Mistress of the Revolution (43 page)

“You have put more thought into this than I. This is the only gown I have.”

“My mistake then. Forgive me. But how rude of me! Lost as I was in the meanders of your motives, I was forgetting to respond to your offers. Let me correct this omission. In addition to overestimating the effect of your charms, which are somewhat dulled right now, you seem to have forgotten that there is a great deal of competition in your field. What you propose, I can buy for five francs in any of the brothels of the
Palais-Royal
, excuse me, the
Palais-Egalité
. The ladies there are always happy to entertain me and they at least do not labour under the illusion that they are doing me the greatest favour in the world by spreading their thighs. I must decline. Anything else?”

His bitterness broke me at last. I burst into tears.

“No, nothing else then?” he continued. “Now that you have appealed in vain to my higher impulses, greed and lust, we have reached the unfortunate conclusion that I have no reason to help you. You were wrong not to accept my earlier offer to let you go. You are now guilty of an attempt to bribe a judge. It will add nicely to the other charges against you. You are going back to jail, Citizen Peyre.”

I fell to my knees and rested my forehead on his thigh. “If you ever felt anything for me, Pierre-André, have mercy on me.”

“Rise. Nothing disgusts me more than this abject servility inherited from the Old Regime. Look at me when you speak to me.”

I was unable to move. He seized me by the arm to draw me to my feet.

“I am no brute after all,” he continued, still holding me. “I will give you one last chance if you answer the following question to my satisfaction: would you ever have come to me if it were not to save your life? Think well. If you say yes, it might be one lie too many. If you say no, I might not find the truth palatable. Candor might not be a wise choice in your situation. A difficult decision, and you have so much at stake.”

“Please help me. You cannot imagine what it was to be in jail during the massacres. I heard the cries of the other prisoners being slaughtered. I had to wait for days before my fate was decided. I do not want to go back there. Now you are telling me that you might help me if I give you the right answer. Is it true, or are you only tormenting me?”

“Why not humour me by giving me your response?”

“You will be angry whether I say yes or no.”

“Perhaps. You will not find out until you answer. What is sure to make me angry, however, is the lack of a response.”

“I cannot think right now. You are so harsh that I do not know what to say.”

“Ah no, it would be too easy. You shed a few tears, you throw yourself at my feet, and you think you may dispense with any explanations. It will not do. I want an answer, not because I am harsh, but because I wish to know whether you take me for an imbecile, a fair query under the circumstances. Let me repeat one last time before I lose my temper: would you ever have come here if it were not to save your life? I want to hear it. What is it? Yes? Or no?”

“No.”

He slowly raised his open hand. It came down so fast that I saw only a blur. My mother had often slapped me, and I remember to this day the stinging sensation on my cheek, but this was of a different order. The force of the blow stunned me and sent me tumbling across the room. I fell. Blinded for a moment, I heard Pierre-André walk briskly towards me. The correction would now begin in earnest. I raised my arm to protect my face.

He was content to raise me by the elbow and lead me to one of the chairs, where I collapsed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, poured onto it water from a carafe on his desk and applied it to my face. I recoiled from his hand.

“I am not going to hit you again, Gabrielle,” he said. “As a rule, I do not strike women. I made this one exception in your favour because I had wanted to do it for many years and you gave me ample provocation tonight. Keep this on your cheek for a while. The cold will prevent it from swelling. And stop weeping. You look awful.”

I still could not see clearly. Tears were rolling down my cheeks in a steady stream, not from pain because I was too dazed to feel any, but from the shock of the blow.

“It was a mistake to come here,” he continued. “I will not help you. Now before you go, I want to know your address.”

I raised my eyes to him.

“Yes,” he said, “out of the goodness of my heart, I will let you go. Do you still live on Rue Dominique?”

“No. I cannot afford it anymore and I am afraid of being arrested there.”

“Where then?”

“Why? Are you going to have me arrested later?”

He dipped a quill in the inkwell on his desk. “Write it down. And do not ever lie to me again.”

He handed me the pen and pushed a sheet of paper towards me. In a shaky hand, I wrote my new address. It did not enter my mind to give him a false one. He was sitting sideways on his desk, his arms folded, watching me while I struggled to regain my composure. I was reluctant to leave, to acknowledge my defeat. I cast one last look at him, the man I had loved many years before, the man I had bartered my innocence to protect.

He walked to the door, opened it and shouted the name of the gendarme, whom I heard running up the stairs as if all the hounds of hell were at his heels. I had no choice but to return Pierre-André’s handkerchief. He picked up my widow’s headdress, which had fallen to the floor. The gendarme appeared as I was trying to rearrange my hair.

“See Citizen Labro out,” said Pierre-André. “She feels unwell.”

The gendarme made a movement to offer me his arm, but after a glance at Pierre-André, thought better of it. He led me downstairs. Once we were out of earshot of the chambers, he began to talk to me.

“You look mightily shaken, but then Citizen Coffinhal has this effect on people. He’s the judge they pick to examine witnesses in chambers. In the courtroom too, the accused are afraid of him, much more so than of Citizen Osselin, the President. It’s that voice of his, and he’s so tall and fierce. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen when I told you to see Citizen Fouquier instead. From where I sit down here, I could hear Citizen Coffinhal shout at you. The way things were going, I thought he was calling me to have you arrested. You’re lucky he let you go.” He paused to look at me. “Citizen, you do look unwell. Let me call a hackney.”

“You are very kind, but I live close by. Walking will do me good.”

It was cool outside, and dark, which was a comfort. Once alone, I lost my way. The main courthouse is located on the Island of the City, and I lived on the Left Bank of the Seine. I had only to follow Rue de la Barillerie southwards, cross the Saint-Michel Bridge and turn right on the tiny Rue de l’Hirondelle to return to my garret. In spite of my familiarity with the streets of Paris, I no longer knew where my steps were taking me. The events of the evening kept recurring in my mind and erased any other thought. I walked for a while in the direction of the north. The stench of the
Châtelet
district brought me to my senses. I retraced my steps. My head was hurting and I was trying not to think of what the future held.

I reached my lodgings at last. I thought for a minute of going farther down the street to fetch Aimée, but I had not the courage to acknowledge my failure. Also, I did not wish to inflict upon my daughter, now that we slept in the same bed, the sight of a second arrest should it take place that night. I removed only my shoes, my cap and my kerchief and kept the rest of my clothes on. I lay on the bed, blew out the candle and remained in the dark, my eyes wide open, alert to any noises from the stairwell.

It was not long before I heard footsteps. There was a knock at my door. My hands were shaking so much that I had trouble lighting the candle. I did not ask who was there before turning the key into the lock. Pierre-André’s figure filled the entire doorway. He was alone, wearing boots and civilian clothes. I stared at him in silence for a moment.

“Are you going to slam the door in my face?” he asked.

“I am sorry. Please enter.”

He looked around. “Your circumstances, Citizen, seem less prosperous than in the past. Where is your daughter?”

“I left her with a friend. I thought that you would have me arrested.”

“Not tonight. I am here because I have decided to save five francs after all.”

I looked at him. “You are still angry.”

“Have I not good cause to be?”

“Not anymore. I may be dead in a few weeks. At least, I will be in jail. I escaped twice, at the Palace on the 10th of August and then at La Force, but the end is near, I feel it. You will have your revenge without having to do anything. You can see me squirm before you in the accused’s chair. You can watch my face as my sentence is read. So why be angry with me any longer? I know that you will not help me. It was stupid of me to expect otherwise. I was clinging to any hope, and you were the last one.”

While I was speaking, he removed his coat, waistcoat and necktie, which he hung on the back of a chair.

“You are here tonight,” I continued. “For this alone I am grateful, regardless of what you do afterwards. We have so little time left. Let us not throw it away.”

“Let us not indeed. I, for one, intend to enjoy myself.” He sat on the bed. “Why are you so demure? You proposition me, and then you say that you are grateful for my visit, but you have not kissed me, embraced me, undressed me. I have yet to feel your hands and lips caress me.”

As much as I wanted to draw closer to him, I could not bring myself to cross the few feet that separated us. Everything I had said or done, or failed to do, had only driven him further away from me.

“I am tired of waiting,” he said at last. “Since you do not want to do anything on your own, I will prompt you. First, I want a good look at you. Hurry now.”

He watched me undress. He remained seated on the bed in silence, showing no emotion. It cost me great effort to remove each article of clothing under his eye. At last I was down to my chemise. I looked up at him.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “This is not good enough. I want to see you standing naked before me.”

I took a deep breath and slipped the chemise over my head. I could not meet his eye.

“There is no need to be shy,” he continued. “You are beautiful like this. Come here.”

He reached for my wrist and made me sit in his lap. He slowly explored my breasts, my stomach, the inside of my thighs with his fingers. I kept my eyes on his hands, larger than any I had seen, dark against my skin. He encircled my waist with both of them.

“Stop shaking,” he said. “I will not hurt you. I want only to
have
you, as you say, more thoroughly than any man ever had you. Nothing worse.”

Pierre-André kissed me deeply, deliberately, as he had done the first time by the river, years earlier. The memory of that day rushed to me, so vivid that it was real. I could sense the heat of that June afternoon under the shade of the little wood. I was astonished to feel the same emotions anew. I kissed him back, hungry for him.

At fifteen I had not feared him. I had lain on the pebble bank by the Cère River, ready to let him take me. I had trusted him. I had loved him. He had loved me too, I was sure of it. I was also sure that he would have me arrested in the morning. I no longer cared. We were united again. The past and present were one. The future did not exist beyond the next few hours.

I wrapped my arms around his chest and rested my head against his neck. My lips caressed the smooth skin there, then moved up to rub against the roughness of his chin and cheek, and down again to feel the firmness of the muscles under the open collar of his shirt. He seized my head between his hands and kissed me more urgently.

“Now,” he said.

“Oh yes, now.”

He laid me down gently on the bed and, keeping his eyes fixed on me, rose to undress.

Naked, he looked still taller and stronger. The breadth of his torso tapered to a slender, muscular waist. His body was the same copper colour as his face and hands, with a narrow line of black hair running down the middle of his chest and stomach.

His arms closed around me. I was his. The promise made and breached years ago was fulfilled. His passion became mine. Through the night I clung to him as to life itself, to the last hours of my freedom, so few, so brief, so precious.

At last, Pierre-André drifted off. I watched him, fighting sleep as long as I could. Time was slipping through my fingers. I too must have dozed. He was shaking me by the shoulder. There was a faint hint of dawn in the sky. It was all over. Now that the time had come to be brave, fear had returned, like a fist in my stomach. I huddled against him, my eyes closed, to steal a few more moments of warmth and safety.

“Oh, please,” I whispered, “not yet.”

He shook me again, more forcefully. “Gabrielle, enough of this. I have to go. Awaken if you still want me to help you.”

“What did you say?” I asked, startled.

“Did you not hear me?”

“I cannot believe it.”

“You are wrong. I mean it.”

“How will I ever repay you?”

He looked at me coldly. “You already did. I took you with great pleasure and will leave you without any regret. I do not need your gratitude, Gabrielle. After today, I want nothing more to do with you. Do you promise never, for any reason, to seek me again?”

“I do.”

“It is half past five now. I arrive at the Courthouse at seven and do not want to change my habits today. I need to go to my lodgings first. I will meet you in an hour in front of your Section. Be on time, because I will not wait a moment longer.”

He rose, poured water from the ewer into the basin and washed briefly. He ran his hands on his face, gathered his clothes and proceeded to dress. I did the same. I had put on my stockings and was tying my garters. They were the ones I had embroidered a few years earlier with forget-me-nots and a
G
crowned by a Baron’s coronet. Pierre-André, tying his cravat, was looking at them.

“Show me your garters,” he said.

I handed him one of them. He ran his forefinger on the monogram and coronet.

“Has it occurred to you that you could be searched if you were arrested? How would you explain this, Citizen Labro? Give me the other one.”

He put them both in his waistcoat pocket. I tied on plain black garters.

“Should you have any other things emblazoned with this kind of aristocratic rubbish,” he said, “now is the time to discard them. It makes no sense for me to take risks on your account if you do not pay attention to your own safety.”

“You are right. I will be careful.”

“I am starving,” he said. “Let me have some bacon and eggs before I leave.”

Meat and eggs were beyond my means. I now bought the cheapest bread, a brownish mixture of corn, oats, potatoes and, according to some, sawdust.

“I have only river water and bread to offer you,” I said, “but if you wait a minute, I will run downstairs to buy something better at the inn.”

Pierre-André glanced at the half-loaf on the table. “No, thank you. I have no time to waste. I will have breakfast at the Courthouse.” He looked around. “Do you intend to stay in this hovel? There is no fireplace and it is right under the eaves. You will catch your death here this winter, especially if you do not eat properly.”

“This is all I can afford until I can sell my diamonds. Even living like this, I will see the end of my savings before long.”

I regretted these words as soon as I saw him search his pockets. He found an
assignat
of fifty francs, which he left on the nightstand. I took his hand in both of mine and pressed it to my cheek and lips. He withdrew it.

“I told you I do not want your gratitude,” he said. “Use the money to buy decent food. Half past six in front of your Section.”