I heard footsteps. My mother and the servants, in their nightclothes, appeared at the top of the outside stairs. My brother, still struggling to restrain me, shouted at them to all go back to bed, except for my mother and Joséphine. With the help of both, he half-carried, half-dragged me, still screaming, up the front stairs and down to a little cellar. Joséphine kept apples, carrots, and turnips in a sand bin there, and she stored the preserves she made through the course of the year on the shelves that lined the walls. It smelled of mildew and dried fruit. The solid oak door and the lack of any window, except for a tiny opening under the ceiling, precluded any chance of escape. I was dropped on the dirt floor. I heard the door slam behind me and the key turn in the lock. After a time, my brother came back, bringing with him a straw mattress and a blanket, which he threw at me in silence. He locked the door behind him without another look at me. Although I had no light, I knew the cellar well, having come there often with Joséphine. It did not frighten me. I had, in any case, reached depths of despair where fear had no place. It would have been dreadful to marry the Baron knowing that Pierre-André had abandoned me, but the idea that he had still wanted me, and that we now had to forsake each other in spite of our pledge, was unbearable. He would be at that time waiting for me at the crossroads of Escalmels, thinking that I had not the courage, or did not love him enough to join him. My throat was sore from screaming. I reached for the mattress and blanket in the dark. Soon I went to sleep, as much to escape my situation as from exhaustion.
I awoke the next morning when the Marquis brought me a pitcher of water and a piece of dark bread, such as the servants ate. I raised myself on one arm, blinking at his lantern.
“You have no one to blame but yourself for your current position,” he said in a stern voice. “If I locked you in your bedroom, you would find a way to escape. You will be safe here until your wedding.”
“How did you find out?”
“You are very naive, Gabrielle. Joséphine showed me your suitor’s letter before she gave it to you. I could have kept it and you would never have known about it, but I wanted to see whether I could trust you. On this point I no longer have any doubts.”
So Joséphine, whom I had believed for years to be my friend, had betrayed me. My anger at her treason added to my other sorrows.
The tiny window barely allowed any daylight to pierce the darkness. I became so accustomed to it that I had to turn away from the dim glow of my brother’s lantern. He did not entrust to anyone the task of bringing me my bread and water every morning and night. I counted with anguish the days that still separated me from my marriage.
On the morning of the 14th, my brother appeared as usual. “Father Delmas will hear your confession this afternoon,” he said. “You will be married tomorrow and cannot approach the Holy Table without receiving the absolution.”
Until then, I had gone to the church of Lavigerie for confession, but my family must have feared that I would take advantage of any outing to run away. I had never liked the idea of imparting my sins to a stranger. During confession, I would always resort to the same short list of sins, such as being lazy and not listening to my mother. The more interesting ones I kept to myself. This time, I would have to repeat the procedure, not in the reassuring darkness of the confessional, but in plain view of the priest in my mother’s drawing room. I could imagine her listening at the door.
I felt light-headed after being freed from the confined space of my prison. I put my hand to my eyes as the light inside the house blinded me. My brother seized me roughly by the arm and pushed me into the main drawing room. He left me there. Father Delmas opened his arms in a gesture of welcome.
“Dear, dear child,” he said, smiling and shaking his head with indulgence. “What have you done? Yet you need not despair. God will hear you if you show sincere contrition.”
He made the sign of the cross, sat down in a chair and pointed at the carpet. I knelt next to him and joined my hands. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” I hesitated.
“I am listening, child,” he said. “Speak without fear.”
“Father, I am on the verge of committing a grievous sin. If I obey my brother, I will marry a man for whom I do not feel the least affection.”
He sighed. “My child, your real sin, a mortal one, a sin of pride, is to defy the wishes of your guardian. You have already caused him much sorrow by your disobedience. You must repent to receive the sacrament of penance.”
“Father, I do not repent at all. It would be a sin for me to enter the state of matrimony unprepared to love my future husband. I could not make him a good wife without having had time to receive spiritual guidance.”
Father Delmas’s unctuous smile had been wiped off his face.
“If you listen to me now, child, you will receive all the guidance you need. You are gravely mistaken in your notions. Love, as you understand it, is a fleeting illusion, worse, a lure of the Devil. Matrimony, on the contrary, is a holy sacrament. The kind of affection one finds in that blessed state has nothing in common with the miserable feelings under which you are labouring. The only love God sanctions follows marriage and rewards the fulfillment of its duties; it does not precede it nor determine it. The remission of your sins is fully within your reach, child, if you marry as you are told. My Lord the Marquis, who has the authority of a father under the laws of God and men, has chosen a husband for you. Only by submitting to his wishes can you atone for your outrageous misconduct.”
Father Delmas pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his cassock. “Do you not hear the call of duty? Even if your guardian’s choice were misguided, you should still obey him without a whisper of protest.”
Still on my knees, I moved back a few feet.
“But he has kept your best interest in mind,” Father Delmas continued, mopping sweat from his forehead. “In terms of rank, of fortune, of respectability, you could not do better if you waited ten years for another offer. True, there is a slight disparity of age between My Lord the Baron and you, but even that should be reckoned as an advantage. A younger, less experienced husband might have some trouble asserting his authority given your unfortunate tendency to willfulness. In sum, it is a most eligible match in all respects.”
Father Delmas, now standing, was wagging a fat finger in my face. I also rose, glaring at him.
“You shall receive the sacrament of matrimony tomorrow,” he continued. “For your penance, recite ten Paster Nosters and ten Aves and prostrate yourself at your brother’s feet. May the Almighty have mercy on you and forgive your sins.”
Father Delmas made the sign of the cross and left. My brother, sullen, was waiting for me outside the door. He asked the priest to wait while he took me back to the cellar. After half an hour, the Marquis returned and sat by my side on the straw mattress.
“I have spoken to Father Delmas,” he said. “I see that you remain as undutiful as ever.”
“So this is how he treats the seal of confession.”
“From what I understand, your conversation with him can hardly be deemed a confession, for you expressed only further defiance and no repentance. I cannot tell you how angry I am.”
“I beg you to forgive me, Sir. I assure you that my sole wish now is to live quietly at Fontfreyde as in the past. I promise never to see Pierre-André again, if you release me from my engagement to the Baron. I will never again give you the slightest displeasure.”
The Marquis glared at me. “How dare you in the same breath beg my forgiveness and refuse to obey me? I am tired, Gabrielle, of all the grief you have already caused and have no intention of serving indefinitely as your jailer. Your failed elopement makes your immediate marriage the only remedy to our plight. Are you, yes or no, going to do as you are told tomorrow?”
I did not hesitate. “No.”
For the first time, I heard my brother swear. “You are the most stubborn, ungrateful, undutiful creature I have ever met. I was, however, already prepared for the worst. Read this.”
He pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper, which I read by the light of the lantern. It was a request to the King for a lettre de cachet. It related how a young lady of the nobility, seduced by a commoner, had attempted to throw herself into the power of her suitor. She was now refusing to obey her guardian and enter into a most advantageous match. The letter concluded by respectfully requesting my imprisonment in the harshest of convents until it pleased the Marquis to take me back.
In France, at that time, anyone, regardless of rank, could be imprisoned upon the order of the King, in any place and for any duration, for any reason or for no reason at all. Lettres de cachet were thus requested by families who wished to discreetly rid themselves of spendthrift sons, undutiful wives or rebellious daughters. I knew that my brother’s threat was by no means empty. Still, reclusion in a convent seemed more appealing than marrying the Baron.
“One last time,” said my brother, “will you obey me?”
“No, Sir.”
He took my chin in his hand. “Fine. I will send this to the King. You will only leave this cellar for the convent, where you will spend the rest of your life. You will soon come to regret the treatment I have afforded you here.” The Marquis spoke through his clenched teeth. “As for your lover, do you know, Gabrielle, that a man who induces a young woman to flee the protection of her father or guardian is punished by death?”
I felt faint. So Pierre-André had put his life at stake by asking me to elope with him. My brother’s letter fell from my hand.
“And there are aggravating circumstances in this case,” he continued. “Since you are a noblewoman and your seducer a commoner, he will be sentenced to the wheel. Before taking you to your convent, I will make you watch the execution of that—that—” The Marquis seemed at a loss to find a term vile enough to describe Pierre-André “—that peasant, that scoundrel. You have never seen a criminal broken and exposed on the wheel, have you?”
I shook my head in horror.
“Then I will tell you what to expect, Gabrielle. Your seducer will be led to a scaffold, then stripped of his clothes. The executioner will tie him, flat on his back, to a cross, and hit him with an iron bar on the arms, thighs, legs and loins. Once his limbs and hips are broken, he will be untied. His legs will be folded under his back, and he will be fastened to a small carriage wheel. He will remain exposed in this position, with his head hanging over the rim and his shattered bones piercing his flesh. You will hear him howl in pain and beg for death. At last, at the time set by the court, and not a moment earlier, he will be strangled.” My brother paused. “I will make sure that you do not miss any of it.”
I was indifferent to my own fate. All that mattered was to save Pierre-André.
“I will marry the Baron tomorrow,” I said, “under one condition: you must not press charges. No harm must come to Pierre-André, now or in the future.” I looked into my brother’s eyes. “You must swear to it on the memory of our late father. Should you breach your promise, Sir, I will run away from my husband’s house; I will disgrace the Baron and our family.”
The Marquis hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. “You have my word of honour, Gabrielle. I summoned his brothers here on the day after your elopement and told them that he would be arrested if he caused any further scandal. Now I will demand only that he leave and never return to Auvergne. His punishment will be to know that you are in the power of another. Good night, Gabrielle.”
The French phrase la mort dans l’âme has no English equivalent and can be translated as “with death in one’s soul.” It comes to mind when I think of my last hours at Fontfreyde. Sometimes we do or endure things that are so wicked, so irretrievably harmful, so contrary to our feelings that part of ourselves is destroyed in the process. I had been taught to believe in the immortality of the soul. That night, I felt that mine died. I slept little and fitfully, startled from time to time by dreams in which some unforeseen and incredible event occurred to prevent my wedding. Alas, I always woke to the same situation and with the same thoughts. Finally, any kind of rest became impossible. I did my best to steady myself and muster my courage.
After what seemed like a few hours, the door was unlocked and my brother appeared. He told me that he would allow me, on my last day at Fontfreyde, to have breakfast in the dining parlour. Before we left the cellar, he reached for my hand. I turned away. My heart felt empty and cold. Nobody, not even my mother, spoke over breakfast. I did not look up from my porridge.
The Marquise took me to my old bedroom. She ordered me to disrobe and step into a round copper tub filled with water. She would not allow me to squat or kneel in it, but insisted that I stand, legs apart, while the maids washed me with sponges. Until then I could not remember having been naked in front of anyone. My mother herself, Joséphine had once told me, always bathed clad in a flannel robe that covered her to her neck.
“How becoming of you,” said the Marquise, “to give yourself these little airs of modesty, after what you have done. Your husband will teach you to be less of a prude tonight.”
One of the maids pierced my ears with a sewing needle while pressing a cork behind the lobes. I sensed the pain but did not wince. I was trying to no longer feel what was done to me.
“Remember, girl,” said my mother, “you must rise to greet your master when you see him approach the bed. I hope that you will not disgrace us by being undutiful.”
I stepped into the skirts of my pink gown as I had done on the morning of the Thiézac pilgrimage, but now a tiny bouquet of orange blossoms was nestled between my breasts. I wore the Baron’s ruby earrings. They put me in mind, when I looked at my reflection in the mirror, of droplets of blood running down my neck.
12
I am looking at my eight-year-old granddaughter, whom Aimée insisted on naming Gabriella, much against my wishes. I do not believe it to be an auspicious choice. She is a most endearing child. Her cheeks, round as apples, beg for kisses. She is holding a doll out to me, along with remnants of lilac silk, demanding with the gentle tyranny of children that I make a dress for it matching her own. One thing always gives me a slight shock whenever I look at her: her resemblance to my late husband. Yet it should come as no surprise. The Baron de Peyre was after all her grandfather, but I have never grown accustomed to finding his features in her lovely face. She even has his manners, the same way of holding her head slightly to the side and knitting her brows when she is cross. Like him, she never seems to experience self-doubt. The past has ways of thrusting itself upon us, of reminding us of what we least wish to remember.
I was married in the church of Lavigerie, decorated with white roses for the occasion, on a cold and sunny day, the 15th of September of the year 1784. The ringing of the bells, deafening, shook the air. My brother handed my mother and me out of the carriage. He led me to the altar, holding me firmly by the hand as if afraid that I would run away. My sister Madeleine, her husband, the Count de Chavagnac, Monsieur de Laubrac, the Baron’s cousin and heir, among many other family members and friends were in attendance. So were my brother’s vassals. The Baron was waiting for me in the chancel in a crimson suit, embroidered with gold, and white silk stockings instead of his usual hunting clothes and leather boots.
I said and did all that was required of me, concentrating on the rituals themselves, trying very hard not to think of what they entailed. Facing the Baron, my eyes downcast, I recited the words that would bind me to him until death: “I, Marie Gabrielle, agree before God of my own free will to take thee, Donatien, for my husband.”
He took my right hand in his, around which the priest wrapped his stole while reciting the nuptial benediction. Father Delmas blessed a gold coin and a ring, wide and plain. The Baron placed it first on the thumb of my left hand, then on my index, then on my middle finger while reciting “in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He said “Amen” when he reached the fourth finger, where he left it. He presented me with the coin, which I received with both h
ands. We both knelt at the foot of the altar. The white nuptial pall was raised over our heads as we received the Church’s blessing upon our union.
Through the Mass that followed, I knelt, rose and sat, taking my cues from the congregation without knowing what I was doing. I felt that I had taken leave of my own body and was watching the ceremony from a few paces away. In his sermon, Father Delmas spoke of the meaning of the ring presented to me, which was an annulus fidei, a reminder of the faith I had pledged to my husband. The gold coin recalled the price paid in the old days by the groom for the purchase of the bride. It signified the transfer of my custody from my guardian to my husband and was a token of the obedience I now owed the Baron. The wrapping of the stole around our clasped hands meant that we were irrevocably united before God.
After the ceremony, my husband handed me into his carriage. It was the first time we were alone. He lowered the blinds and threw himself upon me. The numbness I had felt in church dissipated in an instant. I resisted. He quieted.
“It is all right, dearest,” he said. “You may tease me all you want. I have not much longer to wait now.”
Once in Cénac, the Baron led me to the courtyard behind the château, where a dinner had been set for the servants and peasants. The guests rose to cry Viva la novio, “Long live the bride.” We walked around the long tables to receive their compliments and best wishes. The Baron, grinning, slapped the men on the back and asked them in the Roman language how they liked their new lady. I hung my head, too embarrassed to say anything. At last, he bid everyone to have a good time and took me inside.
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 8