Mistress of the Revolution (38 page)

I arrived at the prison of La Force around three in the morning on the 30th of August, 1792. I entered the echoing hall of the clerk’s office. His wife, barefoot in shapeless slippers, was clad in a woolen robe thrown over her chemise. I recalled the high-heeled mules trimmed with swan down and the pink silk nightgown I had worn earlier during the night. Vanities indeed. I was entering a different world.

The clerk’s wife opened a large register, in which she wrote my name, address and description. She asked the officer the reason for my arrest. Under his dictation, she added “
ci-devant
aristocrat,
ci-devant
lady-in-waiting to the so-called Countess de Provence, Court conspirator, present at the Palace on the 10th of August.” The clerk untied my bundle and searched its contents. He nodded with an expressive smile as he unfolded my embroidered chemise and silk stockings. Watching him paw through my undergarments was no less humiliating than having to dress in front of strangers.

I was taken to a cell furnished with two iron cots. A female figure, prostrate on her stomach, lifted herself on her elbows. By the light of the turnkey’s lantern, I recognized Madame de Rochefort. She rose and threw her arms around my neck.

“Oh, dearest Madame de Peyre,” she cried, “I could not have remained apart from you a moment longer.”

Madame de Rochefort was a pleasant woman with whom I had maintained a relationship of casual goodwill at Court, but I had never been aware of any particular fondness between us. I patted her in the back and invited her to lie down again. The wooden door closed behind us and we were left in the dark.

I reached for the other cot, covered with a foul-smelling mattress. Shivering with cold, I congratulated myself on the long sleeves of my dress. The din of the prison, even in the middle of the night, drowned my companion’s whimpers. I listened, my eyes open, to a concert of shrieks, laughter and singing.

At last a grey dawn crept through the barred window. It was located just under the ceiling and lit the room enough for me to see the obscene pictures and inscriptions scribbled on the walls. The turnkey appeared, carrying on a tray two bowls of milk in which floated a few clots, along with two bottles of cloudy water. I looked at the liquid with disgust.

“Don’t waste the water,” he told me, “because that’s all you’ll have all day for washing and drinking. I am sorry, Citizen, but the allowance for the prisoners’ food’s just been reduced.”

“Does the water come from the Seine?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Citizen. Some say it loosens your bowels, but I drink it every day, and I’ve never suffered anything like that. But then I let it stand for a while. That way, the filth settles at the bottom. If you do the same, you’ll be fine.”

Until then, I had drunk only spring water in Paris and refused to swallow a liquid into which 700,000 people emptied their chamber pots and garbage. I wondered how long I could survive on such a regimen.

I thought of Aimée. She would have to leave my lodgings, the only home she remembered, before the day was over. The poor child had experienced many shocks in the course of the past few weeks: the death of the Duchess, that of Villers, the scenes of horror during the storming of the Tuileries on the 10th, and now my arrest. Villers had told her that I was at the Palace on the night of the 9th and that he was taking her to me. I had explained to her that he had made an innocent mistake and did not know of my last visit to the Duchess. To Aimée, he had been almost a father. I wanted her to remember only his kindnesses.

Madame de Rochefort chatted on. She would speak of her husband, how much he must miss her, and how pitiable her own fate was. Not once did she ask me about my little girl or my circumstances. I rose to the level of the window by standing on tiptoe on my cot. Since my companion was too short to do so, I described to her the carts, carriages and pedestrians passing by in the street below.

Late in the afternoon, the turnkey returned and announced that we had permission to go down to the courtyard for an hour. There I met a dozen ladies of the Court for the first time since the 10th of August. The Princess de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, as well as the palace chambermaids were there. None of these women were in truth my friends, but we were all in the same predicament now.

The Princess de Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel had arrived from the Temple ten days earlier and gave me the most recent account of the King and Queen, whose captivity they had briefly shared. The King and his family were jailed in the grim medieval tower there, under the continuous surveillance of Municipal Guards.

My companions talked of the future. I kept my thoughts to myself. I reflected that the 17th of August Tribunal had tried only half a dozen persons so far, all prominent men. It would be months before I, an insignificant character, appeared before that court. Still, the idea of facing Pierre-André as my judge was not reassuring. Perhaps he would excuse himself on the grounds that he knew me. Or he might not say anything for fear of being compromised by association. He would sit on the bench, looking at me in an indifferent manner before signing my death warrant.

After an hour of looking at the sky, walking and talking, it was time for us to return to our cell. We watched the dim light of the day die out. I braced myself for another night of racket.

On the morning of the next day, a man brought us pieces of coarse white fabric.

“There, my pretties,” he said, “now you will make yourselves useful. Quite a change for you, I bet. You’ll sew shirts for the soldiers who risk their lives for us on the front. You are housed in luxury at the Nation’s expense. You can repay this kindness by earning your keep.”

I was delighted to have something to do beside listening to my companion. Madame de Rochefort went on complaining. The shirt she had started was soon soaked with tears and abandoned. I took it from her. By the time of our daily walk in the courtyard that night, I had finished my own shirt and hers. I gave them to the turnkey and asked for more the next day. I was becoming accustomed to prison life and resigned to the idea of spending some time there.

The third day, the 2nd of September, we were awakened by the urgent cadences of the
tocsin.
All the bells of all the churches of Paris, as during the night of the 10th of August, were ringing in unison. I shuddered at the memory. Soon afterwards, we heard a deafening noise coming from the street. I climbed on the bed and saw a crowd massed around the entrance. Many were waiving sabres, rifles and pikes, their words muffled amid the shouting. At one point, someone saw my head at the window and pointed in my direction. I retreated in haste.

Soon the same cries echoed inside the jail. The turnkey did not appear, nor did anyone bring us anything to eat or drink. All day long we heard doors slamming, things or people being dragged, and cries, both of fury and of terror. Madame de Rochefort had stopped crying. She was pale as a ghost and kept muttering, “Oh, my goodness, we are going to be massacred.”

There was no arguing with her assessment, although I wished she had abstained from voicing it. We spent the day huddled together on her cot, expecting at any time our door to be kicked open. Darkness fell, but the shrieks continued into the early hours of the morning. Then they died too. For the first time since my arrival, complete silence closed upon the prison.

At dawn we were awakened by orders being shouted outside our cell. We jumped to our feet when a group of men, armed with sabres and rifles, burst into our cell.

“Your names,” asked one of them.

“Marianne de Rochefort and Gabrielle de Peyre,” I said.

“I see. Trollops from the
ci-devant
Court.” He spat. “Don’t worry, you won’t have long to wait for your punishment.”

The men left, slamming the door behind them. We looked at each other and knelt. We recited the
Confiteor
in unison. Together we remembered the agony of Christ on the cross, put our lives into His hands and beseeched Him to receive us. I recommended Aimée’s fate to His mercy. I had often been lax in my religious practice, but now found comfort in prayer. I embraced my companion, who also seemed to have recovered her composure.

A few hours later, the men reappeared, accompanied by the turnkey. I asked him for something to drink and eat. My throat was parched and my insides rumbling. He returned with bread and red wine. Although I never had wine for breakfast before, the bread was too hard to be eaten dry. I dipped it into the beaker. The mixture burnt my empty stomach, but I forced myself to swallow it.

“Please take something, my dear,” I said, offering the beaker to Madame de Rochefort. “We will need some nourishment to sustain our strength during the day. This may be our last chance to eat for some time.”

I refrained from remarking that it might also be our last meal, though that thought was very much on my mind. My companion was unable to eat. As I handed back the empty beaker to the turnkey, I heard a voice outside the door shouting: “Send those women to the courtyard!”

We walked down in silence. Hundreds of male prisoners, as well as the other ladies from the Court, were already gathered in the courtyard. It now looked like the antechamber of death. Everyone was speaking, if at all, gravely and in low voices, as during a funeral. A number of armed men in civilian clothing, their shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows, were watching us. They referred to their activities at La Force as “working” and to themselves as “workmen.” Some seemed drunk although it was not yet midday.

“A
people’s court
had been formed in the clerk’s office,” said one of them. “The crimes committed on the 10th of August won’t go unpunished. All of you are going to stand trial for the murder of the Patriots.”

They did not say what kind of penalty would be inflicted by the
people’s court
or how swiftly, nor did I ask.

“The same’s going on in all the prisons of Paris,” another workman continued. “The unsworn priests have been dispatched already. Those traitors wouldn’t even take the
little pledge
of allegiance to liberty and equality. They could’ve saved their lives, but they refused. Yesterday we also dealt with the worst scoundrels among you, the counterfeiters of
assignats
and the Swiss Guards. You’re in luck, because they didn’t receive any trial.” The man glared at me.

The workmen decided who was going to appear next before the people’s court. Two of them seized the
accused
and escorted him or her to the clerk’s office. My fellow prisoners, one by one, left in this manner. Some went firmly. A few even affected a smile. Most begged for their lives and had to be dragged to face their judges.

A dozen Swiss Guards, still wearing their red, white and gold uniforms, had by some miracle survived not only the butchery of the 10th of August, but also the massacres of the day before. When their turn came, their courage failed them. These soldiers, who might have died bravely in the heat of battle, now sobbed and pleaded on their knees for mercy. I turned away.

“You weren’t so meek on the 10th, when you were slaughtering the patriots,” said one of the workmen. “Come. It’s time to answer for your crimes.”

“We were under attack,” said a Swiss.

“Right. When we approached the Palace, you let us believe that you would fraternize with us, like the National Guards had done. That was just a trick to shoot us at close range. D’you know how many of the comrades fell before my eyes?”

“We were following the orders of our officers.”

“You’ll explain that to the judges. Let’s go.”

The Swiss remained huddled together, moaning in despair. At last more workmen, sabres drawn, came from the clerk’s office.

“Hurry!” one shouted. “If these scoundrels won’t budge, massacre them in the courtyard.”

One of the Swiss rose, soon followed by his comrades. The men, ashen-faced, looked straight ahead as they were marched to the clerk’s office. The pitiful human cattle in the courtyard made way for them.

I had kept my distances from Madame de Rochefort, who was almost paralyzed from fright. Her terror would have tested my own courage. I sat by myself on a bench. As the afternoon wore off, some of the workmen came to speak to me.

One of them was a cobbler from Marseilles named Elie Martial. He had come to Paris to join the Federate camp with the intention of going later to the eastern front. He had been outraged by the King’s veto of the military preparations and had participated in the attack on the Palace on the 10th of August. Upon hearing that I was from Auvergne, he addressed me in the Roman language. He asked all kinds of questions about my life, my situation, how old my little girl was, and what she was like. His speech was only slightly different from that used around Vic, so we had no trouble understanding each other.

“Don’t despair, little lady,” he said. “The judges of the
people’s court
will listen to you. Some of the prisoners are so scared when they appear before the court that they can’t stand on their feet, let alone talk.
You
look to me like a brave person. You’ll know how to explain your case.”

“I hope so, but there is no telling how I will behave when my turn comes.”

Another workman walked to me and demanded to inspect my nuptial ring. “Look at this!” he said, pointing at the writing inside. “It must be some secret password. That’s the kind of tricks the conspirators use between each other.”

“No,” I said. “This is simply the date of my wedding.”

“Where’s your husband? Is he one of those buggering
émigrés
who are in cahoots with the Prussians?” He glared at me. “Those cowards always leave their women behind to do all the spying.”

“No, Citizen, my husband died before the Revolution, in 1787. No one in my family emigrated. I am alone now with my little girl, who just turned seven. Look, here is her portrait.”

I opened a gold locket I wore on a chain to show them a miniature portrait, painted on ivory, of Aimée. It also held a curl of her black hair. It was a present from Villers for the occasion of the New Year, only eight months earlier.

“There’s no denying that she’s pretty,” said Martial in French. “She looks much like you. If she’s already seven, you must have been full young at the time of your marriage.”

“I was fifteen.”

While Martial and the other workman were holding Aimée’s portrait, I noticed that their fingernails were lined with red grime, and that their shirts were covered with splatters of the same colour. Martial caught my look.

“Me and my comrades have been working outside the prison door all morning,” he said. He showed me his wrist. “See how swollen it is. That’s why I’ve earned a rest; they’ve assigned me to watching the prisoners awaiting trial. It’s easier here. Even those who cry and beg don’t give half as much trouble as the ones who’ve already been sentenced and need dispatching.” He frowned. “We need to act quickly. Messengers on horseback brought news from the front. The Prussians took Verdun two days ago. Some traitors there organized a welcome ceremony and handed them the keys to the city, along with candied almonds.”

I looked at Martial in shock. “This is terrible news. Verdun was the last fortress defending the road to Paris. It is open to the Prussians now.”

“That’s right. Those ruffians could be here in three days. If they take the city, the first thing they’ll do is free the prisoners, who will help them massacre all of us patriots. The Prussians don’t even spare the women or children.” Martial shook his head in disgust. “That 17th of August Tribunal is no good. It’s not fast enough and it’s far too lenient. Think of it: only three scoundrels sent to the guillotine so far! In the meantime thousands of conspirators remain in jail, snug and cozy, waiting for the Prussians. If we don’t kill them, they’ll kill us first.”

“Do you think I would kill anyone?” I asked. “And I hate the Prussians as much as you do. What have you to fear from women like us?”

“You look harmless enough to me, but what do I know? It’s up to the
people’s court
to decide the fate of the prisoners.”

“And who are the judges on the people’s court?”

“They’re appointed by the Municipality. Hébert’s the President. You’ll have to watch for him; he’s a good-looking fellow with a pointy nose and long powdered hair.”

I knew Hébert by reputation. He was a Deputy
Procureur-Syndic
for the Municipality and had been, according to Madame de Tourzel, put in charge of the royal family in the Temple. He was also a journalist, and his newspaper,
Le Père Duchesne
, “Father Duchesne,” was full of daily encouragements, couched in the most violent language, to the good people of Paris to slaughter aristocrats. I had tried once, out of curiosity, to read that publication but had stopped midway, discouraged by both the substance and that various obscenities were found in every sentence. The fact that he was presiding over the
people’s court
did not cheer me.

I hesitated before asking: “What happens after the prisoners are sentenced to death?”

“Depends. It’s up to us workmen to decide the manner of execution. We don’t use bullets because we can’t waste them; they’re needed for the war. Some prisoners are bludgeoned on the head first, so they don’t feel a thing. Some are dispatched by the sword. Others have their throats slit.”

My stomach lurched.

“Now, don’t turn pale like this,” continued Martial. “Since you’re so pretty, the comrades would make it quick and easy. Just be sure not to run or fight. You’d make them cross without saving yourself. There’s one thing you don’t need to worry about: nobody’s going to violate you. We’re not brutes. Anyone who’d take advantage of a woman would be put to death on the spot. The other workmen would take care of that. All the same, I’ll go with you if that’ll make you feel better.”

“Yes, if I am sentenced to death, please be kind enough to stay with me until the end. It will be less fearful since I already know you a little.” I looked into his eyes. “I would take it as a great favour if you killed me yourself. I would prefer that to dying at the hands of strangers.”

Martial shook his head. “I’d kill you if I had to, just like I killed the others, but I’d rather not. You see, I like you. I am clumsy when I don’t feel good about something. I’d make a mess of it. You’d suffer more than needed, and I’d never forgive myself. You’ll be better off in the hands of the others. If it comes to that, you can tell me which way you’d prefer to go. I’ll talk to the comrades and stay with you to make sure it’s done right, even though I won’t like to see you die.”

I tried to think of the mode of execution I would like best but could not settle on any which tempted me. I wanted to ask Martial’s advice, based on his experience of the morning, but feared that I would begin crying if I said anything about it. All of my fortitude would be gone then. I put my hand on his. He patted it.

“I shouldn’t have told you about all that,” he said. “Anyway, you’re worrying for nothing. Cheer up, little lady. I’ve a feeling you’re going to be acquitted.”

“What happens to the bodies of those who have been executed?”

“Why would you want to know?”

“I suppose you take their money and jewellery.”

“I shouldn’t be talking about that. I know it upsets you. Mind you, we’re not thieves. Anyone caught stealing would be killed right away by the others. Everything is kept until the night and then sent to the Municipality.”

“Then I want you to have this.” I removed from my neck the gold locket with Aimée’s portrait and handed it to him.

“You can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. “We aren’t allowed to take anything from the prisoners, dead or alive. Besides, it’s far too valuable. It looks like gold and these must be diamonds around it.”

“You would not take it from me. I am giving it to you. I want you to have it rather than it being thrown into a pile. You will have a memento of me when I am no more. Please.”

“You don’t understand. I won’t accept anything from you, not when you’re in this situation. It wouldn’t be right. And don’t worry, I’ll remember you to my last day, no matter what.”