by James Tipton
“But no one knows—,” I started.
“Madame Tristant heard that from Françoise, Marguerite’s maidservant,” he said. “Your mother couldn’t sleep that night. Her own unmarried daughter with child, and from a man accused of being a spy. I know responsible citizens on the Committee of Surveillance.
There are those who are plotting to destroy us and give us over to the great empires of England or Austria. Don’t be so naïve. But most of all”—and he slammed his fist on the table as the bowls of pears and their attendant spoons hopped up and down—“don’t disgrace my table again by striding in here as if you have done nothing wrong and by eating my food, when a woman of any decency left in her would be living in shame and confinement. But you have no decency. I give you two days—that’s ample time—to gather your things, and I’ll pay for the family carriage to take you to chez Dubourg in Orléans—your mother has already written to them. That is more than generous of me. Another man might throw you out—”
“I’m going too, then, Monsieur Vergez,” said Angelique, and threw her embroidered napkin on her bowl. “I’m going, Maman, if Annette has to go. It’s not right. She’s our family—”
“This is chez Vergez now,” her stepfather calmly reminded her.
“Your sister knows that women like her are usually sent away, so as not to disgrace the family. Usually to a convent, where they never see the world again. Well, convents are now state property, so that’s a little harder to do. And chez Dubourg is cheaper. So, Madame Williams—” He said the term so disparagingly, the term that was so sacred to me, that I stood up and ran out of the room. This was my homecoming from the Beauvoir Tower.
Maman came running after me and caught me below the stairs. I jerked away from her hand on my arm.
“You must see, Marie-Ann—”
“I see,” I said.
“Bernard said it poorly, but he is only—”
“Let me go,” I said.
“It’s not that simple, Annette. You can’t just go. You’ll be paying for this all your life.”
“Yes, paying through love for a child from a man I love.”
“No, paying and paying for a mistake. I know he may never return.
Probably will not. Our nations are close to war. You’ll then have a child of the enemy.”
I pulled free and started up the stairs.
“Annette,” Maman said. “I understand. I do.”
“How can you?”
“Like many others, I’ve been guilty of my own small weaknesses in my youth. Not having a child as you are, but weaknesses, nonetheless. So I understand. But I was saved because of my discretion. Just be discreet, my dear. The Dubourgs can help you find a place for your child.”
“Is that what you wrote them? This child is mine for all my life, Maman, as you said. You are guilty of weakness again, but of a different sort.”
And I went up the stairs to my old room and lay on my bed and listened to the rain. It was falling again—a fine autumn rain over the vineyards of chez Vincent, over the gray river and over the Channel and over England. I missed my older sister.
And the rain was falling over the streets of Paris. How would William find me now?
Love Remains
After Monsieur Vergez had excoriated me so, I wanted to leave in two days, or earlier. I wanted not to talk with or even to see Vergez or Maman. In fact, I saw Maman not at all until she embraced me and wished me well on my parting; perhaps in those two days she had avoided me as much as I had her. We both murmured respectful platitudes, and it was best to leave without anger or rancor. I myself wondered how she could not have the desire to see her grandchild as soon as it was born. Perhaps she did, and it was one of the many sacrifices she thought it prudent to practice. I saw Vergez only once: he was directing several men how to move Papa’s old desk out of the library and into a wagon. They were working well and ignoring him.
I asked Jean to take La Rouge and Le Bleu to the château de Beauregard. I didn’t trust Monsieur Vergez with their keeping. He could sell them to the army. And the count liked the horses and would ride them. That night— our last night, for Angelique was indeed accompanying me—we supped in my room. Then, late, when I was sure Maman and Vergez had gone to bed, I took a lantern and went to see my old friend. As soon as I opened the big door and entered the stable, I heard her soft whinny. She knew it was I.
I stroked her soft mane and told her that I would be back. Then, either I would take her with me to England with Monsieur William, or, with the use of my father’s bequest, I would purchase a small cottage across the river in Vienne. It would have wisteria growing along it, like the one William and I had seen near Vendôme. There, La Rouge would not have a nice stable like this one, and she ’d have to share a barn with chickens and goats, but we would be together.
My child would learn to sit on a horse as soon as she could sit at table, and once again Rouge and I would ride the paths through the woods.
Then I asked her if she remembered herself giving birth. I recalled to her the story as I brushed her by lantern light: In the middle of a cold night in early spring I could not sleep because I knew you were close to labor, I said. I went out to the stable, and when I entered your stall, the water was two inches deep. All your straw was wet. I led you to a dry stall and put more dry straw around you, but it did not seem to help your nervousness.
I didn’t want to go wake Jean, for, since your water had broken, I didn’t want to leave you alone, I said. You kept lying down and standing up, lying down and standing up. You had never seen another horse give birth, and you did not know what was causing you this pain. So I had you lie down with your head in my lap, and I stroked your neck and talked to you, as I am talking to you now. Do you remember that, I said.
Finally, it started to come out. First, the small nose, the size of a teacup, then the long neck, then the whole body came slithering out, and water gushing with it. Some of the sac was still clinging to its face and I pulled it off, so your foal could breathe.
You did not know what this strange thing was, I said, except that it had been causing you great pain. It was dark and wet and trying to stand. You backed away and snorted at it and stamped your hooves on the floor, as if you were confronting a snake, or an angry dog. The poor little one was still trying to rise, and would fall when you snorted at it. I went to you and led you slowly, talking to you all the way, over to the dark wet thing. You sniffed it and still backed away, snorting and stamping. Then I led you again, and you sniffed again, and this time something started to take over. You licked once, then twice, then several times the strange new body in your stall. I held the foal on its weak legs and led it to your teats. I caressed a teat so the milk would flow and placed it into the foal’s soft mouth.
You proved a fine mother, Rouge, and I the horses’ midwife of chez Vallon. Even the count called me to the château de Beauregard, and we rode through the rain to help with one of his mares. Now it is my turn, I said. I rubbed her forehead, and she snorted softly.
The lantern light flickered over her russet flanks. Her intelligent eyes stared into mine.
Jean drove us to Orléans, and before he started his return trip, I asked him to make friends with André, Monsieur Vergez’s servant who usually fetched the mail, and offer to help him with that chore, so that if there were any letters forwarded from chez Vincent to us, Jean could intercept them and send them on to Orléans. I was greatly worried about William having no address for me. I offered to pay Jean in advance for this favor, and he refused and said he would do it for the sake of my father, whom he thought was on Marguerite’s and my side.
The Dubourgs were happy to see us again. They were solicitous and accepting of me, and Madame Dubourg, whom I had often thought of as a bit haughty, said I had to understand my mother’s position in Blois, but she, Madame Dubourg, could give me all the attention my own mother, because of protocol, could not. They were still best friends, although there were now political differences between
them. The Dubourgs remained fierce royalists.
Madame Dubourg, who had no children of her own, was now excited at the prospect of having a baby in the house. It was as if she were the grandmother. Angelique, Claudette, and I took walks in the town, and even along the quai where William and I had walked, until Madame Dubourg found out I was promenading in my increasingly visible state, and admonished me only to stroll about the rooms of chez Dubourg, which I did, arm in arm with my sister in our satin slippers, and we daily awaited the arrival of the mail, and daily were disappointed.
Until this missive from England, forwarded by Jean:
My Dear Sister—
I pray to your Lucette and to my Bernadette that the National Guard did not hold you because they had no evidence—you told me about the rope. Because of your courage and your sacrifice, we are ensconced now safely in England. Paul has friends that he has found among the émigrés, who have been kind to us and invited us for dinner. It is rather sad, though. They seem to be pretending that they are still in France, and the France of former times.
Paul does not want to suffer in that illusion and has been learning English rapidly and meeting with wine merchants here, who daily do business with Bordeaux and need a Frenchman to help with their negotiations.
But can you believe it? I have met Sylvie Varache! She has English roses in her garden and Marie is so glad she has Claire to play with again. They will have a tutor who knows both French and English. Gérard asks daily when you’re coming, and I start to cry every time he does. Now you know our address, here in the busy port of Southampton, so tell us when you will arrive. Will Monsieur William be accompanying you? Has he cleared his name? I’m supposing you’re not wanting to travel now and will wait until after the baby is born. How exciting for Marie and Gérard to have a little cousin. Just don’t wait too long for them to see her. How is sweet Angelique? Everyone should join us now, except poor Maman, stuck with old Vergez.
I will not bore you with the vicissitudes of our flight to the coast, but suffice it to say that it was a miracle: not once were we stopped.
The National Guard of Blois seemed content with you. Paul found passage for us in Saint-Valéry—there were a few other émigrés on our boat, and Gérard was thrilled with the wind and the spray of the Channel, and I was quite ill, both with the sea and with the thought of what had become of you—with the tragic irony that the person to whom we owed our safe departure was herself unable to depart.
Annette, we owe you everything.
Now Paul is saying that, when he gets his position secure with the British Bordeaux company, we’ll get an English cottage, with our own roses. I, though, am waiting for the French government to change again and don’t want to put down roots here. The English papers, however, say the King is going to trial. Everyone here thinks France is a most barbarous land now, taken over by criminals. They may be right, but it’s still the most beautiful land on earth. I don’t think I shall ever learn the harsh language of the British, but they are polite to us. They have the reserved nature of your Monsieur William, with, as far as I can see, none of his passion or sensibility.
He is unique, I’m sure, even among his own people. I must go and fetch Marie now from the hotel where the Varaches are living, for now. Marie has drawn a beautiful picture of the Loire and of you standing on a cliff above it, looking down at the river. Your hair is down and the wind is blowing it back. She showed it to me and it made me cry. Gérard misses his good friend so, as do I, your loving and most grateful sister, Marguerite.
When I wrote back, I didn’t mention my imprisonment. I said Monsieur Vergez had been a bit testy, so Angelique, Claudette, and I were staying for now with the Dubourgs. That was a very comfortable arrangement, I said. I congratulated Marie on her paintings and told Gérard not to forget to make Christmas cookies for me. I had to stop writing at that point, for I suddenly started to cry. When I went back to the letter, I told Paul that I was sure he would make a fine British businessman. It was so easy to be cheery about everything in a letter. I missed them so. I wrote that too, as my last sentence. I added their address in Southampton, and it felt strange to be writing to England.
In late November, when we had been in Orléans for three weeks and I was over eight months pregnant, Jean brought another letter to me. He said it had taken him a while to get Vergez’s servant to warm to him and to entrust Jean with picking up the mail regularly. Jean was afraid we might have missed some letters. This one was, itself, about a week old:
My Dearest Friend—
With the disorganized state of affairs in France, did my letters not get through to thee? Though I have waited impatiently for the post each day, I have received no word. I have sent some half a dozen letters, since the first day I arrived here, but my chances seem to be no better than if I had placed them in a bottle upon the high seas. Is the Committee of Surveillance holding them? Do they check every letter to Blois? Therefore I grow increasingly anxious about you and the baby, as well as impatient as to when I can procure the necessary papers to proceed safely back to you. So I have decided to return to Blois tomorrow, with or without papers.
I must write, then, as if you will receive this letter: Every interesting hour I spend in the company of the Girondins, I am aware, is less compelling because I cannot share it with my dear Companion. I long constantly to be telling you this thing and that thing, about what I see and hear. Your dislike for politics would be mitigated by the sheer drama of the moment. Citizen Brissot told the Jacobins again that they must take the blame for the September massacres. He even accused them of turning the revolutionary government into their own dictatorship. And in return they call Brissot unpatriotic. The script of the National Assembly could have been written by Sophocles.
Brissot has no lack of courage or conviction, but his speeches have not hastened the process of obtaining my new papers—my only real reason for being here—for no one knows whether they should do him a favor or not. Power shifts every day.
Everything now in Paris is either the conflict between the Girondins and the Jacobins—a conflict that will decide the fate of the Revolution—or the coming trial of the King. I myself have written in support of Brissot and his uncompromising patriotism and am working with the journalist Antoine Gorsas, who has become disillusioned with the Jacobins and is writing for Brissot’s paper. These Girondins are the most dedicated and articulate men I have ever met. Their tragedy is that the world cannot keep up with their ideals.
I wrote last night:
—all cannot be: the promise is too fair for creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air.
I longed for your company at their dinners at the Reunion Club with Brissot, Roland, Vergniaud, and the novelist Louvet, who stood up before the Assembly and denounced Robespierre, the master of the Jacobins’ slander, trickery, and vying for power. You, who see through all hypocrisy and pretense, would have appreciated the sincerity of these Girondins. The future of perhaps all of Europe now hangs on what will happen here in the next months. Meanwhile, my Beloved is about to bring into this glorious and frightening world a new soul, straight from the lap of heaven. I pray that I, in some small way, may make the world a better place for her arrival, that you are indeed safe and well, and that our love triumphs with ease over the petty powers that work to separate us. I will be at chez Vincent in several days—adieu most tenderly
Thy dearest Friend, William.
I wrote to William immediately in Paris—his address was in care of the journalist Gorsas—just in case he had been held up and didn’t leave for several days. I told him how glad I was that he had arrived safely in Paris and to come to Orléans, not all the way to Blois, but I knew my letter would go east as he went west. I added a hasty message on the Vincents’ flight and how it had been caused by Paul’s protection of Pierre, but said nothing of my own imprisonment. I said how Monsieur Vergez must have kept or destroyed any of William’s letters that found their way to his address—for the name Vallon in Blois still
meant chez Vallon, the house he occupied. But I said how nice it was to be here, now, in Orléans with the Dubourgs, to walk again where he and I had walked along the quai, and where he had written beautiful verses about the river. I said I was in the city where we had fallen in love, that Orléans would always be special in my mind because of that. If he were here, I added, he could feel the baby kick and see my ignominious progress on the pink cap.
But when I put the pen down, I was overtaken with worry that William would make the trip without papers and be arrested along the way, or be picked up by the Committee of Surveillance if he called at chez Vincent or was recognized in Blois. He knew many people there from the old Friends of the Constitution club. What if he had asked one of them and been denounced as a spy or for associating with counter-revolutionaries? Poor William did not know what had become of the reputation of Paul Vincent.
I hoped his work for the Girondins was too exciting for him to leave, but I knew William’s resolution—once he decided to do something, whether it were to walk from the Channel across the Alps to Lake Como and back, or to write a long poem that would take him a year to complete, or to come to France by himself in the midst of revolution and against the wishes of his family, nothing would stop him.
I had no appetite and could only drink Claudette’s tisane and eat some boiled potatoes. I wanted my child to have a father who was not in prison—and who was alive. I had no desire to walk about the room anymore. The letter that I had been waiting so long for had left my mind as agitated as the November wind that shook the shutters now, so the Dubourgs’ servants had to close them all tight against the first real winter storm. William could be out in it, I thought, or, if we are unlucky, languishing in the cold dampness of the Beauvoir.
The Dubourgs, Claudette, and Angelique all worried about me.