“By edict he had me made so.”
“Therefore you are legal uncle to the late Louis Capet?”
“Younger by many years, but yes. I’m the dead King’s uncle.” André paused, turning from the public prosecutor to the President of the Tribunal. “Am I indeed a witness?”
The plumed hat nodded assent.
“Then as a witness I may give testimony?”
“To what purpose?”
“That I may speak in my own defense.”
The President of the Tribunal darted those hasty, questioning glances to the few in the Assembly who appeared to comprehend what was going on.
He said loudly, “Our new Republic has a leniency and justice denied by your forebears. Capet, you may speak on your own behalf.”
“It is in the form of a letter from my mother.”
“Let it be read.”
André gazed at the gallery, found me. At this distance I couldn’t clearly make out his expression, yet the gesture seemed a form of apology.
He drew a sheaf of papers from inside his coat. Carefully uncreasing the folds, he said, “This letter, in relating how I came to be born, also explains why I struggled to bring freedom and equality to the land.”
The aroma of sweaty anticipation was overwhelming. Vendors, ceasing to cry their wares, hunkered in the aisles. Children were still. This was higher drama than any in the Théâtre Française. Royalty explaining his birth and motives. All eyes fixed on André
In the dead silence, his resonant voice compelling attention, he read.
Chapter Ten
“‘To my son. If you are reading this, it means I never again will see you in this world. My name is Jeanine de Tinville. My family has been noble since 1087; however, the de Tinville lands have been divided too often among too many sons. Like most of the nobility in France, we are very poor.
“‘My parents and my brothers and I lived in a fallen-down plastered brick farmhouse shared in winter with our pigs and our cow. To put meat on our table, my father was reduced to occasional poaching. I helped my mother hill leeks and plant lettuce. We wore patched clothes and wooden shoes. Our only inheritance was our gentle blood.
“‘When I was twelve it was universally agreed I was a pretty child, with shining black hair, gray eyes, even teeth, and a fair, translucent skin. Though not yet a woman, my body was graceful and tall. I do not write this boastfully, but to explain what follows.
“‘Quiet, preferring to listen rather than to talk, I was of a religious bent. My family joked that it seemed a shame to waste me, with my looks, on the cloister. To me, though, the idea of serving God in eternal purity was not a joke. I yearned to enter a convent.
“‘One day to our farm came some old friends of my parents’. The couple wore fine satin clothes. Six horses drew their gilded carriage and lackeys swarmed behind it. The Marquis and Marquise d’—I omit their name, my son, in the event you might seek them out to punish them. They exclaimed over my beauty. The Marquise, especially, showed great interest in me. After ascertaining I hadn’t yet become a woman, she confided to my mother that her greatest sorrow was being childless, and she desired nothing more from life than to have me as a daughter. She begged permission to take me to Paris with her, promising I would be educated. The Marquis added his promise that I should have a dowry of a thousand gold livres. My parents, having worried about my future, blessed the couple. I, naturally, was not consulted. As our gilt carriage pulled from the courtyard, I began to weep for my parents, my brothers. I wept all the way to Caen. Both the Marquis and Marquise slapped me as an ungrateful wretch. Their kindness disappeared. At night, the Marquise tied me to her bedpost.
“‘We never reached Paris.
“‘We arrived in Versailles by night, entering the gates of a great park that I later learned was the outer edge of the palace gardens. We came to a high brick wall, iron gates were opened for us, and we passed through shadowy trees. At a timbered lodge of the kind that great nobility use for hunting, a serving wench with a flambeau met us, lighting our way into a polished hall. A hugely fat, painted woman glided across the shining floor to greet us. She circled me, staring.
“‘“A dainty morsel,” she said.
“‘“Her name is Jeanine de Tinville,” the Marquis replied, as if I weren’t present. “And I have promised her father she’ll receive a dowry and an education.”
“‘At this the three of them laughed in the odd, greedy manner of townfolk watching animals mate.
“‘Said the Marquis, “She’s of the noblest blood in Normandy.”
“‘“I’ve never educated a lady,” said the fat painted woman. “Jeanine de Tinville, welcome to Parc aux Cerfs.”
(In the courtroom a few people gasped, and I was one of them. We were those who, being privy to Court gossip, knew the ugly secret of Parc aux Cerfs.)
“‘The hunting lodge was large, luxurious, and I had four other young girls as friends. I, as the fat woman had said, was the only one of gentle blood. There were no lackeys or males about. Elderly maidservants tended us, petted us, giving us any dish we desired, dressing us in lovely, unpatched clothes—we had everything except freedom. Beyond the iron gates we could hear soldiers presenting arms. Around the brick walls we could hear the tread of sentries.
“‘The fat painted woman was our teacher. My son, I flush as I write this, but you must learn everything. Our education came from pictures of couplings and lewd tales told to us by the woman. I was the only one who could read. It became my task to read from bawdy books. With my inclination toward the spiritual life, you can imagine how this task repelled me.
“‘The painted woman made no secret of the purpose of her lascivious teachings. There had been many at Parc aux Cerfs before us, she said, doubtless many would follow, girls not yet women and therefore guaranteed free of the English disease, girls trained to give pleasure.
“‘The man we must please was the King.
“‘After each girl had her first woman’s time, the King would enjoy her a few nights, and then she would be released with a thousand gold livres. So that’s my dowry, I thought, shedding bitter tears. I must confess, however, that the others were delighted.
“‘I tried to escape. A maid caught me climbing a tree near the high wall. I was locked in my room, where the fat procuress had me read yet more obscene tales. The more my outraged modesty caused me to blush, the more delighted she became. “A morsel fit for a King,” she kept repeating.
“‘My first woman’s time came. I was frantic. I decided to kill myself. The procuress, though, kept me with her all the time. I was taken to a part of the lodge I’d never been. When my time ended, they bathed me in milk, perfumed me from my head to my toes, then led me to a huge bed on a dais. Silk swathed the steps. They tied me with satin scarves to the bed posts. Overhead, a mirror reflected my naked body’s struggles.
“‘“Jeanine,” the fat procuress said, her lacquered face annoyed, “I regret having to tie you. There are those who would give all they possess to have one night with the King.”
“‘She left me to a pair of maids. They teased my body with soft ostrich plumes. Hours and hours those plumes touched my breasts, my nipples, my thighs. I writhed, moaning in an excess of—I didn’t understand what it was that I craved. My body shook and trembled.
“‘I heard the gate, doors opening. The maids disappeared and both doors were flung open. King Louis entered. He was older and more wrinkled than his printed portraits; his nose was larger, that of a Roman emperor. Undeniably, though, he was handsome.
“‘“But why have they tied you?” he asked.
“‘“I don’t want you!” I cried.
“‘He looked at me, startled. Had the others all been willing? Afraid to speak to him? He untied me.
“‘I wish I could say I defended my honor. But now, finally, I understood what sensations those interminable moving feathers had roused. My pleasure with the King shamed me to the depth of my soul.
“‘He st
ayed for three nights and days.
“‘He didn’t dismiss me, as he had the others. He visited often, wanting no other girl in his mirrored bed. He begged to know my wishes. I said, “To be free of this sin.” “That, my little beloved, I will not grant. I want you too much.” In the end the only favor I could think of was to be rid of my lewd governess.
“‘I never saw her again.
“‘It was the King’s pleasure to sit talking to me in the gardens of Parc aux Cerfs. He said I had a deep way of listening that he’d never before encountered. He said with me he was happy.
“‘And one warm afternoon he said, “I want you in Court with me.”
“‘Not only was I shamed by my life, but the thought of a palace peopled with men and women like the Marquis and Marquise repelled me. I told him this.
“‘“They aren’t all venal,” he replied. “But you’re right, my quiet little nun. The real world would surely tarnish you.”
“‘He gave me a gold ring with our initials.
“‘I was with child. My pregnancy delighted the King, for recently his only son, the Dauphin, had died. Yet at the same time he feared for me. The chances are not good for a safe delivery with a young girl.
“‘You were born ten days ago, and since then I have been ill with the childbed fever. The King comes often to visit us. He dandles you on his knee, and yesterday promised to make you legitimate. I doubt if he will remember his promise, for he says it to please me, knowing I am mortally ill.
“‘The priest will be here soon. In the meantime I must write this down.
“‘I am not afraid of dying. I seek no vengeance, for your father has been kind to me. Yet in these long hours of fever I have lain awake wondering about the deep wrongs in a land where such a place as the Parc aux Cerfs can exist. It seems to me that each man and woman, born in the same manner, should have an equal chance at earthly grace. No man, woman, or little child should be debased to give pleasure or gain to another, no matter how high his rank.
“‘I cannot know what the future will bring, but with all my heart I hope that you will be a strong man, able, brave, and good enough to understand what it is I am trying to say.
“‘Fight, my André, as I could not, against the many wrongs.
May God bless you.
Jeanine de Tinville’”
Chapter Eleven
I heard only André’s intensely spoken words, saw only his erect, handsome body; as far as I was concerned, there were but André and me in the Grand Chamber. To me alone, he told the secret of his parents.
Therefore, weeping, I did not yet consider the effect of his mother’s letter on the court.
Too many emotions were coursing through me, and these all concerned André, born of a dissolute King and the quiet little girl who sat together in hidden green gardens. Stop being a romantic, I ordered myself. As much as it was possible for the King to love, Louis had loved the girl. But Jeanine de Tinville, that quiet, saintly child, never wanted the profane form of love, and the perversions she found in the Parc aux Cerfs shamed her to her soul. In André warred his mother’s poetic, idealistic blood and the profligate royalty of his father.
As I gazed through tears at André, so many pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. André’s selfless battle to end the old evils. His undeniable look of breeding. André and the Comte arguing in an exquisite, miniature-lined study, the Comte prodding André with hints at his birth. There was the Comte’s veiled amusement at André’s background. The Comte’s final order that I never again see André. André, doubtless because of his mother’s deep shame at the manner of his conception, had chosen never to reveal his identity. The Comte was one of the few who knew his secret.
Explained, too, was André’s bitter struggle to save the king, and his tears at the death sentence. Louis XVI, many years older than André, was André’s nephew.
Looking back at the clues, I knew I was a fool not to have guessed. Why, the very ring next to my heart, L and J interwoven, could have told me.
I had become conscious of the stirrings in the courtroom. Men sighed. Women wept. Next to me, Izette’s sobs were loud, bringing back the memory of a painted child’s words on a frozen December night: Some men, they likes a young girl, they thinks there’s less chance of getting a disease. Below, the Revolutionary ladies were sobbing in one another’s arms. Even the jurors had averted their woolen red hats and were furtively wiping their sleeves across their eyes. A thin voice above me piped, “Free Égalité!” And a bass boomed, “His mother was befouled by old Capet. Let him go!”
Had the trial ended at this moment, André would have been acquitted.
The public prosecutor, squaring those overbroad shoulders, declaimed, “Many horrors were perpetrated by your father. Did your mother die?”
“That day.”
“What happened to you?”
“I was sent back to Normandy with a bag of gold coins, enough money to make my grandparents’ lives comfortable. They raised me.”
“Did you ever see the tyrant, your father?”
“Just before my seventh birthday, a courtier came in a large carriage to take me to Versailles. There, a raddled, stout, bored old man stared at me, then I was returned home.”
“Did you hate your father?”
“I didn’t know he was that. My grandparents had said the King was granting audiences to children of the provinces, and I’d been selected from Normany. When I was eleven, my mother’s letter was given to me. And after that, I tried not to hate my father. But yes, I’ve hated.”
“Most assuredly, Prisoner, your father bore only love toward you.”
“I can’t say what he felt for me. I saw him only that once.”
The public prosecutor beckoned, an assistant scurried forward with two documents sealed with great blobs of red from which dangled official ribbons.
“Have you seen these before?”
André was silent.
“Answer the question,” ordered the President of the Tribunal.
“I’ve seen papers with the royal seal,” André said.
“On what occasion?” asked the public prosecutor.
“In 1774, shortly after the death of the … of my father. The same courtier who’d taken me to Versailles brought me my mother’s letter as well as two officially sealed documents.”
One was handed to André. “This?”
André scanned it. “Yes,” he said.
“Tell the court the essence.”
“I’m ennobled with the title of Due de la Concorde.”
“That is abundant proof of fatherly—and kingly—love,” insinuated the public prosecutor. He handed André the second paper, this time with a low, mocking obeisance that drew guffaws.
“Will you tell the Tribunal and the jury what this edict states.”
André scanned the paper. His head rose, proud. “It’s a certificate of legitimization.”
“More than that, Sire.” The lisp penetrated. “The edict states that André, Duc de la Concorde, is legitimate offspring to Louis of France. And as such is heir to the throne if the male offspring of the said Louis’s son, the defunct Dauphin, leaves no male heirs.”
The defunct Dauphin had left three sons. The oldest was Louis XVI, and his son, the little Dauphin, had been considered by many these past two weeks to be Louis XVII. Besides, Louis XVI’s two younger brothers were alive, and they had sons. Even if France still had a throne, André was at best a remote heir. Yet this didn’t halt the bloodthirsty howls.
The public prosecutor roared, “It would seem we sentenced the wrong man this January, You, Louis the Fifteenth’s sole surviving legitimate son, should have been the tyrant King.”
To this bit of mad illogic, the gallery began to stamp and cry for blood. André’s mouth moved, and I knew he was explaining that many were in line before him for the crown, had there been a crown. The pounding of wooden sabots drowned out his voice.
Izette shouted in my ear, “It’s easy to s
ee the mob ain’t got no sense.”
She meant to comfort me, yet I was remembering that a few hours earlier I’d swayed this crowd. If only the trial had ended then.
When the gallery calmed, the public prosecutor leaned on the jury box, pretending to address the jury, but aiming his piercing tones at the back of the gallery.
“You see a man,” he declaimed, “who by his own testimony had far more than any other in France to gain by overthrowing Louis Capet, his nephew. Naturally he would work for the Revolution. Didn’t he wish us patriots to do the job we did, end the reign of the tyrants? Now Louis Capet is dead. I say unto you that André Capet, our prisoner, is ready to embark on the second half of his campaign. He desires the end of the Republic. He will call on foreign armies to invade our land. He would be glad to see foreign troops devastate our fair land that he might crown himself King. He would not shed a tear that French blood ran in gutters—nay, he would take joy in this blood, for it would enable him to become King. I say to you, this André Capet must be stopped. Else foreign troops will be ravishing our women!”
This gabble of demogoguery was preposterous! Until this past half-hour, André had kept his royal identity a secret, and the truth had been pried from him with difficulty. There was a scar across his chest that proved he’d shed his blood for the Revolution. He had worked fearlessly to save Louis XVI. And no country would invade another to aid a man with so tenuous a claim to a toppled crown. But who in the gallery—or the Assembly downstairs—cared for reason?
From all over the great hall came cries of “Death!” “To the guillotine with André Capet!” “Death in the Place de La Révolution!” The Assembly rose as a man, shouting, “Death!” Hundreds of throats stretched out the word. “De-e-e-eath!”
Izette was pulling at my arm. Unnerved, I let her lead me up the steps of the gallery. In the tumult we were paid no attention.
He’s going to die, I thought. Within twenty-four hours he’ll be dead.
I stumbled a little on the risers, and Izette pulled at me. “Come on,” she said in my ear.
Just before we left the Grand Chamber, I turned. Far below, on the raised platform, bailiffs stood on either side of André. He was scanning the gallery. I raised my arm. I was to far away for him to see.
French Passion Page 35