by Marge Piercy
By the time Hélène was well enough to return to work, she had been replaced. Unable to afford rent, Hélène moved in with Claire. After all, she had a big double bed all to herself. She wasn’t about to move some guy in. Hélène needed a respite. She would look for work soon. She was a working girl. Either she’d get a job in the theater or in a shop or in a factory or she’d go on the streets or into a house for a while, if she really had to. But Hélène would work. Claire did not worry about that. They were the same kind. They could trust each other. For neither of them was there any safety, anything to fall back on if their health or wits or job failed. But they could help each other. She slept with her arm around Hélène, who felt thin and fragile, as if she were made of tiny sticks. She was soft in places, brittle in other places, but under it all, she was strong enough. They both were. Strong enough.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Nicolas
(February-June 1791)
NICOLAS saw rather more of the royal family than he enjoyed. Louis was obviously displeased with the progress of events. He did not want a Constitution; he did not want a Legislative Assembly; he did not want a clergy loyal to the Constitution and huge Church properties sold off. His wife liked it even less: no Hapsburg relinquished power. Divine right was spoon-fed them from babyhood. Marie was far more arrogant than Louis, but they were both equally stubborn and, as far as Nicolas could see, equally blind to the larger picture. They were surrounded by intriguers who echoed their views. They both found the Tuileries inadequate, insultingly threadbare.
Mirabeau had tried to act as liaison between the National Assembly and the royal family, but Louis would not listen. Lafayette was the only revolutionary leader they might have accepted, for he alone had blue enough blood to have been received at court. The Queen had even danced with him at court balls. He might have bridged the gap. But they hated him. He was their Antichrist.
Nicolas would not do; his was a lower nobility. He was simply under-minister material, suspect by virtue of his association with the Encyclopedists. If Louis found the Encyclopedia—the great product of eighteenth-century Enlightenment and the conscious attempt to provide a summary of science and philosophy—heretical and far too modern, what chance was there of his becoming the compliant British constitutional monarch the middle-of-the-road delegates dreamed of? The more Nicolas watched the King, the less likely he found it that Louis would ever adapt.
There were other candidates for king: to the right the Comte d’Artois with his army in exile; to the left, the due d’Orléans. His secretary, the novelist Choderlos de Laclos, constantly schemed for Orléans at the Jacobin Club. Gradually Nicolas relinquished the notion of a king. Could any man be entrusted with such power over others? A king if elected was not a king; if not elected, on what did his power base itself, except despotism?
Whenever Nicolas walked into the Tuileries, he smelled intrigue like smoke in the air. Louis brooded, then stumbled into action. He tried to leave with his family to hear mass outside Paris on Easter, with an illegal priest who had come out against the Revolution. Lafayette’s guards feared he meant to escape and stopped his coach. Louis still had the option, as Nicolas told Sophie repeatedly, of embracing the Constitution and going forward as the first constitutional monarch of France. After all, the British had a limited monarchy and their kings did not seem to feel utterly degraded. Louis’s other choice was to abdicate. The Americans managed quite well without a king, and Nicolas suspected, so would the French.
The informal group of liberals to which he belonged had given themselves a name, the Social Circle. Their first public meeting drew four thousand people, eager to discuss issues facing the Revolution. They met in The Circus (it had gone out of business) of the Palais Royal. At the second meeting, the audience doubled. He addressed the Club frequently. They did not have the clout or fame of the Jacobin Club, and nobody started other little Social Circles the way Jacobin Clubs were springing up in every town. Their aim was education. Clubs were suddenly important in politics. The French did not have parties, unlike the British or Americans; what they had were clubs.
He had grown close to Tom Paine, who had been thrown out of England for supporting the French Revolution. Tom was English-born, but had been an important pamphleteer in the American revolution, also serving in the army. Tom dined with them often and made a point of coming to Sophie’s salon. When Tom needed a place to live, for he was not a wealthy man, the Condorcets invited him to move in. After all, they had the room.
Eliza was a year old. She had learned to walk slowly and awkwardly but had begun to talk early. Mostly she babbled. Nicolas never spoke baby talk to her but addressed her as a small, innocent but intelligent being. She fixed him with brown eyes that looked enormous and seemed to take in every word. Nicolas thought Sophie an ideal mother, concerned and loving, but not consumed. The nanny and another new maid took care of most of Eliza’s physical needs. Sophie was as busy as he was. Time flowed by, and every time he looked at Eliza, she was noticeably bigger and, he thought, increasingly bright. Sophie was right, as always. Having a child had been the right thing to do. They made love now almost as often as they had.
On a hot day in late June Sophie was playing with Eliza. Tom Paine had already gone off to the Iron Mouth office. Nicolas and Sophie liked to take the morning together. It was the summer solstice and Paris was muggy. The maid had just sponged Sophie’s face, hands and feet. She was still in her negligee. Nicolas in his striped damask robe was eating ripe cherries from a silver bowl that still held some coolness, as he read the latest journals. Suddenly Tom Paine rushed in, highly excited, his face flushed with sweat.
“The King’s fled,” Tom said in English. “He’s cut and run.”
Nicolas dropped his paper. “How could he get past Lafayette’s guards? Is there collusion?”
“Apparently they slipped out in the night, at the time the courtiers and visitors leave the palace. In disguise.”
“Who’s gone?” Sophie asked. Tom was a close enough friend for her to receive him in dishabille.
“The King, the Queen, the children, the children’s governess and the King’s sister, Elisabeth—Mademoiselle, I think she’s called?”
Nicolas whistled. “The whole royal family. So it’s a real decampment. Do you think he’s gone off to the Germans to join one of the royalist armies gathered on the border?”
“No one has any idea. But Fersen is gone also—the Queen’s lover.” They were still speaking English. They almost always spoke English with Tom. His French remained childish, and it was good practice for them.
“I hate the gossip that surrounds her, as if it mattered if she bedded half the court,” Sophie made a sour face. “I don’t care if the Swede is the Queen’s lover; I only care if he was her coachman.”
“Rumor has it that he was.” Tom ruffled his often unruly hair till it stood on end. “Nico, shouldn’t you and I head for the Assembly to see what must be done?”
“Ask Henri to give you some lunch, and I’ll dress and have my hair powdered. I’ll be with you in an hour.” He rang for his valet and his barber.
The news had obviously spread in the streets, for people everywhere were muttering, listening to speeches. They were frightened—would the foreign armies invade them with the King at their head? Above all, they were angry. “Louis betrayed us,” Nicolas heard again and again. “He lied and ran off to our enemies. He’s gone over to the other side.”
“If he headed for the Rhine, this could mean an invasion, then,” Nicolas said to Tom as they rushed toward the old Riding Academy where the Assembly met. The Assembly was in session, the galleries already jammed. There was no room even for standing. If they pressed near, they could hear that Artois lawyer Robespierre’s thin high voice denouncing the King and demanding his removal, a condemnation in icy lightning. He was playing to the galleries.
“No point standing out here straining to catch an odd word. Let’s go to the Iron Mouth office. Bonneville may know something. Br
issot may. We must figure out how to respond to this flight. We must get a paper out,” Tom said.
The Iron Mouth had its offices where Nicholas Bonneville lived, by the Cordeliers Club. The office was in an uproar. Brissot had just come from the Assembly with the news that the King and family had run in the direction of Germany, as feared. Would they be able to recapture Louis? Would he lead the Rhine armies on an invasion of France?
That evening Nicolas and Sophie discussed the King’s flight over supper. Although it was ten-thirty, the Seine was still silvery lavender and the sky was not yet dark. They ate in front of the large windows flung open onto the balcony. At this late hour, there was still considerable river traffic and music came from the Pont Neuf, where people were dancing. A barge passed, lit by torches, and they could hear a woman singing Gluck. It seemed peaceful, almost idyllic. Yet he did not feel at ease.
“Tomorrow we’ll look at the house Mme Helvétius has found us in Auteuil. It would be good for Eliza to grow up at least partly in the country—and it’s only a short carriage ride from Paris.” The image he had clung to during the birth of the three of them in a green and healthy setting continued to obsess him. He would make it happen. He must. It was more important now.
“You’re worried, Nico. About what?”
“War may be coming.” Across the table they held hands in the twilight.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Manon
(Spring 1791)
AS soon as Jean was elected to the municipal council, he was appointed to the finance committee, to find a way out of Lyon’s budgetary doldrums. Lyon owed thirty-nine million livres in debts incurred under the ancien régime. If the city was ever to function again, they must have a loan or forgiveness of debts. In 1791, Jean was sent on a mission to Paris.
That meant going for some time; as far as Manon was concerned, it meant moving to Paris. “Holding on to our Lyon flat while we spend months in Paris is foolish. No doubt we’ll return by early summer, when we can go into the country as we always do. Why waste money on a flat we don’t adore? When we return…” silently she added to herself, if we return, “so many wealthy citizens have fled, we should have no trouble finding something less gloomy.”
She also persuaded him that Eudora should remain behind. Manon put her with the nuns of Ville-Franche. She had a convent education, why not Eudora? She would learn to get on with other girls her age and she would learn discipline. Manon was going to be running all over politicking for a position for Jean. If things changed, she could always send for her daughter.
As for Paris, she did not care if they moved into a room under the roof. She would be back where she belonged, in the heart of things. Brissot, Bosc, Lanthénas, their old friends were so involved in making the Revolution, that they simply could not remember Jean. But when she was face to face with them they would remember. Jean would be given a position worthy of his talents.
She felt pleased with Jean once again. She no longer doubted he had needed his long convalescence, for hadn’t he risen from his sickbed to become a councillor of Lyon? Within four months, hadn’t he been chosen for an important mission in Paris? What more could she ask of him?
She packed with dispatch. Her maid Fleury said, “Madame, I’ve never seen you so full of joy.” Manon did not dread the long stagecoach ride jolting over the hideous roads. It was entrance to paradise, the heaven of ideas, of political discourse, of men who shaped the events that shaped an era.
Their journey was in pouring rain, day after day, and yet she did not despair. She kept Jean and the other passengers smiling. She told stories, she got everyone talking, she had them sing. She would crawl to Paris on her knees in the mud. What did she care if the coach got stuck twice and everyone must pile out into the slough of clay and push? Each push, each mishap, each jolt that pounded the joints and made the kidneys throb, brought them closer. She had discovered that when she was happy, she could charm almost every man and a great many women too. It was an almost palpable thing, that warm spell she could cast that made a man feel she was fascinated by his ideas, by his way of thinking and speaking, and that she could take those ideas and put a polish on them and hand them back improved, given a luster that could only delight the recipient. It was one of her gifts, the feminine talent of a bright and perceptive handmaiden.
She had a sickening fear of being seen as unwomanly, as thrusting herself forward past Jean. Then she would feel naked in public, dishonored. But working in Jean’s behalf was permitted a good wife. She was skillful at it, as he would see once they had their place in Paris.
Bosc found them a furnished flat in the Hotel Britannique, on the left bank close to the Pont Neuf where she had grown up. The rooms in the Britannique were not grand but pleasant enough. She could entertain there, and she fully intended to. At once she went to see her old friend Lanthénas, who was involved in a group called the Social Circle. He was passionate against primogeniture and seemed to be the local expert on its pernicious effects. Within two hours, they were back on the old footing: she once again called him Fratello, little brother, and he called her Sorella, little sister. He opened up and gossiped about everyone she knew and wanted to know—and some people she definitely did not want to meet.
Most of the wives of the Social Circle men seemed of no importance. Only the former nobleman Condorcet had an intellectual wife, who ran a salon and published translations from the English. She was said to be beautiful, but she had just had a baby and should not represent a threat to Manon’s plans. Condorcet seemed moderately important. Somebody named Bonneville was important also and edited their paper. Then there was Brissot, who sounded like the most influential of all this faction.
Lanthénas told her about a women’s group affiliated with the Social Circle, but she had no interest. What would talking to other women accomplish? She was not about to start educating the wives of tradesmen. Surely there were plenty of born schoolteachers who would take on that unrewarding task.
She pumped Lanthénas thoroughly and then invited him to supper the following Tuesday. She urged him to bring his friends. Before the week was out, she must encounter Brissot. Lanthénas told her she should go to the Assembly, which Brissot covered for his newspaper. When she got home, Jean was still out. She went into their bedroom and stood before the mirror. She had to form an accurate assessment of herself before she marched into battle. Lanthénas was easy. Brissot, so long her editor, might not prove as easy to charm, but obviously he was one of those who moved the great wheel of the Revolution.
She looked herself square in the eyes. Her complexion was still excellent and rosy, satiny and highly colored. Her skin showed no age. She had not a wrinkle. The years spent mostly in the countryside had been kind to her skin and her figure. Her mouth was generous, large, and when she smiled at herself, she understood why men liked it so much when she smiled at them. She had a smile that made people feel like smiling back and made them think her far prettier than she was. Her eyes were large and greyish brown. Her face was not an insipid mask like those of many women considered beautiful, but it was expressive. Her arms and shoulders were shapely, she had a fine bosom, even better since breastfeeding Eudora. Her hair was silky and brown. She still looked young. That would certainly help in what she intended to do: create the salon where the most important political movers of the revolutionary movement would meet and discuss their ideas.
The next morning, she went out to buy flowers, showing Fleury exactly what she wanted so that her maid could carry out that task every week. She arranged and rearranged the room. The food would be simple. She felt plain republican cuisine would better represent Jean’s position than an attempt to emulate a noble banquet, a superfluity of dishes under heavy sauces. She set up her delicate writing desk in one corner of the salon. She would sit modestly there, out of the way. She would not interfere in the arguments, but she would observe, she would listen, and then privately, she could express her opinions—to Jean, of course, but also to others if they sough
t her out.
She carefully observed what bourgeois women were wearing. Fashions had changed, and she must put Fleury and a dressmaker to work at once. Women were wearing dresses either white (white she knew very well Marie-Antoinette had brought in, but nobody seemed to remember that) or bright colors, particularly red or blue. Over the dresses, they wore light shawls draped over bodices. Stripes were still in fashion. The striped dresses she had would do. Jewelry had political themes and everybody was wearing red, blue and white cockades in their hair or pinned to their bosoms. Sashes were prominent, often tricolored. Almost no one was powdering their hair, but wearing their natural hair colors. Hair had ceased towering. Even wealthy ladies could pass through doors easily, for skirts and dresses draped or hung naturally. One of the most fashionable styles was the redingote, a coatdress in one piece requiring a minimum of corseting.
She did not care for jewelry or other frippery. A few simple dresses with white linen or lace collars would do. Jean, bless him, was said to dress like a Quaker, for he always wore a plain black suit, the plainest and most serviceable of shoes or boots and a round hat. She would not permit him to leave the house if he looked shabby, but he dressed in an unadorned and homely way, proclaiming his honesty and lack of pretension.
Finally she was ready to see Brissot. One new dress was ready, and she wore it. She did not want to remind him she had spent the last nine years in the provinces. When she reached the Assembly, she found him talking to a delegate. He still looked young. He was a short amiable man with rather elongated features who carried himself with great assurance, walking through the crowd nodding here and there as if everyone in the world must know him. Indeed, everyone seemed to. His voice was clear and carrying. She waited till she caught his eye. He smiled at her, as at an admirer. Brissot was married to some inconsequential woman, but he was obviously used to female attention. Then he did a double take and bowed, recognizing her finally.