by Kate Quinn
E. KNIGHT is an award-winning and USA Today bestselling author of women’s historical fiction. Her love of history began when she was a young girl as she traipsed the halls of Versailles and ran through the fields of Southern France. She’s known for her riveting, scandalous, rip-your-heart-out tales that cross the landscapes of the Tudor Court, the Scottish Highlands, and the ancient world. Eliza lives in Maryland, atop a small mountain, with a knight, three princesses, and two very naughty Newfies.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
About the Book
Authors’ Notes
STEPHANIE DRAY
* * *
When E. Knight and I first conceived of this novel, we knew we wanted to work with an all-female lineup of talented, headstrong author-friends. And we knew it would be fun. We just didn’t know that the long collaboration process would bring us all so close together. I love my #ScarletSisters and the heroine to whom I gave voice.
I was excited to write about Sophie de Grouchy because she gave me the chance, for possibly the first time in my career, to write about a relatively happy historical epoch—the idealistic start of the French Revolution. Sophie was an intellectual, an activist, a writer, a philosopher, and the sweetheart at the center of one of history’s most charming love stories. The English-language biographical source material covering Sophie’s life is limited but tantalizing. We know she was well educated, well read, and taught by her mother to have concern for those beneath her in social standing. We know, too, that it was through her uncle’s legal work that she became romantically involved with the quixotic Marquis de Condorcet.
Unfortunately, the details about Sophie’s love life come primarily from a hostile source—Madame Suard, a longtime friend of the Marquis de Condorcet’s who seems to have resented Sophie and blamed her for his downfall. The resentment was probably mutual, since Sophie’s daughter blamed the Suards for not giving shelter to Condorcet when he was on the run. In any case, Suard claimed Sophie had a lover before she was married—quite against custom for an aristocratic young lady in France, if true. Perhaps this is malicious gossip; Sophie would certainly fall prey to worse slanders. But given that Sophie was an unconventional lady who openly took lovers after her husband’s death, it seemed like the assertion couldn’t simply be discounted. Especially since Suard claimed that Sophie had to be persuaded by her parents to give up the lover—and that Condorcet himself had to convince this man to step aside. Unfortunately, Suard doesn’t name Sophie’s supposed love interest. Rochefoucauld has been floated, but more usually the finger is pointed at Lafayette.
I thought it seemed out of character for Lafayette to have seduced an unmarried young noblewoman; after all, his mistresses are well-known married women, in keeping with the standards of his day. Sophie de Grouchy is seldom, if ever, even mentioned by Lafayette biographers. Thus, I decided not to take Madame Suard too literally and gave an affair with Lafayette the most innocent interpretation I could, fashioning a premarital encounter with Condorcet in the tennis courts. I took this liberty in part because the history is very clear about Sophie’s real love story: she was a woman who fell for her own husband.
The Condorcets were the liberal intelligentsia of their day; I was often startled by the modernity of their ideas, ideals, and expression. Sophie was the less measured writer of the two, but they do not appear to have differed politically. For that reason, I attribute some of his ideas to her, and hers to him. This is particularly the case on the issues of feminism and slavery where overwhelming and convincing circumstantial evidence points to her agreement with her husband’s vehement beliefs on both these subjects.
Nevertheless, I wanted Sophie’s first-person narrative to include sentiments from her own writings. Her Letters on Sympathy were addressed to an unnamed person—simply “My Dear C.” Sophie may have been writing them to her brother-in-law, Pierre Jean Georges Cabanis. But since Condorcet seems to have referred to his wife’s work as if it was already complete before his death, I chose the more romantic interpretation that Sophie wrote them to her husband, perhaps starting as early as their courtship.
That Condorcet might have resisted fatherhood is asserted by Marge Piercy in City of Darkness, City of Light, and though I was unable to confirm it from any other source, it seemed to fit the fact pattern remarkably well, so I embraced Piercy’s excellent theory. Some historians claim the omelet story is apocryphal, but it was too good not to include, which necessitated making breakfast an important part of the day. The name Condorcet gave when he was jailed was Pierre Simon, not Simare, but the similarity made me wonder if there was a connection, so I took the liberty of making one.
We know Sophie de Grouchy studied under the artist Marie-Anne Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun. And we know that Sophie painted portraits of the condemned. What we don’t know is whether she painted Madame Roland, though the possibility has been raised by Grouchy scholar Sandrine Bergés, so we adopted that idea. (See Roland’s chapter penned by Kate Quinn.)
After her husband’s death, Sophie never remarried. But she did take two lovers, one of whom was politician Jacques Joseph Garat, also known as Maillia-Garat, who left her for another woman. The other lover was historian Claude Fauriel, an extremely handsome younger man who remained devoted to her until she died. For the sake of brevity, I chose to combine both men in the epilogue.
What sticks with me about my historical heroine is that during the darkest hours of the Revolution, when her husband was in hiding, she encouraged him to write his best and most optimistic work, the iconic Sketch for a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind. Meanwhile, she seems to have been working on her own moral philosophy about human compassion. It astonishes me that they could have maintained hope for the future and belief in human goodness in circumstances that should have shattered their faith in both.
I count that a testament to their love and perseverance. For Sophie was nothing if not dogged. Despite her pragmatic decisions in matters of marriage and divorce, she was an idealist who never stopped championing her beliefs, even when they irritated Napoleon. I admire her intellectual audacity, courage, and her determination to carry on the work of those she survived. She is, to me, a heroine for the ages.
HEATHER WEBB
* * *
When I received the invitation to join this project from some of my favorite authors, set during one of my favorite time periods, I leapt at the chance. The task was to choose one of six incredible women who shaped the French Revolution through their pens, their speeches, their battles in the streets, and their sacrifices. The group of authors on this project, my Scarlet Sisters, are a pack of warriors in their own right, and they had my back as I attempted to nail down the most accurate-as-possible account of Louise’s life. We researched, wrote, edited, deleted entire scenes, perfected and honed and tied all these fascinating stories together into a colorful novel. Given the scope of the French Revolution and the sheer number of characters, you can imagine the time and care this took. Quite the project.
But our most important aim was to highlight messages that were as poignant and relevant during the French Revolution as they are today: Women should never be underestimated. We are fierce. We are tireless in our pursuit of equality. We are the future.
As for my character, Louise “Reine” Audu, she was an immediate draw for me. She was vivacious and passionate, mouthy and brash, and dedicated to a cause that ultimately led to a mental break and her tragic end. I chose Louise because I can’t help but love a daring, bold, and sassy character, but I also have a morbid fascination with mob mentality and wanted to explore what it would be like to be swept up into something far greater than you are as the world you’ve always known dissolves around you. Where does that passion—and often, violence—come from? Where does the person end and the movement begin?
There is little known about Louise “Reine” Audu outside of the broad strokes of her life: fruit seller, radical activist with a penchant for violen
ce, and orator. The sources that do exist are few in the details they provide, and they often contradict one another.
Rumors, in fact, defined Louise’s life. This is perhaps because nearly all the recorded adventures of her life were told second- and thirdhand—because Louise herself lied at times in court and elsewhere, and even her Christian and family names were in question. When Louise was arrested after the march on Versailles, she appeared in Le Châtelet court and was accused of helping massacre the king’s bodyguards as well as instigating an attempt to bring back the queen’s head. She claimed she wasn’t at the march at all. When an overwhelming number of witnesses said otherwise, Louise admitted she took up a broomstick and was swept up in the crowd against her will. Witnesses saw her with a sword. Her lawyer, a man called Chenau, further complicated matters by exaggerating details of the march in order to paint her as a noble heroine of the revolution. So began the legend of the so-called Queen of the Market Women.
Other discrepancies in the research include the number of women who approached King Louis XVI at Versailles. Was it five, seven, or twelve? Was it truly Louise who did all the talking, or was it another young woman entirely? Some sources claim Louise was merely an accomplice, while other sources say she was not there at all. In this case, I let Louise stand in the place of Louison Chabry, the flower girl who led the deputation of women to see the king, so as to keep the enormous cast of characters in our novel to a minimum. There are reports that Louise had to fight her way to see the king, but I chose to withhold that violence for after the meeting with the king.
Another question arises as to whether Louise murdered Swiss royal guardsmen at Versailles in an attempt to break into the palace. Some sources say there was only a skirmish, during which she received a laceration on her arm, or a saber wound to the breast. Did she spend that wet October night wounded and draped over a cannon, as her lawyer claimed? Did she spend that time drinking with soldiers, as Louise claimed? Or did she take part in the storming of Versailles and the attempted murder of the queen? We don’t know, but since she did do battle with soldiers in later clashes at the Tuileries, it seems likely that she took part in some of the fighting at Versailles, and so I portrayed that here. We also know Louise was honored by the town council of Paris with a sword of honor and awarded a stipend from the Jacobin Club for her patriotic efforts.
Rumors surrounded even Louise’s death. One source claimed she died as early as 1793. Another said, after being imprisoned at Sainte-Pélagie in 1794 for one year, she was released but went “mad.” Still another said she was transferred from the prison to a “hospital” (asylum), where she died many years later. These questions and their research rabbit holes were endless. It seemed only fitting to me, however, that my heroine’s history was composed of legends during an era when the Revolution itself was fueled by rumor, legend, and, ultimately, violence.
As for fictionalized elements of Louise’s story, I found only one mention of her family, which alluded to her five or six brothers. I chose to add a mother killed by an angry noble while she was at her place of employment, as well as a best friend, Marion, who died similarly but in a brothel, in order to demonstrate the very beginnings of Louise’s anger and instability, and her drive for a better future beyond her very real hunger. Also, Pauline Léon wasn’t her BFF (best friend forever), but the women did travel in similar circles, and it isn’t unlikely their paths crossed.
Since I had the task of introducing the majority of the characters in the novel, I decided to portray Louise not only as a fruit seller but also as a courier. This enabled her to have connections above her station, and it also gave her the ability to move in and out of various scenes and locations she may not have otherwise been able to, in a believable way. It must be said, however, that Louise herself claimed to have been a “good prostitute,” so it is likely she took extra jobs to survive, and the nobles at the forefront of the Revolution who mixed with the tiers état certainly might have offered a little coin to send their messages.
Some say that Louise was directed or paid off by the Duc d’Orlean, but we think this was another way to minimize the contributions of women in their own right, so I didn’t include it.
Finally, I gave Pauline Léon the honor of accompanying Louise to Versailles in order to, again, manage our large cast of characters. There were conflicting sources that claim Théroigne de Méricourt may or may not have been a leader alongside Louise. In fact, I’d like to take a moment to give a nod to Théroigne, as she was another legendary female figure of the French Revolution. Théroigne began a club for working-class women, famously demanded political inclusion for women at the Assembly, and was also one of the leaders in the storming of the Tuileries Palace in August of 1792 alongside Louise. Both Louise “Reine” Audu and Théroigne de Méricourt, in addition to Claire Lacombe (seen in Pauline Léon’s chapter), received a civic crown for their conduct during the attack on the Tuileries.
SOPHIE PERINOT
* * *
It is a delicate matter to present the voice of a monarchist in a book about the women of the French Revolution. Will I lose my head? Only time will tell. But it is important to show history from many angles. So I am honored to join my Scarlet Sisters in this important collaborative novel, and privileged to breathe life into Élisabeth of France, a woman deserving of a voice.
Madame Élisabeth is a figure from the shadows of history. In accounts of the Revolution, both fiction and nonfiction, she seems perpetually overshadowed by larger players—most notably her sister-in-law, Marie Antoinette. If Élisabeth is seen at all, she is often portrayed rather one-dimensionally cloaked in her piety. She was pious. But she was also much more. When I began researching Madame Élisabeth I was particularly struck by the fact that even a curator charged with preparing an exhibition on her admitted, “Before working on this exhibition, my opinion was distorted by clichés surrounding Madame Élisabeth.” (Juliette Trey, curator of eighteenth-century paintings and pastels at the National Museum of the Palaces of Versailles and Trianon.)
The truth is that Madame Élisabeth was a woman as full of contradictions and passions as the others portrayed in this novel. She was a Royalist’s royalist, believing in the divine right of kings as fervently as she believed in God. Yet this did not mean she was hard-hearted or blind to the plight of common people in France. Well known for her charitable works, Élisabeth was very generous and always thought of others before herself. She saw problems and recognized inequities; she simply believed they needed to be addressed through the existing form of government. Very religious, Élisabeth considered becoming a nun—yet she was also a woman with a wicked sense of humor, willing to poke fun at herself and laugh at her own mistakes. A highly educated and well-read woman, Élisabeth maintained a library at her beloved farm, Montreuil, which contained more than two thousand volumes. She continued to purchase books in captivity—specifically volumes to help her understand the situation of the royal family during the Revolution and to comprehend modern political thought, including Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France.
Yet, while Élisabeth was a complex, multifaceted woman, one thing lay as bedrock at her core: unconditional loyalty to those she loved. Whatever side of the political spectrum an individual inhabits, surely this is a laudable characteristic.
I hope I have been fair in my depiction of Élisabeth, and I have tried to be accurate. As in all novels, however, some facts are unknowable, and others have been altered or fictionalized to serve the needs of plot. For example, when the king’s escape was halted at Varennes, the royals attempted to delay their return to Paris through a feigned illness. In our telling, Princess Élisabeth pretends to be sick, whereas in reality it was one of the queen’s waiting women. This change was made both to illustrate Élisabeth’s growing assertiveness and to keep the number of characters in the novel manageable. Similarly, while Élisabeth continued to have more freedom of movement than the other members of her family up until their transfer from the Tuil
eries to the Temple’s tower, we have no evidence that she used her relative anonymity to attend the first execution by guillotine. I sent her to place de Grève to offer readers eyes and ears at an event too important to miss.
Finally, as in any book meant for modern eyes, and where translations are involved, some modern terms and units of measure have been used throughout Ribbons for clarity and the convenience of the reader. For example, during the royal escape attempt, distances are expressed in miles to help readers visualize just how far the king and his family managed to travel and how heartbreakingly close they were to safety before being caught. At the time, the actual unit used for distance measure would have been the league not the mile—or rather one of many leagues, because measurements were not standard under the ancien régime, and the distance of a league varied from two miles to more than three and a half miles, depending on the region of France.
For those interested in learning more about Madame Élisabeth from her own words, I highly recommend Life and Letters of Madame Élisabeth de France, Sister of Louis XVI (Versailles Historical Society, 1899).
KATE QUINN
* * *
Manon Roland was in many ways a woman ahead of her time. A natural politician, she had a gift for making speeches, drafting legislation, and crafting policy. In the twenty-first century she would be a congresswoman, the kind of dedicated public servant who reads all the meeting minutes, does her homework, and comes to committee hearings both utterly prepared and utterly ready to stamp on everyone who isn’t. In the eighteenth century she became the next closest thing: a politician’s wife. It was a role she found both satisfying and frustrating: believing in traditional female roles, she gloried in her ability to contribute to national politics through her husband but became frustrated despite herself when he received the credit for her speeches and ideas.