Mistress of the Revolution (46 page)

One would imagine that writing is an innocent enough activity. Yet it seems to irritate some. Aimée has been watching me with some curiosity, and now my granddaughter Gabriella is bemoaning the slow pace of my progress in making a new dress for her doll.

“Now poor Janie will not have anything new to wear this spring,” she says, shaking her head sadly.

“Yes, she will, my treasure,” I say, smiling. “My late mother, just like you, used to complain bitterly about my sloth. I will make amends for it and finish Janie’s dress before Sunday. Now are you happy?”

“I have seen you write much lately, Mama,” says Aimée. “What about?”

“It is a memoir of my life during the Revolution, dear.”

“Why?”

“Why not? Writing pains me and soothes me at the same time.”

Aimée rings for a maid to take Gabriella to her governess.

“It is time for your lessons, my dear,” she says, without heeding her daughter’s protests.

Once we are alone, Aimée looks straight at me. “Why, Mama, would you want to recall those times? Are they not better forgotten?”

“I have never forgotten them, Aimée. Have you?”

“I do not want to be reminded of them. And I do not want Gabriella to know anything about them.”

“What do you remember?”

“Enough. I remember running with you through a gilded hall. You shot at a man and he tried to cut your head off with his sabre. You were covered with blood. I remember a garden strewn with naked cadavers.”

“That was at the Tuileries, on the 10th of August 1792, my dearest, just before your seventh birthday.”

“And I remember us moving to a hovel, and then moving again and again. We had to change names several times. We were always hiding, always fleeing. You were arrested before my eyes. I thought I would never see you again. Indeed, I was living with the constant dread of losing you.”

I laid aside the doll’s dress.

“It is not all,” she continues. “I remember a dark-haired man, with a deep voice. To me, he looked like a giant. He was always dressed in black. He would call at night. When he had dinner with us, I was so terrified that I could not eat a thing or say a word.” She shakes her head. “You would stop whatever you were doing when you recognized his step on the stairs. You would run to the door and throw yourself in his arms as if there were no other refuge in the world. I remember the way you looked at him. I have never seen you act in this manner with anyone else.”

Tears fill my eyes.

“When he was there,” says Aimée, “I no longer existed.”

I rise to sit by her on the sofa. “How can say such a thing, Aimée? Since you were born, your comfort and safety have been my foremost concern. I have not made a single decision in my life without thinking first of how it would affect you. True, that man you remember was, with you, all I had. He saved my life on more than one occasion. You knew it, and should have been grateful to him.”

Aimée rises and walks to the window. “What about my father? Why have you never told me anything about him?”

“I was doing you and his memory a kindness by sparing you the recital of my married life.” I sigh. “Your father is indeed mentioned in my memoir. I had not intended for you to read it, but perhaps you should. You might understand why I kept silent.”

Aimée, without leaving the window, turns towards me. “You must remain so. I do not want to know more about that other man.”

“Would you, my own daughter, presume to tell me what to do?”

Aimée looks down. “No, Madam, but I do not wish to see the past revived.”

“It is not for you to decide.”

“You are writing about my life too.”

“Maybe so, Aimée, but I will write what I want, whenever I want. It would pain me to see Gabriella and you leave, but I will not receive orders from my daughter in my own house.”

Aimée is sobbing. I walk to her and take her in my arms. She apologizes. Maybe the feelings she expresses towards Pierre-André are normal. I have long suspected that she might have been jealous of him. Aimée’s tears will not deter me from my purpose. On the contrary, there may now be another reason for me to write about the past.

On the night of the King’s execution, Pierre-André handed me an
assignat
of 100 francs.

“Buy some fabric,” he said. “I want you to rid yourself of your widow’s costume. Anyone wearing mourning will be suspected of doing so on account of Capet’s execution And you will make sure both of you pin tricolour cockades to your bonnets.”

I bought fabric, one brown with a print of small pink roses and the other pale lavender with black dots, and sewed matching dresses for Aimée and myself. I hid my hair, whenever I went out, by wearing a
coqueluchon
of the same fabric. It was a waist-long mantle with a hood, which had just become fashionable. Pierre-André was right: mourning clothes were now deemed a display of royalist sentiment. I was, in any case, happy to return to more cheerful fashions.

I was pinning the hem of one of Aimée’s new dresses when she asked: “Mama, do you think Citizen Pierre-André is a nice man?”

“Yes, I do. He is our best, our only friend now.”

“Why did not we see him before, when we lived on Rue Dominique?”

“He and I did not meet often then, but I have known him for a very long time.”

“How long?”

“I told you, Aimée, a long time.”

“Did you know him before Monsieur de Villers?”

“Yes, dear, years before.”

“Even before you married my Papa?”

I looked into Aimée’s eyes. “Yes, I knew him even before my marriage. Listen, Aimée, you are too young to understand certain things. What you need to know is that I would have gone back to jail if Citizen Pierre-André had not helped me.” I sighed. “He is also very generous to us. Without him, we would be on a bread and water diet, and only on the good days, because on the bad ones we would have nothing at all to eat. We would still be in our garret on Rue de l’Hirondelle. I remember that you did not like that place much.”

She shook her head. “No, I did not.”

“So we must not be ungrateful. We owe him everything.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

“No, my dear, I do not think so.”

“I used to think that you would marry Monsieur de Villers.”

“Did you want me to?”

“I would have liked to have a papa. I know I had one, of course, but he is dead. I do not remember him at all. Monsieur de Villers was so kind to me. He gave me Margaret. He taught me to ride. I liked being at Vaucelles or going to Normandy to visit Madame de Gouville. Perhaps he would have been still nicer if you had married him. Citizen Pierre-André never does anything with me.”

“Well, he has not much time. It does not mean that he does not like you. He does a great deal
for
you.”

“I know. Oh, Mama, I am not ungrateful. You are the best Mama that ever lived. I am very happy because now you can be with me all the time, except of course when Citizen Pierre-André is around.”

She threw her arms around my neck.

Pierre-André’s career took another turn. Some Representatives, led by Danton, had insisted on the creation of a new tribunal, modeled on that formed on the 17th of August. Its mandate was to punish swiftly and without the possibility of any appeal “those guilty of counterrevolutionary schemes against liberty, equality, the unity of the Republic, the safety of the Nation and the sovereignty of the people.” The National Convention agreed, and the Revolutionary Tribunal came into existence. Pierre-André joined the new court as a judge.

The circumstances were dire. After the victories of the autumn of 1792, the war against the Prussians and Austrians was taking a new turn for the worse. A new general-in-chief, Dumouriez, had betrayed the Nation, and, as Lafayette had done the previous summer, defected to the enemy. The whole west of France had risen against the draft of 300,000 men decreed by the National Convention to feed the armies. Civil war was now raging, with its center around Nantes. Thus a second battlefront appeared, this time on the west. It was marked by atrocities on both sides, too gruesome to be reported here. Royalist insurgents were ready to besiege Nantes, while an army of
émigrés
, supported by English ships, was rumoured to prepare to attack the city by sea. I heard again of a man I had long forgotten. Carrier, my late husband’s attorney, had been elected as a Representative for the Département of Cantal to the National Convention. The violence and passion of his speeches at the Cordeliers Club had made him famous. He was sent as a Representative in Mission to Nantes to save the city from attack and quell the rebellion.

Lauzun, after various commands on the foreign fronts in the Netherlands and Italy, had also been sent to the west to fight the insurgents. There, he clashed with Jacobin officers, especially General Rossignol, a former goldsmith, who did not like to answer to a
ci-devant
Duke. More ominously, Lauzun won the enmity of Carrier, who revoked his command and had him arrested. I still had no news from Hélène, which, under the circumstances, I could hardly equate with good news.

Although Aimée and I never lacked any necessities, thanks to Pierre-André’s generosity, I asked Manon to help me find a place. Her sister Louise had been a lace maker, but lace was no longer in fashion. Men no longer wore any. Even the ladies who could afford it did not want to make themselves conspicuous by flaunting such an aristocratic ornament. Louise had accepted a place as a dressmaker for the
Théâtre du Marais
.

“Imagine, My Lady,” she told me while I was visiting Manon in her lodgings, “having to take such work! I never thought I would stoop so low. A theatre is no place for decent people. All actors are denied a Christian funeral.”

“Not anymore. I am sure a sworn priest would give the last rites to any person, even an actor or actress, who would request them.”

“That’s what is wrong nowadays, Madam. Nobody respects anything. Thank Heaven, I’ll be rid of the theatre in a week. I gave my notice as soon as I found another place with the widow of a surgeon.”

“Does that mean that your place as a dressmaker is vacant?”

“I believe so. But you wouldn’t do anything like that, My Lady, I hope.”

“Oh, I would, Louise. I would be grateful for any respectable work that came my way.”

I had to insist long and hard before Louise agreed to introduce me to Citizen Granger, the manager of the
Théâtre du Marais
. That establishment could hardly be counted among the finest of its kind in Paris. It had achieved a measure of fame the prior year by featuring
Robert the Republican
, a play in which Princess Theresa, young and beautiful, was held prisoner in a tower, while the eponymous Robert, a drunkard and an illiterate brute, was presiding over a “tribunal of blood,” before which the supporters of the Princess were dragged. The people of Francovia, the country where those events took place, eventually freed Theresa, slaughtered Robert and restored her father, good King Ludovic, to his throne.

Needless to say,
Robert the Republican
did not meet with popular acclaim. It was booed during its premiere and failed to survive its second representation. A crowd of
sans-culottes
from the nearby Faubourg Saint-Antoine stormed the theatre, destroyed all the seats and threatened to string the Princess, along with King Ludovic, from a lamppost.

The theatre had closed for a few days. Under its new management, its repertoire was limited to romances between shepherds and shepherdesses, set in idyllic villages. The plays were now titled
Lisbeth’s Cottage
,
The Lost Clog
, and
Virtue Rewarded
.

Granger, the manager, barely glanced at the samples of my handiwork I had brought with me. “I am sure,” he said, “that a comely young citizen like you cannot fail to be a good seamstress. You are not a noblewoman, at least?”

“Of course not, Citizen Granger.” I now lied with ease.

“Good. We do not need any more trouble with the authorities. You see, we already have a
ci-devant
Marquis as a prompter. He is a good patriot, and all that, but I don’t want it said that the
Théâtre du Marais
is a den of aristocracy.”

“I am no aristocrat, Citizen Granger. On the contrary, I received a Civic Certificate from my Section.” I reached into my pocket and handed him the precious sheet of paper. He perused it and returned it to me.

“Everything seems in order, then. Can you start next week, when Citizen Picard is leaving us?”

“I would be grateful, Citizen. Would you mind if I brought my little girl along to help me? She is very quiet. I promise that she will not be in anyone’s way.”

He accepted, and I was introduced to the troupe. One of the lead actresses was Charlotte Tibaud, who had been Princess Theresa in the ill-fated
Robert the Republican
. I had no trouble recognizing in Charlotte the young woman I had seen in the company of Pierre-André in the riverside
guinguette
before the Revolution. Her hair was no longer a fiery red, but had turned blonde. This colour, I suppose, gave her the virginal allure required for her repertoire. It was no less difficult to imagine her as an ingénue than as royalty, but what she lacked in talent was more than outweighed by her personal advantages. I would soon discover that she was not shy about using the latter to forward her career. In particular it seemed to me that, in addition to allowing the attentions of a wealthy grocer and a member of the National Convention, she enjoyed a close relationship with Granger.

Her rival, in matters of the stage and of the heart, was Julie Morin, who had to be content with the parts Charlotte disdained. The other members of the cast seemed to stay for short periods of time, until they were able to secure employment in more distinguished establishments. I also met Citizen Lacoste, formerly the Marquis de Lacoste, now the prompter.

“Greetings and fraternity, beauteous young Citizen,” he said.

“A good day to you, Citizen Lacoste.”

“Congratulations. Granger did not waste any time in hiring you, I see.”

“He needed someone to replace Louise in a hurry.”

“No doubt. He must also have been impressed by your qualifications. Have you any experience as a seamstress?”

“I have sewn all of my life, but did not need to find work until I was widowed a year ago. The death of my husband left me in awkward circumstances.”

“You express yourself in such a graceful, polished way, my dear. What was your husband?”

“He was a cheese merchant, but I was educated in a convent before my parents lost their fortune.”

Lacoste arched his eyebrow. “It sounds like one of those stories one reads in novels. Very moving. Did you tell Granger about it? He could make a play of it.”

“I do not want it published. Citizen Granger was satisfied when he saw my Civic Certificate.” I looked straight at him. “What about you, Citizen Lacoste? I understand that you are a
ci-devant
Marquis.”

“Indeed. A great deal of good it did me under the Old Regime. The onset of the Revolution found me in the dungeons of Vincennes, where I had spent the last ten years thanks to a
lettre de cachet
obtained by my mother-in-law, who is without any doubt the ugliest and most vindictive sow in all of France.”

“Why did she request a
lettre de cachet
against you, Citizen Lacoste?”

He smiled. “With your permission, dear Citizen Labro, I will not tell you more until I know you better. The prejudices of old are not completely dead yet.”

Pierre-André’s reaction when I told him of my employment was what I had feared.

“What?” he asked, glaring at me. “You, a seamstress at the
Théâtre du Marais
? I put everything I have at risk for you, I support you, and you cannot think of anything better than to find work in a theatre, of all places! Why do you not ask for a part in the next play and go on stage, while you are at it? And for what, please? A few francs a week? Are you ready to risk your life for so little?”

“But I will be very cautious, my love. The spectators will not even be aware of my existence.”

“What about the actors, the manager, the stage hands? Are they ignorant of your existence?”

“They look like a decent lot and have no reason to suspect that I am an aristocrat. The manager was content with my Civic Certificate.” I smiled. “I happened to meet an acquaintance of yours there, Mademoiselle Tibaud. She is in all the plays.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know she works there. Dear Charlotte, there is no better creature in Paris. It is not on her account that I am worried.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“A few months ago.”

I frowned.

“Do not look at me like this,” he said. “She came to see me after the disaster of
Robert the Republican
. Poor thing, she was afraid of being arrested. And the theatre was closed indefinitely. She was out of work.”

“The stage does not seem to be her only source of income.”

“Now, Gabrielle, is this a nice thing to say? You need not worry about her, my love. I helped her without any expectation of a reward.”

“How long did she remain your mistress?”

“I had been keeping her for about two years when I happened upon you that day in 1788, at the
guinguette
by the river. It was quite a shock to see you, dressed like a fine lady, surrounded by your friends from the Court. I found a pretext to quarrel with Charlotte that very night. She certainly had done nothing to deserve it. She had been easily contented with what I could give her, while spurning the offers of far richer men. She had even agreed to dye her hair red to please me.” Pierre-André smiled. “I could not look at a woman without trying to find something of you in her.”

“Did you continue seeing Charlotte afterwards?”

“We remained friends, though there has not been any intimacy between us in years.”

“What happened when she came to you after the theatre was closed?”

“I promised to do whatever was in my power to have the theatre reopened and to keep her out of trouble. Only then did she offer to resume our old relations. It was purely out of gratitude for my help, mind you, not as an inducement before the fact. I thanked her and declined. I had already renewed my acquaintance with you then.” Pierre-André looked into my eyes. “And I do not wish to receive personal favours because of my function. I even refuse to see women I do not know in my chambers. It was only because of that concocted story of yours about documents in the Roman language that I accepted to receive you. As for Charlotte, she may not be a paragon of virtue, but she is harmless, if anything generous to a fault. I assisted her out of friendship. You should be the last person in the world to complain that I am so tender-hearted.”

“I am not complaining. I am only afraid that you will tire of me someday and leave me for another woman.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “I would never abandon you, especially in your current circumstances. Speaking of which, will you please renounce that idiotic notion of working in a theatre, or anywhere else for that matter? Sew to your heart’s content, but do it from home without exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers.”

“I know that you are thinking only of my safety, but I am going out of my mind indoors all day long. Please, my love, let me take this place. I promise I will be cautious and give it up at the first sign of danger.”

He let go of me and shook his head in exasperation. “Go ahead, Gabrielle, act like a simpleton. But if you find yourself in trouble because of your stubbornness, do not expect any help from me.”

Truth be told, I missed the pleasures of society. Manon had found a place as a shop girl with a linen draper and I seldom saw her. Apart from Pierre-André’s visits at night, I barely had any contacts with other adults. So I became a seamstress at the
Théâtre du Marais.