by Marge Piercy
It was hot today. Aimée and Victoire walked on either side of her. They marched along with another thirty women beside the river, for the breeze. Some men bathing in the Seine shouted obscene invitations. The women shouted back equally obscene suggestions about what the men could do to themselves and each other. The women marched on: that is, they proceeded smartly together, attempting to look military so that no one would think they were out for a stroll, so that everyone would know they were on revolutionary business.
Other groups, some marching under banners from their section or their club, were heading in the same direction. Pauline felt festive. It was a good day for a demonstration under the fierce lion sun of July. Vendors of lemonade and ices peddled their wares along the embankment. Aimée and Pauline treated themselves to an orange ice. “They say that the Incorruptible loves oranges,” Pauline said.
“You’re crazy about him,” Aimée said.
“I admire him! That’s all. He’s for us.”
“You’re crazy about him.”
“Well, if I am, what harm is it? All I ever said to him was hello once at the Assembly when I was going up to the gallery.”
“I bet you blushed.”
“Did not. I don’t blush.”
“You’re blushing right now!”
“Aimée, sometimes I hate you!” Pauline walked very quickly until she pulled away. Aimée was insufferable when she got into her older-woman, always-knows-better routine. As if being one year older and married to a useless numbskull made her an expert on love.
She did adore Robespierre. He was like a cat, lean and elegant, always clean and precise in his movements, never loud or bumptious or overweening. There was nothing gross or piggish about him. Even his eyes were a cat’s eyes, green and mysterious-looking. Mostly she adored him because she knew he was fighting for people like her. He spoke in very long sentences sometimes that made her feel lost, but at the end it all made perfect sense.
At the last fair of Sainte Geneviève, she had bought a little bust of him that she kept on the shelf beside her bed. Henri was never coming back. She no longer missed him. She was used to living alone. She scarcely knew another woman who lived alone, free and at ease. She need take care of no one but herself. She ran her own business, she kept her own books. She lived and ate as she pleased. The sex she remembered with Henri was mostly his heavy urgent body driving into her. She supposed women got married because they wanted children, but she didn’t desire a baby yet. If Henri had not been conscripted, they would long ago have married. She did not like to think of him dead or even married, but she also did not want him to come for her.
She vastly preferred adoring Robespierre from the galleries and going home to her little room. She did not imagine the Incorruptible helping her make chocolate or climbing into her bed. He was a focus for her adoration, worthy of all she could offer up to the little icon of his bust or pour into applause from the gallery when he spoke in the Assembly and the monarchists scorned him. But she did not like to be teased about her feelings.
The group closed up as they approached the Champ de Mars and the crowds around them thickened. It was not a huge crowd, as it had been at the celebration of July fourteenth, but large enough. A woman told them that two peeping toms had been caught under the altar of the nation, looking up women’s skirts. Only prostitutes wore underwear, so they must have seen quite a bit. The crowd had been furious, hauling them off and lynching them. Pauline could see their bodies swinging from lampposts along the edge of the field.
The altar to the nation was still set up in the middle of the old drill ground, just as it had been for July fourteenth last year and for the July fourteenth celebration three days ago. The crowds were forming a long queue to sign the petition at the altar. Pauline got her group into line. She was still angry with Aimée and hung back, preferring to walk beside Victoire. They chatted about neighbors as the line edged along. Victoire had a fresh bruise on her cheek, but Pauline pretended not to notice.
They had been in line for about an hour and some when they heard shouting. Pauline, who had mounted to the first turn of the ramp that led up to the altar, could see the National Guard arriving with horses and cannon and many, many men in uniform carrying guns. On the edge of the crowd, a lot of jostling and shoving was going on. “That’s Lafayette on the horse,” she said to the women. “I bet he’s here to try to keep us from signing the petition.”
“Not today he won’t,” Aimée shouted from the turn above. “I haven’t stood for two hours just to go home again. If he doesn’t like the petition, he doesn’t have to sign it.”
The shoving was getting worse. Everyone was yelling. The Guards were telling people to disperse and the people were refusing. It was a pushing and screaming match. Then the Guards fired in the air. Nobody was impressed. After all, they weren’t about to shoot the people. Not one person climbed down from the line snaking around the altar. Lafayette could not arrest all of them, and they were unarmed. He could fume all day, but the only people leaving were those who’d already signed. Just below on the next turn were a lady and gentleman, from their ages maybe a father and daughter. She didn’t see them giving up.
Pauline and the women around her turned contemptuously from the Guards, who had pushed the crowd back almost to the bottom of the altar. They were simply ignoring the Guards, continuing to hold their place in line, when more shots rang out. Pauline swung around. Just above, a young man screamed and fell, clapping his hand to his shoulder. The Guards were firing into the crowd, firing and firing.
“The Guards are shooting,” the lady below cried. “Nicolas, get down!” In her fancy white lawn dress she threw herself down off the altar, dragging the gentleman with her. They both went tumbling.
Pauline threw herself down where she stood. She heard a woman shriek very close, an awful desperate sound. She turned, to see who had cried out. Aimée was lying on her back with her head twisted in a funny way, way to the side.
Pauline crawled upwards to her, reaching out. “Aimée! Are you hurt?”
Aimée did not answer. Pauline knelt beside her. There was a hole in Aimée’s head. A large ragged hole. Blood was still running out, slowly now, ever more slowly. She could see brains too. Aimée was dead. She could not be. She could not be dead in an instant! It was like her father, except right in front of her. Alive one moment and a minute later, no more. She rose in rage and screamed at the soldiers, “Pig bastards, you killed an unarmed woman! You sons of shit!”
A woman pulled her down with surprising strength, thrust her off the altar as more shots rang out. They both fell into the crowd panicking below. Pauline was bruised. She took an elbow in her midsection. Victoire screamed, above where Pauline had been standing. Pauline yelled, “Get down off the altar! Get down! They’re killing us. You make perfect targets.”
Victoire threw herself down, her arm bleeding. Pauline took a quick look, tearing the jacket back. “It’s shallow. Get out of here fast.”
The woman who had saved her now tugged on her. “Come on! They’ll kill us all if we don’t run for it. This way!”
“Women!” Pauline shouted, trying to fight loose. “Follow me! We have to get out of here!”
The Guards were still shooting into the crowd. Pauline could not pull free so she began to run with the woman. Together, followed by the neighborhood women who had managed to save themselves, they ran at dead heat through the crowd, jumping bodies, over the wounded and the dying and the dead while still the Guard fired. She saw a little boy with his arm running blood, his father dead on the ground before him. She saw an old woman shot in the belly, moaning as dark blood bubbled from her mouth. A dog was barking hysterically while a wife tried to bind up her husband’s thigh wound with her torn skirt. Everywhere those who could flee were running for their lives. The shots rang out again and again and she saw a horse rear. A woman was sitting on the ground holding her baby, who looked as if he had been crushed, keening. They could hear her wailing behind them. Then
a shot ended it.
Finally they were off the killing field and into the streets. Pauline had a stitch in her side. She should not have let Aimée get above her on the altar. It was her fault. They should have been together. She should have been there to save Aimée. She stared at the woman who had saved her. She was much taller than Pauline. She had dark hair, a vivid highly colored complexion, a voluptuous figure and long, long legs. She could run like a colt, and she had dragged Pauline halfway across the Champ de Mars by brute strength. “Who are you?”
“Claire Lacombe. I’ve seen you at the Cordeliers Club. You’re Pauline Léon. You lead the women’s section.”
“I’m just a neighborhood busybody.” Pauline found tears blinding her and scrubbed them back with her hand. “She was my friend, the first woman who was shot. Aimée. And I was angry at her.”
“Why?”
“She was teasing me.”
“Pauline, I lose my temper all the time. I’m sure she didn’t think anything of it.”
Pauline shook her head. “I was angry at her and now she’s dead.”
“You didn’t kill her. Lafayette and his fucking Guards did.”
“We should have weapons too. We should be able to fight back.”
“I can shoot,” Claire said. “A guy in Bordeaux taught me. If we had muskets or pistols, I could teach the women how to use them.”
“I know a lot of women who’d want to learn. If we can get weapons.”
“We’d better stay in the back streets and avoid the river.” Claire gestured to the right. Where the street opened onto the quai, Guardsmen were pursuing groups of fleeing petitioners. More gunshots, more shrieks.
“It’s a crackdown. The right is trying to stop the Revolution.” Pauline tried to sound tough and knowing, but she could not stop crying. Her eyes would not obey her. “I have to go back and find Aimée’s body.”
“That’s a bad idea,” Claire said. “They’re arresting everybody they can catch. The bodies will be laid out at the morgue tonight.”
They came upon a man carrying a wounded child. He was weeping. The child was unconscious, his head hanging. “Citizen,” Pauline said. “We won’t forget today. We’ll get ours back at the bastards.”
“I want to see Lafayette’s head on a pike,” the man said. “My son is dying. I won’t forget. I’ll never forget!”
They walked on. “Thank you for pulling me out of the line of fire.”
“You were an obvious target, up on the altar.” Claire gave Pauline’s shoulder a squeeze. “You smell better than any woman in Paris. You smell like a bonbon.”
“I make chocolate. If I cleaned sewers, I’d smell like shit.” Pauline found her kerchief and blew her nose. She imagined Aimée lying in the mud like something discarded, as if no one cared.
“I’m an actress. I just opened in a new play, the Patriotic Family. You know Collot d’Herbois? He’s a dark handsome guy who goes to the Cordeliers and speaks in a sonorous voice like God just gave him the word? It’s his play. I used to act in his company in the provinces.”
Pauline was surprised how normal Claire seemed, considering she was an actress. With her body, every man on the street looked at her as they passed, looked again, kept looking. Sometimes men followed them, but Claire ignored them, or if they were too persistent, cursed them out. She could take care of herself. Pauline had an idea. She wanted somebody to share the leadership. Someone to help decide things, so she wouldn’t make mistakes that would kill more women. Someone who would help her keep every remaining woman alive. “Even if we can’t start arming,” Pauline said slowly, “I think we should meet tomorrow to discuss what happened. And raise money for Aimée’s kids.”
“Afternoons are best for me. Before I have to go to the theater. In the meantime, we should try to find out what’s going on,” Claire said.
She sounded clear, just like her name. Maybe they could work together. At the next block they parted to go their different ways. Now she must find Aimée’s husband and tell him and then her mother. Guilt sat in her chest like a crow on a nest. She had asked Aimée to come, she had insisted. All she had thought of was how important it was to make a good showing for the neighborhood, for the Revolution. She had not considered Aimée’s safety or her children. Now who would love them and care for them? It was her fault, because she was the leader and she was supposed to lead her women safely. She was supposed to know what was happening and to make good plans. Including retreat, obviously. What should she have done? She was not sure, but she knew she had failed Aimée. Victoire was slightly wounded, Pauline was only bruised and everybody else had got out safely. But her friend Aimée, whom she had known since they were little and used to sit giggling on the stoop sharing a straw doll, Aimée was dead.
FORTY-ONE
Max
(July l8, 1791)
MAX was furious at the Cordeliers for going ahead with their petition after the Jacobins withdrew theirs. They should have known that Lafayette was spoiling for an excuse to declare martial law and crack down. It was clear that the right was as much their enemy as the old regime ever had been, and even more dangerous: the old regime had toppled with few casualties, rotten from within. These pretend-revolutionaries had support, had arms, had organization, had the Guard, were in firm control of Paris.
Rumors were flying everywhere. A clerk from City Hall came to see him early in the morning. “Citizen, you’re in danger. I saw the warrant for your arrest myself. They’re going to shut you up in prison.”
“Citizen, I thank you. I can see no advantage to being taken.”
The right had a network of spies; he had only the good will of strangers to rely upon. He packed a bag rapidly. He could not go to the Assembly. They would expect him there. Did he dare go to the Jacobin Club? He was carrying his bag over his shoulder and walking slowly, wondering if he should head for the stagecoach north and flee to Charlotte and Augustin.
A burly man hailed him. “Citizen Robespierre, we hear there’s a warrant out for you.” He was dressed in trousers, sawdust powdering his short jacket.
“Who are you and where did you hear that?”
“I’m Duplay, a carpenter. I heard it at the Jacobin Club when I stopped by an hour ago. Citizen, do you have friends who can safely shelter you? Because if you don’t, you come home with me. The wife and me will make you comfortable. We’ll hide you till the traitors get tired of looking.”
Once again a stranger had intervened. Max believed in God, perhaps as history, a Supreme Being who held his destiny in eternal hands. Here was a man of the people offering him safety. “Citizen, I accept your hospitality with deep thanks. Perhaps I won’t have to be a burden to you long.”
“You’re no burden. My wife will be overjoyed. I have three daughters, all good patriotic girls. I live right near the Jacobins, so once this matter is cleared up, you’ll be much closer to the Club and the Assembly than you are now. You’ll see how much at home we can make you.”
They walked quickly now, Duplay insisting on toting Max’s bag. The carpenter lived quite near the Club on the Rue Saint Honoré, in a wooden house with a courtyard where workers were making beds and cupboards and repairing furniture. It was a larger house than Robespierre had expected, with a narrow two-story section in the middle and two wings that created the yard. Mme Duplay met them at the door with exclamations of astonishment. “I’ll make a room ready for you at once. In the meantime, I bet you didn’t have a chance to eat.”
“Just some coffee with milk, if you can, and perhaps a little fruit.”
“Peaches and apricots, it’s my pleasure.”
He thanked Madame and sat at the dining room table. It was a cozy room, all the furniture probably made by Duplay, nicely turned sturdy pieces with much less decoration than was fashionable. There was a water-color of himself and one of those embarrassing busts they sold in the streets at popular festivals. It was a pleasant light airy room, with a breeze from windows on both sides. There were also oil paintings
he recognized as influenced by David, heroic scenes of Roman tableaux, the taking of the Bastille, a portrait of Monsieur and Madame Duplay. The tablecloth was green damask with posies in a bowl.
“This is Vivienne, my youngest. She helps me with the house. She’s going to move a few things around to make ready for you.”
“You shouldn’t go to any trouble. I need little.”
“It’s no trouble,” Vivienne said. She was a plain no-nonsense girl wearing an apron damp from the kitchen. She smelled like soup. She smiled shyly and ran off. While he was eating, the middle daughter Elisabeth came in. She was vibrant, pretty, told him she went to the Jacobin Club regularly. He did not recognize her, but then he seldom looked at the galleries where the women sat, and he was nearsighted in any case.
“I see you looking at the portraits. Eléanore, our oldest, did that. She’s a real painter. She’s studying with Regnault. Have you heard of him?” Mme Duplay seemed to want his approval for her daughter’s apprenticeship.
“I have. She has a worthy master.”
Madame beamed. She was a woman in her late forties, still handsome, probably five years younger than her husband. She had strong hands. All of them had the hands of artisans who did real work. It was time for him to do something useful also. In case he might soon be back in public, he set to work on a speech about education and how important it was to make it available to everyone. Obviously in this house, they believed in educating daughters.