by Frank Yerby
“Yes, yes!” Pierre insisted; “even when her lover is a rich man who gives her many gifts. She can be left high and dry any time his fancy changes; her children, being bastards, cannot inherit; she must fawn and flatter to keep her slender hold upon him. Imagine Marianne flattering me! She’d use the back end of a skillet, dealt with a heavy hand! And yet she loves me, I think. It’s just that she knows, compared with the age-old wisdom of women—a wisdom that has nothing to do with logic, or reason, or sense—men are but backward children, not ever to be trusted. And she’s right.”
“You,” Jean smiled, sipping his glass, “don’t have a very high opinion of our sex, do you?”
“Oh yes, I do. It’s just that men and women complement each other—or should. Women are more primitive, depending more upon their instincts, and thereby getting closer to the truth of things. Men are, or think they are, logical, reasonable, objective—therefore they try to build a State upon those things, and make an ungodly mess! The human race, Jean Paul, has never worked upon intelligence or logic, but upon emotion and prejudice. In any large group of people, anything that is simple, clear, logical, objective, is certain not to work. You’ve got to get in mumbo-jumbo, witchcraft, pageantry, singing, fireworks, drama! Even when you’re convinced that a measure is good and wise, you’ve got to get those things in to carry it over with the people. Even your politicians have learned that. Regard your Fêtes of Federation, fêtes of this and that—with lanterns, red caps, statues of liberty, trees of liberty, until Jacques Bonhomme is convinced that he is free, while actually his freedom consists in merely the liberty to riot, to pillage, to get drunk, and to starve!”
“You old cynic!” Jean chuckled.
“No, not cynicism, Jean—realism, which is the true foundation of happiness, since it eliminates disappointment.”
They sat there a long time, talking. Pierre covered the political situation for Jean, bringing him up to date. He described the terrorism by which the Jacobins had gained a power out of all proportion to their numbers. “Were it not for the schisms among them, they, God help us, would now rule France. But they do split. Now the more moderate men among them, called Brissotins after their leader at first, but more and more frequently now Girondins because their greatest orators, Vergniaud, Guadet, and Gensonné are all from the Gironde, have come to the fore. Isnard, Condorcet, Fauchet, and Valazé sit with them; but they are directed from without.”
“From without?” Jean said.
“Yes. Jean, today a woman rules France. Madame Roland, whose ancient, pedantic husband is Minister of the Interior, has but to lift an eyebrow and the world revolves! You must meet her; she’s incredibly charming. Your old friend Sieyès thinks he influences and controls her; but the reverse is true. Dumouriez is in love with her, Barbaroux is in love with her, Buzot, too—and this last is returned, I think. After you’re married, I’ll introduce you—you’ll meet everyone at her salon—from men as far Left as Robespierre to those as far Right as Barnave and Dupont de Nemours.”
“And her influence is for good or ill?”
“For ill, I fear. She hates the Queen with an intensity that only a woman is capable of. It seems that the Queen denied some paltry honour or title to Roland before the Revolution, and Manon Roland has never forgiven her. The whole Gironde is bent upon war—as a means to overthrow the crown. And they’ll succeed; I know it. With Madame Roland using her charms and wiles, the throne is doomed!”
“But war!” Jean whispered; “they really think we could fight all Europe? Unprepared as we are—all our trained officers fled, discipline gone . . . they think that?”
Pierre looked at his friend sadly.
“They do,” he said; “but then they are madmen, remember.”
When it came to even such a private matter as marriage, Jean Paul learned how complicated life had become since the Revolution. In the first place, marriage was now a civil contract, though the law had not yet been fully codified. He had, therefore, to obtain a licence from the municipal authorities. These insisted, not without reason, that one of their number perform the ceremony.
“You never know, Marin, what effect a slight mistake can have on a man’s life in these times. Be a good fellow and have the civil ceremony. Afterwards, you can go quietly to priest if you like.”
Pierre sanctioned this as a part of the wisdom that was the better part of valour; but Fleurette, devoutly religious, stormed at Jean, with tears in her eyes. It took Marianne to convince her.
“You love Jean?” Marianne demanded; “well then, are you going to risk his life over a scruple? Men have been branded traitors for less than this. It’s the law, so obey it. Then afterwards let a priest make it right.”
So it was done, but after the ceremony, during which Fleurette stubbornly refused to wear her wedding dress, she went back to her own rooms.
“I’m not married to you, Jean,” she said flatly. “When our vows have been said before a priest, I’ll be your wife; but not before!”
Jean sighed. He was in trouble and he knew it. In his youthful rebelliousness, he had conducted the warfare on the Church which had stripped her in France of all her possessions, split her priesthood into two factions, those who had abnegated the authority of the Pope and sworn loyalty to the nation as an authority even above the Church, and those who had refused to do so. To all devout Catholics, any priest who had taken this oath was a schismatic, and automatically excommunicated. Even the King had risked his life rather than compromise on this point; he had steadfastly vetoed all measures against the non-juring priests, as those loyal to orthodox concepts were called.
“And this now,” Jean sighed to Pierre, “is the fruit of my own folly! Where am I to find a non-juring priest? And if I find one, will not this marriage itself put me beyond the pale, politically, jeopardising our future, and that of any children we might have?”
“Fleurette won’t consider it legal if you don’t,” Pierre grinned. “Don’t worry, my old one—I’ll fix something. . . .”
Pierre worked wonders. Early on the morning of April 14, Jean’s yellow coach slipped out of Paris. None of them wore wedding clothes. These had been carefully packed in the valises above the carriage. They would change for the ceremony, and change once more afterwards, to come back into Paris.
On the way to Fontainebleau, Pierre explained how he had done it. By incredible manoeuvring he had got an audience with the King and Queen, prisoners now, still confined under guard in the ancient palace of the Tuileries ever since their pitiful attempt to flee France. The story he told Their Majesties was well calculated to win their sympathies. Louis was instantly prepared to aid any man who wanted to be married by a nonjuring priest; and when Pierre reminded the Queen of her interview with Jean Paul, she smiled and said:
“Of course I remember your friend—that charming man, with the incredibly scarred face; to be sure, ‘twill be our pleasure to aid him.”
And going to her secretaire, Marie Antoinette had written a note in her own hand to her father-confessor at Fontainebleau, and sealed it with the royal seal. Everything was in readiness now, the priest awaited them in the Queen’s own small chapel.
When Fleurette appeared, bearing a huge spray of lilies in her hand, walking with Pierre, all the radiance in the world seemed to have gathered itself into her small face. Jean drew in a deep, incense-laden breath.
Nothing, or no one, he thought, in all this world has ever been so lovely!
Her soft hair was a mist of midnight, under the dawn mist of her veil; her gown was creamy, yellow-white, and the tiny pearls glowed like droplets of milk upon it. But it was her smile that was the loveliest thing in all the world; it was so filled with peace, contentment, quiet joy. . . .
Jean felt something like terror moving through his heart.
Dear God, he prayed, make me deserve this! Make of me what I must be to bring her the joy, the happiness, the peace she was meant for. And I thank Thee, Our Father, for this miracle which Thou has given me.
Marianne cried all through the ceremony, her sobs punctuating the stately Latin periods of the old priest. When it was done at last, and Jean Paul had kissed his bride, holding her as though she were something infinitely fragile and precious, touching her lips as if any more fleshly contact would bruise them, the priest stepped forward with a small box in his hand.
“From Her Majesty,” he smiled; “she made it for the bride with her own hands.”
It was a handkerchief of lace, exquisitely embroidered. The card read:
“Every happiness, my dear. S. R. M. Marie Antoinette, R.”
When Fleurette was told of the Queen’s gift, tears stole slowly down her face; while Marianne sobbed so loudly she had to be led from the chapel.
The dinner that Pierre had ordered at the best inn in Fontainebleau was magnificent; but he alone ate it. Jean sat there very quietly, holding Fleurette’s hand; while Marianne beamed at the two of them like a mother hen and picked at her own food as little as they.
“Now,” Jean said, when they had finished, “I have a surprise for all of you.”
He led them back to the coach, and the coachman wheeled the horses back towards Paris. They reached it at dusk, while there was still light enough to see. The coachman guided the big coach across the Pont Neuf into the Saint-Germain-des-Prés Quartier, and they wound through crooked streets for what seemed hours, to draw up at last before a house.
A servant opened a small gate in the high wall, and they came into a garden choked with flowers, whose scent lay heavy upon the warm April air. The house was a true hôtel particulier, the former residence of a duke; tall and splendid, with high windows catching the last rays of the evening sun.
While other servants bowed them into the foyer, a manservant took their hats, gloves, canes.
“Magnificent!” Pierre breathed. But Jean felt Fleurette’s small hand tugging at his arm.
“Tell me about it, Jean,” she whispered, “what is it like, our new home?”
And Jean Paul stood there, wordless before the realisation of how little all this splendour could mean to eyes that could not see.
He was awakened early in the morning, before it was light, by the soft touch of her fingers straying over his face. He came awake at once, and gripped her wrist hard.
“Let me go, Jean,” she whispered; “this preoccupation with your face is a great foolishness. You are my husband now—I have the right to know how you look.”
Slowly he released her, and lay quite still, while she traced the outlines of his face, whispering:
“’Tis but a scar, my Jean! It is this that you concealed from me so long? Scars are not ugliness—ugliness comes from within, from the heart; I think you are handsome—as handsome as a god—so tall and strong. . . .”
Her fingers strayed downward over his body, lightly as a breath, without provocation, or passion, with simple childlike curiosity.
“This is what a man is like,” she murmured, to herself, “this is what my man is like—so fine and strong, so beautifully made. . . . Oh, Jean, Jean, how I wish I could see you!”
He did not move, or speak. He lay there with his breath caught somewhere deep inside him, afraid to break the magic of the moment.
She moved close to him.
“Kiss me, Jean,” she whispered; “kiss me as you love me—as a woman, Jean, not a fragile doll! I will not break, nothing of me will break, except my heart—if you keep me at arms’ length any longer. . . . I know why. You think me delicate and ignorant of life, and you are right, but only partly. I am ignorant, but with my love I cannot remain so—Jean, Jean, I married you to become your wife—not a blind and helpless doll to be taken care of!”
She was crying now, and he drew her to him, kissing the salt tears from her cheeks. Slowly she calmed.
“Teach me, Jean,” she said.
14
“THEY told me I would find you here,” Renoir Gerade said; “but I confess I wasn’t prepared for such magnificence. I rather think it makes my visit pointless,”
“Nevertheless,” Jean smiled, “I’m indebted to whatever reasons you had that made you honour me with a visit. And, speaking of magnificence, that uniform you’re wearing is not to be sneered at. . . . Some coffee, perhaps?”
“Gladly. I’ve been up since before dawn, and a cup or two would help matters; I’m not as young as I once was, you know.”
Jean pulled the bell-cord.
“There is,” he said, “a connection between your uniform and this visit?”
“Right. I won’t waste time, Jean. After all our plans collapsed, I cast about for something to do. My life has been all soldiering—either in military intelligence or on active service. That penal command I had when you met me was the lowest depths to which I’d ever sunk. . . .”
“Coffee, Jeanne,” Jean said to the maidservant; “and you might inquire if Madame is awake. If so, take her up a cup—au lait, of course; but black for M’sieur and myself. You were saying, Renoir?”
“Only that I tried to find something to do along lines in which I had some knowledge. Fortunately, I had some money saved; and General de Lafayette offered me a command in the National Guard.”
“That’s not the Guard’s uniform you’re wearing,” Jean pointed out.
“I know it isn’t. This is the uniform of the new National Army. A number of respectable bourgeois have organised a company of volunteers. When they offered me the command, I snatched at the chance. That’s why I’m here; I need a second-in-command.”
“But I know nothing of military tactics,” Jean protested.
“Which is good. You have nothing to unlearn. To beat the Austrians, we’re going to have to fight a new kind of war—a war of lightning-like movement, hard blows dealt here today—tomorrow miles away in a new, unexpected sector. I don’t want to be burdened with a lieutenant who’ll argue mass frontal attacks and classic military movements with me. What you’ll need to know, I’ll teach you.”
“War,” Jean sighed. “Who would have ever thought those madmen were truly mad enough to declare war? Let’s see—today is April twenty-fifth; we’ve been at war five days now. I’ll confess I expect to see the Austrians marching into Paris any day now. . . .”
Gerade brought his fist down against his palm, hard.
“Don’t be a fool!” he exploded. “We’ll beat them. The Germanic mentality is the world’s most rigid. We have the intelligence, we’re natural improvisateurs; and God knows we don’t lack courage.”
“Still,” Jean sighed, “much as your offer intrigues me, there are other factors. . . .”
“Your business? How much business will, you have left if we lose this war, Jean Marin? Think, man! You won’t be fighting for the Jacobin club, but for France; that should make a difference to you.”
“It does,” Jean said; “still . . .”
But at that moment they both heard the whisper of Fleurette’s slippers on the stairs.
She came straight over to Jean’s chair, and put her arms about his neck. Jean marvelled again at how quickly she had learned to move about the house with perfect sureness, never bumping into the furniture or the walls.
“Forgive me, love,” she said; “but my feminine curiosity got the better of me. I heard so much excited talk. . . .”
Renoir Gerade was already on his feet.
“Captain Gerade,” Jean said, “may I present my wife? Fleurette, my old, old friend, Captain Renoir Gerade.”
Gerade took a step forward and put out his hand.
“You’ll have to speak, M’sieur le Capitaine,” Fleurette said with perfect dignity, “for me to find you. You see, I am totally blind.”
Jean saw the quick expression of pity flare in Gerade’s eyes.
“I,” he said in his old soldier’s deep voice, “am enchanted to make your acquaintance, Madame.” Then he bent and kissed her small hand.
“Please sit down, Captain Gerade,” Fleurette said; “our house is honoured. . . .”
“My fe
licitations, Jean,” Renoir Gerade said. “This, I think, is the wisest thing you’ve ever done. As for the matter we were discussing, consider it closed. I have just met the most convincing of all reasons why you shouldn’t even think of it.”
He turned once more to Fleurette and took her hand.
“Forgive me, Madame Marin,” he said, “if I seem abrupt. But a soldier’s time is not his own, especially now, you comprehend. Perhaps a day will come when I can give myself the great pleasure of an extended visit to my friends; but that will only be when the enemies of our country have been defeated.”
“Those without—or within, Captain Gerade?” Fleurette said.
“Both, I hope,” Renoir Gerade said, and smiled. “You have a ready wit, Madame. Au ‘voir—I am honoured to have met you. Au ‘voir, Jean
“Come, I’ll walk you to the door,” Jean said. “Fleurette will excuse us—won’t you, dear?”
“Only if you’re not too long, my Jean. I’m a terribly jealous woman, Captain Gerade.”
“You have absolutely nothing to fear,” Gerade said.
“I must see you again, Renoir,” Jean said, “before you leave Paris. There are many things I want to talk over with you. . . .”
“That won’t be difficult. Unless the enemy shows more force than he has so far, I shall scarcely leave Paris before the mobilisation is complete—which will probably take until the middle of July. Speaking of seeing me, why don’t you come along with me this afternoon and see the execution? I’m tremendously interested. . . .”
“I,” Jean said flatly, “hate killing in any form whatsoever. What difference does it make to the victim whether they use the sword, an axe, or this infernal new invention of Doctor Guilotin’s? The poor devil still loses his head.”
“But this time absolutely without pain—so says the good Doctor. That appeals to me. If it works, this will be an historic day: April twenty-fifth, 1792; the first time in mankind’s history that punishment was divorced from cruelty.”