Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution (49 page)

“That is very charming, but that’s not quite an ending, is it?” I said.

“You wanted it short.”

“One more sentence to bring us up to the present day,” I said.

“So he used these methods,” the marquis continued, “that he had practiced in the service of his king, now to protect his own region that he loved, and perhaps even, some day, to restore the monarchy that he also loved; as his men fought from hedgerows and in woods that they knew in the dark, or fired a musket, hidden in their fields, and continued with their plowing as if nothing had happened; so these fighters, both men and women, have never been beaten and have never been found. The End.”

“That was rather a long sentence,” I said.

“It all connected,” the marquis said. “It even has a postscript: they formed themselves into an association—not just the loose bands called Chouans, of which you have doubtless heard, but an organization called the Philanthropic Institute.”

I laughed. “This is the age of grand names,” I said.

“Yet this name is not a menacing name,” he said, “as in ‘Committee of Surveillance ’—or a hypocritical name, such as ‘Committee of Public Safety.’ This name simply reflects the beneficent purposes and actions of the institute itself; that is, relief for barns burned, for crops or homes destroyed, for widows and orphans.”

“I thought you had two stories.”

“Ah, the second one might be familiar to you.” He smiled, and his scar crinkled; his black eyes danced. “There was a young woman,” the marquis went on, “a young mother, actually, who took it upon herself to bring aid to those who needed it, who even dared rescue from prison victims of an unjust government, who led them through the paths of the dead and through the freezing current of a river in the dead of night to safety and freedom. This is the sort of woman, Madame, of whom songs and legends are made, don’t you agree?”

“Sounds like rather a rash and foolish woman,” I said, “especially if she is a mother.”

“Ah,” the marquis said, “but there are larger loyalties to which this brave woman might also feel allegiance—to the family of humanity, to children who have been betrayed by their nation. Why do you think this woman undertakes these dangerous missions?”

“I really have no idea,” I said. “I suppose, after all the rational reasons have been examined and exhausted, she would simply say that she had to do it.”

“And that is the kind of courage I respect,” the marquis said, “pure compulsion, but for noble ends. And others who have expressed similar, though perhaps not as great, courage for such ends have become members of the Philanthropic Institute.”

“Did you not hear that that woman, despite what she may or may not have done for the family of humanity, now just wants to be a simple mother and not neglect her own child?”

“In that child’s world,” the marquis said, “not far from her safe garden, the men from Paris are now enacting what they call the ‘Policy of Desolation.’ These people actually talk like that—the great bureaucrats of murder—and other children are falling victim to this signed and stamped government policy. Rather than ambushing patrols from hedgerows, or shooting from behind trees, I thought that this mother, who has heard the call of duty and adventure combined, this extraordinary woman who chose to do something—” the marquis paused. “I thought, I merely had the thought,” he said, “that she might have some fun in procuring money for the Philanthropic Institute to aid the victims upon whom that policy of desolation has been practiced.”

I laughed. “Monsieur le Marquis—all of your stories and speeches were just to try to get me to steal money for you?”

“And have fun doing it—”

“No risk, no violence, just fun—”

“There is always risk,” he said, “but violence is often an option. A Vendéan general freed five thousand republican prisoners as a gestures of mercy. Do you think the other side would have done that? Violence can be a choice.”

“But you are a soldier—”

“And you are a mother,” he said. “This choice, of making more stories that could be told someday over a jug of water and a loaf of bread—and helping people in the bargain—I leave for you to consider.”

“I am honored, Monseigneur, that you came all this way to inform me of this institute, but I remind you that I have retired from intrigues.

Yet I have enjoyed your stories and your company. We get few visitors, you know.”

And the marquis rose and bowed deeply, “I thank you for the fresh bread,” he said. “The clear water, the enjoyable feminine company, and I beg your forgiveness for the length of my stories.” He donned his hat at the door. “Something I learned from the red man,” he added; “the land is our mother, yet, like a mother, she is also, sometimes, under our protection. If ever, Mother of Orléans, you should change your mind about the institute, just wear a simple white ribbon in that straw bonnet of yours when you’re at market, and a friend of mine will talk to you. You might be interested to know that you have a new title. They now call you the Fearless Chouanne of Blois.” And he entered the garden and melted into the night.

“The Fearless Chouanne of Blois, Madame?” Claudette said.

“That is quite a title.”

“I fear our marquis could have made it up.” I said. “He is fond of stories.”

“But of true stories.” Claudette paused, then added, “And he was certainly handsome, Madame, not ’some old marquis,’ as Monsieur Philippe said; though he looked as I imagine a pirate would look—with that scar and sword and black eyes.”

“A pirate with manners,” I said.

I was out in the garden several days after our visit from our mysterious marquis. My tall tomatoes, intertwining with each other, round squash with yellow flowers, and climbing beans were a world in themselves now. A melon hid itself beneath overarching leaves. Caroline was in her place beneath the pear tree.

It was Claudette’s turn to go into the tobacconist’s, and she returned with a letter from my mother.

This was rare. Maman and I had had no communication since my letter after the
boucherie
incident, as I referred to it, if I referred to it at all. I opened the letter quickly. But it was not from my mother. She had merely written my address on a letter and enclosed within her page another letter. That one was short and signed by the Committee of Public Safety.

Claudette heard my scream and came running from the house.

She first looked at Caroline, to make sure she was all right, then at me. I had immediately dropped the letter, as if its pages were fire. I felt turned to stone. I stayed still, in the same position as when I had dropped the letter, my hand open and hanging at my side. Caroline had begun to cry when I screamed, and I just stood there. What I had read in the letter could not be. Claudette picked up my child, “Madame?” she said. I managed to point at the letter. “Is it Monsieur William?”

I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe what I had read. I couldn’t say his name. Finally, “Etienne,” I said. “They’ve—” and I sat, or sank, down in the middle of my garden, crushing the lavender. I lay there, like a stone in a bed of lavender. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Claudette, while carrying Caroline, kneel down, pick up, and fold the letter. I heard her talking to Caroline in a light tone, and crying as she spoke, as they went back in the house. I could do neither. I could not cry, and I could not pretend to be happy for the sake of my own child. I could only lie there, looking blankly at the autumn blue sky, as if at a wall, smelling faintly the lavender around me. I had no desire to move and felt as if I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.

I don’t know how much time had passed when Claudette came back out to the garden. I was still in the same place. I noticed shade had moved over the tomatoes. Claudette brought me a cup of water.

“Drink,” she said.

“No, thank you.”

She placed the cup in the thyme by my head and left again.

The shade had crept up my legs when Claudette returned with Caroline. “Sit up on your elbow and drink,” she ordered. “You’ve been lying for hours in the sun. You’ll get sick. You’ll turn all brown. Your daughter doesn’t know why she can’t see her
maman
. At least sit up.”

With effort I leaned on my elbow. I felt like a dried-up creek bed in autumn. Nothing flowed. No tears. No feeling. No words. I sipped the water and put the cup down in the thyme.

Claudette sat beside me, with Caroline in her arms, quiet, playing with Claudette’s pendant. She fingered the chain about Claudette’s neck. It was such an innocent gesture, but anything having to do with the neck now made me think of Etienne’s fate, and I felt vaguely nauseated. I had to look away. What could my child know of these things, of this world of which she was a part, and into which she would grow and want to love? With that thought, my numbness suddenly began to thaw into anger and into the urge to protect. I hadn’t been able to protect Etienne.

“Did you read the letter?” I finally said to Claudette.

Claudette shook her head. “I could guess its meaning,” she said.

“What happened?”

I took another sip of water.

“He was arrested under the new Law of Suspects. For—” It was so difficult actually to say it, as if that made it more real. “For traveling with false papers,” I continued, “for attempting to flee the country, for consorting with known counter-revolutionaries. They executed him in Paris as an enemy of liberty,” and with the saying of it, suddenly something changed in me. “Sweet Etienne!” I said softly, and I couldn’t stop crying now and lay back in the faded lavender, my body convulsed with sobs against the herbs and the cool earth.

And when there were no sobs left I felt myself alone in the dark garden. I only felt the sharp autumn coldness now and an emptiness that stretched from me to the vastness of the sky I looked into, and toward which the lavender around me faintly seemed to float.

That night, as I lay unsleeping, Etienne as I last saw him came to my mind, clearly, as he stood in the dark by the gate, opened his watch, looked at my portrait, and said I should send him a new one, for he checked the time often.

I crossed the bridge on foot (the count had warned me against La Rouge being seen by army officers), walked up the long hill to my mother’s house, and met her in the drawing room. The Queen of Protocol, as Angelique called her, the fearful figure of my youth, seemed to have grown frail overnight. She sobbed as soon as she saw me—perhaps because Etienne and I had done so much together, and I reminded her vividly of him—and we sat down together on the couch. I didn’t say anything. My own hatred and bitterness had fallen away in the wake of Etienne’s death. Sitting beside Maman, I suddenly wanted to embrace her, for my sake as well as hers. I forced my arms up. Then they found their own way. I held her, as I would hold Caroline to comfort her when she would wake in the night, and thought, Etienne had been Maman’s baby.

Monsieur Vergez had discreetly absented himself.

I murmured something to Maman that there was another world, and she suddenly said, “I cry also for you.” She pulled away to look at me. “I betrayed you,” she said. “Etienne was always happiest when playing with you—running, riding—perhaps he knew something I didn’t. And I thought it was a weakness in your father, indeed in any man, that he loved you with such abandon—as if heaven had sent you just for him. But he too, perhaps, knew something I didn’t.” She dried her eyes now with her embroidered handkerchief and looked straight at me. “You were the recalcitrant one, the independent one.

Now I want to say this before it is too late. Listen. I misunderstood my authority, Annette. I considered only what would give you the best advantage in life. I wanted to help you with my experience and stifled my desire to show you sympathy as a weakness in myself. I thought I was fulfilling my duty to you, but I misjudged. I neglected another duty—the natural one of a mother to her child’s happiness. I don’t want you to die and think I never loved you. In this world one can choose severity over sympathy and think one is doing right.”

“I’m not going to die, Maman, and, now that I am a mother, I know how difficult it is. Every time Caroline cries, should I pick her up?”

“Just do not harden your heart, my dear. The Revolution has shown us that the advantages and opinion of society, which I thought everything, are really nothing, and always have been nothing. It is only our vanity that led us to believe otherwise, and one is not rewarded for vanity. I, for instance, am severely punished for mine. Etienne was always a gentle child, of an open heart. I choose now to bury my vanity in his virtue. And you—you go marry your Englishman, if you like.”

I almost laughed through my own tears. “There is a war on, Maman. And his country is on the other side.”

“We could all go anytime,” she said. “Bring Caroline to me. Let her know she has a grandmother.”

Angelique entered the drawing room, and she ran to me and sat on my other side on the couch, and buried her blonde head on my shoulder, already wet from her mother’s tears.

Two days later was Saturday, the busiest market day, in which we, with our humble goods, would not be participating. I left Caroline with Claudette and went to market with a basket on my arm. It was half full of sausage, leeks, Normandy cheese, and perch when I heard, at my elbow, “That simple silk ribbon is very becoming in your straw bonnet, Citizeness.”

I turned and saw a woman younger than myself, about Angelique’s age, with a long brown apron over her dress and a green scarf knotted into a cap on her head, and a striped yellow and green kerchief around her shoulders. Long black curls poured out from under her scarf-cap, and she had big, serious eyes. “Would you like to see the ribbons I have for sale?” she said, and I followed her over to a small table on the side of the market, where silk and cloth ribbons of black, red, blue, white, and yellow lay draped over a tablecloth.

Others twirled in a breeze like tiny banners in a type of wooden lattice she had for displaying them. Various striped and plain scarves were folded also on the table. “No green, though,” she said, “it’s still a bit risky. Though I’ve always liked the color myself, as you can tell from the one I wear.”