Mistress of the Revolution (45 page)

Paris took a new look to me. The city itself had not changed, but the fashions, especially for men, were simpler, more somber than I had ever seen them. People walked more briskly. I had become wary of every stranger. A man staring at me on the street was no longer deemed an admirer, but could be a
mouchard
, a police informer, or a zealous patriot detecting in me an aristocrat in disguise. Until then, I had mostly traveled in carriages, isolated from any unpleasantness. I was no longer shielded from the hardships shared by all pedestrians. I had to be mindful of the offal overflowing from the rain gutters where chamber pots were emptied. I had to jump out of the way of horsemen and carts to avoid being run over, for Paris, unlike London, had no raised sidewalks. I often met with the former carriages of my friends, bearing half-erased coats of arms and now degraded to the rank of hackneys. Most trying of all, I had to endure, like any other female without a male escort, the insults and lewd gestures of men in their cups. Now that I was on foot, on a level with the street vendors, the beggars, the prostitutes, I came face-to-face with their deformities, their filth, their miseries, great and small. I could not look without queasiness at the offerings of the carts of the
regrattiers
, who purchased from lackeys the half-eaten leftovers from the kitchens of the rich and resold them to the poor. Without Pierre-André, Aimée and I would have survived on that disgusting fare.

My new familiarity with the streets also had some advantages. I came to realize how many of my countrymen lived in Paris. Almost all the water carriers were from Auvergne. Puech, who brought river water up to my lodgings, was from Murat, in the Département of Cantal, just twenty miles from Vic. He would stop to chat with me in the Roman language. He had never seen me before or heard of any person by the name of Gabrielle de Montserrat. Distances are not measured in terms of miles in the mountains. To him, I was simply Citizen Labro, a young woman from his country.

Many boatmen also came from Auvergne, bringing coal on barges down the Seine River. Once in Paris, the boats were taken apart and sold for wood. Some of the boatmen returned to our country on foot to repeat the process, while others settled in Paris. Indeed, all of the wine and coal merchants were from Auvergne, as well as a great many tavern keepers. Pierre-André seemed to know most of our countrymen in Paris. He liked to speak the Roman language with them, and me too. I had never felt so close to Auvergne since moving to Paris.

“Can you imagine, My Lady,” said Manon one day, “the city is overrun by those foreigners from the provinces. They can barely speak French. They sound like those tigers at the King’s Garden, the Garden of the Plants, they call it now.”

“You forget that I am one of those
foreigners
. I was born and bred in Auvergne.”

“That’s not the same thing! You are a Baroness, for God’s sake, and you speak so sweet, no one would ever know you come from that country.”

I had kept Manon apprized of my move and new address, although not of the identity of my protector. Pierre-André had objected at first to my continuing this acquaintance.

“But she is entirely devoted to me,” I said.

“Why? Because she had for years the honour of emptying your chamber pot every morning?”

I smiled. “Maybe. In any event, I am sure that she would never betray me.”

“You and your stubbornness! You know that in your situation, you should trust no one.”

“I trust you. And hopefully you trust me.”

“Most of the time, yes, I am enough of an imbecile to do so. Indeed, my love, there is not one folly I have not committed for you.”

“You are right to trust me, you know it. I owe you so much. Without you, I would be back in jail. I cannot bear to think of it after the September massacres.”

“Those were terrible times, Gabrielle. I came close to being killed myself.” He was staring out the window.

“You? How could you, a judge of the 17th of August Tribunal, be in danger?”

“My function almost cost me my life. The mobs attacked the courthouse on the first day of the atrocities, while we were in session during the trial of Bachmann, the Major General of the Swiss. He was the most hated man in Paris. Public opinion blamed him, with good reason, for the death of the twelve hundred patriots who perished at the Palace on the 10th of August. The trial had lasted three days and two nights.”

“You must have been exhausted.”

“I was beginning to feel some fatigue. The jury had retired to deliberate and the courtroom was silent. Yet I could hear cries coming from the jail of La Conciergerie below. I beckoned to one of the gendarmes and ordered him to go see what was happening down there. All of a sudden, a howling crowd, armed with pikes, rifles and sabres, burst into the courtroom. The public ran for the doors, screaming. The defense attorneys, the clerks and even the gendarmes also took to their feet. Bachmann, pale as a sheet, fled in our direction and hid behind the bench. Only the three of us judges and the prosecutor, all unarmed of course, remained at our places.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes. For a moment I pictured myself hacked to pieces. I can stand my ground when attacked one on one, or even by several men, but I am no match for a mob armed to the teeth.” He looked at me. “Yet, Gabrielle, I had to forget about my own safety. Yielding to that kind of violence would have made a mockery of the Nation’s justice. My colleagues must have shared my feelings, for we all rose to protect Bachmann. A fellow walked to us from the crowd and demanded that we surrender the accused. We refused. He told us that we would be massacred if we insisted on protecting a scoundrel who had already been
tried and sentenced by the people
. We ignored that jackass and addressed the mob over his head. We demanded respect for the law, for the Tribunal’s authority and for the verdict of the jury. The attackers listened to us. The crowd quieted and slowly withdrew. Bachmann thanked us profusely. There was no occasion for it, for the jurors reentered the courtroom and returned a guilty verdict. As you know, we sentenced him to death. He was guillotined later that day.”

“Were you not tempted to spare his life after saving him from the mob?”

“No. We had protected him because it was our duty, not out of personal sympathy. After his trial was over, we decided to suspend the Tribunal’s sessions until order was restored to the courthouse. I had been fully awakened and ran to the Common House to resume my functions at the Council General.” He shook his head. “There, I learned that the events at La Conciergerie were not an isolated incident. Some scoundrels, all friends of Hébert’s, on the Surveillance Committee of the Municipality had set up a provocation. They had dozens of unsworn priests transferred to L’Abbaye in regular carriages without sufficient armed protection. The convoy was surrounded by a mob. One of the priests hit a fellow in the crowd with his umbrella. They were massacred. The crowd then turned its attention to L’Abbaye itself and began to kill the other unsworn priests jailed there. From there, the slaughter spread to all the prisons of Paris, and all kinds of prisoners. By the time I arrived at the Common House, the situation was out of control. We dispatched envoys to stop the disaster, but they themselves narrowly escaped with their lives. The National Guards were on the brink of mutiny. If sent to the prisons, they would have joined the ranks of the killers. We remained in session all night, debating how to stop the atrocities and trying to organize the removal of the corpses, which could not be left to rot on the streets. Finally, we decided early in the morning to dispatch representatives to all the jails. The idea was to form
people’s courts
to try the prisoners. Thus some of them, at least the poor devils jailed for debt, could be saved.”

“I thought that the authorities had remained idle.”

“The Girondin government certainly did nothing except make a few speeches at the Assembly, but we at the Council General tried to stop, or at least limit the massacres.”

“So that is how Hébert came to preside over my trial at La Force. I would never have thought of his presence as good news.”

“I cannot blame you. He, with his filthy rag of a newspaper, had inflamed public opinion, and his friends at the Municipality further stoked the Parisians’ hatred of unsworn priests. Given the dismal news from the front, it was enough to trigger the slaughter. Yet he went to La Force with instructions from the Council General to spare as many prisoners as he could.”

“Did you know that I was there?”

He stroked my cheek. “I did, my love, but had no way to save you individually. Only your Section could have claimed you. Yet before Hébert left for La Force, I drove him into a corner. I told him that, in his own interest, he had better not let any women be violated or killed. The scoundrel has always been mindful of me. He promised me in the most convincing terms that he would do all he could. When he returned that night, he reported to me that all the female prisoners had been released unharmed, except for the Lamballe woman. He assured me that he had acquitted her too. Apparently, like the imbecile she was, she had refused to pledge allegiance to the Nation and had been massacred by the workmen. I knew then that you had survived.”

“Did it matter to you?”

“I was still angry with you, of course, but not to the point of wanting you killed, especially in such a manner.”

“So you were trying to save me then. I never imagined it.”

“How could you?”

He had given me his love, his help, his protection, and I had not even been aware of it. We held each other close that night.

Aimée and I avoided public entertainments. Monsieur Curtius’s Wax Salon was more popular than ever, but I never set foot there for fear of being recognized by him or his niece. The royal family, along with the lords and ladies of the court, had been replaced by Generals and Representatives of the people. Even these had to be renewed from time to time as some were disgraced or guillotined. I hoped that my bust had been discarded too.

My main pastime, once I was done with Aimée’s lessons, was reading the newspaper. I found that I no longer enjoyed novels, perhaps because the fate of my friends and the turns of my own destiny held all of my attention now. The news reported in the
Moniteur
every day was far more interesting than the plot of any fictional story. Aimée and I went out only to buy food in the nearby shops, to attend Mass or Vespers at Notre-Dame and to take walks in public gardens. Neither of us, after witnessing the carnage of the 10th of August, had fond memories of the Tuileries. We therefore went to the Luxembourg, which reminded me of my days as a lady-in-waiting to Madame.

After we returned home, I hoped for a visit from Pierre-André, who came to stay the night two or three times a week. On occasion he arrived early enough to share our dinner. He once told me that I was without exception the worst cook of his acquaintance, which reminded me of a similar assessment made by Joséphine years earlier. The playfulness of his tone did not fool me and, whenever he shared our meal, I bought food from a nearby inn owned by one of our countrymen.

Often I was already asleep when he unlocked the front door. That noise instantly roused me. I listened to his step, which I could recognize from any other. He undressed in silence, without lighting the candles. My heart beating fast, I waited for the moment when he would join me in bed and take me in his arms. I would awaken several times during the course of the night and listen to his breathing in the dark. His presence brought me strength, comfort, reassurance. I ran my fingers on his skin. I was not trying to wake him. I wanted only to touch him. I felt him, still asleep, stir against me. He moaned, his hands reached for me, his lips sought mine before he was even awake.

One night, he lit the candles after our embrace and raised himself on one elbow. He caressed the scar on my shoulder. I told him of the man who had hit me with his sabre on the 10th of August.

“Yes,” he said, “at the Insurrectional Municipality, we had given instructions not to harm or violate any women found in the Palace. You know how it goes. Out of 100,000 people, you always have a few scoundrels who do not follow orders and go on a rampage. You were fortunate, my beloved, to escape with a flesh wound.”

He then ran his forefinger over the scar under my left breast. I shuddered.

“This is something else,” he said. “If it had been deeper, the apex of the heart would have been perforated. How did this happen?”

I could not bring myself to tell Pierre-André of the duel between my brother and Villers. I looked away as I said:

“Also on the 10th of August.”

Before I realized what was happening, his hand had moved from my breast to my throat, which it held like a vice. I gasped and brought my hands to my neck in an attempt to defend myself, in vain. I abandoned the struggle and closed my eyes, ready to die. All of a sudden, Pierre-André’s grip loosened.

“You are lying,” he said coldly. “I told you to put an end to this habit of yours.” I was still light-headed, trying to catch my breath. “And you take me for an imbecile. This is not a recent scar. I want the truth now.”

I looked into Pierre-André’s eyes. “My brother did it. Please do not be angry with him. It was an accident.”

“Your brother? How interesting. Tell me about it.”

Pierre-Andre listened carefully to the story.

“I beg your forgiveness for lying to you,” I said. “I will never do it again. I was afraid you would create trouble for my brother.”

“You should know me better than that. On the contrary, I commend him for trying to kill Villers. I thought that Castel had let you become that man’s mistress without lifting a finger to stop that infamy. I would also have fought anyone who took liberties with the honour of a sister, with one difference:
I
would not have missed the scoundrel. Your brother, I will admit it, is no coward, though he lacks other qualities. I remember that fight we had in Lavigerie, after the banns for your marriage were published. He was not afraid of me in spite of my rage, and there are few men of whom I can say the same.”

“So you think more highly of him now that you know about the duel?”

“I do, my beloved, which does not mean much. He is an arrogant, selfish, evil-spirited aristocrat, but he does once in a while, not often, display some feeling for you.”

“Would you then, if I asked you, do a thing which would take a great weight off my mind?”

“If I understand you well, little minx,” said Pierre-André, a thin smile on his lips, “you are asking for a favour to reward your lies. Granting it would not be a very moral outcome, would it?”

“I cannot hide from you the fact that, regardless of what he did, I love my brother. I was trying to protect him. I would lie to protect you too.”

Pierre-André laughed. “Heaven help me if it ever came to that. You are inept at lying.”

“So would you grant me that favour?”

“Ask, since you have no shame.”

“Would you ask your brother Jean-Baptiste, who is now all powerful in Auvergne, to make sure that no harm comes to the Marquis?”

“That depends as much on the behaviour of the
Marquis
, since you insist on giving him that title, as on Jean-Baptiste’s influence. He is not as powerful as you think. Moreover, your brother behaved to mine in an abominably insolent manner when Jean-Baptiste sought your hand in marriage on my behalf. Castel used still more offensive language after he discovered our proposed elopement. Jean-Baptiste is an even-tempered man, far more so than I, but those were words no one can easily forgive.”

“Still, would you ask him?”

“Here is what I will do. Provided that
Citizen Castel
abstain from doing anything patently stupid, I do not mind asking Jean-Baptiste to cast an indulgent eye upon your brother’s little aristocratic oddities. I am even willing to extend that favour to your sister, the
ci-devant
Countess de Chavagnac.” Pierre-André looked grave again. “Now, my beloved, I want something to be clear.”

“What is it?”

“I am prepared to extend some protection to your brother and sister, but this will stop here. In the future, some of your so-called friends may stand trial before the Tribunal for their crimes. I do not want to be pestered by any pleas for clemency. Not only would they fail to influence me, but they would greatly irritate me.”

I made no response.

“Is it understood?” he continued, frowning. “Do you promise not to ask me to do anything I would deem contrary to justice?”

“I do.”

My promise was not put to the test then. Pierre-André informed me that the 17th of August Tribunal was to be dissolved shortly.

“Are you unhappy about it?” I asked.

“No. I am to join the Court for the Second District as a judge, with the same salary, and I will of course remain a member of the Council General of the Municipality. To tell you the truth, most of the scoundrels we should have tried were massacred by the mobs in September. To keep us busy, we were given jurisdiction over ordinary criminal cases, which was foreign to the purpose of the Tribunal.”

Pierre-André shook his head. “And Osselin, the President, is not a bad man, but he could not manage a courtroom. He let the accused and defense attorneys rant for hours on irrelevant matters. Sometimes I would run out of patience and, although it was not my place, intervene to restore a semblance of order. No, I will be perfectly happy to hear regular cases again. That is what I used to do as a Commissioner. Also, my beloved, it will leave me more time to enjoy your company.”

December 1792 saw the beginning of the King’s trial before the National Convention. A month earlier, a cache of documents, known as the “Iron Armoire” had been discovered in the Tuileries following the disclosures of the locksmith who had crafted it. It contained proof of the Court’s schemes since the beginning of the Revolution, under the form of correspondence with the enemy, plotting the defeat of France and the arrival of the foreign armies as “liberators” of the country.

The deposed King was to be tried for his crimes, or mistakes, depending on one’s opinion, before the elected Representatives of the Nation. He argued his case with composure and was defended by skilled lawyers. The result of that vote, which lasted many days, is well known: the National Convention, by an overwhelming majority, sentenced him to death. The issue of the stay of execution, however, was almost tied. Those in favor of immediate death were only one vote ahead. It was the Duke d’Orléans’s vote that sent his cousin to the guillotine, an action that won him the enmity of the royalists and revolutionaries alike. With the King dead, his younger brothers in exile and the little Dauphin still a child, the Duke d’Orléans strengthened his position as pretender to the throne. His vote could hardly have been disinterested.

The King was guillotined on the 21st of January, 1793. The National Guard and all forty-eight Sections of Paris were on high alert, but no one made any gesture to save the former monarch or even to protest his execution. Whether one deemed it an act of justice or of cruelty, there was no turning back now.

I received the news with sadness, although there were loud celebrations from some quarters. In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, an inn inaugurated a new manner to serve veal’s head, in a
vinaigrette
sauce, in honour of the late King’s execution. That dish became a staple on the 21st of January, which was proclaimed a national holiday. I have never been fond of that gruesome delicacy, for the sight of a severed head, even that of an animal, has always aroused my pity.