In June, Adéle died, after a long, brave struggle. I cried for her, and prayed for her, though God was far from our lives. One day, her books were gone. I saw Agnés smiling to herself, and hated her with a passion.
In August, we woke up to a curious sight. There were shrill, commanding yells on the rainy courtyard, and the fastest ones managed to secure a view in one of the few windows. There a dozen soldiers in shabby uniforms were encircling a fancy coach. The door was opened swiftly and a family stepped out. ‘That is the king, the bloody king!’ said an old aristocrat nearby.
‘No, it cannot be!’ said an astonished woman, but it was for I knew the queen’s face. I still had her handkerchief and I fingered it as the family was ushered to the tower. The ones in power were making a strong statement and France was doing something that nobody had actually believed possible. I imagined Georges was very happy, for France was making an end of the kingdom. It would not stop with the royals, thought most of our cellmates and praying became more common after that day, but most of the nobles prayed for their sovereign.
Week later, this was made abundantly clear as a huge irascible mob circled the Temple. With them, they carried the mutilated head of Princess Marie Louis of Savoy, the Queens favorite, raped and crudely butchered on the streets after refusing in her trial to curse the monarchy. In our prison, nobles sat quietly, and I wondered if this was indeed what Georges had had in mind, when he wanted equality and justice.
In September, France became a Republic, and the royal family became the Capets.
In 1793, more prisoners were coming in, many of them commoners or merchants. A general feeling of anxiety was on the rise amongst the old timers of our cellblock, and we felt things were changing for the worse. I was sitting on the hall, when on the 22nd January; Pierre’s widow came in. There had been a commotion on the yard that morning, but we had made little sense of the many men running or the coaches coming and going. Agnés said nothing, as she came to take buckets full of urine away. I gathered myself and stopped her by putting a hand on hers. She stopped, astonished.
She shrugged, lifting her shoulders in a comic, pouting manner. ‘I have no wish to speak with you.’
‘I wanted to ask you to return the books to me,’ I said, reasoning with her, using a steady voice as if talking to a dog.
She hesitated, licking her lips. Then she sat down. ‘No.’
‘I kissed him,’ I said, trying not to get angry. ‘But it was nothing.’
She giggled, evidently a bit mad. ‘Learn, girl, that kissing a man belonging to another, is something. Oh, They have gone to see a man called Gilbert.’
‘Who?’ I blurted out.
Her eyes were rather glazed as she was nodding her head. ‘Mathilde and Andre.’
I paled, I am sure, if one can pale after being locked up for such a long time. Henriette stirred from a table, where she was sewing her old skirt. She stared at her, in confusion. ‘Who is this Gilbert…’
Agnés waved her hand, rolling her eyes at Henriette and nodded at me. ‘Please. She told Pierre things she should not have. I know, we know. Gilbert knows.’
Cold claws of desperation raked across my back. ‘Where is Pierre?’
She lowered her voice. ‘He is gone. He disappeared. He talked too much. But I don’t mind. I know he was taken by some sans-culottes, and your cousin made him squeal. Now he is dead.’
‘You beast, does that not bother you at all?’ Henriette said, scared and obviously angry with me, as her eyes flashed my way. I did not look at her, but down on my lap.
‘No. He looked at her, too often, too long. But I do miss him, sometimes,’ she whispered, looking at her shaking hands. We sat there, unable to speak, wondering what was coming. She was singing softly to herself, looking at her fingers, apparently not entirely present. Henriette grunted and moved next to her and placed a hand on hers.
‘What was happening down there this morning, Agnés?’
She smiled widely. ‘The king.’
‘The king is a prisoner, we know,’ Henriette coaxed patiently.
She looked at her, staring incredulously, her legs swinging wildly. ‘You know nothing of last year? The sans-culottes drove the royals out of Tuiliers in August, after the Prussian general Brusnwick threatened violence if the king was hurt! Everything changed!’
‘We know he is here, Agnés. The king. Is Camille still alive? Georges?’ Henriette asked, a hint of mad desperation on her voice. We would need Georges to help us, if Gilbert knew where we were.
Agnés rubbed her temples, trying to concentrate. ‘Desmoulins? He is, but he is… annoying to the wrong people. He writes, Andre says, trying to stem the violent mood.’ Mother and I looked at each other, wondering and she continued. ‘Danton is a Minister of Justice you see, and…’
Henriette scoffed. ‘Money well spent! Justice, God, is laughing at that, surely!’
Agnés shrugged. ‘He is, anyways. He was trying to make the radicals, especially the Jacobins and that Robespierre fellow shake hands with the conservative Girdonists in the National Convention.’
‘Is it not the National Assembly?’ I asked, but shook my head dismissively. ‘Never mind. I never understood these things.’
She continued, happy to fill in our many blanks, though she seemed to have plenty of them herself. ‘Other things changed too. There is war on all the flaming frontiers, but we beat them bloodily at Valmy, so we are safe. Not so safe from counter-revolution though, in Lyons, Venéé, and Daupiné the fucking nobles have the dull-minded peasants under their charm, but it will come to nothing. Georges Danton, amongst others, is making a difference by visiting the dispirited troops. Did you know we are making a Revolutionary Calendar?’
We nodded at her, we had heard of terrible, desperate war, the confusing civil war and unexplainable changes in days and months. ‘So, if it is not January, what is it then?´ Henriette asked, humoring her.
‘It will be winter month, Pluviôse…’
‘Never mind,’ Henriette said, twitching her head angrily. ‘January is good enough for me. They replaced the fool of a God too?’
‘They will, I think, with Reason,’ Agnés said dreamily. ‘And today that Louis Capet will die. He left the Temple this morning. Andre and Mathilde went to see it happen. After that, they will see the bloody Revenant.’ There was a mischievous smile on her lips, as if she suddenly remembered she disliked us. She moved away from mother as she glowered at us.
‘You mean the king is getting killed?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘Why, the former king,’ Agnés corrected me.
‘The king is to die?’ Henriette insisted.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Beheaded by Sanson, the butcher of Paris, the executioner. They say someone will try to free him, but he is going to lose his head. They said he is very brave, in the court he was, but we will kill him, and others.’
We looked at our hands, and I felt fear seep into my heart. Killing kings is no small thing, and we suddenly heard church bells ring, all through the town, as if it was a fabulous coronation day, but it was, actually, exactly the reverse. ‘I am sorry, Agnés. If Georges is such a great man, why is Andre talking to Gilbert?’
‘Gilbert,’ she whispered. ‘Is stronger still.’
‘He is but a boy,’ Henriette said.
‘Her age?’ she gestured at me. ‘Fifteen? Not so young anymore,’ Agnés tittered. Henriette looked at me and I glanced down at myself. Indeed, I was no longer a child. My bosom was growing, so were my hips. I was tall, much taller I had been last year. I also noticed I was turning from pretty into beautiful. Agnés saw this. ‘Yes. Much prettier than I am. No wonder Pierre liked you.’
Henriette grunted. ‘A child, she is still that when it comes to men. But why is Gilbert such a powerful man?’
‘He is Robespierre’s man, covertly. The Revenant. He came back from the dead, you see, and many want his nasty services and favor him with fine promises. He is technically a man for Georges, but Andre thinks thing
s will change. While Georges is in the very center of power, Gilbert, Andre says, is like a wolf that likes to pad around a carcass, biding his time, not committing to any other wolf. He knows a lot, he will know more. There is something about this Gilbert, that men fear. Something he has done, perhaps? And Pierre told him you are here.‘
‘Perhaps he did not?’ I asked desperately.
‘He did. Gilbert told me. He found me after and told me what he did to Pierre. He told me you are a rancid whore. That I should help him. And I did. Now Andre is thinking, so is Mathilde and we will make a deal, eventually. I will see you suffer for causing Pierre to die, and we will have money. I will have my own business.’
She stood up, clutching her apron. What Gilbert had done to Pierre had driven her mad. It was my fault, I thought. It was. I looked down to the dusty floor as mother came to console me, angry still, but concerned for me. Agnés apparently envied me the comfort mother was trying to give me, and stomped away, leaving the full piss-pots where they stood.
‘Try not to think about it, love,’ Henriette said, and there was nothing else to do, but try.
I spent much of my fear in the art of fencing, letting loose the throttling fear in savage attacks and Robert approved. He knew, apparently, of what had passed and who we truly were, and looked morbidly afraid for us, but kept up brace appearances. Finally, after year in training, he let his guard down enough for me to hit him lightly in the chest. It made me happy briefly. A smallest of success can turn the darkest night into tolerable state of affairs.
So, we waited most of 1793. What had passed between Andre and Gilbert remained a mystery, as Andre said nothing and we rarely saw Agnés and Mathilde. We were seething, wondering what to do, but could not do anything but rot and wait. Yet, while we had been receiving more fellow inmates, the rate increased dramatically.
That year, many people would come to the prison, making most all sick. Tuberculosis was rife, so was malaria. Our prison turned into a coughing, feverish hell, but now, soldiers would also come with a creaking wagon, punctual as the sun, climb up the stairs with their heels clanking ominously and call out names, and these people were not seen again. The names called belonged to unlucky or failed officers, shivering merchants, and sulking peasants from all over France. Thousands of counter revolutionaries in Lyons and Vendéé were rumored butchered and lost, many others sent to Paris prisons like the Temple and la Force. Madness was enveloping the land like a coat of bitterly cold snow. The famous Marat was murdered, and Georges joined the Jacobins in routing the conservative Girdonists in May, many of whom met Madame Guillotine. People arriving into the cells whispered about Revolutionary Tribune and Committee of Public Safety. Georges was party to the creation of both. Whenever you hear the word “committee,” run Marie. Get far. It will do no one any good.
We also found out about the Law of Suspects from disbelieving commoners, sitting on our dirty hay, while the day before, they had enjoyed their meals happily on their own tables. The law meant anyone could be hauled to prison, then trial and finally the place where they would lie down under the blade, Place de la Revolution. Indeed, some said later that across France, nearly eighty thousand men and women did make the list, most executed, even very young ones and only a tiny portion were of the reviled nobles. I knew a man who had put his neighbor on the list, lying expertly, congratulating himself for his clever ploy, only to find the same sneaky neighbor had done the same, and they died, they say, on the same hour. Revolution was eating it is own children and those of others, like a hungry beast with no master to look after it. Plodding, never ending war, ever present famine, and crude executions by the suddenly all-powerful Committee of Public safety, were the norm. We also heard it was Maximillien Robespierre, who ran the Committee, and if Gilbert truly had the man’s ear, we would die soon. On the other hand, we had hope, for had not Georges assured he would free us, when he was in power? There must have been a reason, why Andre had not called out our names and handed us to Gilbert in the deep night.
On 16th October, we watched from our windows as the former Queen was put on a commoner’s cart, wearing white. She stood there like a queen would, regal and noble, a scion of the Austrian crown, the queen of the rebellious French and silence reigned with her, at least briefly as all stared at her and I doubt few could hate her, the widow and a solemn warrioress. Soon, the brave woman was taken forward for her execution. Her eyes swept our tower, and I wished I could save her the way she had saved me, but it was not to be. I fingered the fine handkerchief she had given me, one of the few things I had from my past life. I cursed Georges and Camille for their unreasonable zeal and what was going on in the land.
It was 1794. I was seventeen, past the age to marry; yet, I only thought about feeding mother, Robert and myself, and helping where I could, for everything was scarce, from victuals to privacy. Screams of hopeless terror, whisperings of remorse and laughter born of false hope were heard all over the cells, especially when the wagon arrived, men ran up the steps, the rusty doors opened, and a guard with a long list stepped forward. The people on the list would go to meet their maker; none imagined it could be otherwise.
At the end of March, on the 20th, the door opened, and new prisoners were pushed in. They were mainly dirty peasants and surprised merchants, people who had offended someone, uttered a wrong word in public, betrayed by their opportunistic friends and sometimes by their hateful family. The present prisoners did not enjoy their arrival, no welcoming words were to be heard, for it would make us even more crowded, increasing the hunger and chance of diseases, but I screamed in joy for with them, came Florian.
He had grown up tall and broad of shoulders, and was not as clumsy as he had once been, for he danced around with me in the crowd and we laughed, babbled, poked and hugged each other, as if witnessing a miracle of rebirth itself. He was a tall man, his fair hair long, his tight trousers and loose shirt of good make, even if he still would put his hand before his mouth when surprised. He laughed as we twirled crazily and we finally hugged each other fiercely. Then I sobered and pushed him further, concern replacing the exuberant joy.
‘Why are you here? Did you make a patch of bad chocolate and kill a damned Jacobin with nasty dysentery?’ I asked him. Henriette was gazing at us, smiling happily, Robert holding her as they whispered.
Florian twirled me against my will. ‘By God! Citizen Jeanette, you are a rare beauty!’
I giggled. ‘I am not!’
‘You are!’ he insisted. ‘Why am I here?’ He stopped twirling me and shrugged. ‘We have competition, perhaps. The competition, Jeanette, is rich but apparently wishing to be richer, and they managed to pay someone high enough to put us squarely on the list of suspects. For what? I am not sure. Father was in La Force before his execution and I had the joy of being brought here after they found me guilty of something I could not quite understand. But my question, love, is more curious: I was told you are dead!’
And that is when I realized the death of his father and his predicament was likely Gilbert getting rid of his past. My face twitched and he looked at me curiously as he tried to understand. I nodded my head, clearing the mood. I cursed Gilbert. Had he sent Florian here to suffer, so I would suffer? He would take Florian away at will, but not us, not if Georges defended us, but he could torture us.
I adopted a calmer face and answered his question. ‘I am not dead, nor entirely alive. This sad excuse for a hotel has gone down part years, the excuse for food is not so good, the sheets are dirtier than a sewer, and people sometimes die. Shit and piss are not private matter and you will have to learn how to tell a joke to the one next in long line as you are creating a turd. You will see.’
His eyes played around the faces looking on, and I noticed he had a beginning of a mustache. ‘You look like an aristo, Florian. That weak moustache is very impressive, dear.’ I scrubbed his lip painfully and he smiled happily. The guards who brought him took out people, many of whom looked almost relieved to finally know their fate
. It was always the highlight of the day. Guards opening the damnable door, the yellowed lists on their hands. Andre with a sloppy bicorn hat, people gathering around, some praying for release, others dreading it. I smiled, and wondered if Florian thought us mad. It was our strange hell, and the pains and joys in it were likely unfathomable to him.
That day, they called Robert.
‘Robert de Dreux!’ yelled the guard, and mother jumped as if physically struck. ‘Come! The Revolutionary Tribunal wants you.’
‘Robert’ Henriette asked desperately, clutching Robert’s arm. ‘You told me your crime was not political.’ Her eyes betrayed her; she cared for the old man. Then her eyes rounded in sudden suspicion and we both looked at Andre, who was smiling coldly. Robert noticed it too, and he looked resigned. What Gilbert wanted with Robert, whom Andre knew to be Henriette’s lover and confidant in the cells, was not a mystery. I thought frantically if we had told him about our lives and the siblings, while I feared for my dear friend.
Robert got up to his full length, his faded culottes dusty. He hugged and kissed Henriette, who looked alone and pale, utterly sorry and Florian and I moved next to her. I grabbed mother’s hand, not able to look into Robert’s eyes. Robert grunted and bent over me. ‘Some advice, Jeanette, lovely Jeanette. When you fence, offence is your forte. You are terrible at defense. I think, perhaps, it is so with other things as well. It is not your fault, and I know nothing. You are safe. Find my grave, one day, if they give me the dignity of one. I love you both.’ I hugged him fiercely until Florian and mother pried me off him and then he walked to the impatiently fidgeting guard. Other names were called but none as precious as Robert had been to us. We cried for him until Florian escorted me aside to comfort me.
Reign of Fear: Story of French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars (Cantiniére Tales) Page 17