Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel

by Delors, Catherine

  “Have no fear, Joséphine,” I said with a great deal of conviction. “I will never, ever let any man do those things to me.”

  “Well, you’ll have to let your husband do those things to you, of course, and he might teach you some more as well.” She patted my cheek. “But that’s all you need to know for now.”

  I winced and put my hand to my stomach.

  “Poor dear,” she said, “I forgot you’re in pain. Let me give you some lime-blossom tea. And don’t worry about Her Ladyship. I’ll tell her about your curses.”

  “Oh no, please. She will be so angry with me.”

  “Of course not. You can’t help it, can you? But she needs to know right away since now you’re fit to be married.”

  I shuddered in disgust. “I will never marry.”

  Joséphine laughed. “Listen to you! As if it was for you to decide.”

  She provided me with scraps of cloth and instructions for their use. I felt the cruelty with which nature had treated us females. As for the idea of marriage, I hoped that it would never be mentioned again.

  A few days later, the Marquis handed me a letter.

  “Who is writing you?” he asked.

  “It is Félicité de Peylamourgue, Sir. She was my friend at the convent.”

  Félicité was short, with a round face and dull brown hair. She was also kind and cheerful, though not too clever even by the convent’s standards. The prettier, more brilliant girls had despised me in the beginning. Later, once they had found me less stupid than initially believed and worthy of their friendship, I had shunned their company.

  “Is she related to Monsieur de Peylamourgue?” asked my brother.

  “She is his daughter.”

  “Good. A minor family, but authentic, ancient nobility. I would not want you to make friends among the vile bourgeoisie. Note that I am giving you this letter sealed.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your trust.”

  “I know, dearest, but we have to talk about it. Some young ladies become entangled in scandalous romances. On occasion, their friends are complicit in those affairs, in particular by forwarding letters from suitors.”

  I stared at him. “Sir, I would never do anything so wicked.”

  “I believe you. Still, I will have to watch you more closely now.” He caressed my cheek, smiling. “I remember holding you on my lap when you were a little girl, reading your book aloud. It seems like yesterday. And here you are, already a woman.”

  I shuddered, shocked that he would broach such a subject. He drew back and looked at me more sternly.

  “Now that you are all grown,” he continued, “I want you to allow me, to ask me even, to open all of the letters you receive, starting with this one. Likewise you will show me all the letters you write, and I do mean all of them, including to our sister Madeleine. I would be fully within my rights to demand it, but I want to hear you request it. What do you say?”

  “You may do what you want.”

  He frowned. “Of course I may do what I want. That is not what I meant, and you know it. Do not trifle with me, Gabrielle. Will you ask me, your guardian, to read all of your correspondence, as a kindness to you, to protect you from evil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it, then.”

  “I am asking you to read my correspondence.”

  “As a kindness to you?”

  “I am asking you, Sir, as a kindness to me, to please read all of my correspondence. I promise to show you all the letters I write.”

  “And you will not tell anyone, including of course your correspondents, about this arrangement of ours.”

  “No, Sir, I will not.”

  I handed him Félicité’s letter. He opened it, perused it and smiled before returning it to me.

  “Quite a letter. You are a good girl, Gabrielle.”

  I received few letters, all from Félicité. I responded to them out of a sense of obligation, but the idea that my correspondence with a schoolgirl would be read by a grown man chilled my inspiration, if indeed I had any. Although my French spelling and grammar were already good, I was aware of the deficiencies of these childish attempts. It was torture to imagine my brother’s contempt as he read them.

  During her next visit, Madeleine warned me, as Joséphine had done, never to be alone with a man, though, to my relief, she did not enter into any details. I felt irritated by the interest the news of my curses elicited and the rapidity with which it had spread. It seemed that it would have been more discreet to have Father Marty, the parish priest, read an announcement to that effect from the pulpit after his Sunday sermon.

  Life went on very quietly. I would sew and embroider with the maids, who came to work in my bedroom. My mother did not part with her money freely, especially when it came to buying anything for me. She presented me with her old dresses, all made of solid black silk, when their dye began to fade and acquire a brownish tint. The maids and I would turn the fabric inside out and do our best to sew them back into something suitable for me. My mother’s gowns were a foot too short for me and we had to add an additional band of fabric at the hem. I knew that I looked strange in my patched clothes, but did not care much about my appearance then. Around the same time, my feet stopped growing, which dispensed with the need to buy me new shoes. I would take mine to the cobbler in Vic to have them mended when the old soles had worn through. This happened often because I was not allowed to wear wooden clogs. They would have made me look, my mother said, like a peasant girl.

  I had always liked Vic. It was the Baillage seat, with its court of justice, a larger, busier town than Lavigerie. It was built high in the valley of the Cère River, and boasted a cluster of handsome townhouses occupied by the minor nobility and the families of attorneys. From anywhere one had a splendid view of the surrounding mountains. On market days, peasants and traders came from afar to buy and sell horses, sheep and cattle. The fragrance of grilled sausages, wrapped in bouriols, thick buckwheat crepes, filled the air.

  I would go to the shops in Vic for my mother and take advantage of these errands to visit Mamé Labro. She was as happy as ever to see me, but I lost the friendship of my milk brother Jacques. Since infancy, we had played in the snow in winter and in the freshly cut hay during the long days of June. We had slipped away together to bathe and fish trout by hand in the Cère River.

  Now Jacques, whenever he saw me, ran from the cottage without greeting me. I was hurt by his disdain and complained to Mamé.

  “It’s all for the best, Gabrielle,” she said. “Jacques has more sense than you. You are a lady now. It would not be proper for you to be friends with a peasant boy.”

  It seemed the silliest of explanations.

  4

  By the age of fourteen, I had acquired the shape of a woman. Yet my mother said nothing about providing me with larger clothes or buying me a new corset, and I was too shy or proud to raise the subject. Such a request would no doubt have been greeted with derision at my vanity, or enquiries about how I thought my family could afford such an expense of finery. I could no longer lace my little girl’s corset and now wore on my bosom only my chemise and the bodice of my dress, while covering as much as I could with a kerchief. Even in my innocence, I knew that there was something wrong about my appearance.

  One afternoon, my brother entered the room while I was sewing alone, seated on a bench in front of the fireplace in the drawing room. I curtseyed to him and returned to my work.

  “Have you seen Mother?” he asked.

  “She just went to the kitchen to give Joséphine her instructions for dinner, Sir.”

  No matter was below our mother’s attention when it came to bullying her servants. My back was turned to my brother and my attention was fixed on the petticoat I was hemming for the Marquise. She had indicated in no uncertain terms that she wanted it finished that day. Nothing happened for a minute. Suddenly, the Marquis said in a tone I did not recognize, “Gabrielle, my love, your position is all wrong. Let me show you
how to correct it.”

  Before I understood what he was doing, I felt him standing behind the bench where I was seated, bending over my shoulder. In an instant, he had slipped both of his hands under my kerchief and caught my breasts. He was caressing them while pulling me towards him. In my astonishment and shock, I dared not resist, look up or say a word. Chills were running down my spine. My entire body was tingling in a manner I had never experienced before. The back of my head was now against him and I could feel him trembling. I closed my eyes and heard nothing but his breathing. How long this lasted I cannot say, maybe no more than a few moments. All of a sudden, he pushed me away and was gone without another word.

  I wondered whether it had been a dream, so fast had it happened. I tidied my kerchief in a hurry, ran to my room and pressed myself against the closed door, shivering. I still felt the Marquis’s hands on my skin. I remembered Joséphine’s warnings when I had told her of my first curses. She had said that I had nothing to fear from my brother, and in fact he had not done any of the disgusting things she had mentioned. Yet I knew that what had happened was wrong. The memory of it tortured me.

  Antoinette knocked at the door and informed me that I was wanted in the drawing room. There, my mother restored my spirits by slapping me. “What do you mean by leaving your work unfinished on the floor as soon as I turn my back? You are becoming lazier than ever, Gabrielle, and this is saying something. I will have to tell your brother about this.”

  Fighting tears, I returned to my sewing with an indistinct apology. She expressed at length her disgust at my laziness, carelessness and ingratitude. At supper that night, I dared not meet my brother’s eye, nor did he address me. I dreaded that our mother would read our minds like a book and at any moment expose our shame.

  “Gabrielle is surlier than usual tonight,” she remarked, shaking her head. “No wonder. She must be ashamed of having abandoned her work. You spoil her too much, my son. If you do not take the trouble to give her a serious correction, she will become wild.” She turned to me. “Remember, girl, sloth is one of the seven deadly sins. Have you not paid attention to Father Delmas’s sermon this morning? Heaven is my witness, I do my best to give you a solid religious education, and what good comes of it?”

  After supper, time passed very slowly. I complained of a headache and asked her permission, which was denied, to retire before prayer time. I was haunted by the events of the day and could not sleep that night. Maybe I had done something wrong that had prompted my brother to act in such a manner. What could it be? Was he angry with me? Had I lost his good opinion forever? What if he sent me away?

  In such a crisis, I dared not confide in anyone, not even in Joséphine. My brother was after all her lord and master as well as mine. It was also impossible to ask for Madeleine’s help. I had promised to show the Marquis all of my letters. In any event, I would have died of shame rather than describe what had happened.

  The next morning, the Marquis found me alone again in the drawing room. This time I jumped to my feet as soon as I recognized his step.

  “Would you like to go riding with me, Gabrielle?” he asked.

  I coloured and made no answer.

  “Come, little sister,” he said, “I mean you no harm.”

  I was able to look at him for the first time since the day before, but only for a moment. I could not sustain his eye. He was holding out his hand to me. I took it. Yet when later he helped me into the saddle, as he had always done, it seemed to me, perhaps wrongly, that he was holding me a moment longer than needed. Things could never be the same between us. Suspicion, anticipation and dread crept into my mind at his most innocent move. I knew that he felt it too, and some kind of awkwardness came between us, where there had used to be complete confidence. We rode up the hill and into the woods, and, after some incoherent talk about indifferent things, he asked me to forgive him for what had happened.

  “You need not fear its repetition,” he said. “However, in order to avoid further temptation, I believe that it would be expedient for both of us to marry.”

  “I forgive you with all my heart. Indeed, Sir, I have nothing more precious than your friendship. I am so relieved not to have lost it. You should certainly marry if you deem it desirable, but I am very happy at Fontfreyde and in no hurry to change my situation. I am only fourteen.”

  “I agree that it is a bad idea, in general, to make girls marry too young. True, the Church allows them to wed at twelve. Yet in most cases it is too early, if only because they are still unable to comprehend the scope of their new duties and not developed enough to safely bear children. With you, however, I have no such concerns. Your understanding is excellent and you are well formed for your age. I will be sorry to part with you, but you should prepare to the idea of marrying as soon as I receive an eligible offer.”

  Tears were filling my eyes.

  “There is no need for you to fret,” continued the Marquis. “Your lack of fortune will probably temper the eagerness of most suitors, though a man may be willing to take you without much.”

  So my brother was ready to let a stranger take me away from Fontfreyde, from my family, from everyone and everything I knew, only to do unspeakable things to me. I was reminded of a wedding song in the Roman language:

  We are leading the poor bride

  As we found her.

  We are taking her away from Poverty

  To deliver her to Starve-to-Death.

  The words evoked the harsh fate of a peasant girl, but they now seemed to apply to me too. I began to sob.

  “Please, dearest,” said my brother, putting his hand on my shoulder, “do not make yourself unhappy. I would never give you to a man whom I would not think worthy of you. I will speak to Mother of what we can afford for your dowry.”

  I dried my tears and hoped that the Marquis was right about the effect of my fortune on my prospective suitors. Later that day, my mother remarked that I looked like a harlot in my loose clothes. She ordered the carriage and took me to the corset maker in Vic. She did not say anything, however, of marriage or a dowry, nor did I feel any need to broach these subjects.

  I soon noticed that young ladies of the neighbouring nobility, accompanied by their mothers, were invited to take tea with us. Dinners entailed too much expense and inconvenience in the Marquise’s opinion. After the visitors left, she would criticize the young women’s lack or excess of beauty, depending on the case, as well as their immodest attire and unbecoming manners. My brother listened in silence.

  5

  The year 1784 would bring many changes in my life. I would turn fifteen in July, which filled me with absurd vanity. Mamé Labro, who had always been as proud of me as if I had been her own, admired my tall figure, fair skin, “a true blonde complexion,” as she would say, and my hair. When I was little, she had devoted much time to comb, braid and dress it, much to my annoyance.

  Mamé’s attentions must have attracted the jealousy of her sons. At the age of five, I had awakened one morning to find that one of my braids had been cut while I was asleep. I had been amused and almost wished that the rest of my hair had met with the same fate. Yet Mamé had cried in horror when she had discovered the damage. She had given all five of her sons, for none had come forward to confess to the crime, a flogging with a birch scourge, after which she had made them beg my forgiveness on their knees. My milk brother Jacques had partaken of this punishment. I had been certain of his innocence and pleaded his cause with tears in my eyes, but Mamé had not been moved. My hair had been dressed in a different manner to hide the disaster. The Marquis never suspected that anything was amiss.

  Now I was beginning to see things in a different light. I liked my thick locks. Their natural waviness spared me curl papers, hot irons and other instruments used for the torture and beautification of young ladies. I was reaching the age when I found it agreeable to be praised for my looks.

  Early during the same year, some legal matters arose involving the estate of Castel, in the neighb
ouring province of Limousin, from which my brother derived the best part of his income. He was compelled to attend to them himself, and was frequently absent from Fontfreyde for weeks on end. I took to riding by myself to Vic or into the mountains whenever I chose. My mother would scold me upon my return to Fontfreyde and I would go back to my sewing without offering any argument in my defense.

  On a hot June day, I decided to visit Mamé Labro. Most years, the snows of winter would last into May in the high country, but that spring the weather had been uncommonly mild. The peasants were starting the hay harvest early. I had always loved the smell of cut grass and the circular movement of the men swinging their scythes in perfect cadence. I found the Labro cottage deserted and ran to the fields in search of its inhabitants. They were seated in the shade of a hedge, drinking from a wine bottle during a pause in their work. Sweat stuck their shirts to their chests. Mamé’s five sons rose and removed their hats as soon as they saw me. Jacques, sullen as usual, turned away while my nurse greeted me. I always kissed her more than the traditional three times, to feel the softness and firmness of her face under my lips.

  “May I help you rake the hay?” I asked.

  “Are you out of your senses, dear? What would Her Ladyship say if she heard of it?”

  “But I used to do it when I was little.”

  “Do you think I forgot? The matter with you is that you don’t understand the difference between now and then. Go to the river. It’ll refresh you. Now run.”

  I left the Labros and took the direction of the Cère River. I crossed a meadow, then a little wood, before reaching my favourite place, a pebble bank shaped like a half-moon. Upstream, a waterfall emptied into a shallow pool shaded by black cliffs. The darkness of the stone was broken by bursts of ferns and furry mosses growing from the rock faces. There, years earlier, I had caught trout by hand with Jacques.