by Damian Serbu
“You worry too much,” she said aloud.
“Perhaps we’ll see something new now that the Estates General is meeting at Versailles after all these years, especially since Louis doubled the Third Estate to include more of the masses,” Xavier continued.
“Well, these bread riots can’t continue forever.” Catherine smoothed her dress over her abdomen. “The king and church had better pay attention. And can you forgive my denunciation of your precious church?”
“Ah, the lovely church in Rome,” he said wryly. “How I love that it ignores the poor and supports the elite. God didn’t give Louis some ordained right to reign, and I have always found the sentiment preposterous.”
“Still defiant after all that training. So you don’t mind the changes taking place in the church?”
“Stop teasing me. The church owns too much land. It makes too much money at the expense of commoners. And even the common curé suffers in poverty while the church hierarchy lives in luxury.”
Catherine understood the plight of the common curé. Xavier’s own parish failed to pay him enough to survive and he had to come here to eat with her or starve to death.
“Regardless, this unrest alarms me. The king has already sent troops to quell the riot at Faubourg St. Antoine when the workers rebelled in April. Will more violence follow?”
“How else will change occur?” Catherine asked, arching an eyebrow. “On the bright side, Louis must listen to everyone now. Can you imagine what Michel must think?”
“Still laughing at our brother’s expense? I’m sure he abhors all of it.”
She shrugged. “I only hope that this broadens his horizons. Since father died, he takes such responsibility in caring for us, in acting like the patriarch. He should restrict his ordering people about for the military.”
“But he does have charge over us. It’s custom. What can he do?”
“He can pretend to lead us and do his responsibility without pushing,” she said, irritated. “Who ensures the family investments? Who meets with the financiers and managers? Who pays the bills? I do. So what gives him the right to appear three or four times a year and pretend that he rules the house?”
Xavier nodded without a word.
“I’ve thought about opening the doors of this house to anyone who would like to discuss the current political situation. What do you think Michel would have to say about a Saint-Laurent salon?”
“I’m sure he’d relish the idea,” Xavier said sarcastically.
“And he still frets about your choice to serve in that god-awful parish.”
“That god-awful parish deserves God’s guidance as much as those who parade off in the finest clothes once a week to pretend to follow His word while they exploit people the rest of the week,” Xavier snapped.
Catherine scurried over to him and gave him a hug, then pecked him on the cheek. “Got you. I knew that some passion hid in that black finery somewhere. Come, let’s go to the terrace.” She turned without waiting and walked toward the wall of windows and doors that led to a large veranda overlooking Rue St. Denis. The Saint-Laurent compound—the largest on the street—housed only Catherine and servants now that Michel served in the military and Xavier slept in his rectory. But guests frequented the place and all assumed that she or Michel would some day raise a family there.
Catherine spun around as Xavier walked through the door and hugged him again. “Do you forgive me for inciting you?”
“Only God can forgive your transgressions,” he said with a sigh though a smile hovered on his lips.
“Don’t you sound like a Huguenot. I thought the pope bestowed the power of God upon Catholic priests.”
“Blasphemy!” he teased.
“Oh, and did you hear what else is happening?”
“I can’t keep up with your mind.”
Catherine ignored him. “The city has formed a new government. I heard rumors in the salons for weeks about it, and when I went to Madame de Tesse’s salon yesterday—and spare me the admonitions of being careful about where I go—they said that the riots prompted a reorganization to a bourgeois militia because of the looting. How exciting!” Catherine looked out over Paris, quiet for now, without a hint of the unrest that had been plaguing it. “Well, have we discussed the riots enough?” she asked after a few moments.
“Definitely.”
“Walk me to the church, then. I want to light an indulgence for father and mother.”
“Of course. To Notre Dame.” Xavier headed for the door.
“No, I want to see your church.”
“I hardly think that you need to venture into that neighborhood.”
“Stop sheltering me. You sound like Michel. Besides, you hate seeing the elders who run that big old church, and the river stinks this time of year.”
Catherine pulled him into the street and they headed east, toward his small parish and the masses of people who hoped to overthrow the current government and, with it, their economic plight.
Xavier: The Saint-Laurents
15 May 1789 Evening
“STAY FOR DINNER,” Catherine commanded Xavier when they returned to the house. “I know what they feed you, or more to the point, what they don’t.”
He laughed. “Of course I’ll stay,” he said, watching as Catherine rushed around the house, telling the servants to prepare dinner and making sure that nothing had happened in her absence. He marveled that his sister had more energy than even all of the horses in the world. “What on earth did you expect? That some cataclysmic disaster would befall the house while we were gone?”
She raced into the dining room and dismissed his mocking with a wave of her hand, Xavier following so he could sit next to her.
“What?” she asked, petulant. “Why are you looking at me?”
“I’m in awe of your interest in the revolution. You watched everything today without the slightest bit of fear.”
“Really, it’s hardly remarkable.”
“You don’t expect constant violence, do you? I hate it. I constantly have to shelter people in the sanctuary while everyone runs around the streets fighting like lunatics. If the bishop found out how I assisted with this mess...”
“How on earth can the bishop claim that you’re involved in the riots by harboring innocent people?”
“The sanctuary is a holy place and reserved for appropriate worship of our Father in heaven.”
“Please. Maybe we should ransack Notre Dame to give them a taste of reality.”
Xavier laughed. He tolerated church politics because the Parisian elders seldom ventured to his church. They had no use for the poor and it scared them to ride in the narrow, dirty streets so near the Bastille.
“Did you hear Madame Bregat when we passed her?” Catherine asked, absently polishing her silverware with her napkin.
“Yes, her shrill voice made her sound scared when she spoke.”
Catherine rolled her eyes. “Typical aristocracy. All of this has them in a complete tizzy. Don’t they see the chance for profound change?”
“Did you ever think that most of them despise the thought? They’re not accustomed to the bourgeoisie running about demanding governing rights, let alone peasants rioting on country estates.”
“Well,” Catherine stated flatly, “I’m not afraid.”
Xavier feared another dinner of Catherine’s waxing poetic about a possible revolution, though they essentially agreed. Neither feared the people, and their father had instilled in them a respect for all humanity. So governmental reorganization hardly concerned him or his sister. They understood the people’s hunger and need for change. What worried him was the violence, and he did not wish to talk about it all the time. “What else are you thinking about?” he finally asked.
“You know what today is, don’t you?”
“I try to forget. This entire month brings sad memories.” Xavier fought the pain that had weighed on his mind all day.
“I wish that I could forget. It hurts. What wo
uld he think about the turmoil?”
Xavier rubbed his forehead, remembering how his father had tried to mediate between the monarchy, the bourgeoisie, and all of the lower sorts. He died a year ago, of “natural causes” though it seemed unnatural at the time because of his age. But the doctor had said that his health simply failed. Xavier missed him desperately. His father, moreso than any other in his family, had understood his choice to enter the priesthood and had even accepted his decision to avoid Catholic politics in so doing. His eyes welled with tears.
“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean—” Catherine took Xavier’s hand and squeezed, as if to pinch the pain out of him.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing at his eyes. “Don’t worry. I think about him anyway. Talking about him feels good.”
“How can this be good?”
“Because it honors him, reminds me of all that he taught and keeps me focused on helping people.”
“It’s peculiar. Until I went abroad to tour, I never realized our privileged position,” Catherine said. “Not because he sheltered us, but because he didn’t. He wanted us to see all classes of people and consider ourselves members of mankind without concern for wealth. It surprises me that he instilled this so well in all three of us.”
Xavier squeezed her hand. “I have the strangest conversations with my fellow clergymen because of him. They either come from the aristocracy and spurn the common people or from the lower ends of society and sneer at the rich. I see both points of view, and they think me insane, on both sides. Only father could create a theology that allowed me to enter the rigid Catholic Church, with all of its emphasis on power and privilege, and not forget to honor everyone.”
“I miss him, too,” Catherine said softly. “He’d be so proud of you.”
“Speaking of the unrest,” Xavier mused aloud, “how would father handle this? He gave us no guidance about that. He insisted that we obey the king and act as middlemen between the monarchy and the people.”
“But what happens when everyone wants to overthrow the king?”
“No one wants to overthrow the king. You always take things to the extreme.”
“And you fail to see the possibilities,” she retorted. “If the Americans threw King George out of their lives, perhaps the French will dismiss Louis. Father envisioned stability so long as everyone respected each other, but with starvation and poverty and high taxes, things have to change. See why we need a salon here?” She stopped when a servant entered the room. “Oh look, dinner is served.”
“How can dinner possibly surprise you when you ordered it?”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “I wonder what Michel thinks about all this? Do you think it affects the army yet?”
“He probably ignores it.”
“Stop it. Try to consider his point of view. Michel must be having a hard time reconciling his loyalty oath to the crown and what father taught us.”
“Father made one big mistake,” Catherine said, gripping her fork tightly. “He allowed Michel to enter the military too soon. The army has shaped him too much. He needed more time to see things through unbiased eyes. The army commands respect and obedience, and Michel got lost in that disciplined world.”
“It was a noble calling, Catherine. Michel wanted to please father by following in his footsteps.”
“I know that. But Michel doesn’t have Father’s independence. For example, look at your name. Everyone expected Papa to name you after some member of the monarchy, but he refused because he had served with a Basque general. To honor their friendship, he named you after that man’s favorite saint. So you walk around with a Basque name in the middle of Paris because of father’s friendship and respect for someone who helped him.” She said this in one breath, paused, took a drink of wine, and continued. “The difference being, that Michel would obediently name you Louis and be done with it.” She set her glass back down. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“Thank you so much for the history lesson. Are you finished?” His stomach clenched, knotting like it always did when he and Catherine argued.
“No. One more thing. Michel already cautioned me about the riots in a letter, remember? He can’t decide what to do. You see, that proves my point,” She finished triumphantly.
“No one has put you on trial. I agree, Michel’s afraid and it will be difficult for him. I remember sitting with Father while Michel asked over and over again about the paradox of obeying the king and helping the people. He explained that the monarchy, by its very nature, rules because we need an established order. But the king’s privileged position prohibits him from understanding the bourgeoisie and the poor. So the nobility exists to explain to each group how to behave.”
“Well, you listened to father’s lessons. I forgot half of what he said. I liked to look out the window. Michel must have stared at the ceiling too much, too,” she said sarcastically.
He set his fork down. “Can we forget about Michel before you start arguing with him, even when he’s not here?”
“You’re too good. You need a little more spite in your blood to spice up your life.”
“That’s why I have you.”
She giggled. “It is hard to live up to our name and change with the times.”
The name. Xavier heard a million times from his father and other relatives about the importance of the name. Saint-Laurent. A noble clan. How many times did he hear about his great-great uncle who tutored Philippe D’Orleans? Or the others who served various kings or rose to prominence in the army and church? Though his father had made a separate name for himself, all three children knew that they had come from a noble legacy of service and obligation. And sometimes, such a burden became cumbersome.
“Since you almost empathized with Michel,” Xavier announced as he pushed back from the table, “I’m leaving on that peaceful note.”
“Please stay. I love talking to you.”
“I have to return to the church.”
“Why? Do you have to wax a crucifix?”
“Catherine, please.”
“I’m sorry. Seriously, stay.”
“I really have to leave.”
Too late. She had figured it out.
“The garden!” She laughed as Xavier turned red with embarrassment. “You still try to grow edible food in that garden?” She escorted him to the door.
“Perhaps.”
She smiled indulgently and they kissed on the cheek before Xavier headed down the stairs, waving at her. She amazed him. One minute she wanted him to stay, the next she remembered that she had business. And she addressed major problems, atypical of most noble women who fretted about social gatherings and the latest fashions. Catherine went immediately to her desk and pored over family business almost every night.
He and Michel, however, hated family economics. His father had recognized this, too, and thus tutored Catherine in finance.
Catherine, the confident one, the one who did as she pleased and never looked back. Xavier longed for a morsel of her abandon and free spirit. He turned the corner, feeling content on this quiet spring day now that the rioting had ended and he could walk through the streets as the sun set behind him.
Xavier: Garden Meeting
15 May 1789 Late evening
BACK AT HIS church, Xavier worked in his small garden even now, after darkness had fallen and the nearby lantern barely illuminated the street around it, let alone his humble plants. He didn’t care, because it relaxed him.
“Abbé?”
Startled, he whipped around.
“I’m sorry to startle you again.”
Xavier cleared his throat, nervous. It was the man from earlier in the day, with the long black hair and piercing brown eyes. “I didn’t know anyone was there. I saw you today, didn’t I? What’s your name?”
They stared at each other again until the stranger broke the silence.
“Thomas, Father. Thomas Lord.”
Xavier cocked his h
ead, quizzical. “You’re not from Paris.”
“What gave me away?”
“Your accent.” He wiped his hands on his robe.
“I’m here on business.”
“Well, welcome to Paris. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.” Xavier wanted to say more, to keep this man near him, but he was at a loss for words. How strange. He didn’t even know him.
“I—I wondered if...can I go to confession? With you.”
Xavier smiled. “You’re not French, and you’re not Catholic, either.”
“No,” Thomas said sheepishly. “I’m not. I’m not Catholic, nor of any religion, really. And I’m not in Paris only because of business. I’m here by myself and felt lonely, and you seem friendly. I saw you protect that little girl earlier this evening and thought perhaps you could show me around Paris. I’m from America and wanted to see the rioting.” He stopped. “Sorry to babble.”
Xavier studied Thomas, noting his musculature, even in the dark. It made him think things he had no business thinking. “Sadly, I doubt you’ll find Paris too welcoming these days, but I would be happy to show you around.” He paused, considering. “May I ask you one thing?”
“By all means.”
“You needn’t lie anymore. Just ask if you want my company.”
“Can you forgive me, abbé? I was confused about your being a priest and what etiquette to use,” Thomas said delicately.
“You weren’t sure if I had the time for a heathen?” Xavier smiled. “Or did you fear some divine judgment? Well, don’t. I know most of my colleagues have such rigid standards, but I don’t believe in exclusion. As I said, I’d be delighted to show you Paris.”
“You don’t mind that I’m not Catholic?”
“Not all of us are so narrow-minded as to demand a certain brand of faith from everyone that we meet. All of us are God’s children, after all.”
“What am I supposed to call you, then?” Thomas asked, the fingers of one hand picking at the sleeve of his other arm. “Abbé? Father?”