knife with a blood-red handle. He flicked it open and pointed it towards her.

“My friend is with me always.” The two of them stood frozen for a moment and then

Colette began to step slowly back toward the alley. “Colette! Are you there?” She and the man both jumped at the sound of Élise’s voice

and the man slipped the knife into concealment. Élise appeared behind him with a worried look on her face, dragging her Monsieur Jourdain along by his hand. Her voice was trembling with an excited emotion.

“Emile says there is a near riot taking place at the Hotel de Ville, there are crowds moving this way.”

The man named Jourdain, who looked like some sort of merchant and who sported a painful looking but somehow comical black eye of mottled purples and yellows, nodded, speaking to Colette.

“It’s true. The roads are nearly blocked and there are violent people about. But I know someone who can take us in. It is a dangerous night to be out.” He looked at her client. “Would your gentleman friend like to join us?”

The man looked at Jourdain with quick disdain but before he could say anything Jourdain waved his finger towards him.

“Hold on. I know you, don’t I? My shop … Madame de la Fernier ….”

Colette, from behind the man’s shoulder, was shaking her head furiously at Élise and Jourdain. Élise suddenly seemed to see her more clearly, and now looked at her in open puzzlement.

“What happened?” she said. “Did you slip and fall?” Colette gave her a meaningful look and Élise finally caught

on. She moved to her and put her arm around her. Evidently, Colette had experienced a rough one.

Élise knew there was nothing to do in these cases, and so just stared hard at the man. She grabbed Jourdain’s arm, muttering at him urgently.

Jourdain looked confused. He turned toward the man to say something else but then froze at the icy look the man was giving him. The man turned and walked away.

Watching him go, Jourdain shook his head. “I don’t like the looks of that one, whoever he is.”

Colette nodded. “If business wasn’t so bad, I probably would have paid more attention to my doubts.”

Jourdain half-shrugged. “Well, come on then, I know a safe place. There are revolutionaries there, but they don’t bother anyone and they are taking in people who are in danger.”

Colette gave him a questioning look, but said stoutly, “We’re not in danger, I don’t think.”

Jourdain shook his head. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. They’ve got hundreds of

guns out, and you wouldn’t believe how fast people are gathering. You’ll see. There’ll be guns going off, soon enough. And with the soldiery down at the Bastille, there’ll be shots exchanged and blood. Mark my words.”

Colette shrugged. “Well, if that’s what people want to do with themselves, that’s their problem. In any case, if this place you talk of is warm, who cares about whether it’s stuffed to the rafters with revolutionaries or not?”

Jourdain laughed. “I’ll admit, I can sometimes feel the same way about it.”

Élise laughed as well. “Don’t tell me you have much use for the Revolution, Monsieur Jourdain?”

He almost made a joke but then stopped himself. “If you had asked me that a year ago, I would have agreed,”

he said. “I don’t like these rabble rousers and all this vague talk. But I’ve come to see, for myself, how bad things have gotten. Frankly, I don’t know anymore …”

He reached up unconsciously and touched the large black bruise under his eye. “In any case, these days, it’s better to be discrete to whom you’re talking to.”

Colette sniffed. Perhaps, she thought. But in the end, what she was more interested in was the free meal.

She reached out and took Jourdain’s arm. Élise immediately took the other.

The two women gave each other a conspiratorial glance and smile. Bad customers or revolutions, at the very least, they had him where they wanted him. They stepped off with him gaily down the street, Colette wincing with every other step.

* The man in the blue broadcloth suit had walked swiftly down

the street away from Colette and her friends. Within ten minutes he had gone down several other streets, finally turning into a narrow side street lost in the warren of streets between the Marais and the Bastille. There, filling nearly half the length of one blackened block beneath shuttered windows, was a discrete public house which would have been all but anonymous except for a dingy shingle hanging above the entry, announcing that the establishment was called the Chien Noir Café.

He went straight to the counter, where the barman greeted him. He ordered a glass of hot, spiced wine. The streets had been that cold.

“Thank you, Georges,” the man said when it came. He folded his hand around the glass, gazing at it thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the heavy-set barman who seemed to be waiting on him as though he was his principal customer.

“Has Tréville been here today?” “Earlier,” said Georges. “He mentioned he’d see me

tomorrow so I guess things are still moving.” The man nodded in satisfaction and then turned his back to

the bar to drink his wine, looking contemplatively at the other people in the café.

The very epitome of a Parisian gentleman.

…………. [ end chapter 1 ]

1 July 1789, Paris — Two weeks before the Revolution

France is undergoing a political upheaval unlike anything it has known before. Louis XVI is using savage mercenary forces and food blockages, to bring the people to heel. The country is a powder keg, and Paris is the fuse. In the midst of what could become bloody chaos, shadowy people— including the sinister and brutal chief of the Paris police—discover that a young Parisian laundress, Michèle Duvallier, whose fiancé is imprisoned for his political activities, knows a deadly, ancient secret that could shake France’s monarchy to its core. Michèle finds herself the object of a murderous manhunt. Her imprisoned fiancé’s citizen’s group, now led by his brother, is being chased from one hiding place to another. It is only during the fall of the Bastille that she learns why so many powerful people are hunting for her, but as well the shocking identity of who has been betraying them ….

September 1654, Burgundy — 135 years before the Revolution

A good-natured young man, an orphan, is mysteriously imprisoned with grotesque instructions to conceal his identity in such as way as to ensure he is to be forgotten for all time ….

The man in the iron mask was not a pure invention of Alexandre Dumas. The rumor of the existence of twin boys being switched, one of whom was to become Louis XIV, had been speculated on for well over a hundred years by many high sources— including Voltaire, who secretly told friends he had seen the man unmasked, and saw he was the king’s twin. But what Dumas, and no one else, wrote about, was the even more dangerous rumor that there was not only a switch, but as well ... another lineage ….

14 DAYS IN JULY

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on Amazon Books at::

http://www.amazon.com/14-Days-July-Carl-Baker/dp/0615955878

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Raised in the Midwest, and educated at the University of Oklahoma. Carl Baker has published numerous articles/case studies in Medicine, and lectured world wide. Now he lives and writes in Monte Carlo, Monaco and Slidell, Louisiana, USA.

Originally from the Pacific Northwest, Marc Heberden worked in various trades on both sides of the Cascade Mountains including that of newspaper editor. He now lives in a small town southwest of Paris.