A man I had seen in the courtyard was being dragged to undergo that formality. He had lost his shoes in the struggle and his white silk stockings, already soiled by the grime of the prison, were now stained by the blood of the corpses he was treading. He was offering a vigourous resistance but had to fight three of the workmen. They at last pulled him to the top of the heap of bodies, where they ordered him on several occasions to cry Long live the Nation. He refused with the utmost contempt. I tried to shout to him not to be so foolish but no sound came out of my mouth. One of the executioners, apparently tired of waiting, swore and plunged his sabre into the man’s stomach. He collapsed. The executioner then drew a cutlass from his belt and began to cut off the victim’s head. He had only fainted. The pain revived him and he began to shriek. Still held by my attendants, I turned my head away. The cries stopped. The executioner climbed down and took me by the chin to make me behold the trophy he was holding by its hair.
“Don’t be shy, beauty,” he said. “Look at what happens to the enemies of the Nation.”
His two companions had already begun to strip the body.
My insides revolted at the sight of the head, blood still dripping from the neck. Spasms ran through my entire body. I retched. My breakfast of wine and bread, which had been churning in my stomach since the morning, splattered in a foul mess at my feet. I was shaking, my knees buckled, but I struggled to remain upright lest I should meet the same fate as the man in the silk stockings. I could already feel the steel of the cutlass against my own neck. I threw myself against Martial’s chest.
“I will cry Long live the Nation as much as you want,” I said, “but please do not make me climb there.”
Martial caught me by the waist to prop me up. “She’s been through enough for today,” he told the others. “I’m going to take her home.”
Carriages still drove up and down the street as usual, simply swerving to avoid the pile of bodies. Martial stopped a hackney, grabbed its occupant by his cravat, threw him out, pushed me inside and went in after me, while his comrade climbed next to the driver. I felt very cold in spite of the heat and was still shivering uncontrollably.
“Do you want to go to Rue Saint-Dominique?” asked Martial.
“No, please. Not there.”
“Where then?”
My mind was blank. Martial must have seen that I could not take my eyes off the cadaver pile. He told the driver to move on, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped remains of vomit off my lips. He removed his jacket, which he wrapped around me in an attempt to make me warm. I rested my head on his shoulder without minding the bloodstains on his shirt or his smell of sweat.
“There, there,” he said, “it’s all over now. You just need to take some rest. Are you sure you don’t know where you want to go? In Marseilles, I’d take you to my rooms and give up my bed for you, but I have no lodgings in this town. While I am working at La Force, I sleep on the straw in stables nearby with some of the comrades. I can’t take you there. I wouldn’t touch you, of course, and I’d keep the others away from you, but it’s still no place for a person like you.”
It was a while before I recovered my wits enough to recall the address of Manon’s sister, on Rue de l’Hirondelle. When we arrived, I still felt dizzy. Martial took me in his arms and carried me to Louise’s lodgings up three flights of stairs. Manon opened the door and let out a cry of horror. She told me later that she had believed at first that he was bringing them my corpse, for I looked like one. Everyone in Paris knew what was happening in the prisons and I had been given up for dead.
I will not attempt to describe the scene that followed. Aimée would not let go of my hand. The other workman left, but Martial carried me to Louise’s bed, drew a chair and watched me for a while.
“Are you better?” he asked. “If you need anything, I’ll get it for you.”
I shook my head, unable to speak, and tried to smile at him.
“All right,” he said at last, patting my hand. “I’ll leave you with your friends. They look like they are going to take good care of you. I’d stay longer, but you’ll want to undress. You don’t need a man around.”
63
My stomach was still upset. Manon made me sip some broth, undressed me and bathed me with a sponge. It felt very strange, after the squalor of the prison, to lie in Louise’s clean bed, which she had insisted on giving up for me. I had trouble finding any rest. In the darkness, the memory of the agony of the prior day, the images of the pile of corpses, of the severed head of the man in the silk stockings, of the naked body of the Princess de Lamballe haunted me.
The next morning, to my surprise, Martial called.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were recovering properly. You looked more dead than alive when I left last night. I’m still working at La Force, but I asked for a leave to call on you.”
“I am feeling much better. There was nothing wrong with me, except for the effects of the fear I felt.” I paused. “You were so kind to me yesterday. I can never thank you enough.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “To me, the lives of those acquitted by the people’s court are sacred. But, little lady, I also came to warn you. There are some who feel differently. They want to kill all aristocrats. I know that there are some decent folks among you, though not too many. It’d be a good idea for you and your little girl to leave Paris while you can.”
“I believe you are right,” I said. “I am grateful for your concern, and for your help yesterday.” I hesitated. “I would like to give you something, if only to repay you for the hackney fare. I am sure that it came from your own pocket. I was too dazed last night to even think of it.”
He raised his hand. “No, I won’t take anything from you. There’s no point in insisting. I did what I did because it was the right thing, and that’s it.”
“Then I am forever in your debt. May I ask another great favour from you, then?”
“What is it?”
“Can you be as kind to the other prisoners?”
“Not if they are enemies of the Nation. There can’t be any quarter for those in wartime. I trust to the judgment of the people’s court. Some of those priests and other rascals in the jails deserve no pity, yours or mine. You’re different. I’ll soon be done working at La Force, because things are going briskly there. We’ll run out of prisoners. Afterwards, I’ll return to the Federate camp and ask to be sent to the army in Verdun. I’ll defend my country to my last drop of blood.”
“With men like you answering the call of duty,” I said, “I feel no doubt of our victory. I do not know whether we will meet again.” I took the jewel with Aimée’s miniature from my pocket. “At least accept this. I am no longer a prisoner and you are free to take it now.”
I wrote a note to prevent any accusations of theft and folded it inside the locket:
Gabrielle de Peyre to Elie Martial,
In token of her gratitude.
Paris, this 4th of September 1792.
I reached for his hand, opened it and put the jewel in it.
“Please accept it,” I said. Tears came to my eyes. “For my sake.”
He was looking at the locket, hesitating.
“All right then,” he said at last, “since you wish it. I’ll wear it under my shirt on the battlefield to bring me luck.”
“I will be honoured if you do. May it protect you.”
I held out my hand. He took it in an awkward manner, looked at it for a moment and kissed it. I embraced him and kissed him back on the cheek.
Martial and I had little in common, except for our native language and the feeling that neither of us might have very long to live. I do hope that he survived the war. He did kill prisoners at La Force. Yet during that terrible day, he was my sole comfort, the only voice of kindness I heard in the prison courtyard. If it had been my fate to die then, my end would have been less cruel thanks to him. He may have saved my life by taking me away from the pil
e of corpses and the murderer of the man in white stockings. Innocent or guilty, who cares now? Has there not been enough pain? Has not enough blood, on all sides, been shed to appease all thirst for revenge? Has not, after all these years, the time for forgiveness come?
I followed Martial’s advice and sent Manon to purchase tickets for Aimée and me to depart on the first stagecoach for Auvergne. I knew that there was one leaving for Clermont at five every morning.
“May I go to Auvergne with you, My Lady?” Manon asked.
“There is nothing that I would like better, Manon. Yet I cannot take you away from Paris, where you have your sister, and a roof over your head. I am far from sure of my family’s welcome.”
After the events of the past weeks, I no longer feared anything my brother could do to me. I would have been happy and grateful to live with him if he had been willing to take me back. It remained to be seen whether he would help me after I had spurned his offers of assistance years earlier.
Manon begged me to reconsider, but I remained firm. She left for the coach office and returned an hour later in a state of great agitation.
“Oh, My Lady,” she said, “what do you think? They just closed all the gates of Paris. Nobody can leave until further notice, even those who have a passport.”
In all, the massacres in the prisons lasted five full days. All of the jails of Paris, which were overflowing after the recent wave of arrests, and some in the provinces, were emptied of their inmates, aristocrats, harlots, priests and common criminals alike. Some were released as I was, and over 1,000 “sentenced and executed per judgment of the people,” as was written next to their names on the prison registers.
Outside the jails, life continued as usual in the capital. The shops remained open. The streets were still choked with carriages, pedestrians going about their business and vendors peddling their wares. In the cafés, Parisians gravely discussed the prison massacres as if they were happening in America. Ministers bleated a few speeches at the tribune of the Assembly, deploring “some excesses.”
I often heard the 17th of August Tribunal mentioned during the days which followed my release. My thoughts then turned to my acquaintance on that court, but I was not desperate enough to risk applying for Pierre-André’s help. I was hoping that those acquitted by the people’s courts in the prisons would be immune from prosecution before the Tribunal.
The situation in Paris had now become dangerous enough for me to want to leave France. True, the French armies had won a decisive victory at the battle of Valmy and the Prussian advance had been stopped. Yet such success might not last. I wished to flee to England, which was not yet at war with my country. However, I could not imagine that a passport would be given to a person of my dubious credentials without the help of some influential character.
The only one of my friends who still had any position in the new regime was Lauzun, now called General Biron. Not only had he retained his rank of General under the Republic, he had been put in command of the Rhine Army. I had read that he had been called to Paris to report on the recent developments. I paid him a visit in his little house of Montrouge.
“My dearest,” he said, embracing me, “what a relief! No one could tell me whether you had survived the massacres at La Force. You had disappeared and I hoped that you had managed to emigrate. What has happened to you?”
I told him of my adventures.
“I cannot imagine,” he sighed, “you running for your life in the hallways of the Tuileries, thrown into jail, barely escaping the blades of the cutthroats. As for Villers, I always knew that he would repay your kindnesses by the most atrocious conduct. What has happened to our world, dearest friend?”
“I am afraid now, Lauzun. I should have fled after the 10th of August. I need a passport. Without one, I cannot leave Paris, let alone France.”
“I have not the heart to deceive you, Belle. I cannot obtain one for you. All I can offer you is the key to this house. I must return to Strasbourg in two days, but you may stay here as long as you wish. The servants are trustworthy. No one will find you here.”
“Thank you for your kindness, dear Lauzun, but all I would achieve by staying here is to compromise you. Right now I live with my maid’s sister. I am safe there. I will not budge until I obtain a passport.”
He shook his head sadly. “The young Republic needs generals and tolerates me, but everyone eyes me with suspicion because of what I used to be. I know of only one person who could help you: the Duke d’Orléans. Do you want me to speak to him on your behalf ?”
I winced. “Only if you think that he would not expect anything in return.”
“He is a better man than you believe, Belle. And he has retained much influence. He was elected to the new National Convention as a Representative for Paris. Have you heard that he asked the Municipality to officially change his name to Philippe Egalité ?”
“I have.” I could not help smiling. “And do you know what Hébert calls him?”
The Père Duchesne now referred to Orléans not as Philippe Egalité, “Philippe Equality,” but as Capet Bordel, “Capet Brothel.” Never before had I found Hébert’s crudeness entertaining.
“Yes,” said Lauzun, smiling, “Hébert does not seem to hold us libertines in high esteem. Yet the Duke d’Orléans, or Egalité, if you prefer, could obtain a passport for you.”
“Please approach him on my behalf. But you know how I feel about him.”
“You have always had exquisite taste, Belle. I will try my best.” Lauzun reached for my hand and caressed it. “You declined the only help I can offer you, but would you please stop being so cruel? Would you at long last make an old man very happy?”
I laughed. There was something about Lauzun, a certain lightness, that always brought forth the happier side of life. I no longer cared whether he was married. He could have had as many wives as the heroes of the Thousand and One Nights without my thinking twice about it.
I shook my head. “Lauzun, dearest friend, I am as fond of you as ever, but I will not become your mistress at this time. You have a future in the Republic. I have none. If I were weak enough to link my fate to yours, I would drag you down without saving myself.”
He did not take my refusal amiss and invited me to share his dinner, which I accepted. We reminisced about times past, their thoughtlessness, their sweetness, their frivolity, and spent a few very sad and very pleasant hours together. We both knew that these remembrances were our eulogy to a world that had just died before our eyes. He kept me in his arms a long time when I took my leave. I could feel silent sobs shaking him.
64
I never returned to my lodgings on Rue Saint-Dominique. Manon had left the place with Aimée on the day following my arrest and taken with her what remained of my belongings. Yet I could not stay much longer in Louise’s lodgings without becoming a nuisance. They comprised a large all-purpose room and one bedroom and were not large enough to comfortably accommodate both sisters, Aimée and me. All Manon was able to locate on short notice and on my meager budget was a garret on the same street.
I sent her to sell my gowns, in particular the one I had worn in prison, to the used clothes dealers. With the money I purchased sturdy black cloth. I made a widow’s dress, which I wore with a modest white muslin kerchief. That attire had the double advantage of making casual observers notice my clothing rather than my face and of allowing me to wear a widow’s bonnet, a pleated white cap covered with a waist-long black crape veil. It would serve to hide my hair, which I had Manon cut six inches below shoulder length. It was thus less conspicuous and easier to dress now that I no longer had a maid. Aimée was sobbing as my locks fell to the floor of Louise’s lodgings, but I was relieved to be rid of them. I stopped wearing any jewellery save my nuptial ring and tiny gold earrings.
I discarded all mementos of my life with Villers. Poor Aimée did not show such composure when I told her that we could not take all of her dolls with us, for she now had an entire collection of them. We
kept only Margaret, the favourite. Many tears fell, but I remained firm. Even a single doll, especially one as large and expensive as Margaret, would be suspicious enough in our situation.
I called on Citizen Marcelin, the owner of the garret Manon had visited. The appellations of “Monsieur” and “Madame” were now officially discarded and replaced by “Citizen.” Manon had found these lodgings deficient in many regards, but I was in a hurry and could not afford anything better. Aimée and I would have to share a bed in the only room. The rest of the furniture, coarse, scratched and grimy, consisted of a little table, two straw chairs, a portable alcohol stove, a nightstand and a chest of drawers with a washbasin on top. Its reddish paint was peeling, and in places even the plaster was missing. The room lacked a fireplace, and I could hear the wind whistling through the shaky window of the dormer. Yet it offered a view of the neighbouring roofs, the only pleasant thing about the room. I could imagine watching the swallows after which the street was named during the long evenings of the fair season, if I were still alive to see the next summer.
“Here it is, Citizen,” said Marcelin. “A pretty room, as you can see.”
He had used the familiar thou, which was becoming the preferred, “patriotic” form. It did not bother me much to be addressed in this manner by strangers. I did my best to return the favour, though I tended to revert to the formal, “aristocratic” you whenever I was not careful.
“How much is it?” I asked.
“Twelve francs a week. Mind you, if you can’t pay rent, I’ll throw you out without thinking twice about it, winter or no winter. Don’t try to soften me by crying your eyes out. I’ve heard every story there is, and I just want my money.” He scratched his neck. “Also, you should know that I’m a married man. I’m not interested in being paid in kind, if you catch my meaning.”
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 41