French Passion (47 page)

“Only those at court counted. The rest were like me and Jean-Pierre. André's mother. Very poor. Goujon, you were far richer than I.”

“Money, yes. But all my life I've had boundaries that you never knew existed. I could never enter a manor house as a guest. I couldn't serve as an officer. I couldn't carry a sword. Everywhere were reminders that I was of a lesser breed.”

“André never thought of you as that. We both respected your intelligence, your leadership. Your dignity.”

“I'm trying to explain the emotions of twenty-two million people. Manon, we were raised to feel we were less than men. In the future no man born will be able to impose such inferiority on another.”

“You know André wants the same! But because of the accident of
his
birth, he's condemned.”

Goujon didn't reply. His silence meant he considered André's death sentence just. My throat tightened as if clutched by icy, invisible hands. I realized that Goujon, whom I'd always considered my friend, was bound by other rules than I. We might have been speaking two different languages. In his vocabulary the words
love, friendship, affection
meant nothing. He had dedicated himself, unswervingly, to the cause of wiping out the monarchy.

He remained quiet. The huge body seemed to gather all the energy in the small room. And my thoughts could not escape him. What others had he denounced?

After a minute I asked, “Izette said there was something peculiar that the Comte's execution was put forward a week. Did you arrange that?”

“It was expedient.”

“So we couldn't rescue him?”

“So you wouldn't endanger yourself in a futile cause. Little one, do you really believe that your poor, sad plot would have worked?”

“You betrayed us.”

“For me, the Comte de Créqui's execution was justice. He had served two Kings.”

“And the September Massacres. You knew the cost of the executioners, even. You had a hand in that brutality, didn't you?”

Goujon, not bothering to reply, used the fire tongs to move a lump of coal. “It's time,” he said, “to discuss when Égalité will be executed.”

I drew a long breath.

“It depends on you,” he said.

“Me? How me?”

My dark gray wool bodice was so plain that my breasts were accentuated. He stared at the delicate curves until my face grew hot.

I whispered, “Are we bargaining?”

“I've waited a long, long time.” He nodded. “Yes, I'm bargaining.”

“Will I see him?”

“Every day of his life,” Goujon replied.

“How long will that be?”

“A week.”

If one has expected only a day, a week sounds a lifetime. I began to shake.

“I'm being honest with you, Manon. He'll be kept alive no longer than is expedient to us. And for each day, you'll have to be with me.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“There's no other choice,” he replied. “This is the only way to delay Capet's head from tumbling into the basket.”

The most horrible part of this exchange was that Goujon spoke calmly, his voice and expression the same as always. He was the same red-bearded peasant who had carried me from the Bastille, neither petty nor afflicted by jealousy. But it was as if I'd seen only one side of his face, and now he offered me the full view so I could see that across the hitherto unseen half lay a deforming blotch of savagery. Unswerving, with his entire being, Goujon was dedicated to the slaughter of royalty—and of any connected, however remotely, to royalty. I'd known Goujon was against the “tyranny,” as the monarchy now was called. I hadn't realized the monstrous depth of his obsession. What a fool I'd been. Yet I had to trust him, for as he'd pointed out, there was no choice.

“Yes,” I said.

“You agree?”

I nodded.

“I never thought to possess you,” he said. “Do you know how I've ached for you?”

My shivering increased. He lifted me from the chair with the ease with which he had once carried me from the Bastille, standing me in front of the fire. The flames lit his face with a peculiar, flickering calm as he undid my gray wool gown, the froth of lingerie. When I was naked, an urgent groan came from deep in his massive chest. He pressed his rough beard into my breasts, kissing me, hastily lifting me high off the floor, lowering me onto the mutilated table. He didn't undress. As his huge weight came down on me, I cried out. He paid no attention—this was the other side of Goujon, cruel, savage, bestial.

I dressed silently. Each movement darted pain along the nerves of my abdomen, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. He handed me my cloak.

He went to the door, flinging it open. The two soldiers jerked to attention.

“Escort the prisoner to the concierge,” Goujon said. “He already has the charges.”

In numb disbelief I gazed at him.

“Manon,” he said quietly, “the other day you could have saved yourself.”

“By leaving France.”

“That letter would have been protection, even for de Créqui's widow, an émigré. This morning you doomed yourself.” He took my hands.

“André—”

“As I promised, you'll see him tomorrow. And me.”

With both hands he led me to the door. The two soldiers moved forward. My thighs were bruised. Having difficulty walking, I couldn't keep up with them, and on the narrow, curling staircase, I stumbled. One of my escorts gave me his arm. We returned through the long, torchlit corridors, across dark courtyards, moving into the guttering lamplight of the concierge's office.

My entry to the Bastille had been terrifyingly theatrical. This was simple and matter-of-fact, like taking a room in a cheap inn. The concierge, yawning, stated the charges. I was a returned émigré, I had grieved at the loss of my husband, an executed traitor.

A jailor, taking up a ring of keys, accompanied me through different corridors and stairs, doors clanging and locking behind us. We came to a grated door that opened onto a stone tunnel.

Here, women sat at a long table calmly writing, sewing, embroidering, reading, while others strolled, chatting, in pairs, and at the far end of the gloom I made out a double row of cots where women helped one another roll up their hair in strips of cloth, the nighttime toilette. After the unreality of the trial, the unreality of Goujon's brutal coupling, these tranquil, delicately-bred prisoners were the ultimate fantasy. I couldn't believe what I saw. They must be ghosts, I thought, the ghosts of beauty, wit, elegance, the ghosts of youth and age, of frivolity and charm … the ghosts of the Old Regime.

The door clanged shut. I leaned against the wall, bending over a little to ease the pelvic hurt.

A stately middle-aged woman came toward me. Her gown was violet wool belted with lavender, her smile gracious.

“Welcome to our company,” she said.

The others gathered around, their voices soft, their eyes warm, their obvious sympathy reminding me of my battered state, my exhaustion. I felt my face crumple.

“But you're tired,” said the lady in violet. She linked her arm in mine, leading me to a cot near the far end of the dismal tunnel. “This is your quarters,” she said, her tone gracious as if showing me a magnificent suite. “I hope your stay among us will terminate … happily.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Do we see the gentlemen?”

“Surely,” she replied. “From ten in the morning until four in the afternoon we take the air, and, separated from us by a railing, the gentlemen do the same. But now, dear companion in misfortune, you must rest.”

I sank onto the straw pallet, pulling the must-odored coverlet about me, unable even to take off my shoes. Immediately I fell into a heavy slumber. Once, I woke to hear the Palais de Justice clock ringing, dogs baying in answer, and, on a distant cot, a poor, dream-haunted woman crying out, “Blood … execution … guillotine.…”

In that moment of wakefulness I thought: André will die, I'll die, and the hour depends on Goujon. A decent woman would choose the nearer death. I'm not decent, I thought, rolling over. I never was. Love's always been more important to me than the rules. Tomorrow I'll see André.

Goujon already had betrayed me once, but the Comte's hastened trial and execution didn't occur to me. I fell back asleep.

Chapter Thirteen

The following morning I awakened, momentarily bewildered as to where I was, the ripple of courteously muted women's voices and the smoke-blackened arch overhead quickly reminding me that I was in the Conciergerie. My body no longer ached. My mind, though, was assailed by doubts. Would I see André today? In answer, I conjured up a memory: Izette, Sir Robert, and I leaning our heads together, planning the Comte's rescue, and Goujon listening silently, the reflection of the fire turning his pupils red as his beard. I stiffened on the straw pallet. Goujon. An admitted murderer. I had only his word that André wasn't at this instant having his neck band cut to ready him for the guillotine.

Around me, ladies were arranging their coiffures or applying maquillage to their faces. Two corners had been screened off to give privacy for sponge baths and dressing. From the long table came the odors of bitter coffee and dark bread—later I would learn that those who could afford it paid the steep price of the poor fare, and all joined equally in the eating. The stately middle-aged woman who had shown me to my cot wore a dove-gray morning gown that matched her immaculate hair. Seeing me awake, she glided over to say, “Won't you join us in breakfast? Soon we take our exercise.”

Through the high-arched door we moved according to strict Court etiquette, those of lower rank giving precedence to those of higher. My mentor, the stately Duchesse de Gramont, went first. I held back with the untitled. As always, I'd given my maiden name—to me, the Comtesse de Créqui had existed only a few short months, dying with her unborn child on a high and stormy sea.

A wintry morning light shadowed the stone courtyard. In one corner, at the running fountain, several women had started washing clothes. The other ladies were tossing gay welcomes to the men emerging into an alley beyond the plain iron fence, and the men were returning compliments.

I hurried to the railing, peering around for André. He was nowhere in sight. My heart began to pound in terror. From the slender spire of Sainte-Chapelle came a chime marking the quarter-hour.

André came through the narrow arched doorway.

After my built-up fears, my relief was so great that I couldn't call his name. I clutched the iron rails. How, after all the hints combined with the straight, kingly back, the proud profile, the arched, narrow nose a refined version of the great beaks of the royal family, had I not known who he was?

The gentlemen made deep bows, the ladies curtsied, André drew himself up, embarrassed by the obeisances around him. And then he saw me.

His face a mask of fury, he came over to where I stood.

“I told you to leave,” he said in a low, angry voice. “My last words to you were to get out of France. How dare you disobey me?”

My emotions were so contradictory that for a moment I could scarcely breathe, much less answer. If I was justly angry at his tone, I was also aware that he, legal scion to the King of France, possessed the right, by Court etiquette, to berate everyone present. If I was infinitely relieved to see him alive, I was also awed by his identity.

I had intended, if lucky enough to find him living, to tell him that his secrecy meant nothing, nothing. Yet seeing the respect other prisoners gave him brought the full knowledge how far above me he was. This jabbed my pride. To reply to his anger in a conciliatory tone, however heartfelt, in my mind would have been a form of kowtowing.

I heard myself murmur in a rage similar to his, “We aren't married. You have no rights over me. None.”

“I agree. I have no holds on you. And that you might have considered, madam, before your performance yesterday. You should have trod the boards. I've seen actresses do Corneille with far fewer theatrical gestures!”

“My play to the gallery,” I snapped, “should have earned your release!”

“Naturally. That act of yours was precisely what the mob craves. They awarded you the kind of attention usually given to the mating of a two-headed cow.”

“I didn't know that the one who mounted me was Zeus himself! How could I be aware you were in line to the throne? You never trusted me enough to tell me.”

He flushed, catching his underlip between his teeth. His jaw was covered with dark stubble. Men weren't permitted their razors here, and the Conciergerie barber made his rounds twice a week. My mention of André's secrecy had touched a raw nerve in him.

I stared aghast into his stricken face. What was I doing? We had so little time, dearly bought. How could I be wasting it in recriminations?

“André,” I murmured in a low, shaky whisper, “it doesn't matter. You had no obligation to tell me.”

He paled, the flush remaining to patch his high cheekbones. “I gave you as much information as any man owes his courtesan.” He spoke in a clearly audible, peremptory voice.

A deep and private pain wounded me. Despite André's quick, hot temper, he'd been cruel to me only twice: when he'd come to an elaborate mansion to discover me married to a man he hated, and again when I'd gone to his fifth-story lodgings to get him back. The past few months, in his anguish, he'd been brusque, yet even so there had been a sweetness, a decency about him.

Added to my private misery was the lesser evil of public humiliation.

The gentlemen on André's side of the iron railing, the ladies on mine, were covertly peering at us. Their circumstances had altered cruelly, and their surroundings, but these patricians clung to what they had left—the old forms and the elaborate etiquette of Versailles. My own experience had taught me their malice. The Comte, smiling at their love of gossip, had told me that boredom drew these nobles to pry and peer into the most intimate moments of the royal bedchamber. Now that André was known to be the legitimate son of Louis XV, he came into the focus of their scrutiny. So with lowered lashes, through scandal-hungry eyes they peered at us. They were ghosts. I pitied them their proximity to death, I admired their light-hearted bravery. I couldn't deafen myself to their whispers.