Mistress of the Revolution (7 page)

I had hastened to forget about the Baron, but he painfully reminded me of his existence by calling at Fontfreyde the very next day. After the exchange of usual civilities in the drawing room, there was a pause in the conversation. I dared not raise my eyes and did not know what to do with myself. Even my mother, usually not at a loss for words, was silent for a moment before addressing him.

“Indeed, Sir,” she said, “we are flattered to receive a visit from you so soon after having had the honour of meeting you in Thiézac.”

“The honour was all mine, dear Madam. I was delighted to make the acquaintance of your youngest daughter. The rumours I had heard of her beauty do not do her justice.”

“Ah, Sir, you appeal to the feelings of a mother! I must confess that it is a weakness of mine: I am inordinately fond of our Gabrielle. I should not sing my own child’s praises, but I can assure you that you will not find a more dutiful girl in all of Auvergne. She has been given excellent Christian principles. She is a good seamstress too, and she goes to help in the kitchen every day. God knows she has never lacked anything here, but she has not been used to luxury or idleness. She will make a thrifty wife and be content with little, without expecting anything lavish like those young ladies who have been raised with high notions of their own claims.”

I blushed with shame at this speech.

“Further, Sir,” my mother added, “you will find that Gabrielle has not been infected with those ideas that too fancy an education gives girls nowadays. The Marquis took her from the convent when she was eleven. She can read, write and count. These are all the accomplishments a noblewoman needs to make her husband happy. My eldest daughter thought that Gabrielle could have stayed in the convent a few years longer, but, as I told her—”

The Baron interrupted to remark: “I am not in the least surprised, Madam, to learn of my little cousin’s many qualities, but I have yet to hear the sound of her voice.”

True, I had never uttered a single word in his presence. He was justified in wondering whether I had been endowed with the power of speech.

“Please forgive her stupidity, Sir,” said my mother in a sharper tone. “The child has the most awkward manners. I cannot apologize enough on her behalf.” She turned to me. “Say something, girl. Speak to our cousin instead of staring at your feet like a simpleton. You may rest assured that you will receive a serious flogging as soon—”

“Please, dear Madam,” the Baron intervened, “do not scold my little cousin. I would be very sorry if she were whipped because of my remark, which was meant not as a reproof but as an expression of curiosity. I find it far more becoming for a female to talk too little than too much.”

I raised my eyes to him and said: “Thank you, Sir.”

He bowed to me. “I am delighted to hear Mademoiselle de Montserrat speak at last. Her voice is as charming as her person.”

His words silenced me. There was another pause in the conversation. He turned to my brother. “Cousin,” he asked, “can we have a word between men?”

My mother gestured to me to follow her out of the room. The Baron rose to wish us good-bye.

How I wished I could have stayed behind to listen to that conversation! I had to sit with my mother in her apartment, my forehead resting on the windowpane, watching the courtyard for half an hour. Again and again I pondered each of the Baron’s looks and expressions with the same anxiety as if I had been madly in love with him and uncertain of his feelings. At last, I saw him leave the house. My brother accompanied him to the bottom of the front staircase. They embraced each other with great cordiality. I bid my last hopes farewell.

I heard my brother’s brisk footstep outside my mother’s door. He walked in, smiling, took my hands in his and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Let me offer my congratulations,” he said. “Our cousin has proposed and been accepted.”

I had expected the blow but remained unable to utter a word, tears running down my cheeks. My mother berated me for my ingratitude. She slapped me. My brother took me by the hand and led me to my own room. There, he sat next to me on the bed, his arm around my shoulders.

“Gabrielle,” he said, “tears are useless. My decision is irrevocable. Any other girl would be delighted to have been chosen by the Baron. He speaks like a man truly in love with you. He even had the generosity to decline the modest dowry offered with your hand.”

My brother let go of my shoulders and handed me his handkerchief. “The wedding date has been set. Our cousin is impatient to proceed and I see only advantages in keeping the engagement short. The 15th of September has been settled upon, which will allow almost a month for the publication of the banns, the drafting of the marriage contract and other preparations. We also need to obtain the Bishop’s dispensation because of your kinship with your fiancé.”

My sobs redoubled at the idea that my wedding would take place so soon. I had nothing to lose. I had to tell the truth.

“Please, Sir,” I said, “spare me the pain of marrying the Baron. Not him. I beg you. Besides, I am already engaged to another. I have accepted Pierre-André Coffinhal.”

My brother blanched. He seized me by the shoulders so hard that I cried aloud in pain and fear. Trembling with rage and shaking me, he made me describe everything that had happened between Pierre-André and me, in what manner, on what parts of my body, how often he had touched me, whether I had enjoyed it, whether I loved him. I had never seen my brother in such a state of fury. Every detail was pried from me. When he saw that I had no more to reveal and that I was choking with tears, he let go of me.

“You had no right,” he said, his mouth tight, “to enter into that engagement without my permission. It is void. You seem, along with your lover, to have forgotten that you are under my authority. If what you told me is true, you will be married as soon as can be arranged. If not, beware.”

He left, slamming the door. There is a great difference between guessing something we do not like and being assured of it. My brother discovered it that day. He must have surmised that there was more to my meetings with Pierre-André than I had cared to admit before, but had not sought to learn of it. It was not long before I felt the consequences of my disclosure.

I remained on my bed, sobbing, my head buried in the pillows. Later that day, my mother entered the room, followed by the maid Guillemine and Denise Delrieu, the village midwife. The Delrieu woman was also, according to common rumour, a
faiseuse d’anges
, an “angel maker,” who would rid distressed females of unborn offspring. She was nicknamed in the Roman language
lou Cabanel
, the Owl, and considered a witch, or a healer, depending on one’s opinion of her potions. Like all the children in the village, I had kept away from her cottage.

Startled, I rose. My mother, in her severest voice, ordered me to lie on my bed. I obeyed. Without a word of warning, she raised my skirts up to my waist, caught my knees and spread my legs apart. She ordered the maid to hold my arms above my head. At that time, women did not wear any undergarments under their chemise, and my intimate parts were exposed to the view of the Owl. The crone lit a candle she had taken from the sewing table and approached so close that I felt the heat of the flame between my thighs. I imagined for an instant that she was going to burn me in some witchcraft ritual as a punishment for my misconduct. I cried in horror and tried to rise from the bed, but the maid was holding my arms firmly. The Owl, bending toward me until I felt her head brushing against my skin, examined me and poked at me with the fingers of her free hand. I shuddered at her touch. After a few minutes, she turned to my mother.

“She’s intact,” said the witch, “fresh as a rose. You needn’t worry, My Lady, she’ll bleed.”

My mother gave an audible sigh. She dismissed the Owl and left without a second look at me. I rose in haste, sick to my stomach, and rearranged my skirts.

Of course I knew the purpose of the examination. I wondered what would have happened had Pierre-André’s conduct been less honourable. My engagement to the Baron would certainly have been broken. Yet even that would not have ensured the acceptance of Pierre-André’s offer. It was more likely that both of us would have been subjected to my brother’s wrath.

That night I did not go down to dinner, nor did anyone ask to see me. Joséphine brought me a tray in my bedroom. She too congratulated me on my good fortune and represented to me all of the advantages of the match. I said nothing, too nauseated to touch the food.

For the next few days Joséphine continued to bring me my meals. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding in Fontfreyde that I was not to leave my bedroom. Yet before the week was over, a maid came to fetch me. She announced that there was company waiting for me in the drawing room. I thought at first that the Baron had come for a courtship visit and fervently hoped that we would be left alone for a moment. I intended to throw myself at his feet and confess my attachment to another. Perhaps he was not cruel. He might take pity on me and release me from our engagement.

I was startled to find a little crowd in the drawing room. In addition to my
fiancé
, I saw my brother, our mother, my sister Madeleine, her husband the Count de Chavagnac, the Chevalier des Huttes, who was a friend of my brother, Monsieur de Laubrac, the Baron’s cousin and heir, and still another man, tall and thin, whom I did not know. All faces were solemn. An uneasy silence greeted me. It was broken when Madeleine walked to me to kiss me and offer her congratulations.

The Marquis spoke. “Gabrielle, we are gathered here to sign your marriage contract.”

It was customary in France then, and I believe it still is, for future spouses to enter into a written contract formalizing the mutual promises of marriage and settling in advance all financial matters. It was signed by the spouses-to-be and their parents, and also by other family members and friends who attended as witnesses. All persons of substance entered into such contracts before marrying. No Montserrat had ever wed without one. Yet I had not expected mine to be signed so soon.

My brother nodded in the direction of the stranger. “Maître Carrier has just read aloud the articles of the contract. Now it requires your signature.”

Carrier was holding several handwritten sheets of paper, bound with string, in his hand. My brother had obviously chosen not to avail himself of the services of Jean-Baptiste Coffinhal, his usual attorney. Carrier put the papers down on a table that stood in the middle of the room and pointed at the back of the last sheet.

“You may sign here, Mademoiselle,” he said with a strong Roman accent. He pulled a chair for me and held out a quill.

I was desperately trying to think of a way to delay the proceedings. “What does it say?” I asked Carrier.

“Enough, Gabrielle,” said my brother in a stern voice. “A bride-to-be does not ask this kind of question. I, as your guardian, am satisfied with the terms of this contract. So is your future master. It is all that matters. Now I am telling you to sign, and you are going to obey.”

I looked at Madeleine in a silent plea for help. She turned away. The Marquis pressed down on my shoulder and made me sit at the table. He took the quill from Carrier’s hand to put it in mine.

“Sign,” he said.

My brother was bending over me, one of his hands resting on the table and the other still on my shoulder. “Sign,” he repeated between his teeth.

I looked around at the rest of the company, but all eyes were now averted, except those of the Baron.
He
was observing me in silence, a few yards away, with a strange smile on his face. I felt a shove on my shoulder. My brother was becoming impatient. I could not muster the courage to defy him in front of my family. I took a deep breath and signed so hastily that I smudged ink on the paper. I rose very fast. Everyone else, Carrier last of all, signed in turn.

Carrier picked up the contract and put it away in a portfolio. I saw the Baron whisper into my mother’s ear. She nodded and ordered me to follow her to her little upstairs parlour. Now I did not want to be alone with him. He had watched my attempt at resistance, then my surrender, all without any dismay, any pity. On the contrary, he had been amused. He would never release me from our engagement. And why should he now? Whatever else was in the contract, I knew that it must contain a promise of marriage. And I had signed it, after pledging my faith to Pierre-André! I could not forgive myself for my cowardice.

Once in my mother’s parlour, and before we had time to sit, the Baron pulled from his pocket a red leather case emblazoned with a coat of arms. He offered it to me. I took it awkwardly and muttered words of thanks.

“What are you waiting for, girl?” asked my mother. “Do not gape like a half-wit, open it.” She simpered at the Baron. “You must forgive her, Sir. She is overcome with your kindness.”

I opened the case reluctantly. It contained a pair of earrings, two inches long, gleaming against the white satin lining. Each was made of twelve large oval rubies, the colour of red currants, surrounded by diamonds. The beauty of the stones amazed me, but it gave me no pleasure. I could not think of what to say.

“They were,” the Baron explained, “presented by my father to my late mother upon their engagement. My poor departed Dorothée also wore them, but they seem to have been especially designed to shine against the white skin of your lovely neck.”

Visions of those unknown dead ladies wearing the earrings came to my mind. “I do not know how to thank you, Sir,” I said at last. “I was never given anything so beautiful.”

“Indeed, Sir,” intervened my mother, “you are spoiling her. This is far more than she deserves. As for you, child, your manners put me to shame. Kiss your fiancé’s hand to thank him properly.”

I hesitated, repulsed by the idea of touching any part of him. My mother glowered at me. I held my breath and brought his hand as briefly as I could to my lips. He patted my cheek.

“Do not fret, Madam,” he said to the Marquise. “After what I saw of your daughter today, I am more satisfied than ever with my choice of a bride. She will learn to show her gratitude suitably once we are married.” He smiled at me. “I will see you again, dear little cousin, on our wedding day. I look forward to it more than you can imagine.”