Mistress of the Revolution (14 page)

At eight one fine May morning, I waited, my daughter in my arms, for the Chevalier. I left, to the servants’ mute astonishment, what had been my home. The Chevalier handed me into his carriage. The first test of his conduct had come. Of course, I sat with Aimée in the back. I waited to see whether he would settle next to me. This would have been inappropriate for a man who was neither my husband nor my brother. To my relief, he sat across from me. I turned around and watched through the rear window of the carriage the square towers of Cénac disappear in the distance. Aimée, a stranger to any feelings of nostalgia, was standing on the seat, cooing and nuzzling up to my cheek and neck.

I was still uneasy and did my best to keep the skirts of my black dress from brushing against the Chevalier’s knees. I expected him to pounce on me at the first opportunity,
comme la misère sur le monde
, “like poverty on the world,” according to the French saying. The Baron had used the less elegant
comme la vérole sur le bas clergé
, “like the pox on the lower clergy.” I was prepared to fight unwanted advances with the utmost energy. His quiet, unaffected demeanour eventually reassured me. It must have had the same effect on Aimée. She sat down, huddled against me, her face hidden in her hands, casting from behind her spread fingers looks of false shyness in his direction. He smiled back. At last she held out her arms to him.

“May I hold her, Madam?” he asked.

“Certainly, if she does not mind. You seem to have made quite an impression, Sir. She is generally very shy around gentlemen, as befits a proper young lady.”

Aimée had never been held by her father and had cried, burying her face in my neck, whenever she had heard his voice. She sat on the Chevalier’s lap and, looking up, touched his face with her little hand, frowning at the roughness of a man’s cheek. She then turned her attention to the silver buttons of his coat, which she tried to put in her mouth. After he dissuaded her from it, she pursed her lips, looked bored and fell asleep in his lap. I had not seen any man before take an interest in a child, especially female, save for my brother. I was reminded of his past tenderness for me and looked out the window to hide my emotion.

We changed horses and stopped for the night at the Inn of the Two Crowns, in Clermont, another novel experience for me. The Chevalier secured the largest apartment for Aimée and me, and the second in size for himself.

“We will dine in your bedroom, Madam,” he said. “You should not be exposed to the coarse language and manners of the common room downstairs, especially at night when the patrons tend to be the worse for drink.”

My wariness of the Chevalier reappeared. During our meal I desperately tried to keep Aimée awake on my lap though she kept dozing off. The Chevalier remarked that I must be tired and left promptly after dinner for his own apartment after bowing to me and kissing Aimée, now fast asleep in my arms. She smiled when his lips brushed against her round cheek.

I had forgotten, following my marriage, that most men will not force themselves upon a woman. My journey with the Chevalier reminded me of it. I also recalled Pierre-André, whose restraint had been more meritorious because he had wanted me. The Chevalier’s perfect manners seem to proceed as much from his indifference towards me as from his delicacy.

The next day, we left the boundaries of Auvergne. I did not know then that I would never again see my native country, the scene of so many memories, happy or not, of my childhood and youth. It is much to our advantage to be denied the gift of foresight for we would not stir otherwise.

After five full days, the Chevalier announced that we were approaching Paris. I opened the window and leaned out the carriage, gaping at the fortified wall being built around the city. We passed across an unfinished gate decorated by columns in the antique style.

“At least Paris will be well defended,” I said, choking on the dust of the construction.

The Chevalier shouted to make himself heard above the thunder of hammers and the cries of workmen. “This has nothing to do with the defense of Paris. This wall is being built all around the city for the benefit of the Farmers Generals, to prevent food from entering without being taxed.” The Chevalier shook his head bitterly. “I am afraid this will inflame the populace. The Farmers Generals are already hated. They are in charge of tax collection and may raise what they like while paying the Treasury a fixed amount. Now they will be accused of strangling Paris with this new wall.”

Parisians are fond of calling provincials
culs-terreux
, which literally translates as “dirty asses,” but what struck me in Paris was the filth of the southern districts we first crossed. We followed narrow streets, strewn with garbage and lined with soot-coloured houses, five or six stories high. I saw bands of half-naked children. Raggedy women yelled and shook their fists at each other. A man was relieving himself against a wall. The mere thought of male genitals still was enough to turn my stomach, though I had now been widowed for a few months. I looked away and glanced at the Chevalier, but, either out of delicacy or because he was used to that sight, he seemed to ignore the man.

Soon the streets became wider and took a more prosperous look. I thought I would go deaf from the rattling of the carriages, the swearing of the cart drivers and the cries of the street vendors peddling their wares. We had to stop more than once to give way to other carriages, for wooden stalls, piled high with produce, encroached on the street. I marveled at pyramids of oranges, which, the Chevalier told me, came from Portugal. I remembered my joy when, as a child, I found one of those fruits in my clog in front of Mamé Labro’s hearth on Christmas morning. I ate it all too quickly, in spite of Mamé’s entreaties to savour it, and refused to wash my hands afterwards in spite of their stickiness. I kept the peel for several days, breathing in its sweet oil until the fragrance was gone. I would not taste another orange until the next Christmas.

A man, perched on planks resting on sawhorses, was playing the violin. A small crowd had formed to listen to him. He paused at the end of each air to point with his bow at scenes painted on a canvas hung behind him. I could not understand what he was saying, though I could hear the shrill accents of his music.

I asked the Chevalier the meaning of the initials
M.A.C.L.
, which I saw painted above the entrances of buildings. He flushed.

“It stands,” he said, “for
Maison Assurée Contre L’incendie
, and serves to indicate that the owner of the house has purchased fire insurance. Some, however, give it another, outrageous meaning. Such scoundrels deserve the gallows.”

He seemed truly upset and I did not press the point. Before long I would discover the other meaning derisively ascribed to these initials. It was
Marie-Antoinette Cuckholds Louis
. Thus, like any other Parisian, I would be reminded daily of the King’s alleged misfortune.

The Chevalier pointed to the monumental gilded gates that marked the entrance to the main courthouse. He said that we would cross the river by way of the
Pont-au-Change
, the Bridge of the Money Changers. I looked out, eager for my first glimpse of the Seine. My face fell when I saw only houses on either side of the street.

“Houses have been built on almost all of the bridges of Paris,” said the Chevalier, smiling at my disappointment, “but they are soon to be demolished. They will no longer block the view of river, and the city will be more airy and healthy.”

Our route took us through the
Châtelet
district. I have heard that it has since been destroyed on the orders of Napoléon Bonaparte. At the time of my arrival in Paris, this area gave off an odor unlike anything I had smelled before. I remarked to the Chevalier that the gutters were running red.

“The main slaughterhouse is around the corner,” he said. “It sends streams of blood flowing down into the river. I once saw an escaped ox, mad with terror, galloping in the middle of this street. Butchers in their soiled aprons, cutlasses in hand, were chasing the poor animal.”

The Chevalier pointed to the medieval towers of the criminal court building, called the
Grand Châtelet
.

“It houses some of the most squalid dungeons in the city,” he said. “It is also home to the
Morgue
. The bodies found daily in the river or on the streets are kept there until identified or claimed.”

I put my hand to my face, dizzy with nausea. It was a relief to leave the
Châtelet
to reach at last the
Marais
district, where the Duchess d’Arpajon lived.
Marais
means “swamp” in French.

“What an odd name for such a beautiful district!” I said, marveling at the elegant mansions on each side of the street.

“True,” said the Chevalier. “It used to flood every spring, when the river overflowed after the melting of the snows. It was the aristocratic quarter of choice a century ago, but it has now lost that distinction to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the Left Bank.”

We passed the jail of La Force. Two hundred years earlier, explained the Chevalier, it had been one of the most magnificent dwellings in Paris, and now it was degraded to the rank of debtors’ prison. Little did I guess then the part it would play in my life only a few years later. The Duchess’s mansion was on the next street.

After the carriage stopped in the courtyard, I observed that the front of the house was elegantly decorated with columns and sculpted allegories of the four seasons. We alighted and were led up a wide stone staircase to a parlour on the second floor, a vast cheerful room, handsomely furnished. I was reminded of my trepidation upon meeting my mother at the age of eleven. Her Grace the Duchess d’Arpajon, a lady of about sixty, white-haired and blue-eyed, rose to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek. That simple kindness was more than I had ever received from my mother. I felt the prickling of tears in my eyes. She hastened to order the tea things, a welcome sight after a long day of travel. Aimée sat on my lap, where she fell sound asleep.

“Dear Chevalier,” said the Duchess, “nothing in your letters quite prepared me for the beauty of my young cousin.” She turned to me. “If you will allow it, my dear, I will call you Belle, for you remind me of the youngest sister in the tale of
Beauty and the Beast
. You see, I have a weakness in my old age. I like to be surrounded by young, handsome, cheerful people. I used to be considered quite attractive myself. I can say it because nothing remains of my beauty now. Your presence will remind me of those days. Apart from my friend the Chevalier, who is the last true gentleman left in the kingdom, no young people visit me anymore unless I happen to have under my roof guests like you. Without you, I was reduced to gossiping and playing lotto with ladies as ancient as I.”

She put down her cup of tea. “Do not feel sorry for me, dear Belle. I am invited to dinners once in a while because I am still good company. Also I am frightfully fond of the theatre, the opera and gambling, quite a shame at my time of life and given the state of my finances. Before long, dear Belle, you will become familiar with all of my vices. I am afraid I have kept them all in my dotage, save the one I most cherished. Time is most unfair to us females.”

I must have looked shocked by such a speech from a lady older than my mother. She patted my hand. “I am sorry, dear, to embarrass you with my loose talk,” she continued, her eyes twinkling. “Listen to me, an old sinner. Your blushes make me ashamed of myself, which I have not felt in forty years. I am all the more delighted to have you with me. You may give me some principles before it is too late. And it may be easier to depart for the eternal night with you at my side.”

“I should be the one to apologize for my prudishness,” I said. “It is one of my flaws, Madam: I colour so easily. I am afraid I will make a fool of myself in Paris with my provincial manners.”

“Nonsense, Belle. Your modesty is so rare that it will only add to your allure. You are just what this city needs. Twenty women like you would redeem its morals.”

“Your Grace will not find so many here,” said the Chevalier.

“I guess not,” the Duchess responded. “We shall remain unrepentant then, which will not prevent us from enjoying dear Belle’s company.”

The Chevalier announced that he had to take his leave to reach his lodgings in the Palace of Versailles, some ten miles to the southwest of Paris, before the night. The Duchess thanked him again for delivering me to her. As he left, he bowed to kiss my hand and wished me the best of luck. Aimée, awakened, wrapped her arms around his knees and cried. I had to pry her away from him.

“If you do not visit us very soon,” I said, “you will break my daughter’s heart.”

“I will call at the first opportunity, Madam.”

Aimée could not be persuaded to go to bed without me. The Duchess had ordered a cot prepared in a maid’s room, but she kindly agreed to have it moved to mine.

“You are such a funny young person,” she said. “In my time, no noblewoman would have thought of keeping her child with her at night.”

“I did not do so in my husband’s home, Madam, but she has become used to it during our journey from Auvergne. It would be hard for her now to sleep with a stranger in a strange room.”

“What do you mean by your
husband’s
home, Belle? Was is not yours too?”

“No, as attested by the fact that I had to quit it upon his death.”

“That is what the Chevalier wrote me. A very odd business. My late husband did not leave me much, but he at least gave me a small pension and this house for life. What was the Baron thinking? Did he want you to beg for your bread on the streets?”

“I will never know, Madam. He probably thought that my brother would take me back.”

“What a pitiful arrangement! But fortunate for me, I suppose. Now, dearest, you can barely keep your eyes open. I do not want to be selfish and keep you late on your first night here. We will take our dispositions for you tomorrow.”

My apartment looked out on a garden of trimmed boxwood hedges, in the formal French style, at the back of the house. After putting Aimée to bed, I opened one of the windows. The only noise I could hear in that delightful old-fashioned district was the evening song of the birds. There was nothing to suggest the embrace of the vast city surrounding me. Yet I could sense that I no longer lived in the countryside. The air was milder than in Auvergne, for in May the high country is still in the grip of the last winter frosts. I fell in love with Paris. Indeed I am still under its thrall, in spite of these twenty years of exile. I went to bed happy.

The next day, I joined the Duchess for breakfast at seven o’clock. Like many elderly persons, she liked to rise early. Thanks to my late husband, my habits were the same.

“First, we must take care of your clothes, dear,” she said. “Have you anything other than these black dresses?”

“But, Madam, I have been widowed less than three months. It would not be proper for me to quit my mourning so early.”

“Then wear white for your mourning. In my opinion that is more than enough for a little widow of seventeen. Have you any Court gowns?”

“No, Madam. Pray what will I need? I know that such attire can be expensive.”

“My dear, some of the Queen’s gowns cost over 10,000 francs. Mademoiselle Rose Bertin, her dressmaker, has made a fortune.”

I smiled in dismay. “I have less than 3,000 francs altogether.”

“I would lend you some of my own Court gowns, but they would be too short for you. Do not worry; you can purchase used ones from another lady’s chambermaid. I will ask Mélanie to find something suitable for your lovely figure. You must, of course, be presented to the King and Queen in order to be admitted everywhere in Versailles. I will be happy to serve as your
presenting lady
for that occasion. For dinners in town, young women do not dress as they used to do. I am sure that the clothes you brought from Auvergne will be fine for such occasions.”

The same day, I wrote my sister, Madame de Montserrat, to thank her for her offer to join her at Noirvaux Abbey. I explained that I did not feel any religious vocation and believed it wrong to take the veil without a more definite calling. I wanted to provide my own explanation for my refusal to enter her convent. I did not know in what light my family had cast my decision to leave for Paris.

Within a week, Mélanie, the Duchess’s chambermaid, found a white Court dress suitable for my height, although it needed to be narrowed around the waist. It had a few wine stains on the bodice and smelled of its prior owner’s now faded fragrance. I was reminded of the time when I had worn my mother’s discards, but this gown was in a very different style, adorned with silver embroidery and grey ribbons. It was designed to be worn over
paniers
, “baskets,” giant oval hoopskirts that only allowed the ladies of the Court to go through doors sideways. A long train attached to the waist of the dress. The bodice was cut to leave all of the throat and shoulders bare. It required a special corset, the lacing of which exposed part of the chemise in the back.

My jaw dropped at the sight of this attire. “How can anyone wear anything so immodest in public?” I asked.

“My poor Belle,” said the Duchess, laughing, “please remember that I, at my age, have to dress in the same fashion at Court. And the chemise one wears under this corset must be sheer so your back will be almost as visible as your throat and shoulders. Believe me, you will become used to it, like many a modest lady before you.”