Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) (15 page)

He stared at us for a long time, swallowing, starting to talk, then shutting his mouth, grinding his teeth. He was a man who always had to balance between his needs and the ones he loved, and his needs, Marie, came first.
‘You made my life terribly hard, loves. I need that money. And I will get it. I am sorry.’ So, he left us and did not turn. He needed the money, and we had foiled him. He also appointed some men to look over us, and we could not leave.

For us, that day was the highlight of the revolution. We were not healed, but
do not, dear, ever let anyone say that revenge is useless. Taking an offensive man’s life or paying back an insult is like an infinitesimal, yet sweet piece of cake, quickly savored, hardly able to fill your belly, but you needed it, in order to know what it tastes like. It might disappoint you, but one has to sample it. One has to be able to think about it, and tell oneself the scales are balanced. Live as a victim, dear Marie, and you will always have a hole in your soul.

Revolution changed around us. Foulon was caught several days after outside of Paris, brought to the City Hall and the Place de la Gréve, where together with his son-in-law, he was hung, and after the rope had broken three times, he was hacked to
small pieces. Revolution had taken a new, bloody route, and that blood would gush forth crazily until the arteries were spent, and people were tired. I was already tired as I saw Guillemin’s head; my father remains being paraded around.

Georges was the King
of the Rabble and sore with us and I had another ghost to worry about.

CHAPTER 7

What followed, Marie was a mad jumble of swift months, years even, and much I will tell you, I learned later, but what is true, is that France changed and became the savage foe to Europe and even to itself.

Afterwards, speaking with others who took part in the revolution, they felt much the same. Time flew by
so fast, it was hard to fathom its passing. As for Danton and Desmoulins, and the rest of the leaders who took matters in their own hands on the 14
th
, they were all terrified at first, I think, at what had been done. The shocked National Assembly found it had a rivaling force, one that it was answerable to; the angry, determined people. Mirabeau finally took note of the suddenly powerful clubs. Georges, and people in the Cordeliers Club, and others of surprising stature and growing power, like the pamphleteer mad Marat, stoked the scorching embers, tirelessly, with a tigerish ferocity. And to wield such power, Danton, Desmoulins, many others, they found it sweetly intoxicating. I can tell you Marie, that the tumultuous meetings at the Cordeliers Club suddenly seemed as important as the ones in the bloody National Assembly itself. Had they not burned and dismantled the King’s fortress? They had. Had they hung for it? No. Yet, there was a stern look on the face of Georges, one of worry, of frustration and rumors abounded, some speaking of Mirabeau, the old noble making Bastille much less dangerous event it should have been. Some said the old noble, the man trying to keep masses and kingdom apart, had mocked Georges and that meant Georges would have to deal with this nemesis, or we would still have a king, even if he were a more humble one.

That July, after the fall of Bastille, and the atrocities of the City Hall, general Lafayette created the
solemn National Guard, raised all over France to guard against looting, but in truth to defend the threatened constitutional monarchy that was being planned. The king suddenly worried, Marie, for his dear life, and Mirabeau feared both the shifty king and the irascible people, as he tried to set the two unlikely pieces together. They did recall popular Necker too, for a time. The king tried to appease the people, even accepting the tricolor cockade, which replaced Camille’s green leaves. The National Guard did not, however, stop the great fear that ripped through the country like a swift wildfire. Nearly all through unhappy France, many nobles ran for their lives, as fast as they could as simple peasants looted their finery, killed their families, mauled their property, and generally hurt those they viewed as the cause of all the troubles.

We
still helped in the Club. We were allowed to live there and eat well, but no longer did we enjoy company of Georges. He would see us, occasionally and then turn away in sudden anger, his face clouded. He was thinking hard, I knew, and he thought about lost money and lost mother. Mother did not see his loving letter anymore, but put it away, left it lonely in a drawer for it was a promise that was broken, a long shot from the start, but a painful one to endure, nonetheless.

That is when Camille stepped up, as he took to visiting us, filling the void left by Georges. He came in, usually with some
surprising present that he coyly put at Henriette’s lap, and though she did not enjoy Camille’s flattery as much as she had that of Georges, she liked to talk to him, for he was considerate and witty. They became quick friends, at least, though I saw, whenever Henriette bowed down to pick something up, affording Camille a glimpse of her generous bosom, he nearly fainted. I rolled my eyes at him and he smiled gently back, for he was hopeless. He was happy, sort of. Camille was at the peak of his power as he finally got his pamphlets published, happy to point out how he had anticipated many things before they actually took place. The mighty Cordeliers Club opted for a free republic, and his La France Libre newspaper poured sweetest honey on all those willing ears clamoring for the republic, even by crude violence, for it was justified, as claimed Camille and many others. Camille’s eloquent, fiery writing completed Georges outspoken strength.

Despite his rather obvious feelings for my mother, he knew how to make us happier. We were at loss on what to do. We had sealed
father’s fate, dealing with it as best we could. Mother worried about me, but in truth, I was not sorry. What hurt us more was that we missed Julie and Jean. God, how we missed them. And I missed Florian. Camille knew this, and managed always to be the one to bring the letters from our relatives, with tales of the twins. He knew how to become welcome, he sat there smiling happily, as we read how they fared well, even if they missed us. We both cried, confused, happy and sad, and the fool of a Camille cried for he was like that.

Finally, Henriette was blunt. Would Georges let us go? Camille, when confronted, looked agitated, pulling at his neckerchief.
‘The money. Georges still needs it. He is loath to let you go, and so am I, though not for the money. And the police are still looking into the murder of your great uncle. Sara, Georges says, is still alive, blaming you. Wait, patiently.’

‘But we do not know where the money is!’ I yelled at him.
‘And who cares about the police? Did we not just take a fort? Killing a bastard in self defense is hardly something…‘

‘Let him plan, love. Be patient, for my sakes.’

We waited, impatiently seething.

In August, Mirabeau crusaded
like a mad man to keep the ailing king afloat and to create a constitutional monarchy. King was given a foolish veto right, and at the same time Lafayette’s famous American friend Jefferson helped create a French version of American Declaration of Independence, a more mature version I had seen in the Cordelier’s. So, France got the Declaration of Right of Man and Citizen, though without real checks and balances, making it worthless. New laws were passed, with nobles losing their feudal rights, but the king, the foolish king vetoed them. The king was hanging himself and Mirabeau must have wept bitter tears. The spendthrift Austrian queen became an object of universal hate for the people. Was it not her, who spent, spent, and told people to eat cake, if the moldy bread ran out? I did smile when I read that.

I heard Camille and Georges argue
bitterly one cold evening, both unreasonably angry. Finally, I saw Georges walk away to sit at the fountain, and Camille stalk away through a door. I looked at Georges, as he sat there, holding his hand forlornly with another, and I saw him gaze at our window. After an hour, he slapped his knee in agitation over some hard decision and left. He looked determined, but not happy. Camille took us to a café and stammering, addressed mother. ‘Would you, Henriette, help me with my printing? I have a cozy place, near the convent, and could use some much needed help,’ he stated, his eyes full of terror, of rejection or over what they had spoken with Georges, I did not know.

‘I can help, yes,’ Henriette said
, happy to be away from the convent and vicinity of her former lover. ‘As long as we are safe.’

‘You are safe,’ Camille said
quietly, eyeing his coffee. Then he pointed a quivering finger at me. ‘But you might be needed to run errands for Georges,’ he said, neutrally, glancing at Henriette. ‘She is safe,’ he said again. ‘And he has forgiven what you did, too.’

‘Generous of the man who said he loves me,’ she said acidly.

‘We need money, Henriette. It is a high calling for most of us, to topple the ancient regime. It eats money. Without money, you cannot buy loyalty, position.’

‘So what,’ Henriette said, leaning forward, ‘has really changed if you are as corrupt as a fat priest collecting church taxes?’

‘Priests will find it is not for them to do, soon!’ Camille snorted, not answering the real question, but then he sobered visibly, pulling at his poor, stretched neckerchief. ‘He has forgiven you, but you need a new man to protect you. He is too proud and he is married, but I wish to give us a chance. Come and help me, and we can get to know each other. I say no more about that now. I can make this happen, Georges has to listen. I have some saying in the matters of the Club. I was the one on the table before Bastille fell. Georges is afraid. He criticized my new work, and does not like how the workers call me now, the lamp post attorney.’ He looked smug over his fiery pamphlet, one that claimed all the nobles belonged to the lamppost at the execution square. He was enthusiastic about his role in the Bastille incident, and he had written things that made even Danton flinch.

Henriette sighed. ‘You endorse
terrible violence, you beg for it. Bastille was a fine, if a messy thing, but if you do not be cautious, the National Assembly and the king might find they have a common enemy. Be careful, Camille.’ She stroked his cheek, and he shuddered while blushing.

‘That is why I need help, I cannot help myself,’ he said coyly.

‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps never, you understand. I am tired.’

He smiled happily, for Camille was a
simpering romantic and needed the thought of fine love more than he needed the acts of lust. He nodded, agreeing and she agreed and we moved. I saw Georges stare after us with a vacant look on his eyes, his face glowering from his window, but we kept our heads down as we carried our few belongings from under his formerly protective wing to a small room on the attic of Camille’s press, but one block from the convent. Georges saw us go, and pulled the rich draperies in front of the window. I saw certain sneaky, unsavory men follow us and knew there would be other men making sure we did not wander too far, keeping an eye on our movements, for Georges did not let us go freely. Whether for his feelings or for a lingering chance to get the coin? We did not know.

However, we were happier
with Camille.

Suddenly, our lives were busy and full of
meaningful toil. Camille was writing furiously, at times seeming half mad in his internal arguments over some finer point in his scribbling’s and we helped him with the printing and much needed research. His finest masterpiece, I think so at least, were the fiery pamphlets that tore the mask conciliation off the king’s face. They told the people of the treacherous king who had recently summoned a professional army unit, the Flanders Regiment to beautiful Versailles to provide additional protection for the secluded royal family, adding to the Garde du Corps, and the hated Hundred Swiss, and how they had held a lavish banquet, while people starved. Camille brilliantly described how they had mocked the National Assembly for fools and had promised solemnly to hang the pretenders and bloody rebels for the king. I laughed as he spelled his eloquent words out aloud while writing how the drunken king had joined their merrymaking.

Much of it flowed from his
imaginative head, but simple people believe what is finely written. Georges and others were inflaming the situation and they did a fine job. They began to spread many such pamphlets and bitter rumors. Perhaps they held a vestige of truth, perhaps not. Camille had a way with words, and we were happy to have something else to think about.

It was October, when
irascible women, sweeping along many willing men, marched to Versailles. The riots had lacked focus, and the women gave it spontaneously, or as spontaneously, like a riot stoked by Cordeliers can be. I knew of Georges, and others who had been inciting many such riots, but this time, led by women, the fire caught. We heard mighty clamor near, and mother went to check it out. Hundreds of women were marching for the City Hall. However, we had a terrible amount of work to do, so we did not join them. I was cleaning Camille’s study, when someone knocked on the door.

It was Marie-Louise.

She grinned like an imp and we hugged fiercely. She looked better fed, relatively clean, save for her greasy hair, and she was decently clothed. She took my face between her hands as we danced around. I did not really know her, but God. I missed company. ‘I got a place at the Cordeliers, too. They were gathering orphans in the streets to help with this and that. Camille Desmoulins found me last week, and wanted especially me to help them at the convent, called me pretty and canny. Now that brute Danton has an errand for us.’

‘Us?’ I said
uncertainly while grinning at her, and we sat down. I gave her some pilfered wine, and sipped some myself. Camille had sternly told me to keep my fingers off his spirits.

She looked
conspiratorially at me, winking with a mysterious, devious look. ‘Georges Danton himself needs this to be taken to captain Stainslas-Marie Maillard.’ She waved a sealed paper at me. Maillard. That man had been with Georges at Bastille. Henchman to Georges, or anyone clamoring for trouble, I was sure. He was a sans-culotte leader. Sans-culottes, Marie, were all the rabble that hated knee-breech wearing nobles, wearing full-length trousers themselves. Yet, funnily enough, most famous leaders of the revolution wore culottes. As Georges stated, the trash needed to respect their leader, and not feel equal to them. Marie-Louise continued. ‘You know the hell-raising women marched to Versailles today? The horrible looking Maillard led them there, and they practically invaded the National Assembly, and some will speak with the king. They want bread. Georges,’ she whispered the name laudably, ‘wants to make sure they don’t cave in, I think.’

I nodded. ‘Why us? He has
swift men and even canny women with fast horses serving his needs. Camille needs me.’

She shrugged. ‘He said we are fleet and not suspicious, and I should not go alone. Also, the National Guard might arrest men on horses. So, will you help me? I think he feels sorry about something, something to do with you. Perhaps he wishes for you to come back?’