French Passion

by Briskin, Jacqueline;

  “Hurry up!” Izette hissed. “In one more minute they’ll remember you defended him. They can’t get at him, but they can get at you. They’ll tear you apart.” She yanked me through the great carved door.

  In the hall those who hadn’t been able to find a seat in the Grand Chamber milled about. Izette shouldered us through the crowd. At the staircase four soldiers waited.

  “Manon d’Epinay?” called the sergeant.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Come with us.”

  “Are you arresting her?” Izette asked, pulling at the sergeant’s arm.

  He slapped her away.

  “Why? What are the charges against the citizeness?”

  At this the sergeant grasped his bayonet with his two hands, using it as a bar to force her from him. She was pushed against the wall. She shot me a glance of mute horror, then my escort marched me down the broad staircase.

  Twilight was falling. I was led across dusky courtyards and along endless flame-lit corridors. We ascended narrow circular stairs. The sergeant opened a door. “Inside,” he ordered.

  The door shut behind me. I heard orders for two soldiers to remain as guards.

  I was in a small, reasonably comfortable room. A coal fire had been lit. The chairs were upholstered. The table, of that lovingly inlaid old marquetry, had been hacked with swords or knives, and one carved leg had been replaced with a slab of crude pine.

  I had been up all the previous night, waiting outside the Palais de Justice, my stint on the witness stand had taken huge energy, the trial had drained my every emotion. Weariness hit me like a sudden blow. I sank into one of the tapestry chairs.

  He’ll be dead, I thought. In twenty-four hours André will be dead. I forgot his royal birth. He was the man I’d loved ever since a rainy night of my sixteenth year, and now he must die. In weary despair I could see his severed head being raised by Sanson, the executioner. I had no interest in why I’d been brought to this room, or who had given the order. What difference did it make?

  Chapter Twelve

  The doorknob turned.

  Beyond the barred window, darkness was complete. I’d heard it was by night that the Tribunal judged in secret. Wondering if the sergeant had returned to conduct me to my trial, I started to my feet. I felt no fear. Strange, that I should feel nothing of fear, nothing except this weariness that dragged at my limbs, and a grief that tightened my chest.

  Goujon came in, closing the door behind him. The two candles wavered. The coal fire flickered. In this uncertain light he seemed enormous. I’d seen this huge man, taller and bulkier than his fellow deputies, rising to shout Death!

  Yet when he spoke, his voice held that deep note of gentleness.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” he said. “But there was a committee meeting after the trial.”

  “Will André go to the Place de la Révolution tomorrow?”

  “That depends.” He moved to sit on the chair next to mine, facing the fire.

  “On what?”

  “We’ll come to that in a minute.” He stretched out his legs, resting his huge shoes on the fire dogs. “I had you escorted here for your safety. In another minute the crowd would have turned on you.”

  Though there wasn’t a hint of duplicity in his voice, or in his face either, I sensed I’d been brought here for reasons less obvious than my security.

  “Izette said that, too,” I agreed.

  “I warned you to leave France. You agreed you would. Name of God, Manon, how could you have gotten up like that?”

  “I’d do it again.” For the first time in this conversation, a spark of life came into me. “And ask you to verify me, too.”

  “I might have lied.”

  “Yes, you might,” I agreed. “You knew about André, didn’t you? Before this afternoon?”

  “You yourself told me.”

  “I? But—”

  “Unknowingly,” he interrupted. “Remember that snowy day I came to your husband’s palace? Before we got down to business, you said the Comte de Créqui knew something about Égalité’s parents? Until then I’d put Égalité down as one of those who never talk of families. After, though, I sent my secretary to dig through the records. He has a keen nose, my secretary. He found the edicts.”

  “So you were the one in the Assembly who denounced André?”

  “A group of us,” he replied. “Stop looking at me like that, Manon. You and I are both country bred. You know as well as I that when one in the barnyard gets the fowl pox, a farmer can’t let it spread through the flock.”

  “André is a man. And he isn’t ill!” I snapped. “He was your friend. You denounced him.”

  “Égalité was my friend,” said Goujon. “The Due de la Concorde is not. I’ve never hid from anyone what I feel for royalty. Yes, I denounced the Due de la Concorde, as I would any of royal blood.”

  It was that old frustration! “I’ve never understood how it’s possible to think of people in groups!” I cried. “André kept his parentage from me, even. And if you’d left him alone, he would have taken his secret to the grave.”

  “Nevertheless, Manon, he’s divided in his loyalties. Think of the effort he spent trying to save his nephew.”

  “He’s never wished bloodshed. Never. But you, you’ve given yourself to hounding the royal family to death.”

  “That is what a revolution’s about.”

  “Inhuman!” I burst out.

  “Inhuman?” Calmly Goujon warmed his huge bluntfingered hands at the fire. “There were twenty-two million souls in France. Only the nobility, forty thousand of them, were considered the human beings.”

  “Only those at court counted. The rest were like me and Jean-Pierre. André’s mother. Very poor. Goujon, you were far richer than I.”

  “Money, yes. But all my life I’ve had boundaries that you never knew existed. I could never enter a manor house as a guest. I couldn’t serve as an officer. I couldn’t carry a sword. Everywhere were reminders that I was of a lesser breed.”

  “André never thought of you as that. We both respected your intelligence, your leadership. Your dignity.”

  “I’m trying to explain the emotions of twenty-two million people. Manon, we were raised to feel we were less than men. In the future no man born will be able to impose such inferiority on another.”

  “You know André wants the same! But because of the accident of his birth, he’s condemned.”

  Goujon didn’t reply. His silence meant he considered André’s death sentence just. My throat tightened as if clutched by icy, invisible hands. I realized that Goujon, whom I’d always considered my friend, was bound by other rules than I. We might have been speaking two different languages. In his vocabulary the words love, friendship, affection meant nothing. He had dedicated himself, unswervingly, to the cause of wiping out the monarchy.

  He remained quiet. The huge body seemed to gather all the energy in the small room. And my thoughts could not escape him. What others had he denounced?

  After a minute I asked, “Izette said there was something peculiar that the Comte’s execution was put forward a week. Did you arrange that?”

  “It was expedient.”

  “So we couldn’t rescue him?”

  “So you wouldn’t endanger yourself in a futile cause. Little one, do you really believe that your poor, sad plot would have worked?”

  “You betrayed us.”

  “For me, the Comte de Créqui’s execution was justice. He had served two Kings.”

  “And the September Massacres. You knew the cost of the executioners, even. You had a hand in that brutality, didn’t you?”

  Goujon, not bothering to reply, used the fire tongs to move a lump of coal. “It’s time,” he said, “to discuss when Égalité will be executed.”

  I drew a long breath.

  “It depends on you,” he said.

  “Me? How me?”

  My dark gray wool bodice was so plain that my breasts were accentuated. He s
tared at the delicate curves until my face grew hot.

  I whispered, “Are we bargaining?”

  “I’ve waited a long, long time.” He nodded. “Yes, I’m bargaining.”

  “Will I see him?”

  “Every day of his life,” Goujon replied.

  “How long will that be?”

  “A week.”

  If one has expected only a day, a week sounds a lifetime. I began to shake.

  “I’m being honest with you, Manon. He’ll be kept alive no longer than is expedient to us. And for each day, you’ll have to be with me.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “There’s no other choice,” he replied. “This is the only way to delay Capet’s head from tumbling into the basket.”

  The most horrible part of this exchange was that Goujon spoke calmly, his voice and expression the same as always. He was the same red-bearded peasant who had carried me from the Bastille, neither petty nor afflicted by jealousy. But it was as if I’d seen only one side of his face, and now he offered me the full view so I could see that across the hitherto unseen half lay a deforming blotch of savagery. Unswerving, with his entire being, Goujon was dedicated to the slaughter of royalty—and of any connected, however remotely, to royalty. I’d known Goujon was against the “tyranny,” as the monarchy now was called. I hadn’t realized the monstrous depth of his obsession. What a fool I’d been. Yet I had to trust him, for as he’d pointed out, there was no choice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You agree?”

  I nodded.

  “I never thought to possess you,” he said. “Do you know how I’ve ached for you?”

  My shivering increased. He lifted me from the chair with the ease with which he had once carried me from the Bastille, standing me in front of the fire. The flames lit his face with a peculiar, flickering calm as he undid my gray wool gown, the froth of lingerie. When I was naked, an urgent groan came from deep in his massive chest. He pressed his rough beard into my breasts, kissing me, hastily lifting me high off the floor, lowering me onto the mutilated table. He didn’t undress. As his huge weight came down on me, I cried out. He paid no attention—this was the other side of Goujon, cruel, savage, bestial.

  I dressed silently. Each movement darted pain along the nerves of my abdomen, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. He handed me my cloak.

  He went to the door, flinging it open. The two soldiers jerked to attention.

  “Escort the prisoner to the concierge,” Goujon said. “He already has the charges.”

  In numb disbelief I gazed at him.

  “Manon,” he said quietly, “the other day you could have saved yourself.”

  “By leaving France.”

  “That letter would have been protection, even for de Créqui’s widow, an émigré. This morning you doomed yourself.” He took my hands.

  “André—”

  “As I promised, you’ll see him tomorrow. And me.”

  With both hands he led me to the door. The two soldiers moved forward. My thighs were bruised. Having difficulty walking, I couldn’t keep up with them, and on the narrow, curling staircase, I stumbled. One of my escorts gave me his arm. We returned through the long, torchlit corridors, across dark courtyards, moving into the guttering lamplight of the concierge’s office.

  My entry to the Bastille had been terrifyingly theatrical. This was simple and matter-of-fact, like taking a room in a cheap inn. The concierge, yawning, stated the charges. I was a returned émigré, I had grieved at the loss of my husband, an executed traitor.

  A jailor, taking up a ring of keys, accompanied me through different corridors and stairs, doors clanging and locking behind us. We came to a grated door that opened onto a stone tunnel.

  Here, women sat at a long table calmly writing, sewing, embroidering, reading, while others strolled, chatting, in pairs, and at the far end of the gloom I made out a double row of cots where women helped one another roll up their hair in strips of cloth, the nighttime toilette. After the unreality of the trial, the unreality of Goujon’s brutal coupling, these tranquil, delicately-bred prisoners were the ultimate fantasy. I couldn’t believe what I saw. They must be ghosts, I thought, the ghosts of beauty, wit, elegance, the ghosts of youth and age, of frivolity and charm … the ghosts of the Old Regime.

  The door clanged shut. I leaned against the wall, bending over a little to ease the pelvic hurt.

  A stately middle-aged woman came toward me. Her gown was violet wool belted with lavender, her smile gracious.

  “Welcome to our company,” she said.

  The others gathered around, their voices soft, their eyes warm, their obvious sympathy reminding me of my battered state, my exhaustion. I felt my face crumple.

  “But you’re tired,” said the lady in violet. She linked her arm in mine, leading me to a cot near the far end of the dismal tunnel. “This is your quarters,” she said, her tone gracious as if showing me a magnificent suite. “I hope your stay among us will terminate … happily.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “Do we see the gentlemen?”

  “Surely,” she replied. “From ten in the morning until four in the afternoon we take the air, and, separated from us by a railing, the gentlemen do the same. But now, dear companion in misfortune, you must rest.”

  I sank onto the straw pallet, pulling the must-odored coverlet about me, unable even to take off my shoes. Immediately I fell into a heavy slumber. Once, I woke to hear the Palais de Justice clock ringing, dogs baying in answer, and, on a distant cot, a poor, dream-haunted woman crying out, “Blood … execution … guillotine.…”

  In that moment of wakefulness I thought: André will die, I’ll die, and the hour depends on Goujon. A decent woman would choose the nearer death. I’m not decent, I thought, rolling over. I never was. Love’s always been more important to me than the rules. Tomorrow I’ll see André.

  Goujon already had betrayed me once, but the Comte’s hastened trial and execution didn’t occur to me. I fell back asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following morning I awakened, momentarily bewildered as to where I was, the ripple of courteously muted women’s voices and the smoke-blackened arch overhead quickly reminding me that I was in the Conciergerie. My body no longer ached. My mind, though, was assailed by doubts. Would I see André today? In answer, I conjured up a memory: Izette, Sir Robert, and I leaning our heads together, planning the Comte’s rescue, and Goujon listening silently, the reflection of the fire turning his pupils red as his beard. I stiffened on the straw pallet. Goujon. An admitted murderer. I had only his word that André wasn’t at this instant having his neck band cut to ready him for the guillotine.

  Around me, ladies were arranging their coiffures or applying maquillage to their faces. Two corners had been screened off to give privacy for sponge baths and dressing. From the long table came the odors of bitter coffee and dark bread—later I would learn that those who could afford it paid the steep price of the poor fare, and all joined equally in the eating. The stately middle-aged woman who had shown me to my cot wore a dove-gray morning gown that matched her immaculate hair. Seeing me awake, she glided over to say, “Won’t you join us in breakfast? Soon we take our exercise.”

  Through the high-arched door we moved according to strict Court etiquette, those of lower rank giving precedence to those of higher. My mentor, the stately Duchesse de Gramont, went first. I held back with the untitled. As always, I’d given my maiden name—to me, the Comtesse de Créqui had existed only a few short months, dying with her unborn child on a high and stormy sea.

  A wintry morning light shadowed the stone courtyard. In one corner, at the running fountain, several women had started washing clothes. The other ladies were tossing gay welcomes to the men emerging into an alley beyond the plain iron fence, and the men were returning compliments.

  I hurried to the railing, peering around for André. He was nowhere in sight. My heart began to pound in terror. From t
he slender spire of Sainte-Chapelle came a chime marking the quarter-hour.

  André came through the narrow arched doorway.

  After my built-up fears, my relief was so great that I couldn’t call his name. I clutched the iron rails. How, after all the hints combined with the straight, kingly back, the proud profile, the arched, narrow nose a refined version of the great beaks of the royal family, had I not known who he was?

  The gentlemen made deep bows, the ladies curtsied, André drew himself up, embarrassed by the obeisances around him. And then he saw me.

  His face a mask of fury, he came over to where I stood.

  “I told you to leave,” he said in a low, angry voice. “My last words to you were to get out of France. How dare you disobey me?”

  My emotions were so contradictory that for a moment I could scarcely breathe, much less answer. If I was justly angry at his tone, I was also aware that he, legal scion to the King of France, possessed the right, by Court etiquette, to berate everyone present. If I was infinitely relieved to see him alive, I was also awed by his identity.

  I had intended, if lucky enough to find him living, to tell him that his secrecy meant nothing, nothing. Yet seeing the respect other prisoners gave him brought the full knowledge how far above me he was. This jabbed my pride. To reply to his anger in a conciliatory tone, however heartfelt, in my mind would have been a form of kowtowing.

  I heard myself murmur in a rage similar to his, “We aren’t married. You have no rights over me. None.”

  “I agree. I have no holds on you. And that you might have considered, madam, before your performance yesterday. You should have trod the boards. I’ve seen actresses do Corneille with far fewer theatrical gestures!”

  “My play to the gallery,” I snapped, “should have earned your release!”

  “Naturally. That act of yours was precisely what the mob craves. They awarded you the kind of attention usually given to the mating of a two-headed cow.”