Mistress of the Revolution (47 page)

Under the Girondin government, the Nation was in shambles. The people lacked bread. The armies of the Republic were defeated. France was racked by civil war; the Prussians and Austrians on the eastern front threatened Paris. The Girondins hated the capital and the power of its Municipality. One of their leaders went so far as to publicly threaten the city with “annihilation.”

On the 22nd of June 1793, the Sections of Paris, inflamed by such language, marched on the Convention with the support of the National Guard, led by General Hanriot. Under the threat of Hanriot’s cannons, the Representatives voted to arrest their Girondin colleagues. The Jacobins, headed by Robespierre, took control of the National Convention. The former ministries were replaced by various Committees composed of Representatives. The most powerful was the Committee of Public Salvation, responsible for all matters concerning the survival of the Nation. It was led by Robespierre and his allies. The next in importance was the Committee of General Safety, in charge of the police.

The Jacobins inherited a disastrous situation. It was doubtful that France could survive as one Nation. Whenever I heard or read the phrase “The Republic, One and Indivisible,” I was reminded of the dangers faced by my unfortunate country, which traitors wanted crushed and divided. It was a time of national emergency. The mood was somber.

It became mandatory for all theatres to play patriotic works at least three times a week for the edification of the people. These shows were paid for by the Municipality and free of charge to the public. At the
Théâtre du Marais
, they attracted a more vocal, more poorly dressed crowd than the other nights, mostly
sans-culottes
and their women.

At first, Granger had set his sights upon a play titled
The Pope in Hell
. Charlotte had been given the part of a nun who, after spurning the offers of the Holy Father, threw her habit by the wayside to marry a virtuous patriot. The play had been cleared for public representation by the Municipality, but was soon withdrawn without any explanation in spite of its warm reception by the audience. I was not sorry to see the
Pope
fall into oblivion for I had hated sewing nun’s garments for Charlotte. Apart from the disrespect to the habit, they reminded me of Hélène. The château of Lalande, where she had for a while taken refuge, had changed hands several times in the course of the hostilities before being set ablaze by the Republican troops. Even Pierre-André, whom I had beseeched to try and save my sister, had been unable to find any trace of her.

At the theatre,
The Pope in Hell
was replaced by
The Crimes of the Nobility
, a work of similar literary merit. Charlotte now played a shepherdess whose father had been hanged under the Old Regime, thanks to fraudulent charges filed by the Marquis de la Turpitude. The Marquis had unspeakable designs on Charlotte, eventually thwarted by her rustic suitor. The denouement consisted in the thrashing of the Marquis by his former vassals. The audience gave a standing ovation and proceeded to sing in unison
Ah ça ira
, “Ah it’ll do”:

The song hit close to home. I shuddered.

I complained to Lacoste of the new repertoire.

“Agreed,” he said, “the plays are not very good.”

“Not very good? They are dreadful.”

“From a literary standpoint, yes, but that is not what matters. They educate the people, they expose the impostures of religion. You have no idea, dear Citizen Labro, how strong the prejudices bred by superstition and fanaticism still are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look no further than the relations between the sexes. It is clear that all women belong to all men.”

“No, it is not clear to me at all. I have the good fortune to belong to no one.”

“It is wrong, my dear, very wrong. You ought to belong to any man who wants you.”

I raised my eyebrow.

“Yes,” he continued. “You forget, dear Citizen, that we are all born free and equal in rights.”

“What has it to do with me belonging to any man who wants me? Since I am free, I belong to no one but myself.”

“Oh, but we are not talking about the liberty of women here. What matters is equality between men. If you allege your liking for one man to decline the proposals of another, you violate the principle of equality.”

“Nonsense. I need not allege anything to decline anyone’s attentions. Do you really believe then that a woman has not only the right, but the duty to give herself to any man who requests her favours?”

“Absolutely, my dear.”

“What kind of liberty would I enjoy, if I could not use it to tell a man I dislike to go to hell?”

“Ah, but you would not do so for the sake of liberty. You would do it out of modesty. That despicable feeling is not found in nature. Look around: animals are not modest.”

“Maybe not, but we are not animals. Your opinions, Citizen Lacoste, reflect the most absolute contempt for the rights of women.”

“Women must not be selfish. They should subject themselves to the wishes of any man who fancies them. If I had my way, the law would establish houses of prostitution where any man could summon, by force if need be, any woman he likes to satisfy his wishes. I further contend that such rule should apply regardless of the age of the woman.”

I stared at him. “Even if she were a child?”

“Even so. Even is she were the man’s daughter or sister.”

“So you are a proponent of incest?”

“Absolutely, if a man wishes to practice it. One of the greatest achievements of the Revolution is the abolition of all so-called religious crimes, such as incest, sodomy, blasphemy and adultery. Marriage, in my opinion, should be outlawed. It is nothing but a form of servitude.”

“This is the only point on which we agree. One thing you should know. If such a system as the one you advocate were in effect to allow any woman to summon any man anywhere, I would never avail myself of it with regard to you.”

He laughed. “So I feared, my dear. That is why it would be far better the other way around.”

I doubted that Lacoste would have put his ideas into practice and found his opinions outrageous enough to be entertaining. I nevertheless made sure Aimée never strayed close to him. Maybe the sole reason why I tolerated, and even enjoyed the company of the
ci-devant
Marquis de Lacoste was that his manners faintly reminded me of the graceful world of the Old Regime, now departed beyond any hope of return.

Lacoste never made improper gestures towards me. I was less at ease with Granger, the manager, who never missed an opportunity to bend over my shoulder while I was sewing.

“What fine stitches you make, Citizen,” he would say. “And you have the prettiest hands I have ever seen in a seamstress.”

In the beginning, I would sew in an attic above the stage. I soon had to abandon that retreat because Granger posted himself under a small corkscrew staircase leading to it whenever I climbed there, no doubt to look under my skirts. I took to working in the wings, which afforded me both a view of the rehearsals and the protection of the actors against Granger’s attentions. Aimée, with her beloved Margaret in tow, always accompanied me. She was a quiet child, absorbed by her lessons, and friendly to everyone. After a while, I taught her to sew and she began to help me with the easier parts of my task. She became quite a favourite with Charlotte, who had no children of her own, and indeed with the rest of the troupe.

Whenever I speak to my English friends of my homesickness, they seem to imagine that it is a general feeling of loss. They are novices in terms of bereavement. To me, homesickness is the recurrence, without warning or apparent reason, of a precise image of my country. It changes from time to time. These days, the figure of Notre-Dame with its flying buttresses, both massive and graceful, keeps appearing.

The ancient cathedral, which stood no more than a hundred yards from our lodgings, dominated our part of the Island of the City. In the beginning of our stay there, Aimée and I had without incident attended Mass at Notre-Dame. It had seemed safe enough since it was served by sworn clergy. However, a few months later, I heard in the middle of the service the braying of a jackass. The congregation froze. The liturgy stopped. A group of
sans-culottes
was leading the poor animal, a bishop’s mitre on its head, priestly vestments on its back, down the aisle. My first impulse was to run, but I did not wish to attract attention by too hasty a retreat. The intruders reached the master altar, singing lewd songs at the top of their lungs. One of them, pushing the priest aside, drank the communion wine, unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself in the chalice. I covered Aimée’s eyes and resolved to no longer attend Mass. In any event, the cathedral was soon closed to the Catholic faith and dedicated solely to the meetings of patriotic societies.

Certain members of the Municipality seemed intent on restoring some kind of religious activity to the venerable building. One afternoon, while I was walking home from the theatre, I heard cheers coming from Notre-Dame. I headed cautiously in that direction, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. The crowd, although loud, seemed in a friendly mood. I saw a man wearing the distinctive trousers, short jacket and red hat of the
sans-culottes
. He was leading a buxom young woman, crowned with artificial flowers and clad in a Greek drapery girded by a tricolour sash, towards the doors of the cathedral. Hébert, who had presided over my trial at La Force, walked next to them. Behind came a procession of equally comely girls, all attired in the same manner, followed by a large group of men.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked a woman next to me. “I did not know they still had weddings at Notre-Dame. The bride is pretty.”

“You dullard,” she answered, shrugging, “it’s no wedding. The man there is Chaumette, the National Agent of the Municipality of Paris. And the citizen with him is no bride. She’s the Goddess Reason. She’s being installed in her Temple now that the blessed-asses have been expelled. And here’s Hébert walking behind them.”

I almost remarked that the Goddess looked like a regular mortal, maybe even like an actress or dancer, but did not wish to be accused of sacrilege towards the new divinity. Afraid that Hébert might recognize me, I left without witnessing the installation of the Goddess Reason in Notre-Dame.

I related the ceremony to Pierre-André the same night.

“I know,” he said. “As a member of the Municipality, I was asked to attend that farce. I excused myself on the grounds that I could not be spared at the Tribunal. Robespierre is utterly disgusted. He thinks, and rightly so, that Hébert’s Goddess Reason rubbish is nothing but thinly veiled atheism.”

“But how is Hébert to be stopped? Every
sans-culotte
reads the
Père Duchesne
, or hears it read aloud. Also, along with Chaumette, Hébert controls the Municipality.”

“Not for long. The scoundrel’s days are numbered. I have been asked to denounce atheism as an aristocratic doctrine at the Jacobins Club. I would be surprised if Hébert’s friends did not raise an uproar during that speech. Robespierre needs someone who can make himself heard in spite of the racket. He is a great man but, as you know, he has not much of a voice.”

The appearance of churches was to be further altered. The National Convention passed a law mandating the destruction of all tombs and funeral monuments located within churches. I remembered the crypt under the chapel of Cénac where my son’s coffin had been laid to rest. I could not chase from my mind the image of the tiny white box I had seen there during my husband’s funeral. Now the idea of the profanation of his resting place tore at me. I paced the room, unable to find any peace. Aimée was watching me with uncomprehending eyes. After I put her to bed, I was overcome by sorrow.

When Pierre-André joined me that night, I was lying on my bed, fully dressed, sobbing so hard that, in spite of my efforts, I could not utter a word. He looked at me in silence, went to the kitchen and returned with a wet towel, which he applied to my face. He sat next to me and stroked my hair. My breathing slowed down. I took his hand in both of mine.

“Will you please tell me what this is about?” he asked.

“Do you know about the new law?”

“Which one?”

“The one that orders the destruction of all the tombs in churches.”

“So this is what is upsetting you so. I thought that at least half of your family had been arrested. What is the matter?”

“The tombs of the Peyre family in Cénac will be desecrated. Your brother Jean-Baptiste, since he is
Procureur-Syndic
of the
Département
, could stop it if you asked him. Please.”

“There is no need to ask him. Jean-Baptiste is a reasonable man. He knows that this measure targets the royal burials at Saint-Denis.” Pierre-André frowned. “I did not imagine that the fate of your late husband’s remains bothered you so.”

I started crying again. “It is not about him,” I said. “I cannot bear the idea of my son’s bones, so little that they must already be reduced to dust, thrown away like rubbish.”

“Your son? I never knew that you had a son.”

I told Pierre-André of my second lying-in. His jaw tightened. “I should never have let you fall into the hands of that beast. I failed you. I should have prevented your marriage, if I had to crush Peyre’s skull with my bare hands.”

“But you would have died too. I know that, even now, you are still angry over my marriage. Yet all I wanted was to save you. You must believe me; you must forgive me at last.”

Still seated on the bed, he raised me from the pillow and took me in his arms. “I believe you, Gabrielle, and I have long forgiven you. I am not even sure that there was anything to forgive. What could you have done differently, my poor love, at fifteen? What I cannot fathom is your brother’s rage to separate us, when he knew that I adored you. And why? To condone the violation of his sister, of a girl barely out of childhood, by a drunken brute. All that misery because I had the misfortune to be a commoner.”

I found the courage to utter the question I had wanted to ask many times before. “What about Villers? Have you also forgiven me for Villers? I should have sought you when I came to Paris, but I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you. Through my brothers, I had learned of your arrival in Paris and knew that you lived with the Duchess d’Arpajon. For months, I kept hoping for a visit, a letter, any sign that you still cared for me. Instead I heard that you had become a kept woman.” He shook his head. “It grieved me as if I had learned of your death. I could not reconcile it with the memory I had kept of you. You were delightful when I met you by the river, Gabrielle. At fifteen, you were unspoiled, fearless, sparkling with intelligence, and also the prettiest girl I had ever seen. And a few years later, you let Villers turn you into a courtesan. How could you do such a thing?”

“I was no longer fearless when I met Villers. My marriage had robbed me of my innocence. I could not trust any man, not even you. I had not the courage to seek you.”

“And what about the night when I found you at the Champ de Mars? I expected you to call on me afterwards, and all I received was that note!”

“I too was hoping that you would call on me. Oh, Pierre-André, I wanted to see you again. I wanted it so.”

“Did you really expect me to visit you in the lodgings where that man kept you? Had you not noticed that the very sight of that place turned my stomach? And then what was I supposed to think of your little escapade to the Jacobins Club? Were you taunting me?”

“I never thought that I would see you that day. I did not mean to make you angry.”

“Truth be told, I was more puzzled than angry. I had given up making any sense of your actions. But then you came to my chambers, begging for my help after shunning me all these years. I was wondering whether you would proposition me. And you did! You had stooped so low as to peddle your favours.”

“You are right, Pierre-André,” I said, hanging my head. “You have no reason to forgive me.”

He raised my chin and looked into my eyes. “Listen, Gabrielle. I forgive you, and for good reason: I love you.”

“So you do forgive me?”

“Yes. And I will write Jean-Baptiste to ensure that the burials of the Peyre family remain untouched. Now will you please calm yourself ?” He gently pushed me down on the pillow and lay down next to me. “There,” he continued, smiling. “I even forgive you for propositioning me. In fact, I am glad you did.”

I huddled against him. His words had dissipated the misery of that day, of all those years spent apart.

The royal tombs in Saint-Denis were indeed opened and the bodies of the Kings since Dagobert in the 6th century thrown into a pit dug next to the Basilica. Many noble burials throughout the country met with the same fate. Yet my late husband and elder son still rest in the crypt of Cénac.

Some time later, attracted by unusual music, I noticed a gathering of hundreds of Negroes in front of Notre-Dame. By unanimous vote, the National Convention had just abolished slavery in all of the French colonies and territories. The Municipality had a stage built inside the cathedral to hold a celebration. I was watching from outside. Black women danced, to the sound of a kind of music I had never heard before, with both Black men and members of the Municipality. I saw the eyes of a Negress fixed on me. I looked back and, my heart beating, recognized the pretty face of Rosalie, whom I had not seen since the emigration of the Countess de Provence, almost two years earlier. Rosalie paused for a moment, considered Aimée and me, then resumed her dance. I shook my head in a brief sign of gratitude and turned around in haste. Doing or saying nothing was enough then to save another’s life.