Mistress of the Revolution (33 page)

The Court was much altered. Of the throngs of lords and ladies who had attended Versailles, only a few dozen remained in the Tuileries. The royal family was now mostly surrounded by ordinary servants and National Guards. The Queen’s activities were ostensibly limited to knitting, tapestry, at which she was most proficient, and a game of billiards after luncheon. Madame Elisabeth, the King’s younger sister, shared those pastimes, although in a more cheerful spirit. She could have emigrated then. Yet she chose not to leave her brother, to whom she was tenderly attached.

I remained on good terms with Emilie, although our fondness for each other cooled. She and I had shared a love of pleasure, of laughter, of life, and that similarity of temperament had brought us together. Now that times were becoming darker, differences came to the surface. Her lightness shocked me as foolhardy under the circumstances and she found me too earnest in my political ideas.

Among the remaining ladies of the Court was the Marquise de Tourzel, who had replaced the Duchess de Polignac as Governess to the Royal Children, much to their advantage. Madame de Tourzel was a widow, fifty years of age, a staunch proponent of the Old Regime, but also an affectionate mother who had presided over the education of her own children. Her youngest daughter, Pauline, a lovely girl of seventeen, still single, lived with her. I avoided discussing politics with Madame de Tourzel, but I often sought her advice on Aimée’s courses of study. I compared my daughter’s advancement to that of the little Dauphin, who was only five months her senior. I was also on easy terms with other ladies of the Court, in particular Madame de Rochefort. She was about my age, pretty and sweet-tempered.

I did not entertain any illusions as to my position. As a lady-in-waiting to the Countess de Provence, I had to be tolerated. Yet because of my association with Villers, Lauzun and other proponents of the new ideas, I was not trusted. Many a conversation was abruptly interrupted whenever I entered a room, a fact that I did not much regret because it spared me comments I would not have cared to hear.

I once happened to overhear from the next drawing room a conversation between the Queen and Princess de Lamballe. The Princess, blonde, blue-eyed and much given to what she called “nervous spasms,” was a member of the royal family and, according to widely accredited public rumour, the Queen’s lover. I did not believe that there was any truth to this gossip although both ladies were indeed close friends.

“Yes, my heart,” the Queen was telling the Princess, “when things return to what they should be, we might forgive some of the commoners who participated in the Revolution, provided of course that they repent their errors and help us return to the old ways. Some of them have been driven by ambition rather than by evil purposes.”

“That is what I have always said, Madam,” the Princess de Lamballe chimed in. “They misbehaved more out of ambition than evil purposes.”

“But others,” continued the Queen, “will be shown no mercy. I am thinking of those noblemen who betrayed the Crown, of which they should have been the natural support. Men such as Lafayette, Lauzun, Villers shall pay with their lives.”

“True,” said the Princess. “All of them shall pay with their lives.”

The door to the drawing room where I stood was wide open, and the Queen, who had spoken loudly and clearly, knew of my presence there. She had intended me to hear these remarks. I excused myself to Madame and went to the room where the Queen was sitting. I curtseyed and stared directly at her. She pursed her lips like a petulant child and shook her head at me in defiance. I almost pitied her for her illusions, for I did not believe that things would ever “return to what they should be.” While generously handing out death sentences, she seemed unaware of the fragility of her own situation.

I liked the sound of the church bells of Paris, their rhythm joyful for weddings and solemn for funerals. The
tocsin
was quite another thing: its urgent cadences served to warn the people of disasters, fires or other emergencies. It was also the name given to the largest bell in Paris, which was kept at City Hall and could be heard all over town. When it rang, all the bells of all the churches of Paris joined in. It was indeed a deafening, awe-inspiring sound.

I heard the dreaded peals on the morning of the 21st of June 1791, the longest day of the year. Villers and I were interrupted during breakfast by cries coming from the street. At the same time, we heard the sound of the cannon mingling with the
tocsin
. I ran to the window. Villers tried to stop me, but I opened it and looked out. A crowd was marching in the direction of the Tuileries. I called to a woman.

“The King was abducted!” she shouted. “The Austrian Woman has taken him away from us.”

Villers blanched and departed in haste for the Assembly. Given the unprecedented circumstances, it remained in session for the following days without any recess. I would not see him during that time.

Junot, my footman, was still limping from the injury he had received two years earlier during the storming of the Bastille. His participation in that event had earned him a bronze medal, shaped like the towers of the old fortress, with the inscription
Victor of the Bastille
engraved on the back. He had shown it to me with immense pride and told me that he now felt personally responsible for the fate of the Nation. After liveries had been forbidden, he had asked my permission, which I had granted, to wear it on a tricolour ribbon on his coat.

I sent him to gather news. He returned before the morning was over, running as fast as his stiff leg allowed.

“Turns out the King wasn’t abducted after all,” he said. “He left a letter all in his own handwriting. It says that he never meant to pledge allegiance to the Constitution. He wants nothing to do with the Revolution. I still can’t believe it, My Lady, but it looks like he quit Paris of his own free will.” Junot paused to catch his breath. “The King’s been deceiving us all along. And we loved him so! Everyone says he’s reached the Austrian Netherlands by now. He’ll place himself at the head of an army of foreigners and émigrés to attack Paris! See what I found lying on the ground by the gates to the Palace!”

It was a handwritten bill that read:

MISSING:
A LARGE SWINE THAT USED TO ROAM THESE PREMISES.
A REWARD OF TWELVE FRANCS IS OFFERED FOR ITS RETURN.

Indeed, the King was overnight revealed to be a liar, a perjurer, a traitor. The gutters of Paris were littered with his portraits, which had formerly decorated shops and private homes. They were now discarded in disgust for his treachery. I saw the
fleurs-de-lys
, emblems of the French Crown, taken down or covered with tar everywhere, while the word
royal
was erased from public buildings. Every name referring to the monarchy was changed, and even such an exotic character as the King of Siam, who could hardly be deemed a threat to the Nation, lost his street in Paris.

The Assembly, while preparing for war, had suspended the monarchy until further notice. Later during the day, Junot burst into my drawing room without knocking.

“My Lady, I just heard that the King’s been arrested in Varennes,” he announced.

“Varennes? I have never heard of it.”

“It’s a little town barely five leagues from the eastern border. The King came so close to crossing into Austrian territory! I hope you’ll forgive me for disturbing you like this, My Lady, but I’m very upset.”

“What else have you learned?”

“It looks like that scoundrel Fersen and the Queen hatched a plan to join the armies of Bouillé. You know, My Lady, that General they call the Butcher of Nancy.”

The escape plan included the Count and Countess de Provence. They left separately in plain carriages, reached the border and crossed into the Austrian Netherlands without any difficulty. Madame, when I saw her again many years later, told me that she had been informed of the plan at the very last minute. Apparently, she was not trusted enough to be taken in her husband’s confidence ahead of time.

The royal family, apart from the Count and Countess de Provence, now faced a most unpleasant return. Madame de Tourzel, who had taken part in the whole journey, told me about it later.

“Can you imagine, dear Madam,” she said, “that we heard not one cry of
Long live the King
! I cannot recall a more painful journey. We had been boiling in the heat, choking from the dust for days since leaving Varennes. All the way, men kept their hats on. In Paris, a cook, who happened to be bareheaded, even covered himself for the occasion with a dirty towel he was carrying on his arm to show his contempt for Their Majesties.”

In the meantime, at the Tuileries, the Assembly was debating whether to keep France a monarchy.

“How could the King be allowed to remain on the throne?” I asked Villers. “He tried to flee abroad to attack the Nation!”

Villers shook his head. “What is the alternative? A republic? Inconceivable. The abolition of the monarchy would lead to chaos, to civil war, to the reign of the lowest kind of rabble. Little as we trust the King, we have no choice but to tolerate him.”

“Why does not the Duke d’Orléans avail himself of the moment? He is as popular as ever. Everyone would be happy to have him as Regent if the King were deposed now.”

“A great many would even make him King outright, on the grounds that the Dauphin is a bastard, the offspring of the Queen’s adultery with Fersen. This would indeed be the perfect time for him to make a move, but he is always paralyzed whenever action is required. Ask his warmest supporters, ask Lauzun. Orléans is an imbecile, my dear.” Villers shrugged dismissively and finished his glass of wine. “Oh, he is ambitious enough. Yet, like the rest of the males in the Bourbon family nowadays, he does not carry much of anything between his legs. He must have consulted his astrologer and been told that the moment is not auspicious.”

I frowned. “You cannot be in earnest, my dear.”

“He is as superstitious as a scullery girl. I remember one night being dragged by Lauzun to the caves of Montmartre to attend some kind of secret ceremony for the benefit of Orléans, and of course at his expense.”

I winced. “A black mass?”

“Nothing quite as gruesome, my love. Orléans is not cruel. It began with the christening of a toad by a man dressed as a priest, who then asked everyone to kneel and prepare to worship the Devil. I alone declined. Another fellow appeared, stark naked. He looked in every regard like a tall, well-built man, save for the fact that he lacked male genitals.”

I stared at Villers, who seemed amused by my amazement.

“You did not know that the Devil was a eunuch, did you?” he continued. “
I
was certainly surprised. I had imagined the contrary. The Satan character, whatever it was, spoke in a booming voice and predicted great and terrible things for Orléans, who was shaking with fear and excitement. I had to pinch myself, or I would have laughed aloud. I was reminded of the scene between Macbeth and the three witches, though at least Macbeth was fooled free of charge.”

Whether upon the advice of his astrologer, the Devil or anyone else, the Duke d’Orléans failed to seize the moment. The Assembly soon received a letter from Bouillé. In it, the General claimed the entire responsibility of the idea and organization of the King’s flight. The Assembly, then controlled by moderates, hastened to use Bouillé’s declaration to exonerate the King and Queen. Bouillé himself, along with those on his staff who had participated in the conspiracy, crossed the eastern border to escape charges of high treason. Villers’s son, Charles-Marie, was among the officers who followed the General into exile.

I had met the younger Villers several times before, when he had visited his father in Paris during his leaves from his regiment. He had treated me with the icy politeness to be expected under the circumstances. I had not liked Charles-Marie much in return. Yet I felt for Villers. He was now separated forever from his son, not only by a border but also by an intractable difference of political opinions.

The flight of the royal family marked a complete change in the public perception of the King. A petition was to be signed on the Altar of the Homeland at the Champ de Mars, to propose the outright abolition of the monarchy. Villers had warned me to stay away, but I no longer listened to much of what he told me. I decided to see first-hand how much of a crowd the petition would draw. That day, the 17th of July, was a Sunday, and the Champ de Mars would be filled by the usual families out for their weekly walk. It would be interesting to see how many of those good bourgeois would be tempted by the extreme changes proposed by the petition.

I had an early dinner with Aimée and resisted her entreaties to take her with me to the Champ de Mars. When I arrived, I noticed nothing unusual. The day was hot; thunder rumbled in the distance. Small groups of people were milling around in a torpid manner. Some were resting, seated on the steps of the wooden pyramid that supported the Altar of the Homeland. Others had climbed to the top and waited for their turn to sign the petition.

Women pushing little carts were selling lemonade and biscuits. I stopped to speak with one of them.

“Is your lemonade made with spring water?” I asked.

“Certainly, Ma’am,” replied the young woman. “That’s why I sell it two
sols
more than the others, but it’s worth it. Would you like a biscuit too?”

“No, thank you, I had dinner, but a glass of lemonade would be refreshing in this heat.”

“Yes, Ma’am, it’s been very hot. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had a thunderstorm before long. It’ll be night soon and I’ll wheel my cart home.”

“Things seem rather quiet around here.”

“Mind you, the day started in a different manner.”

“What happened?”

“Haven’t you heard? I knew that it would be a good day for business, with the petition and everything, so I arrived early.” The young woman handed me a tin cup full of lemonade. “One of my friends, over there, climbed the steps to the Altar. She wanted to be one of the first to sign. She felt something sharp under her shoe. She cried aloud. The crowd gathered around her and they saw a drill sticking out of the wood. They fetched the National Guard, who removed the planks. What do you think they found underneath? Two scoundrels were hidden there. They tried to explain that they wanted only to drill a hole to look under the skirts of the women who came to sign the petition. What do you think of that impudence?”

“It is indeed an outrage. What happened to those men?”

“They were hanged from a lamppost, that’s what happened. Serve them right. The National Guards found a barrel with them under the planks. Some say it was full of gunpowder. The scoundrels wanted to blow up the Altar of the Homeland and the good people who came to sign the petition. One of the two brigands was a wigmaker. I don’t need to tell you what those people are about. There are no worst royalists, since nowadays nobody decent wears a wig anymore.”

“When did this happen?”

“Oh, it was all over before nine in the morning. First, the washerwomen of the Gros-Caillou fetched their beaters to teach the two bandits a lesson. The National Guards tried to save them, but they were outnumbered. After the scoundrels were hanged, their heads were cut off and carried through town at the end of pikes. I won’t shed any tears for them, let me tell you.”

“And what has been going on since the incident of the morning?” I asked the lemonade girl.

“Not much, except that thousands have already signed the petition. Are you going to, Ma’am?”

“I will think about it.”

“You should. It’s time to rid ourselves of those Kings. Look, there’s a man up there making a speech.”

A man had indeed climbed midway up the Altar and was shouting at the top of his voice from the pyramid. I recognized Pierre-André. Indeed our paths had not crossed in years, since that day at the riverside
guinguette
, when I had seen him in the company of the girl in the yellow dress. I felt a jolt of pain.

I promptly turned around and walked away. His speech was often interrupted by cries and jeering from the crowd, which only made him raise his voice more. He stopped at last. When I risked a glance, I saw him leaving. I stopped a man, who looked like a merchant and was walking with his wife and daughter.

“Did you hear what that man said, Sir?”

“Oh, he was telling everyone to disperse right away, that he had just been at the Common House. You know that’s what they call City Hall now. He said that a full regiment of the mounted Gendarmerie, with the National Guard, was ready to attack. According to him, martial law’s been proclaimed and Lafayette’s marching on the Champ de Mars with the red flag.”

“Why were people jeering?”

“Nobody would believe him, of course. They shut him up at last. That was difficult, though, because of that big voice of his. He wouldn’t quit.” The man shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. The signing of the petition was reported yesterday at City Hall. Everyone’s here lawfully. He must be some royalist agent, trying to scare people to prevent them from signing the petition. He left at last. Good riddance.”

The red flag mentioned by Pierre-André was the signal that martial law had been decreed. The Gendarmerie was the new name given to the old Constabulary. My knowledge of Pierre-André did not lead me to suspect that he was a royalist agent. I was beginning to question the wisdom of my presence at the Champ de Mars. Yet I did not believe Lafayette capable of slaughtering unarmed Parisians out for an evening stroll.

My assumptions were put to the test. All of a sudden, shots were fired. The crowd started crying aloud and running in terror. Some fell and were trampled underfoot. Billows of gunpowder smoke burnt my eyes and prevented me from seeing more than a few feet ahead. People shouted that the Patriots were being massacred on the steps of the pyramid. Bloodied citizens, confirming this report by their appearance, ran towards the river to the west.

The smoke began to dissipate. All was chaos. Cavalrymen pursued the fugitives and hacked them down as they fled. The young woman who had sold me the lemonade fell before my eyes. The few
sols
she had earned that day cost her her life. A tiny white lady’s dog was running around in all directions, yelping in a frenzy. People jumped into the Seine, and I heard more cries for help as they drowned.

Afraid of being trampled by the crowd, I sought refuge behind the cart of the lemonade girl. I watched the little dog bark in terror and run away. Two horsemen saw me and, sabres drawn, rode in my direction. I ran for the river, which the rays of the setting sun seemed to set ablaze. Several men were on my heels, also fleeing the gendarmes. I was wearing thin-soled silk shoes, unsuitable for this kind of exercise, but had never felt so light of foot.

All of a sudden, I felt something heavy hit me in the back. The wind was knocked out of me. I tripped. I believed at first that one of the gendarmes had struck me with his sabre. I said a silent prayer and prepared to die. I fell on my stomach as a mass collapsed on my back, followed by another one on my thighs. Only then did I understand that my companions had fallen under the blows of the cavalrymen. I closed my eyes and held my breath. The hooves of the horses raised puffs of dust inches away from my face. I heard cries a few yards away and the gendarmes rode off to turn their attention to other targets.

It was almost dark when silence, broken by the moaning of the wounded, finally settled on the Champ de Mars. I was unable to free myself from the weight of the men lying on me. No matter how fast or deeply I inhaled, no air seemed to enter my lungs. Panic engulfed me. After a few moments, I realized that I would die if I did not calm myself. Deliberately, I managed to bring my breathing under control. Time went by very slowly. Feeling was leaving my legs and my chest was sore. Although it was summer, I was cold and began to despair of ever leaving my position.

After a while, I heard the stamping of hooves again. I was able to lift my head to look in their direction. Soldiers had returned. They were plunging their bayonets into the chests of the fallen. The bodies next to the river were thrown into the water without ceremony. Covered by my companions, I escaped again the notice of the soldiers. New corpses were brought to the pile resting on top of me and left there. I barely felt the additional weight. At last I heard orders being yelled and the troops withdrew a second time. They were replaced by groups of dogs, content at first to silently sniff the bodies. Soon they began to growl at each other and fight. I tried not to imagine the object of their dispute. One quietly lapped blood from a puddle a few feet from my face.

Darkness enveloped me and, after what seemed like many hours, a half-moon rose, throwing a white light over my surroundings. The dogs barked, then ran away yelping. I heard men’s voices. My heart skipped a beat. They could not be soldiers because there were only two of them. One was turning over the bodies and pawing them while the other was holding a lantern. They must be robbing the corpses. They would find me all too soon. I was not in the least concerned about what little money and jewellery I carried, but I pictured them stripping me of my clothes, taking turns to violate me and, once there was nothing more to be had from me, killing me. I dared not breathe.

“They are all dead,” one of them said. “There is nothing for us to do here. Let us go.”

“We can at least finish counting the bodies,” the other one answered in a deep voice. “Many of them have already disappeared. Mark my words, the cutthroats will return before the morning to remove all traces of the massacre.”

So the men were not thieves. Moreover, the deep voice was familiar. I took my chances and cried for help with all of my remaining strength.

“Listen,” said one of them. “It sounds like a woman.”

I continued crying out to guide them. I heard their footsteps. The corpses crushing me were lifted from my back.

“She is covered with blood,” said the unknown voice.

“It must not be hers. Her dress is not even torn.”

The man rolled me gently onto my back. It was Pierre-André, his face lit by his companion’s lantern. My first reaction was to try to escape, but my entire body was so stiff that any movement was impossible.

“Fear not, Madam,” said the unknown man. “We will not harm you. My name is Antoine Ferrat, and I am a surgeon. My friend Dr. Coffinhal is a physician. We came here to treat the survivors, but it seems that no one, apart from you, is in need of our help.”

“I believe you are right, Sir.” I took deep breaths of the night air. “The troops came back already. I saw them finish off the wounded and throw bodies into the river.”

Pierre-André was looking down at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked, frowning.

“Do you know her?” asked Ferrat.

“Oh yes. She is a
ci-devant
Baroness from my country.”

“No matter who or what she is, we cannot leave her here. Even if she is unharmed, she must be stiff as a board.”

“I am sure Her Ladyship can walk. These aristocrats may faint on demand in their salons, but they are sturdy enough when their lives are at stake.”

I was still lying on my back. He bent over and caught me by the shoulders to raise me. The pain was so sharp that I let out a whimper. I was unable to hold myself and began to list to the side. Pierre-André stopped my fall with his arm. I was again on my back. He sighed.

“You may have suffered broken bones after all,” he said in a softer tone. “I need to examine you. Do not worry. I will do so through your dress and keep it quick.”

He knelt by my side and felt my thighs, legs and ankles. I do not think that I could have borne the embarrassment but for the darkness. He rose as soon as he was done.

“She may be bruised,” he said, turning to Ferrat, “but she is fine. She can have another physician fetched once she is back home. You live on Rue Saint-Dominique, Madam, do you not?”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“You cut a prominent figure in the so-called Court, and your career is not difficult to follow. The day may come when you wish you had been wiser and less conspicuous in your choice of friends. Tonight, since we found you here, it seems that we have to offer you our help. Unless, of course, you prefer to wait for the soldiers to return.”

“Of course not. I am most grateful for your assistance. I should be able to walk in a few minutes. Please, Sir, wait a little longer.”

The two men stood looking down at me. “We should not tarry,” said Ferrat. “I will carry her if you do not want to be bothered.”

“No, I will do it. She must not even be half my weight.”

Both men lifted me, this time more gently. When I was on my feet, Pierre-André put his arms across my back and under my knees. He carried me like a child. The numbness of my legs was subsiding and giving way to cramps. I was jolted with every step he took and felt the awkwardness of my position.

“If you would put your arms around my shoulders, it would make it easier for both of us,” Pierre-André said. “You may rest against me if you are tired. I will not bite your head off.”

I followed his invitation. My face was level with his neck. His hair was shorter now, cut above his shoulders. I could feel that mine was matted in places with blood. For the first time in many hours, I worried about my appearance. My straw hat with its pretty pink ribbons had been lost. The bodice of my white linen dress, wet and sticky on the back, was dusty in front. Unaccountably, a pink rose I had arranged between my breasts as a
babarel
was still there. It had been crushed in my fall and was beginning to fade but its fragrance was still sweet. Pierre-André glanced at it, then looked away. I had to speak before he could say anything.

“I apologize for this inconvenience, Sir,” I said. “I must be soiling your coat with blood.”

“These days one should worry about saving one’s skin, not about the clothes that cover it. You have not answered my question. What were you doing at the Champ de Mars?”

“I went there out of curiosity. I knew of the petition, but I would never had imagined that it would lead to such a disaster.”