Mistress of the Revolution (49 page)

“What about Madame de Charry?”

“She went to Brussels for a while. She is guilty of emigration. She is doomed.”

“Poor woman.”

“The law is clear, Gabrielle. Any
émigré
caught within the territory of the Republic is subject to a death sentence. I need not tell you why. The only reason for them to come back to France is to spy for the foreign powers. So spare me the expression of your pity, and listen to me for a change.”

Pierre-André grasped me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “If you are ever arrested again, I want to be informed of it immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately. I will face the consequences, whatever they may be. What I do not want is to find you without warning in my courtroom or to read your name after the fact among the list of those sent to the guillotine. The earlier I know of your arrest, the better chance I will have to help you.”

With this he pulled me close.

The Marquise de Charry was indeed found guilty of emigration and sentenced to death. Osselin escaped with a deportation sentence, which was converted to life imprisonment. Madame de Charry’s second lover, Osselin’s brother and the arresting officers were acquitted.

It was not yet six in the afternoon, an early hour for Pierre-André’s visits, when he interrupted our game of whist. To amuse Aimée, who has always been fond of cards, I had purchased a deck in the new style. The Kings had been replaced by the Genies of the Arts, War, Peace and Commerce, the Queens by the Liberties of the Press, the Professions, Marriage and Religion, all wearing tunics in the antique style. The Knaves had turned into the Equalities of Rights, Ranks, Duties and Colours, the latter represented by a Negro man holding a rifle and trampling his broken chains. There was not a crown in sight.

I rose to greet Pierre-André, who barely responded to my salutation. He was carrying a flat parcel, wrapped in the coarse canvas used for flour sacks, and did not look pleased. The size of the object, five feet in length by three in width, was familiar. My heart sank.

“Send your daughter to the other room,” he said in the Roman language.

Aimée dropped her cards and ran without waiting for me to open my mouth.

“Are you not curious to see what I brought?” he asked. “Open it.”

I reached for my scissors and with shaky hands cut the string tying the parcel. When the burlap fell to the floor, I saw myself, clad in a transparent drapery, my hair flowing down to my waist. The gilded frame bore the mention
The Baroness de Peyre
in bold black letters.

“So?” asked Pierre-André.

I hesitated. “I thought it had been destroyed.” Indeed I had hoped so.

“Is this all you have to say?”

I was standing next to the table, toying with the Liberty of Marriage. The female figure wore a drapery similar to mine in the painting, although not so sheer. The words
Modesty
and
Divorce
were printed on the card.

“I am thoroughly ashamed of it, Pierre-André. I was only eighteen at the time. I would never let myself be painted in this manner now.”

“Thank you for giving me this assurance. I already feel happier.”

“Where did you find it?”

“I was walking on Rue Honoré, past a used furniture shop full of portraits of aristocrats and other discards from the Old Regime,” he said. “Imagine my astonishment when I beheld, displayed in the middle of the window, a familiar face. Actually, more than a face, for the rest was familiar too. You had been given the place of honour. And rightly so, because I was reminded of what Romeo says of Juliet:

Of course I had to purchase this thing. I do not want a nude picture of you displayed in a shop window.”

I looked at the floor.

“Also, your name on the frame might cause you to be recognized,” he continued. “The merchant wanted two hundred francs for it. I told him that I would not pay more than fifty for the picture of a shameless little hussy. He argued, reasonably enough, that your state of undress was precisely what made this painting more valuable than the other portraits in his shop. We agreed on seventy francs. It was money well spent.” Pierre-André pointed at the picture. “Observe how the painter rendered the roundness of your breasts, the elegance of your arms and legs, the thinness of your waist. The fellow did justice to your personal advantages.”

“It was Madame Lebrun.”

“At least you had enough modesty not sit naked for a man. But this masterpiece must have been commissioned by one. Was it Villers?”

“Yes.”

“Did he decide how you would be painted?”

“Yes.”

“So you let him do this to you?”

I made no response.

“My hand itches,” he said, glowering, “when I think of the correction you deserve.”

I dropped the Liberty of Marriage and drew back a few paces. “Villers is no more. Please do not be jealous of the dead.”

“I am not jealous of Villers. I am speaking of
you
. And what about the living? By an unfortunate coincidence, I was reminded this morning of another of your suitors.”

I stared at him. “Whom do you mean?”

“Guess.”

“Lauzun? General Biron?” I asked after a pause.

“Exactly.”

“I am very sad. I read about his arrest, but did not know that his case was coming to trial. He was, he is my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“He never was my lover.”

“You must have been the only woman at Court he did not bed.”

“Perhaps. I did not keep a record of his adventures, nor did I care about them. I am telling you the truth.”

I wanted to know whether Pierre-André would sit as a judge at Lauzun’s trial but this did not seem an auspicious time to ask.

“You are dying to make some kind of request,” said Pierre-André, his eyes narrowed.

I looked at him and took a deep breath. “You made me promise not to bother you with any pleas for leniency, and I would never ask for any favours of the kind. I know how angry you are, Pierre-André. But if you are to sit as a judge at Lauzun’s trial, I beg you not to use your functions to harm him.”

“Ah! Here we are!” Pierre-André’s hands were clenched into fists. “If you must know, I was supposed to conduct his preliminary questioning, but I found an excuse not do so. I do not want anything to do with the trial of someone so closely associated with you. As to harming him, I would hardly need to do anything. It is all too clear that a General who repeatedly attempts to resign his command in wartime, as he did, is a traitor.”

I now expected my portrait to be thrown into the fire as a sacrifice to the dark god of jealousy, but Pierre-André was content to leave it standing against a wall, staring at us. I had never liked it much, but now it seemed to be mocking me. I asked his permission to cover it again with the burlap before I called Aimée to dinner.

That night, I ordered from the tavern a dish of
tripoux
, an Auvergne specialty of which Pierre-André was particularly fond, and a bottle of his favourite Burgundy wine. I watched him from the corner of my eye during the meal. He barely said a word and did not look at me. He retired to the bedroom, a glass of wine in his hand, immediately after dinner.

I tidied the dining parlour and put Aimée to bed on the couch.

“Mama,” she asked, fighting tears, “is Citizen Pierre-André angry with you?”

“No, dearest, he is only upset over that painting he brought here.”

“Is he going to hurt you?”

“Of course not. He is a kind man.”

I caressed her forehead and kissed her good night.

I was in no hurry to face Pierre-André’s wrath, but had to confront the consequences of my past actions. Mustering my courage, I opened the door to the bedroom. He was seated cross-legged on the carpet in front of the hearth, staring into the fire. One of his large hands supported his chin while the other rested on his knee. I wondered how fiercely they were itching. Still worse than the fear of his anger was the thought that I had incurred his contempt or even lost his affections. I approached slowly and knelt before him.

“You may beat me, Pierre-André. I hope you will forgive me afterwards.”

“Come here,” he said, reaching for the back of my neck. I stiffened. To my astonishment, he drew me close. “Gabrielle, I told you already that I have forgiven you. True, at first I was a bit upset at finding a nude portrait of you publicly displayed.” He smiled. “Now that the thing is no longer taunting me from a shop window, I might even take a liking to it.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, tears of relief and gratitude spilling over.

“You are silly,” he said. “Do you not know that I love you?”

He left early the next morning, the painting under his arm.

A week later, after a two-day trial, Lauzun was found guilty of having “left his armies in idleness” and sentenced to death. He was to be guillotined on the very last day of 1793. I could not let an old friend die without taking leave of him. Although I had never before attended any execution since the inception of the guillotine, I waited in the bitter cold at the corner of the Pont-Neuf, on the Right Bank of the river, and watched the cart, drawn by two large white horses, approach. Lauzun was alone on it, still handsome in spite of his now heavier features and greying hair. It had been shortened on the nape and the collar of his shirt cut off to facilitate the operation of the guillotine. He looked tired and bored. As the cart turned into the Rue Saint-Honoré, now Rue Honoré, he saw me and sat up. He smiled at me. A moment later, he closed his eyes, out of sadness or because he wanted to keep one image on his mind for the rest of his life.

I walked slowly home. I remembered the premiere of
Tarare
at the Opera, six years earlier. Villers had died at the Palace on the 10th of August. The Duke d’Orléans had been guillotined in November. And now, of the three men I had met that night, none remained alive.

One day in February of 1794, Pierre-André arrived at my lodgings and embraced me without saying a word. He sat down and took me in his lap. I immediately thought of the Osselin affair.

“What is it?” I asked, looking into his eyes. “You are in trouble because of me. Are you going to be arrested?”

He shook his head. “Thank you for thinking of me first, my beloved. No, it has nothing to do with me.”

“Has something happened to my brother?”

“Confound your brother. He is fine, and will outlive both of us. No, this concerns your sister Hélène.”

I closed my eyes. I had begged Pierre-André to find a trace of her, and now that he had done so, I did not want to hear his news.

“Oh, no,” I moaned. “She is dead.”

Pierre-André remained silent for a moment.

“Yes,” he said at last, “it does seem that she is.”

I sobbed while he rocked me like a sick child. At last I asked: “How did she die? She was killed, was she not?”

“You know Carrier, of course. He was sent to Nantes as a Representative in Mission.”

“Yes, I read about it. I remember him from the time when he was the Baron’s attorney.”

“Apparently he remembers your family too. I did not tell you of this earlier, Gabrielle, because I did not want to worry you for nothing if it happened not to be true. Carrier is an excellent administrator. Thanks to his skills, neither Nantes nor the Republican army have lacked food, in the middle of a civil war, no less. His military decisions have been sound. The rebels now seem likely to be defeated. Yet a few weeks ago, rumours began to reach Robespierre.” Pierre-André shook his head. “They were too atrocious to be believed. Robespierre asked me what I thought of Carrier. The man is from our country, of course, but I do not know him well. He had a reputation in Aurillac for being a good attorney, but also a drunkard. That was the worst I had heard. Robespierre and I agreed that the rumours must be the kind of heinous lies the rebels spread to discredit the Republic. He nevertheless sent Jullien, in whom he has complete trust, as an envoy to Nantes to look into the veracity the stories.”

Pierre-André stroked my hair. “They were true, Gabrielle. Carrier did not believe in the Revolutionary Tribunal or the guillotine, which he found too slow, too inefficient. He had hundreds, maybe thousands of prisoners, men, women and children, some no older than twelve, drowned without trial in the Loire River. He boasted that he had killed two birds with one stone by thinking of that mode of execution: he had resolved both the overcrowding of the jails and the disposal of the bodies. Jullien brought back a list of the persons presumed drowned. I saw your sister’s name on it. Robespierre was appalled and recalled Carrier on the same day. Mark my words, the scoundrel will be put on trial; he will pay for his crimes before the year is over. Robespierre will not forgive this.”

“What happened to Hélène?”

“She was drowned.”

I looked into his eyes, trying to read the truth. “You are not telling me all.”

“I am telling you all I know for certain.”

“I have never forgotten the way in which Carrier used to look at me. What did he do to Hélène?”

“Only he can tell now.”

“I think I can guess anyway. He wanted me. Hélène was very like me, only more beautiful. What did he do to her?”

Pierre-André sighed. “That is what upset Robespierre most among the horrors we heard. The prettiest women were taken from prison and brought to Carrier. They could win a reprieve or even their freedom if they pleased him. It seems that your sister fell into his hands. She must have resisted, for she was taken to the river the next morning.”

Carrier had indeed turned into a lunatic in Nantes. He would draw his sword in front of the members of the local Revolutionary Committee and threaten to hack them to pieces with his own hand. In his calmer moments, he talked only of having them guillotined if they showed any reluctance in carrying out his orders. He plunged into drunkenness and debauchery. He had taken his concubine with him to Nantes, but that was not enough. He would, in addition to female prisoners, avail himself of the fine ladies of the aristocracy who threw themselves at his feet to beg for the lives of their husbands or fathers.

Pierre-André, although he must have known of it, did not tell me what happened to the women taken to the river. I learned later, at the time of Carrier’s trial, that the criminals he had appointed executioners would strip them naked and violate them in turn before throwing them alive, hands and feet bound, into the Loire River.
Ci-devant
noblewomen suffered additional humiliations and cruelties, which I cannot bear to describe here. The thought of Hélène’s final torments still keeps me awake at night.

Such would have been my fate had I stayed in Noirvaux with my sister. I loved her too well to abandon her in the middle of her dangers. I too would have gone from Carrier’s bed to that, cold and slimy, of the river.