Mistress of the Revolution (3 page)

I did not sleep much that first night at Fontfreyde. The wood floor creaked as if someone had been walking in my room. Maybe it was the
drac
, the nasty little fiend that haunted every house, grand or small, in Auvergne and delighted in playing tricks on its inhabitants. The autumn wind shook the old place and filled it with uncanny noises. I thought I heard the racket of the
chaço volanto
, the flying hunt, with its howling hounds, ghost riders and horses at full gallop in midair.

My brother gave me the much-awaited riding lessons. Jewel lived up to his name and proved to be the sweetest of animals, although he did keep growing for another year or so. My brother taught me to ride sideways, like a lady. I soon gained confidence and made rapid progress. I also taught myself, when no one was looking, to ride astride. I would fill my pockets with apples and carrots stolen from Joséphine’s cellar and lead Jewel away from the château to practice.

I envied the freedom afforded men, who could use both of their legs for balance without having to use the long whip required of a woman on a side saddle. I admired the daring displayed on horseback by my brother, who had been an officer in the Light Cavalry, and knew that I could not hope to match his skill without also riding astride.

My audacity nearly cost me my riding privileges and much more. My mother learned of it and had me summoned to the drawing room. She was seething with anger, her mouth tighter than usual, and slapped me until my face stung.

“Just wait,” she said. “Your brother will know of this as soon as he returns from town. Stupid, willful, disobedient girl. All the expense, all the care lavished on your education, all will be for naught. You are no better than your sister Hélène. I will see to it that the Marquis gives you the correction you deserve.”

I feared my brother’s anger far more than my mother’s slaps or any punishment. Even the deprivation of the pleasure of riding would have been nothing compared to the loss of his good opinion. I spent a dreadful afternoon in anticipation of his return.

At last one of the maids told me that I was expected in the Marquis’s study. No criminal under examination shook more in front of his judge than I did that day. I stole one look at him. His expression was more severe than I had ever seen it. My sole comfort was that our mother was not there. I knelt before him in silence.

“Mother tells me that you have been riding astride,” he said. “Is it true?”

“Yes, Sir. She is very angry with me.”

“So am I. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you. It must never happen again, Gabrielle, do you hear me?”

“It will not. I would never think of disobeying you, Sir.”

“I am not so sure. What I do not like about your conduct is that you hid it from me.”

“I did not think it worth mentioning, Sir. If I had thought that it would anger you so, I would never have done it.”

“I have an excellent reason, which you are too young to understand, to forbid any riding astride, especially on such a large animal as Jewel. Let me say only that it might later do you a great disservice with the man you will marry. Do you promise that you will never do it again?”

“I do.”

“And do you promise never again to conceal anything from me, even if you believe it to be a trivial matter?”

“I do, Sir. It pains me so to have caused you one moment of uneasiness. You have always been so good to me. I terribly feel my own ingratitude. I would welcome any punishment if you would but forgive me.”

“Mother has asked me to flog you and deprive you of riding, but I will do neither. I will be content with your promise. Do not cry, dear.” He raised me to my feet and took me in his arms. “I love you too much, little sister, not to forgive you. I know that you were only thoughtless and did not mean any harm.”

I had gone from utter misery to the most complete happiness I had known in my eleven years. I sobbed on his shoulder while he held me. I never wanted that moment to end.

I liked my new life at Fontfreyde better than my mother’s first words of welcome had led me to expect. The Marquise hardly received anyone, except for my brother’s few friends and my eldest sister Madeleine, the Countess de Chavagnac, a handsome, dark-haired woman of about thirty. Madeleine’s husband, a sallow, unpleasant man, seldom accompanied her. She had two boys, a few years younger than me, both away at school in Clermont. My other sister, Hélène, whom I had yet to meet, was the Abbess of the Convent of Noirvaux, hundreds of miles away.

I often found refuge in the kitchen, where I was assured of Joséphine’s welcome. She tried to teach me to cook, but my fingers were cursed.

“Go sit on one of the benches in the
cantou
,” she said, “and entertain me with your silly talk. You’re the only young, cheerful thing in this old place. You may lick the platters clean after I’m done, but don’t touch anything until then. You couldn’t boil an egg if you tried. No matter. You’ll marry a great lord someday, and you’ll be too fine a lady to even know the way to the kitchen in your own house.”

I also gained the confidence of the maids, who, when my mother had her back turned, felt free to treat me like their little doll. They were all good souls, elderly and kind. One of them, Antoinette, had been disfigured by smallpox, which had ploughed her face and robbed her of one eye. I had caught the dreaded disease myself when I was in the care of Mamé Labro, but my only memento of it was a tiny round scar on my left temple. At first, I had recoiled from Antoinette, frightened by the dark hollow of her empty orbit, but soon became fonder of her than of the other maids. She sewed for me, hiding from my mother, a doll made of rags, the only one I ever owned.

The maids told me the many tales of the high country, such as the story of the Beast of Gévaudan, which, twenty years earlier, had devoured hundreds of children and shepherdesses. The mayhem lasted until a monstrous brute, the likes of which had never been seen, was shot by a gamekeeper, Chastang, at the end of a nightlong hunt in the forest.

“The Beast recognized Chastang,” said Antoinette, looking at me with her only eye. “The man was a
wolf runner
, a witch who had made a pact with those brutes. He could turn into one at will. Then he would lead them to devour Christians.”

“And his master, the Count de Morangis, was no better,” added Guillemine, another maid, breathless with excitement. “The Bishop accused him from the pulpit of celebrating black masses on the naked body of his youngest sister.”

I winced in horror at the idea of a man seeing his sister nude. “Black masses?” I asked.

“A black mass, Mademoiselle,” said Guillemine, “is the most wicked blasphemy, a mockery of the Holy Mass. It’s a ceremony where an infant is bled to death over a woman lying naked on an altar. And the Count de Morangis forced his sister to take part in such a thing!”

I saw drops of blood falling on the white skin of the young lady; I heard the cries of the child. It was still worse than picturing the mangled remains of the little shepherdesses killed by the Beast. My stomach lurched.

“That’s why the Count’s vassals feared him like the plague,” continued Guillemine. “And they still do, because he’s alive and well, the fiend from hell.”

Antoinette put her hand on my arm. “Of course, Mademoiselle Gabrielle,” she hastened to observe, “that was in Gévaudan, twelve leagues away. The nobility there is far less respectable than here in Carladez. No one would dare compare the Count de Morangis to My Lord the Marquis de Castel, who is so kind.”

I reached five feet six inches by the age of twelve. “Look at her!” my mother would complain to the Marquis. “No man in his right mind will want a giantess. Heaven help us, I cannot imagine what we are going to do with her.”

My breasts and hips soon began to fill out. I stopped growing. Much to my embarrassment, a red down appeared between my thighs. In my bedroom I would stare at my new body, all astonishment at the changes a few months had worked. One night I felt the Colonel’s eye following me while I was undressing. I climbed on a chair to cover his portrait with a piece of fabric from the sewing table. I knew that I was being silly but still found it unnerving to disrobe before him. As I reached for the top of the gilded frame, I felt a trickle of warm liquid running down my legs. Horrified, I noticed that it was blood and would not stop. I stuck a remnant of fabric between my thighs. I was, no doubt, dying of some shameful disease. The catastrophe had stricken me because I had done something wrong that would soon be revealed to the entire world. Worse, my brother would learn of it.

The next day Joséphine raised her eyebrow when she saw me. “What have you done now? You look so shamefaced that it must be pretty bad. Tell me, child, I won’t say a word to your mother.”

I whispered my secret in her ear.

She kissed me. “Poor little dear, I should’ve known your time had come. Don’t fret, it’s one of the curses, along with childbirth, set aside as a punishment for us females. It’ll come back every moon and won’t stop until you’re pregnant or become an old woman like me. Yes, from now on, you’ll be able to bear children, so you must be careful not to be alone with any man.”

I gasped. “What about the Marquis? Should I stop riding with him? How can I tell him of such a thing?”

“No, silly, I wasn’t talking about My Lord.” She shrugged. “He’s your brother, for Heaven’s sake. But be mindful of all other men. There’ll only be one thing on their minds, pretty as you are. You know what I mean?”

I did not and looked at her blankly.

She sighed. “All right. You’ve seen what happens when mares are brought here to be covered by My Lord’s stallion, haven’t you?”

Puzzled, I nodded at her. Indeed, those proceedings took place in a paddock behind the château, under my bedroom window. My brother attended while grooms held the horses’ reins. The stallion, upon smelling the mare, threw his head backwards and curled his lips. He raised himself to his full height, his front legs whipping the air, and let out a chilling cry, almost a roar, before beginning his approaches. It was an impressive sight.

“Good,” said Joséphine. “Then you must’ve observed the state of things under the stallion’s stomach. The private parts of a man look the same, only less large of course, when he wants to have his way with a girl. Beware of any scoundrel who’ll talk tender to you. When you least expect it, he’ll unbutton his breeches, and then he’ll raise your skirts and he’ll do to you what you’ve seen done to the mares.”

My eyes shut tight, I was trying to banish from my mind the horrific visions evoked by Joséphine’s words. I had never considered the fact that men might behave or look like my brother’s horse.

“If you let that happen,” Joséphine continued, “chances are you’ll bear a little bastard nine months later. And even if you weren’t with child, you’d still be disgraced. You see, when a girl lets a man meddle with her, it tears something in her nether parts. That’s called her maidenhead. It hurts when it rips, and it bleeds quite a bit. But that’s not what matters. What matters is that afterwards a girl never looks the same down there.”

Joséphine, a dire look on her face, wagged her finger at me. “So even if you managed to hide your shame until your marriage, you wouldn’t be able to fool your husband on your wedding night. He’d be awfully angry and he’d lock you in a convent for the rest of your life. Think of it. All because of one lapse.” She paused. “Now you’ve been warned.”

“Have no fear, Joséphine,” I said with a great deal of conviction. “I will never, ever let any man do those things to me.”

“Well, you’ll have to let your husband do
those things
to you, of course, and he might teach you some more as well.” She patted my cheek. “But that’s all you need to know for now.”

I winced and put my hand to my stomach.

“Poor dear,” she said, “I forgot you’re in pain. Let me give you some lime-blossom tea. And don’t worry about Her Ladyship. I’ll tell her about your curses.”

“Oh no, please. She will be so angry with me.”

“Of course not. You can’t help it, can you? But she needs to know right away since now you’re fit to be married.”

I shuddered in disgust. “I will never marry.”

Joséphine laughed. “Listen to you! As if it was for you to decide.”

She provided me with scraps of cloth and instructions for their use. I felt the cruelty with which nature had treated us females. As for the idea of marriage, I hoped that it would never be mentioned again.

A few days later, the Marquis handed me a letter.

“Who is writing you?” he asked.

“It is Félicité de Peylamourgue, Sir. She was my friend at the convent.”

Félicité was short, with a round face and dull brown hair. She was also kind and cheerful, though not too clever even by the convent’s standards. The prettier, more brilliant girls had despised me in the beginning. Later, once they had found me less stupid than initially believed and worthy of their friendship, I had shunned their company.

“Is she related to Monsieur de Peylamourgue?” asked my brother.

“She is his daughter.”

“Good. A minor family, but authentic, ancient nobility. I would not want you to make friends among the vile bourgeoisie. Note that I am giving you this letter sealed.”

“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your trust.”

“I know, dearest, but we have to talk about it. Some young ladies become entangled in scandalous romances. On occasion, their friends are complicit in those affairs, in particular by forwarding letters from suitors.”

I stared at him. “Sir, I would never do anything so wicked.”

“I believe you. Still, I will have to watch you more closely now.” He caressed my cheek, smiling. “I remember holding you on my lap when you were a little girl, reading your book aloud. It seems like yesterday. And here you are, already a woman.”

I shuddered, shocked that he would broach such a subject. He drew back and looked at me more sternly.

“Now that you are all grown,” he continued, “I want you to allow me, to ask me even, to open all of the letters you receive, starting with this one. Likewise you will show me all the letters you write, and I do mean all of them, including to our sister Madeleine. I would be fully within my rights to demand it, but I want to hear you request it. What do you say?”

“You may do what you want.”

He frowned. “Of course I may do what I want. That is not what I meant, and you know it. Do not trifle with me, Gabrielle. Will you ask me, your guardian, to read all of your correspondence, as a kindness to you, to protect you from evil?”

“Yes.”

“Say it, then.”

“I am asking you to read my correspondence.”

“As a kindness to you?”

“I am asking you, Sir, as a kindness to me, to please read all of my correspondence. I promise to show you all the letters I write.”

“And you will not tell anyone, including of course your correspondents, about this arrangement of ours.”

“No, Sir, I will not.”

I handed him Félicité’s letter. He opened it, perused it and smiled before returning it to me.

“Quite a letter. You are a good girl, Gabrielle.”

I received few letters, all from Félicité. I responded to them out of a sense of obligation, but the idea that my correspondence with a schoolgirl would be read by a grown man chilled my inspiration, if indeed I had any. Although my French spelling and grammar were already good, I was aware of the deficiencies of these childish attempts. It was torture to imagine my brother’s contempt as he read them.

During her next visit, Madeleine warned me, as Joséphine had done, never to be alone with a man, though, to my relief, she did not enter into any details. I felt irritated by the interest the news of my curses elicited and the rapidity with which it had spread. It seemed that it would have been more discreet to have Father Marty, the parish priest, read an announcement to that effect from the pulpit after his Sunday sermon.

Life went on very quietly. I would sew and embroider with the maids, who came to work in my bedroom. My mother did not part with her money freely, especially when it came to buying anything for me. She presented me with her old dresses, all made of solid black silk, when their dye began to fade and acquire a brownish tint. The maids and I would turn the fabric inside out and do our best to sew them back into something suitable for me. My mother’s gowns were a foot too short for me and we had to add an additional band of fabric at the hem. I knew that I looked strange in my patched clothes, but did not care much about my appearance then. Around the same time, my feet stopped growing, which dispensed with the need to buy me new shoes. I would take mine to the cobbler in Vic to have them mended when the old soles had worn through. This happened often because I was not allowed to wear wooden clogs. They would have made me look, my mother said, like a peasant girl.

I had always liked Vic. It was the
Baillage
seat, with its court of justice, a larger, busier town than Lavigerie. It was built high in the valley of the Cère River, and boasted a cluster of handsome townhouses occupied by the minor nobility and the families of attorneys. From anywhere one had a splendid view of the surrounding mountains. On market days, peasants and traders came from afar to buy and sell horses, sheep and cattle. The fragrance of grilled sausages, wrapped in
bouriols
, thick buckwheat crepes, filled the air.

I would go to the shops in Vic for my mother and take advantage of these errands to visit Mamé Labro. She was as happy as ever to see me, but I lost the friendship of my milk brother Jacques. Since infancy, we had played in the snow in winter and in the freshly cut hay during the long days of June. We had slipped away together to bathe and fish trout by hand in the Cère River.

Now Jacques, whenever he saw me, ran from the cottage without greeting me. I was hurt by his disdain and complained to Mamé.

“It’s all for the best, Gabrielle,” she said. “Jacques has more sense than you. You are a lady now. It would not be proper for you to be friends with a peasant boy.”

It seemed the silliest of explanations.