Mistress of the Revolution (50 page)

LONDON, THIS 15TH OF APRIL 1815

I just had a terrible dispute with Edmond Levassor, Viscount Morton. Although I should not speak of my own son in this manner, he is the most handsome man I have ever seen. He has my colouring, only his hair is a darker shade of red, between mine and that of Hélène. He has inherited his father’s height and build, along with an aquiline nose and, I am afraid, a rather quick temper.

We received momentous news from the Continent: Napoléon Bonaparte has escaped his golden cage on the Island of Elba and landed in the south of France. Cities and entire regiments along his path have rallied to him. King Louis the Eighteenth has packed his trunks in haste and again fled abroad. Bonaparte has now reached Paris and settled in the Palace of the Tuileries. The war, that interminable war started in 1792, twenty-three years ago, has once more resumed. England is leading all of Europe in a coalition against France.

Edmond says that he wants to join the British armies. It is out of the question. No son of mine shall take arms against France, even when she is again in the grip of a dictator. Things did not go well. Edmond reminded me that he is, after all, half-English. He is twenty. Is he old enough, is he wise enough to understand the truth? Should I show him this memoir? Heaven help me, what is he going to think of me?

Time presses. I must resume my narrative.

After I finished my work at the theatre, Aimée would take her doll Margaret and me for walks in the Luxembourg gardens. Patriotic concerts there celebrated the victories of the soldiers of the Republic. We listened to the rousing accents of
La Marseillaise
and other patriotic airs, accompanied by fifes and drums. At that time, in 1794, the tide of war had turned in favour of France. The enemy was defeated on all fronts. Not only was the Nation freed from foreign invasion, but our armies occupied the former Austrian Netherlands and northern Italy.

During one of our walks, we found the aspect of the Luxembourg much altered. Throngs of workmen were digging out all of the lawns and flower beds. Astonished, I asked a guard what was happening.

“Orders of the Municipality,” he said. “Citizen Chaumette’s decided that there’s no room for flowers in the gardens of the Nation when patriots lack bread. They’re going to plant potatoes to feed the people.”

Within weeks the Luxembourg and all other public gardens in Paris were covered with neat rows of potatoes. I am in no way adverse to that plant, but found the monotony of the landscape oppressive. Even the walkways had been narrowed to give way to Chaumette’s agricultural zeal. I wondered what the Countess de Provence, who had been so proud of her vegetable garden, would have thought of these changes to her former residence. The Luxembourg Palace itself had become a prison.

Chaumette did not stop at half-measures. Our friend the guard, who always had candy in his pocket for Aimée, informed us that the beautiful old trees were to be pulled out.

“They make too much shade for the potatoes,” he said.

I stared at him. “But this is appalling. The flowers and lawns can easily be seeded again, but it will take decades to replace the trees.”

“Well, maybe, Citizen, but I’m not going to say anything about it. You should keep your opinion to yourself too.”

That night I asked Pierre-André about it.

“Chaumette and Hébert, those rabble-rousers, are responsible for this,” he said. “Those two hold crucial functions at the Municipality now. And Hébert uses his disgusting
Père Duchesne
rag to inflame the populace and aggrandize himself. As if a few acres of potatoes were going to alleviate the food shortages! Pure, outrageous demagoguery. And it is not their worst provocation. I am as fond of the trees of Paris as you are, but Chaumette has another idea:
cleansing
the capital of its harlots. He wants to send them to the Revolutionary Tribunal, because, he says, they harm the Nation by depraving the morals of the people.” Pierre-André shook his head. “As if, with foreign and civil wars raging, and all of the real conspiracies afoot to destroy the Republic, we had time to try the 30,000 harlots found in the city. I, for one, fail to see why they should be sent to the guillotine. All of that animosity towards those poor women reeks of buggery. Add to that the Goddess Reason tomfoolery, and you will see that Hébert and Chaumette are intent on disgracing the Revolution. They use their functions to pander to the most ignorant segments of the people. Robespierre cannot tolerate this much longer. If we do not take control of the Municipality, we are going to see much worse.”

Within days, Hébert was arrested and stood trial before the Revolutionary Tribunal for conspiracy against the Republic. Pierre-André was put in charge of the questioning of the accused and his nineteen co-defendants.

“By the time I was done with Hébert,” he said, “the case was all but over. I know how to conduct the interrogation of scoundrels of that ilk. He looked stunned to find himself on the accused’s seat, and still more so to face an old acquaintance like me as his judge. He could only stammer. Later, at trial, all he did was to stare blankly and respond by
yes
or
no
to the questions. He barely presented any defense.”

Indeed all but one of the co-defendants were found guilty. Hébert, the idol of the
sans-culottes
, went to the guillotine. I expected the Parisians to rise in support of a man who had been so popular, but all remained quiet. Chaumette followed a few days later. The trees of Paris were saved
in extremis
by his demise.

After Hébert’s execution, Robespierre was able to strike his more moderate enemies, those who, like Danton, demanded an end to the Terror. Danton, notorious for taking bribes, was an easy target for a criminal prosecution. He, along with his main allies, was also tried before the Revolutionary Tribunal for corruption, found guilty and guillotined.

The Municipality was now deprived of Chaumette, its National Agent, and Hébert, his chief ally. Robespierre had achieved a major victory in defeating his extremist enemies. He could now replace Hébert’s friends at the Municipality with his own. Pierre-André recommended one of the jurors of the Tribunal, Claude-François de Payan, for the function of National Agent.

“Payan is a
ci-devant
nobleman,” Pierre-André said. “Yet he is a true patriot, one of our most solid jurors. He is only twenty-seven, but he will be able to handle the function of National Agent. It was offered to me, but I can be more useful at the Tribunal. It is not always a pleasant function, but someone has to exercise it, and forcefully. In any event, I will not leave the Municipality. I will remain a member of the Council General and keep things in line there.”

So Robespierre now controlled the Municipality of Paris through a group of men who were, and would remain till the end, entirely devoted to him.

More changes occurred at the Tribunal itself. Dumas, a staunch Jacobin, was promoted to the function of President and Pierre-André to that of Vice President, each in charge of one of the two Sections. His position in the new regime was becoming more prominent.

I had become Charlotte’s friend at the theatre. She confided in me her liaisons with various characters and her many grievances against Granger. He was not, she complained, much of an athlete in bed nor did he know how to set off her talents as an actress at the theatre. She was not shy about disclosing the tastes and peculiarities of her past and current lovers.

“What about your late husband?” she once asked. “You never mention him.”

“He was not as entertaining as your suitors.”

“He mustn’t have made much of an impression on you.”

“Quite the contrary. He used to beat me without mercy.”

“That’s unfortunate. Still it’s no reason not to remarry. Most husbands are better behaved. And then marital authority has been abolished now. They can’t order you around anymore. And if you’re plagued by a brute, it’s easy to obtain a divorce these days. You don’t even need a reason.”

“You may be right, dear, but I am content with my current situation.”

I often wondered whether Charlotte would reveal anything concerning Pierre-André, but she never mentioned him, maybe for fear of compromising him. I trusted his assurance that their liaison had ceased years earlier, but would have liked to know how he behaved with other women.

My conversations with Charlotte were always abruptly interrupted whenever Granger entered the room, for they often revolved around him. He seemed to guess it and looked none too happy about it.

“Citizen Labro,” he said one day, “I need to talk to you in my office. Without your daughter, please.”

I left Aimée with Charlotte and followed him with some reluctance.

“Have a seat, Citizen, have a seat,” he said. “We are between friends here, are we not? There is no occasion for you to fret. Do you know that Julie is leaving us for the
Théâtre des Variétés
?”

“This is the first I hear of it. She did not confide in me. I hope that you will be able to find a replacement shortly for the part of Annette in
The Lovesick Shepherd
. We can use the costumes she wore in
Lisbeth’s Cottage
, but I may have to alter them on short notice.”

Granger smiled. “I would not worry about that. I believe I have already found her replacement.”

He was clearly waiting for me to ask who it was. I remained mute.

“You should not limit your ambitions to sewing, my pretty,” he continued, rising from his chair. He stood before me, the buttons of his breeches level with my face.

I looked away. “Indeed, Citizen Granger, I cannot think of anything else I could do here.”

“What about acting, little goose?”

“I am flattered by your offer, but I am sure I have no talent at all for it.”

“How do you know if you do not try?”

“I have always been told that I am a poor liar.”

“What does it have to do with acting? And even if you were the worst actress in town, how would it matter? This is not the
Théâtre-Frauçais
. People come here to see a pretty face, and yours is lovely enough to make them forget their troubles.”

He shrugged. “As if they cared about acting! In fact, it is a crime to hide as you do in the wings. Everyone should be allowed a good look at your charming person. Now that Julie has left, I cannot think of a better Annette than you. I saw you attend the rehearsals of
The Lovesick Shepherd
. You must know her lines by heart already.”

“I cannot thank you enough for your kindness, Citizen Granger,” I said, rising out of my chair, “but I have to decline. I cannot act, I am quite sure of it.”

He was no longer smiling. “Am I hearing you correctly? You, a little nobody, are refusing a part for which any actress in Paris would kill? Are you out of your senses?”

I shook my head. “Please do not insist, Sir, I mean Citizen. I feel quite unequal to it.”

A smile returned to his face. “All right, I understand. Poor little dear, I know you are shy. Do not worry, I will help you. I will be very good to you if you will let me.”

He put his arm around my shoulders and tried to kiss me. I turned away and pushed him back. “What are you doing, Citizen Granger?”

“What am I doing?” He paused, glaring at me. “What about you? I saw you befriend Lacoste, that miserable old debris I keep solely out of pity. I have seen how he leers at you. Yet it does not disgust you, does it? Maybe it is because you are an aristocrat too.”

He caught me by the arm. “Yes, my pretty, do you think I have not noticed those airs you give yourself ?”

I shook him loose. “Leave me alone. I am not interested in acting. I am a seamstress.”

“A seamstress! Tell a wooden horse that story and you will receive a kick. And now you refuse a part in one of my plays! You refuse me! I am not good enough for you, am I? And my theatre is not good enough for you either, perhaps? Your Ladyship was accustomed to something grander. Maybe you used to play in Versailles with the late Widow Capet.” He was almost spitting. “Dirty little bitch! Harlot! Aristocrat!”

I fled, pursued by a stream of insults and profanity. In my retreat, I ran into Charlotte.

“What’s the matter, Gabrielle?” she asked. “What have you done to Granger?”

“You should ask what he has done to me,” I said, catching my breath. “He offered me a part in
The Lovesick Shepard
and propositioned me.”

“To tell you the truth, I am surprised that he waited so long.” She smiled. “What did you expect, Gabrielle, when he hired you? You should give it some consideration.”

“Certainly not.”

“But you will never become an actress if you act like a simpleton. How do you think I started in this business?”

“It was different, Charlotte.
You
wanted to become an actress. I do not. In fact, I believe that I will not return here at all tomorrow.”

“You can’t be serious.” She frowned. “How are you going to live?”

“Do not worry for me, Charlotte.”

“Let me at least lend you fifty francs. You will repay me when you can.”

I took her hands in mine and kissed her. “You are very good, dear Charlotte, but I will be fine.”

I usually left the theatre early in the afternoon, before the matinee audience arrived, but that day I decided not to tarry. I had put on my mantle and taken Aimée’s hand in mine when I heard a commotion at the entrance to the theatre. I peeked from behind a door. Lacoste, one hand resting on his chest, his other arm raised to the heavens, was making a speech to a group of unknown men. I heard him declaiming at the top of his voice about “the immortal principles of liberty and equality.” The men roughly pushed him aside. I seized Aimée’s hand and ran to Charlotte’s dressing room, where she was putting on her rouge.

“Oh, dear,” I said, “I am going to be arrested.”

She dropped her powder puff. “You, arrested? But why?”

“I saw Lacoste trying to stop a group of men. They must be the police. They are coming for me. Can you do me a great favour?”

“Of course.”

“I cannot escape with Aimée. Would you take care of her until this matter is cleared?”

“Of course, but what’s happening?”

“There is another thing, Charlotte, a very important thing. You know Citizen Coffinhal, the judge. Tell him of my arrest. Immediately. Please do not forget.”

Aimée was listening to me, her mouth open, tears in her eyes. She was holding fast to her doll. I kissed her in haste and ran towards the public’s entrance. Two men were posted there. I slipped behind the stage, where the sets were kept. I remained in hiding among the painted villages with their sunny skies, quaint cottages and grazing sheep. I wanted to wait until the start of the matinee, when I hoped to mingle with the public. I was crouching, my heart beating so hard that it felt like jumping out of my chest. I heard male voices.

“There she is,” cried one of them. “Catch her.”

The men were on my heels. I was fleet of foot with the laced shoes I now wore and I ran towards the artists’ entrance. Two other men were waiting there. I turned around. They chased me and one of them caught me in his arms. He called the others to the rescue. Enraged, I let out a shriek. He put his hand on my mouth. I bit him with all the strength I could muster while kicking his comrade in the shins. I resisted until one of the fellows managed to seize my hands and tie them behind my back with his handkerchief. Apparently they had not deemed it necessary to bring shackles. Once I was bound, the man I had bitten slapped me. I was shoved into a waiting hackney.

The men took me to the Section of the City. Shackles were fetched to replace the handkerchief, but they were too large and would have slipped off my wrists. The man I had bitten held my hands behind my back while another bound them tightly with the end of a rope. I winced as it cut into my skin.

“There,” he said, “this way you won’t try to escape again. You must have much to hide to be so desperate to slip away. I’d be surprised if before long you did not dance a little jig on the Place de la Revolution.”

That was the name of the former Place Louis the Fifteenth, where the guillotine now stood. Earlier, the grim machine had been taken apart after each execution. Now it was simply covered with a waxed cloth when it was not in use, both for convenience and to serve as a grim reminder of the fate that awaited the enemies of the Republic.

“I will be acquitted,” I said. “There are no actionable charges against me.”

“
No actionable charges
, eh? Listen to the way you talk. You were reported as an aristocrat and an illegally returned émigrée.”

“That is not true. I have never left France in my entire life.”

I was led by the rope, like an animal on a tether, into the next room. There several prisoners, all male, were waiting to be interrogated. One of them, seated on a bench close to the fireplace, rose and offered me his place. Four guards, smoking their pipes and drinking wine, were watching us. I sat down, enjoying the warmth of the hearth. Yet my wrists were hurting under the bite of the rope and my hands were becoming numb.

“We could untie her,” said one of the guards, pointing at me. “She’s the only one here who’s bound.”

“She resisted arrest,” said another. “She even bit one of the officers. Mark my words, she’s going to try and run away again. If the little bitch escapes on our watch, we’ll be the ones with an assignation with Saint Guillotine.”

“Please, Citizen,” I said, “there are too many of you for me to escape now, and I am too tired and hungry to even think of it. And I would never repay any kindness of yours by causing trouble for you or your comrades.”

The first guard, over the other’s renewed objections, drew a knife from his pocket, walked to me and cut the rope. I massaged my wrists. He then brought me a plate of ham and eggs, with a beaker of water mixed with wine. I looked up and thanked him. It was several hours before I was called before the Revolutionary Committee of the Section, which held its sessions in the adjoining room.

My questioning did not elicit any new information. I denied everything. I was ordered to empty my pockets. Their contents, consisting of my Civic Certificate, a handkerchief, an
assignat
of ten francs, a lead pencil, a needle case, a thimble, some thread and a mother-of-pearl rosary, were inventoried before me by the president of the Committee.

“Look at this,” he said, showing the beads to another man, “she’s a fanatic.” Then, turning to me: “All of this will be put in a sealed envelope. It’ll be delivered to the clerk when you arrive in jail, and opened in your presence before the Revolutionary Tribunal.”