City of Darkness, City of Light

by Marge Piercy

  Around noon, Vivienne came in. “The room is prepared for you, Monsieur, I mean Citizen.”

  If he was going to live here, he should put them more at ease. They were tiptoeing around him as if he might break at a loud noise. “You must all call me Max. We can’t have so much formality.”

  Vivienne said, “Here’s Papa for his dinner.”

  Just behind him came the last daughter. She saw him at once, and her dark eyes grew very wide. He supposed that she would not be considered as pretty as Elisabeth, yet she carried herself with dignity and an authority that was surprising in a young woman. She could be no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. “Citizen,” she said in a low gentle voice. “It is an honor to see you here. All Paris is turned upside down. I hope we have the pleasure of giving you sanctuary while this madness endures.”

  “What have you heard?” he asked her.

  Madame said hastily, “This is Eléanore. You may have seen her at the Jacobins too. She’s also a member of the Tricolor Brushes, who make paintings and engravings of patriotic scenes for the education of the people.”

  “I’ve been admiring your work.”

  He could see she had trouble not curtseying. She kept her eyes on him as she sat at the table, some distance away. He motioned her closer, and slowly, she obeyed. “Again, what have you heard?”

  “There are warrants out for many patriotic leaders. Etta Palm d’Aelders has been put in prison for saying that women should have rights. The Social Circle has been forbidden to have public meetings. The Iron Mouth has been shut down. Marat is in danger again and like yourself, has had to seek shelter with friends. Danton and Desmoulins have disappeared, arrested or in hiding. Half the newspapers of Paris have been suppressed. Bailly has declared martial law.” She spoke quickly but firmly, reporting without emotion or rhetoric. Clearly she could be relied on as an observer. She could be useful to him while he was in hiding. He could have her keep an eye on the Jacobin Club until he could return.

  “Everything has happened in a matter of hours. Clearly, they were waiting and prepared for this opportunity to close us all down,” he said.

  “You should clear my room for Citizen Robespierre,” Eléanore said.

  Vivienne piped up. “I already cleared Elisabeth’s, and moved her in with me.”

  “You need room for your paintings, child,” Madame said.

  “I need very little,” he said, as before. He smiled at Vivienne. He did not bother smiling at Eléanore, for he felt it was not necessary.

  The meal was more than he desired, but they allowed him to pick and choose. It was a good family atmosphere here, almost the ideal family he had fantasized since childhood. Then he thought it would be with his own sisters and brother. But in truth these people were far more agreeable and politically savvy than his sister. Augustin he knew little about, for it had been years since they spent time together.

  When he rose, Eléanore jumped up as if on command and followed him upstairs. “I’ll help you unpack,” she said.

  “Will your mother mind?”

  “Oh, no. We all want to make your stay pleasant.” She did not blush, she did not flirt. She unpacked his clothes efficiently, handling each item with a cool reverence. When he was ready to work, he dismissed her, and she went without a backward glance.

  He had the strangest feeling with her, from the first moment, almost as if he remembered her. It was as if he had recovered a lost inheritance, something that belonged to him that had been estranged or forgotten. After supper, he summoned her and gave her instructions for the Jacobin Club. He told her to report to him at once when she returned, no matter at what hour. She nodded, asked a few questions about how specific her notes were to be. Then she went off.

  When she came in, the older Duplays and her sisters had retired. She came into his room without coquettishness or hesitation and began at once to report on what had been an extremely long and stormy session, full of recriminations. He questioned her closely, taking notes on her notes. He corrected the spelling of some names.

  It was after midnight. She was alone with him in his room, yet no one in the house seemed to question his right or her duty. She was utterly matter-of-fact in her deportment. She did not touch him, she did not lean forward or brush against him or give him melting looks. He looked at her openly, admiring her and studying her. On one level, there was no hint of sex or anything muddy or murky. On a deeper level, he understood that she was utterly his. She had already given herself over to him absolutely, although they scarcely knew each other.

  Lafayette and Bailly and their gang of traitors had given him quite by accident what he had never expected to enjoy. After less than twenty-four hours he knew what he had found. He now had a family, in all ways superior to his own. He had a living situation where he could work without a thought for expense, for they had made clear they would accept nothing from him except his presence, where he would be cared for and protected and even coddled. And he had been given the only woman he had ever met with whom he could have some kind of relationship, what kind he did not know: only that whatever he wanted from Eléanore, she would give him without blinking, without hesitation, without terms. Whether he ever touched her, whether he ever spoke one word of courtship or affection or not, she was his.

  FORTY-TWO

  Nicolas

  (Late July 1791)

  NO doubt his houseguest, Tom Paine, had influenced his thinking. Nicolas liked and respected Tom, who had the benefit of having been involved in the American revolution, giving him in the eyes of Nicolas an authority far beyond his own. They started from similar premises and arrived at similar conclusions, in spite of differences of birth and class. Nicolas was becoming an out-and-out republican at a time when the conservative faction—Lafayette, Bailly, the Lameths—were determined to hold on to the King. Some parties were intriguing for Orléans. Other faint-hearted souls would take any nincompoop, so long as the blood was blue and he could look regal in robes.

  Nicolas was driven to write a proposal for a new king. The Assembly should order a large golden marionette which the properly elected government could manipulate as appropriate. The marionette would put its signature to all laws passed by the legislature, unlike Monsieur Veto, the present king. It would preside over assemblies, religious occasions, parades, receptions, and be able to raise its arm to receive the salute of troops in review. It would be present when required and otherwise stored in a closet. This, he proposed, would be the perfect king for a constitutional monarchy, and a great economy besides. He read the piece aloud to Sophie, who, as usual, had concrete suggestions for making it sharper. Then he gave it to the press at Social Circle headquarters to be published. They still were forbidden to hold public meetings, but they had resumed as a publishing house.

  The government was hunting what they considered agitators. He had not been bothered. It was probably a holdover from his days as a marquis, but while his former colleagues from the Committee of Thirty denounced him as a turncoat and sometimes snubbed him, he was not only noble but the last of the Encyclopedists. Therefore they could not bring themselves, he surmised, to throw him in prison or rough him up. They called him ineffective and sneered.

  They laughed at him when he proposed freedom for Blacks, and with Brissot, worked in the Friends of the Blacks club. They had told him black people were docile, childlike, mere domestic animals, that he was a sentimental idealist to imagine that Blacks were interested in freedom. Well, the sheep had turned to wolves. On the island of Saint Domingue in the Caribbean, the countryside was burning. The slaves were in armed revolt. The freedom that could have been peaceably granted a few months before would now be taken after bloody massacres and savage reprisals. But once a people had a notion of freedom, it was only a matter of time and persistence—and endless brutality and pain and death—before they got it.

  Sophie urged him, “Go to see Bailly. See Lafayette. It’s a disgrace that Etta Palm is in prison, an absolute disgrace. What danger to the Sta
te is Etta? Does her call for abolishing wife beating threaten order? She’s holding up reasonably well, but her imprisonment is without reason!” Sophie was in high-colored indignation, angry and helpless.

  “I doubt if they’ll listen to me. But I’ll try. I’ll see Lafayette first. At least he used to be my friend. Bailly and I have detested each other for a decade.”

  Lafayette received him at his grand town house in Saint Germain de Près, where a great many fine houses were going up, in a parlor adorned with portraits of himself, usually in military garb on a white horse. The walls were crowded with mementos of his glorious service in the American cause and objects recalling his dear friend and almost-father, George Washington.

  “Why are you so interested in that harridan?” Lafayette asked him, standing at the windows as if looking out. He was a tall man, just as tall as Nicolas and leaner. His hair was still reddish. After all, he was considerably younger. His manner was as imperial as ever.

  “Etta is a friend and colleague of mine. I respect her ideas. She is hardly a street-corner orator stirring up mobs to storm palaces.”

  “She’s been stirring the women up. That’s trouble enough.”

  “She may cause domestic turmoil, but surely we can leave that to individual husbands and fathers. It’s no crime to discuss the problems that primogeniture causes.”

  “It is a crime, it is seditious, to attack the Assembly the way she has, denouncing our policies.” Lafayette finally turned his profile from the window. Nicolas could see his anger. “This unbridled anarchy must stop.”

  “It’s a long way from citizens running through the streets with pikes to Etta delivering speeches on women’s rights and the improvement of the family. What are you afraid of? Not that your wife will finally object to something.” Nicolas knew, as everyone did, that Lafayette’s arranged and very useful marriage was one of love on only one side.

  Now Lafayette turned fully around to glare. “Some say you brought the Palm woman a bed. A strange present unless you’re her lover.”

  “I have the extreme peculiarity of being interested only in my wife. I bought Etta a bed because the one she was furnished with in prison was not fit for the mice that infested it. Sophie and Etta are friends and share many ideas. Are you planning to toss Sophie into prison?”

  “We will put however many people in prison we need to, to preserve order… Bailly is resigning as Mayor this summer, you know.”

  “I’d heard,” Nicolas said guardedly. “Is the job of running Paris getting on his nerves?”

  “He’s tired of the constant struggle to do the simplest thing, without your confreres at the Iron Mouth clawing at him, or that thug Danton inciting to riot, or Pétion from the Jacobins impugning his patriotism. Not to mention Marat calling for all of us to be strung up like common pickpockets. The man incites to murder daily. He speaks of eating our livers.”

  “So there’ll be an election,” Nicolas said blandly, smiling.

  “Some people think I should run.”

  Nicolas opened his eyes wide. “How intriguing. Do they say why?”

  Lafayette drew himself up. Nicolas would not have imagined he could stand even straighter, but he did. “Obviously, they think I would govern Paris wisely. That I would be able to take authority and exercise it.”

  “Exercising a bit too much authority over people has gotten other men in trouble,” Nicolas said, “my dear Marquis.” He intentionally used the old and now obsolete title. “I’m surprised you’d consider giving up your National Guards. They’re your creation.” There was a short spiky silence. Nicolas waited with his head cocked, an expression of benign interest on his face.

  “Are you referring to the incident in the Champ de Mars?”

  “Actually I wasn’t. But since you mention it, don’t you think that might have made you a little less popular in Paris than you have been? Sophie and I were there, by the way. It was not a pretty spectacle.”

  “Respectable people want order, not chaos. You should avoid unlawful public gatherings where violence easily erupts. Laws must apply to everyone. My men showed great restraint in the face of disorder.”

  “It is said a hundred people were shot down. I could not loiter to count them, being under fire myself.”

  “We counted no more than a few dozen bodies afterwards. And the men are loyal to me, yes. That is neither here nor there. I want to know if I can count on your support.”

  “Surely it’s a little premature to think seriously about who should be Mayor, when Bailly is still in office and I have no idea who may run. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind. I’d have more time to contemplate the coming election if carrying fresh food to Etta and trying to keep her spirits up in prison was not taking such a large portion of my time and energy.”

  “I see,” Lafayette murmured. “Not that it’s my decision. Have you talked to Bailly?”

  “He wouldn’t give me the time if he could avoid it. But if I must, I’ll entreat him. I’ve been to the Conciergerie and to the Châtelet. I have sat in some very dingy and dreary waiting rooms for Etta, and I dare say, I’ll cool my heels in a few more. Friendship, Gilbert, we must put ourselves out for our friends, don’t you think?”

  “That shrew is no friend of mine. I can’t imagine what you can find to talk about with her. But then you have some peculiar friends these days. That British agitator you’ve taken in. Thrown out of England for sedition. Now causing trouble here.”

  Nicolas decided not to defend Tom Paine. He was being baited to distract him. There was a general tendency among his former colleagues from the Committee of Thirty to assume he had become simple, because he believed in outlandish things like rights for Blacks and women.

  Lafayette suddenly sank into his favorite armchair, rather like a gilded throne. Finally he motioned Nicolas to a seat also. “We’ve got to get things under control, surely you can see that. The country was going to pieces, but we’ve reorganized. We’ll have the new constitution in place soon. We have to pull together, those of us who have some perspective on the problems of the nation, to bring order and harmony again.”

  “A new constitution with a monarch who’s already tried to get away once. What will you do when he tries again?”

  “He’ll behave himself,” Lafayette said. He frowned slightly, his sky blue eyes opaque. “I don’t understand why Louis and Marie-Antoinette can’t perceive me as their protector. I am protecting them. But they persist in viewing me as a traitor to our class.”

  “Very few people think of you as that any more,” Nicolas said mildly. He rose. “Please do something about Etta. She doesn’t belong in prison.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Lafayette said noncommittally. “Are you going to support me?”

  “I told you, it’s premature to say,” Nicolas answered softly. “You must ask me again as the election nears.”

  Lafayette remained seated, folding his arms. “You ask a great deal, but you do not give much.”

  “I observe how people act, as well as how they talk. I offer my honest opinion, Gilbert. Formerly, you thought that a sign of respect.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Claire

  (September 1791)

  CLAIRE read Olympe de Gouges’ Declaration of the Rights of Women and Citizens with Pauline and Hélène as they shared supper in the tavern. All around them, families were eating, men were arguing over the news, kids were playing dominoes. It was dim but Pauline had brought a candle. They read aloud to each other and debated every page. Pauline was upset that the pamphlet was dedicated to Marie-Antoinette. “How can she care for the Austrian bitch, who doesn’t give one tiny damn about us except to grind us under?”

  Hélène said tentatively, “I’ve heard some women say that we all have the same problems, that all women are less than citizens—ladies or peasants.”

  “We don’t have the same problems,” Pauline said. “My main problem is getting enough to eat. Surviving.” She patted her flat stomach.

  “
Anyhow,” Claire said, wanting to move them on, “maybe the printer put it on. They say she’s illiterate and has to dictate everything.” Claire continued reading, “All women are born free and equal to men in their rights. The aim of political association is the preservation of the natural and inalienable rights of men and women. The nation is a union of women and men. Law is an expression of the general will. All female and male citizens have the right to participate personally, or through representatives, in its formation.”

  Pauline was mollified. “Well, she makes sense once she gets moving.”

  They had to stop for a while because a fight broke out and they could not hear. It was just guys brawling over one calling the other a pig’s shithole. The women kept out of the way, snuffing the candle till the fight was over. None of them took fistfights seriously. Ordinary people were likely to get mad and try to punch each other, men or women alike, but it meant little. It was just blowing off tension.

  Claire was feeling generous. She liked living with Hélène. They shared food, clothing, the bed, their ideas, the past and desired future. She had not been so close to anyone since she had left her grandmother’s side. Further, the play she was acting in for Collot had been challenging. But the run was ending.

  She liked Pauline, her best friend after Hélène. They worked well together. Hélène was not as political, but went along. She had a good heart. It just never would occur to her to do more than feel a lack, to get angry, then wait for some man to do something. Hélène was working now, in another pantomime, but hadn’t moved out. They were content as they were.

  Claire admired Pauline, but Pauline did not need Claire the way Hélène did. There was a softness in Hélène that Claire did not admire but depended upon. Claire saw Pauline as the complete tough Parisian sans-culotte woman. Pauline knew how to get anything cheap. She always had connections. Everybody in her section knew her. Her errands around the neighborhood were a procession. Women brought their problems to her. They stopped her to tell her what was going on that shouldn’t be happening. They asked for advice. They asked her what to do about issues from prisons to schooling.