Mistress of the Revolution (37 page)

I turned the door handle. It was locked. In a panic, I hammered at it with my closed fists, crying my name and begging for help at the top of my voice. The Princess de Tarente opened the door. Pushing Aimée in front of me, I rushed inside the room. The door was slammed and locked again behind us. The shutters were closed and all of the chandeliers and candelabra lit. Indeed a dozen Court ladies, including Madame de Rochefort, and the Palace chambermaids were inside. We huddled together in silence like a flock of sheep.

A long wait would have been unbearable, but soon we heard cries just outside the Salon. The insurgents had already taken the Palace. Blows resonated against the doors as the blades of axes shattered the white and gold panels. Shards of wood flew through the room. I took Aimée in my arms and covered her eyes. I felt her shiver against me. The doors gave way. Men burst into the room with yells of triumph. The sight of our group of women stopped them in their tracks. Madame de Rochefort, shrieking, fell to her knees. The attackers, past their first moment of surprise, seized one of the chambermaids and raised their swords. I held Aimée tighter, trying to steady myself. I expected us to be hacked to pieces one after the other when a man came running through the broken doors.

“What are you doing?” he cried. “You know the orders: spare the women!”

The insurgents let go of the chambermaid. All the ladies ran out of the Salon, I last of all, Aimée’s hand in mine. In my hurry, I tripped over the bodies of two of the Queen’s footmen outside the door. One of them, his forehead burnt and bloodied by a gunshot wound, was still holding a pistol. I stooped to take it from his hand. It must have been fired and be now useless, but it might serve to keep away attackers.

Gunfire and cries could still be heard on the Place du Carrousel. It seemed foolish to attempt to leave the Palace now. Still holding Aimée’s hand, I ran back upstairs in search of a hiding place in a closet. We were following the main gallery when I heard a voice shouting behind me: “Another one there!”

I turned around and saw a bearded man. I aimed the pistol at his face. He was about twenty yards away, carrying a drawn bloodstained sabre but no firearm. He stopped and looked at me in amazement. Then a smile crept over his face.

“What would a little aristocrat like you know about pistols?” he sneered. “You’d only hurt yourself. Come, my pretty, hand it to me.”

“I was taught to use a firearm,” I said, still aiming. “This one is loaded. Stay away, or I will shoot you.”

“Drop this thing, bitch, before I call the comrades.”

He was approaching. I could probably have kept him at bay with the mere threat of the weapon, but lost my head and pulled the trigger. The pistol was indeed empty. I dropped it and fled down the gallery, dragging my daughter after me. The man was running after us. Aimée, whimpering, was slowing me down as I was pulling her by the hand. Without stopping or looking back, I took her in my arms and ran, my pursuer on my heels. Mangled bodies, as everywhere else in the Palace, were strewn across the hallway. I slipped on a puddle of blood, dropped Aimée and fell flat on my stomach.

My attacker reached me in an instant. I could feel him standing over me. He pulled me by my hair to raise me to my knees. I did not want to die without looking into his eyes. I wished him to remember my face and turned towards him. He raised his sabre and was ready to strike. I followed the movement of his arm. I imagined the moment, seconds away, when the steel of the blade would sever my head from my neck and my soul from my body. I was not frightened; I was already dead. When hope is lost, there is no more fear.

A voice shouted from the other end of the hallway: “Don’t do that! Do you want to disgrace the Nation?”

My attacker stopped midway in his blow, which went astray onto my left shoulder. I did not feel any pain and believed that he had hit me with the flat of the blade.

“The little bitch shot at me,” he said. “Those females deserve to die, just like the men.”

“I told you already,” replied my rescuer. “We don’t kill the women.”

Half a dozen men accompanied him. I was still on my knees, too stunned at the idea of being alive to think of moving.

“There, Citizen,” one of them said, taking me by the arm to raise me to my feet, “you just need to cry
Long live the Nation
.”

I did so with, I believe, a great deal of conviction. Aimée had witnessed the whole scene from a few feet away without a cry or a word. Her lips had turned white. I pressed her in my arms.

“We are safe now, dearest,” I said. “These kind citizens will take us under their protection.”

She did not seem to hear me. Her eyes wide open, she was looking straight ahead.

“We’ll see you out of here,” my saviour said. “Where do you want to go?”

The men took us to the Place du Carrousel. Through billows of white gunpowder smoke, I could glimpse the darker haze and orange glow coming from buildings on fire in the distance. The fighting continued before our eyes. Groups of women, armed with knives, followed the insurgents. They stripped the corpses of the Swiss Guards of their uniforms, decapitated them and cut off their genitals, which they pinned to the bodices of their dresses. Aimée and I, picking our way among naked, mutilated cadavers, had to walk in the gore spilled on the gravel walks of the gardens. The white marble of the statues was splattered with blood.

I shuddered. My shoulder was now throbbing. I put my hand there and felt something sticky. Looking down, I saw that the bodice of my dress, which had been light pink, was now soaked with blood. My skirts were likewise stained red from my fall in the gallery. My hair was loose and I had lost my bonnet and kerchief.

“I feel faint,” I said to my companions. “Could we rest for a moment?”

“Certainly. With all the blood you’ve lost, you need some restorative. There’s nothing like a glass of wine to put you back on your feet. We’ll go with you to make sure you’re all right.”

One of them offered me his arm while another carried Aimée. We all repaired to the nearest tavern on the Terrace des Feuillants. I had never set foot in that kind of establishment, which would not have been deemed suitable for a lady. Tobacco smoke burnt my eyes and throat; men and women alike were yelling and cheering in celebration of their victory at the Palace. The owner glowered at me. “Who’s this? She looks like one of those damned aristocrats trying to flee the Palace.”

“Yes,” his wife added while wiping a beaker, “Her Ladyship must be a friend of the Austrian Woman.”

“Not at all,” my companion said, “she’s my sister and a good patriot.”

I sat on a wooden bench and joined my companions in toasting the Nation a number of times. The wine burned my empty stomach and made me dizzier. I did not want to be accused of aristocratic aloofness, but there was nothing I wanted more than to lie down on my own bed. Aimée had fallen asleep, her head resting in my lap.

“Would you take me home now?” I asked, after imbibing what seemed a sufficient amount of drink.

“Maybe we should take you to a surgeon first.”

“No, thank you. I will be fine. Please take me home.”

“All right, we’ll help you find a hackney then.”

Two of the men volunteered to accompany us, while the others returned to the Palace to “finish the work.” We arrived at my lodgings half an hour later, in the early afternoon. As the men helped me alight from the hackney, I saw a small crowd gathered on the street in front of Villers’s mansion, a hundred yards away. People were cheering as furniture, paintings, drapes, books and papers came flying through the open windows.

“Oh, My Lady,” Manon cried when she saw me, “what happened to you? My goodness, you’re covered with blood from head to toe! Thank Heaven, you’re alive, and Mademoiselle Aimée too. I was sick with worry, not knowing whether I would ever see either of you again. Let me send for Dr. Benoit right away. Junot said he just saw him come back from the Palace.”

My bodice and chemise, soaked with blood, were already dry and painfully sticking to the wound on my shoulder. Every movement pulled on the inflamed flesh. Manon had to use scissors to undress me. I looked down at my left arm. The bruise, now dark purple, spread across several inches where Villers had grasped me the night before. The mark of his fingers was clearly visible. I shuddered at the memory.

Dr. Benoit was Villers’s physician and, since our arrival in Rue Saint-Dominique, had attended Aimée through the usual ailments of childhood. He examined my shoulder and cleaned the wound with hot water.

“Do not worry, Madam,” he said, “it will heal fast once I stitch it. You were fortunate not to be more seriously hurt. I do not know why you were in the Tuileries today, but it certainly is no place for a lady. I went there myself earlier to treat the wounded, but I found hardly anyone in need of my services. What a butchery!” Frowning, he pointed at the bruise on my arm. “What is this?”

I blushed and said nothing. Dr. Benoit took my arm and gently moved it. I winced at the pain in my elbow.

“The muscle has been crushed as in a vice,” he added, “and the contusion has spread to the joint. This will remain painful for several weeks.”

I looked away. “Have you heard any news from Monsieur de Villers?” I asked. “He went to the Palace last night.”

“No, Madam, I have not seen or heard anything of Monsieur de Villers. You should rest and recover your strength before worrying about anyone else.”

“Tell me. I will rest better knowing the truth.”

He sighed. “I heard that all of the noblemen who fought at the Palace have been killed. Monsieur de Villers may have perished. I am very sorry.”

I sent Manon to gather news. None of what she learned led me to believe that Villers could have survived. The King, from the Assembly, had waited until the afternoon to order the Swiss Guards to surrender. It was too late. Over 2,000 had died, including most of the defenders and 1,200 attackers. From the Assembly, one could hear cannon and musketry fire. From time to time, insurgents, covered with blood, brought to the Representatives news of the slaughter next door in the Palace, as well as objects, correspondence or documents they had seized. Some would, in later months, be used to prove the treason of the King and Queen.

There was a great deal of destruction, but no plunder, for all persons caught stealing in the Palace were killed on the spot by their fellow insurgents. The King and Queen were at first received with respect, but as the extent of the butchery became known, they were ordered to sit in the reporters’ cubicle, a stifling space resembling a cage. All over Paris, the statues of the Kings, even those decorating the entrance to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, even that of the beloved Henri the Fourth on the
Pont-Neuf
, the New Bridge, were pulled down and broken.

The next day, the Assembly suspended the monarchy. The royal family was imprisoned in the Temple, an enclosed compound in the middle of Paris, which, as its name indicated, had been the seat of the Templars.

The dynasty founded by Hughes Capet, Count de Paris, the most ancient reigning family in the world, had governed France without interruption for over eight centuries. It was overthrown in the course of these few days of August 1792. The former King was now a private citizen, and revolutionaries affected to call him simply Louis Capet, after the surname of his long departed ancestor. The Queen became “the Capet Woman.”

The corpses of the noblemen found in the Tuileries were thrown out the windows. Then, along with the bodies of the Swiss Guards, they were taken overnight to the cemetery of La Madeleine, where they were buried in common graves. There rests to this day Charles Aurélien de Saint-Sauveur, Count de Villers.

I have at last found the strength to forgive him for the harm he intended when he took Aimée to the Palace. Did he want her killed? I hope not, for his sake. His final malice must have been directed at me, since he knew that I would follow her to the Palace in the middle of the storm. Did he want me killed? Did he want me to see him die? Did he want to die close to me? Did he repent before he died? He took the answers to his grave. So many, better or worse than he, have perished that none of it matters any longer. I can now mourn him as I mourn all the lives lost during the great Revolution.

Villers had often said that he would make sure Aimée and I lacked nothing after his death. Yet I received a note from his attorney, informing me that all provisions of Villers’s will in my favor had been revoked on the 9th of August. Since none of his fortune could go to his son, who was an émigré, distant cousins would inherit everything.

The porter at my lodgings also told me that Villers had given my landlord notice for the 1st of October. He wanted to turn Aimée and me out of our lodgings without a
sol
. I kept busy, as much to discard the past as to prepare for the future. With Manon’s help I sorted out which of my things could be sold to advantage and which should be kept for my new life. I had to find a buyer for my diamonds. They were now my only possessions of any value, and I intended to live on what I raised from their sale.

I visited Monsieur Boehmer, former jeweler to the Crown. His shop was as luxurious as ever, but it had an eerie, deserted aspect. He looked much thinner and older now. He smiled faintly when he saw the earrings.

“I remember these stones, of course, Madam,” he said. “I have never seen the like of them. It seems so long since I sold them to Monsieur de Villers. When was it, in ’87? Five years ago. And now…” He sighed as he put down the jewels. “I can offer you 10,000 francs for the
briolette
earrings, the bracelets and the ruby ring. All are amazing pieces.”

I looked at him in shock. “But you told me, Monsieur Boehmer, that the earrings alone were worth at least ten times as much.”

“That was certainly true before the Revolution, Madam.” He shook his head sadly. “So many ladies are selling their diamonds these days, and there are no buyers.”

I left, my eyes burning, and went to less reputable dealers. They all exclaimed at the beauty of the stones, but offered still less than Monsieur Boehmer. I decided to wait until the situation in Paris quieted in the hope of obtaining a better price. In the meantime I hid the jewels in fabric pockets I fashioned and sewed tightly into the lining of Aimée’s skirts.

I followed the news in the
Moniteur
with great attention. I read that the old Municipality of Paris had been dissolved and replaced by a new one. A Council General, elected by the forty-eight Sections of Paris, now managed the capital. As I perused a list of its members, I paused for a moment. Among them was my former fiancé, Pierre-André Coffinhal. His election was reported as an acknowledgment of his role during the storming of the Palace. Pierre-André had rallied a group of Federates after a first assault had been repulsed by the Swiss Guards. His sword drawn, singing “
La Marseillaise
” at the top of his voice, he had led the insurgents to a second successful attack. We could have met in the Palace that day.

I also read that the Assembly, under the pressure of the new Municipality, had created a special tribunal to try the crimes committed on the 10th. There would be no appeals from its judgments. This court was called the Criminal Tribunal of the 17th of August and solemnly inaugurated that day in the main courthouse in the Island of the City. Again the name of Pierre-André Coffinhal stared at me in the middle of the list of the newly elected judges.

Those sentenced to die by the 17th of August Tribunal would be guillotined. That mode of execution had been invented as a humane substitute for the gruesome practices of the past. There would be no more hangings “high and short,” where one slowly strangled to death, or interminable agonies on the wheel. Under the Old Regime, only members of the nobility were entitled to being decapitated. Even they remained at the mercy of the executioner’s varying degree of skill. Now everyone would have a chance to have one’s head cut off, cleanly and efficiently. Dr. Guillotin, the inventor of the machine, assured that the fall of the blade would give the victim a “pleasant feeling of coolness.” How he knew I cannot say.

The new Tribunal wasted no time. Its first trial began two days later. The first three defendants were accused of forming clandestine royalist militias or corresponding with the
émigrés
. One after the other, they were tried, found guilty and guillotined.

“Can you imagine,” said Emilie, “those trials begin at eight in the morning and then continue for forty-eight hours without even recessing at night!”

“True, Emilie, it must be awful to sit in that chair for two days and two nights at a stretch, listening to the witnesses and the attorneys. And then to wait for the jury to return its verdict. But look, after the three initial death sentences, the Tribunal just acquitted the last two defendants.”

“That is still three out of five sent to the guillotine. Mark my words, Belle: our turn will come. They will drag
us
before that Tribunal.”

“Those tried so far, Emilie, have been influential characters, men who were linked either to the royalist brigades or to the
émigrés
. What can women like you or me have to do with such matters?”

“You, for one, were at the Palace on the 10th of August.
I
was not, but I am leaving all the same. I reserved a seat on the stagecoach for Lille in two days. I am going to Brussels. Morsan was able to reach it. He has already enlisted in the army of the Prince de Condé.”

“I am glad to hear that he is safe, but I cannot reconcile myself to the idea that he joined the
émigrés
, those cowards who ran for their own lives, who abandoned their families, those traitors who fight against their own country. They have done more than anyone else to discredit the monarchy.”

“You sound like a Jacobin, Belle. Those traitors, as you call them, have the support of the Prussians and the Austrians. They will hack the bedraggled French army to pieces.”

“One would think, listening to you, that you want them to win.”

“Absolutely, I do. That is the only hope to save the King now.”

“Nonsense. The King made a huge mistake by failing to put enough distance between himself and the
émigrés
. He has convinced everyone that he, like the Queen, wishes the Austrians and Prussians to win the war.”

“Of course he does.”

I blushed with anger and fixed my eyes on Emilie’s face. “Then he is guilty of treason. In any case, if the Prussians threaten Paris, the King, instead of being saved, will be treated as a hostage. His life will hang by a thread. Surely you must see it.”

“Not at all. On the contrary, the rabble of Paris will be too terrified of the Prussians to harm the royal family. The King will be restored; the good times, when everyone was so happy, will return. There will be no more of that revolutionary nonsense. I will be back in less than three months, Gabrielle, with the victors. The Jacobins will be slaughtered. In the meantime, you should worry about saving your life and that of Aimée. Come with me to Brussels.”

“I will not.”

Emilie’s words had shocked me. I could see how far we had moved apart in our ideas. I prepared my own move. It would be months before I saw a
sol
of what the Duchess had left me in her will, and her attorney had warned me not to expect more than a few hundred francs when her debts were paid. I had calculated that I would run out of ready money soon after the end of August. My lodgings were rented furnished. My only belongings, apart from my jewellery, were my clothes, a few trinkets, my books and a fine silver and crystal dressing-table set, a gift from Villers a few years earlier. Unfortunately, I was only able to raise two hundred francs from its sale.

I gave Manon, Junot, the footman, and both maids notice for the end of the month. Miss Howard left for England as soon as she was able to secure a passport. I presented Junot with one hundred francs because he was now too old, forgetful and crippled to find another place. His niece had agreed to take care of him, which at least guaranteed that he would not finish his life as a beggar. Usually elderly servants received a small pension from their masters, but Villers’s death precluded that kind of arrangement. I would have liked to do better for poor Junot, but the state of my finances did not allow it.

Manon was crying. “It breaks my heart to leave your service, My Lady. After all these years. I’d gladly stay with you without wages, you know that. Now I won’t see Mademoiselle Aimée grow up.”

I took her in my arms. “I cannot accept, Manon. You should look for another place. Besides, I have barely enough money to support Aimée and myself. I expected to raise far more than I did. Please do not cry, my dearest Manon. We will see each other often.”

It was therefore agreed that Manon would move in with her sister Louise, a lace maker whose services I had used in the past. Louise lived in Rue de l’Hirondelle, “Street of the Swallow,” on the Left Bank, close to the river. As for Aimée and me, I still had until the end of September to locate something suitable, provided that I somehow pacify the landlord with regard to the rent for that month.

Those thoughts were on my mind when I went to bed on the evening of the 29th of August. Around two in the morning, I was awakened by a commotion. Someone was hammering at the front door. I heard feet shuffling down the hallway. Junot must have gone to see what was the matter. I rose in haste with barely time to throw a dressing gown on my shoulders. A dozen men wearing tricolour sashes burst into my bedroom. One of them, sporting a gold insignia, seemed to be an officer.

“What is this?” I demanded. “What do you want at this hour?”

“Are you the
ci-devant
Baroness de Peyre?”

“I am.”

“We have a warrant for your arrest. Follow us.”

“Why?”

“You are accused of being part of the Court conspiracies to kill the patriots on the 10th of August.”

“That is not true. I have never been involved in politics.”

“Save your arguments for the judges, Citizen. You will present your defense before the 17th of August Tribunal. I am giving you five minutes to dress, unless of course you prefer to follow us in your nightclothes.”

“Can you please leave the room for a moment?”

“No. You might take advantage of our absence to destroy evidence.” He smiled. “You need not pay attention to us.”

Before the Revolution, ladies of fashion would disrobe as a matter of course in front of their menservants. It never entered my mind to follow that custom. I am naturally modest, and there is nothing I find more offensive than to pretend to forget that a lackey is also a man. Such were the petty everyday humiliations that made the lower classes hate us. The municipal guards seemed to assume that, being a noblewoman, I would have no objection to showing myself nude to strangers.

I asked Manon to bring me my warmest long-sleeved dress, which was “autumn leaves” in colour—the most prosaic things still had poetic names—and trimmed in pink and dark brown. It was too hot for the season, but I thought that I might be cold in whatever prison awaited me. The phrase
la paille humide des cachots
, “the damp straw of the dungeons,” had come to my mind. While I was sitting on the bed, putting on my stockings and tying my garters, two of the men placed themselves a few feet in front of me. They were leering at my legs and bosom, giggling and elbowing each other. I could not imagine giving them the opportunity of watching me naked while I changed to my daytime undergarments. Since my summer chemise was sleeveless, I decided not to remove it and asked Manon to lace my corset on top of it, a sight that already seemed to entertain them a great deal.

I glared in the direction of the officer, hoping that he would order his men to turn around, but he was too busy going through my drawers to pay me or them the least attention. My lodgings were small. The search was soon concluded without producing anything of interest, except for Aimée’s booklet of English exercises and multiplication tables, which were found in Miss Howard’s deserted room and seized.

“A secret cipher to communicate with the enemy!” the officer said, waving the sheets of paper in my face. “This will be used at trial as proof of your activities, Citizen.”

Manon had hastily prepared a traveling bag containing a spare set of clothes. The officer raised objections, but, yielding to Manon’s entreaties, reluctantly agreed to let me take whatever fit in a small bundle. She was crying as she tied a kitchen towel around a pair of stockings, a chemise and a metal scraper to clean my teeth.

Aimée had been awakened during the search of her bedroom and had run to mine. She sobbed when she saw me escorted away by strangers. “Where are these men taking you, Mama? Can I go with you, please?”

“Your mother is going to prison, little one,” said the officer. “That’s where the enemies of the Nation belong.”

“Do not worry, dearest,” I said, kneeling to kiss her. “This is only a mistake which will be cleared in a few days. In the meantime, Manon will take care of you. You must be very good and obey her as you would Mama.” I turned to Manon. “You know about the rent. The landlord, once he learns of my arrest, will not give you any delays to vacate these lodgings. You must leave by tomorrow.”

A hackney was waiting for me. I settled in it, my bundle on my lap, a guard on each side of me. We crossed the river and took the direction of the Marais district. I was taken to the prison of La Force, a few hundred yards from the mansion of the late Duchess d’Arpajon. She had not been dead three weeks, but her passing seemed to belong to a different era. She did not witness the final collapse of her world or learn of my arrest. She was spared the knowledge of what awaited me.