Throughout the performance I watched the Queen’s face. It was hard to believe she was only in her thirties, she looked so very aged. The Dauphin, a charming child dressed in the regimentals of the nation, sat on her lap. Now and again the Queen kissed the top of his head. He kept gazing up at her face—he seemed perplexed by her tears.
In the third act, the soubrette and the valet sang a duet. In it Madame Dugazon exclaimed: “Ah! Comme j’aime ma maîtresse!” looking directly at the Queen. Three men in pantaloons jumped up on the stage and threatened the singer.
The Queen’s guard hurried the Queen and her entourage out of the theatre. It was, of course, impossible to continue the performance after that.
Thursday, July 19.
The Austrians have cut off supplies to Paris—we are entirely without. We whisper—not of gossip, but of grain: where it might be found. (Those who know stay silent.) Every day there are riots for food.
Santerre, Commander of the National Guards, has proposed that all dogs and cats be disposed of, arguing that the food they eat would be better directed toward people.
“What about pain bénit?” Agathe argued. Every Sunday, thousands of loaves of bread are blessed by the priests and left uneaten. “And what about hair loaded with flour powder? What about that!” My timid maid is timid no longer.
July 22, Sunday.
The warning cannon on the Pont-Neuf has been firing every hour. An hour ago a man on horseback, an official caller, yelled out in the street, “La patrie en danger! La patrie en danger!”
The Austrians are coming. …
The streets are clogged with carriages. Everyone is trying to get out of Paris, but it is impossible—the gates have been closed! Nobody is allowed in; no one allowed out. We are trapped.
August 8.
I have not slept for a week. It’s so hot Agathe claims she saw the river boiling. Each day I try to get passes to get out of Paris, but have been unable. The gates are still closed!
August 10.
Last night masses of people were in the streets. The children were sent home from school this morning. Then, at around nine this evening, just as Frédéric, the Princess, Aimée and I prepared to sit to supper together, the tocsins began to ring.
Frédéric was intent on going to see what was happening. Aimée, Princess Amalia and I tried to dissuade him, but he insisted. Aimée offered him her sabre.
“No—it would look too aristocratic,” Frédéric said, taking a meat cleaver instead.
It was almost two in the morning when he returned. The tocsins were still ringing. There was talk of a demonstration at the Palace at daybreak.
“Another demonstration?” I asked.
“Who is calling it?” the princess asked.
“The Commune.” Frédéric’s cheeks were pink. Vats of wine had been set in the street in front of the section house.
“For what purpose?” I feared the Commune.*
“To arrest the King.”
Arrest the King?
I took a seat. I could not comprehend. Arrest the King? But the King was the law.
The tocsins began ringing again at dawn. I went to the window, pulled back the drapes. A group of men, ruffians, were in the street, two carrying pikes. One was wearing the blue tunic of a dockman of Marseille. He saw me at the window and screamed, “Death to the aristocrats!”
I backed away from view. From far away I could hear the faint sound of a musket being fired, followed by grapeshot.
Somewhere, a battle had begun.
Later that evening.
The Commune has taken over. Hundreds have been killed, hundreds more arrested.
“We’ve got to get out,” I whispered to Aimée. “Get the children out.” But how? Who could we trust?
“I’ve heard that there’s a place by the Allée des Invalides, near the Boulevard, where the wall is low. Maybe we could get over there.”
“Climb over?” We would have to run through fields in the dark. Eugène and Lucie might be able to, but Hortense …?
No matter how we think it through, it’s too dangerous. So we’re staying, preparing for the worst.
* Decapitation, formerly the privilege of the aristocratic class, was made available to all social classes by means of the guillotine. It was created by Dr. Guillotin, who died of grief over the abuse to which his humanitarian invention had been put.
In which I take desperate measures
Monday, August 13, 1792.
I was on the balcony when a coach and four pulled into the courtyard. A footman helped lift an elderly woman down. I could not make out her face under the hood of her cape.
A short time later, Agathe brought me a calling card scented with lavender. It was the Comtesse de Montmorin, whose elegant fêtes at the castle in Fontainebleau had so charmed me, whose dear clumsy husband, Comte Luce de Montmorin, the governor of the castle, I’d found so endearing. Why would she be calling on me? I wondered, untying my morning cap and reaching for a wig.
The Comtesse’s trembling hand clasped mine. “Comte de Montmorin has been arrested—by the Commune!”
“Your husband?”
“They’ve confused him with Monsieur Armand de Montmorin, the Minister of Foreign Affairs!”
Bungling, forgetful, sweet old Comte Luce de Montmorin—how could anyone have mistaken him for a diplomat? “Which prison?” I asked, shaken.
“The Abbaye.”
The Abbaye—it was but a short distance from our home; Eugène, Hortense and I had walked by it the day before. All the windows had been boarded over.
“Nobody knows anything! I am desperate—to whom can I turn?”
Friday, August 17.
Finally, a response from the Tribunal Jury that has been set up to review the arrests of August tenth. I’ve been granted an audience this coming Monday with Citoyen Botot, one of the seven directors. I’ve notes scattered all over the dining-room table, formulating arguments, pleas. My bed is covered with gowns pulled from the cupboard in an effort to select a suitable ensemble. What does one wear when begging a life?
August 18.
This morning, as I entered the kitchen, I thought I saw Agathe hastily shove something under the counter. Later, I went to look. It was a pamphlet, official in its presentation, written by an unwhiskered patriot. It claimed that a plot had been uncovered to assassinate the good citizens of Paris during the night of September second to come. According to the pamphlet, this treacherous scheme is to be carried out by aristocrats and priests with the help of those in the prisons, whom the aristocrats and priests intend to set free.
A fabrication, surely. Yet who would promote such a lie? Who would promote such fear?
Monday, August 20, late afternoon, 3:30 p.m.
Citoyen Botot is a tall, baby-faced older gentleman with a smug, well-fed look. I felt I had met him before.
“I used to sell dental water on Rue des Noyers,” he said. He spoke with a hint of a lisp.
L’eau de Botot—of course. “I consulted you years ago,” I said.
“Did my remedy help?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“My uncle invented it,” he said proudly.
He was sympathetic about Comte Luce de Montmorin’s mistaken identity but informed me there was little he could accomplish alone. He suggested I attend a reception being held at the home of Deputy Paul Barras in four days. Several members of the Tribunal Jury would be there, he said.
“But I have not even been introduced to Deputy Barras,” I said.
“It will be my honour to do so,” Citoyen Botot assured me.
Tuesday, August 21.
Agathe came back from market today flushed with excitement. She’d seen a man’s head cut off—by guillotine.* “The crowd booed!” she said, her pallid complexion pink. “It was over too quickly.”
August 23.
The children came running into the parlour this afternoon much in a fright. They had heard that our troops to the East had fallen to the Austrians.
<
br /> “Is it Father?” Eugène asked.
I assured him no, his father was safe.
“But what about us!” Hortense cried.
“It’s not the Austrians to fear,” Agathe hissed. “It’s the priests and aristocrats in the prisons who will hold the knife to your heart as you sleep.”
Hortense began to wail. It took some effort to calm her.
“Dismiss Agathe,” Aimée insisted later that night. We were sitting in our little garden sipping claret, watching the moon and the stars come out.
“It’s too dangerous. I dare not.” Many, now, are betrayed to the authorities by their domestics.
Friday, August 24.
Tonight, the reception at Deputy Barras’s. Princess Amalia has offered to loan me one of her beautiful gowns. I have taken a herbal remedy in attempt to calm the fluxations of my stomach. I must go, whatever my condition.
Evening.
Citoyen Botot and I were shown into an elegantly furnished entryway hung with Gobelin tapestries. An older man of about forty approached us, trailing a sword. He walked with the studied grace of a ballet instructor. He embraced Citoyen Botot, caressed his cheek. “And who is this lovely lady you’ve brought for me, François?” With a theatrical flourish, Deputy Barras kissed my hand.
“Ah—the famous Deputy Barras.” I dropped a deep curtsy.
“I hate to think what I might be famous for.” He smiled, removing his gold-rimmed lorgnon from his right eye. A diamond on his middle finger caught the light. He was wearing skin-tight yellow silk breeches, high black riding boots and lace everywhere—very Ancien Régime. Hardly the revolutionary I had expected, from all I had heard.
“Are there so very many possibilities?” I asked. He smelled strongly of spirit of ambergris.
“Innumerable.” By the light of the torches his face was angular, sculpted, with high cheekbones. A sensitive-looking man with sorrowful, puppy-dog eyes. “My dear Botot,” he said, taking my arm, “would you be offended if perhaps I introduced this lady to my guests?”
As we entered the parlour, I paused to admire a painting by Greuze.
“Later I will show you my collection,” Deputy Barras said. “I have an eye for beauty—”
“A weakness, some call it,” Botot whispered.
Deputy Barras smiled, a boyish lopsided grin that was rather endearing. “Speaking of beauty, I see you are wearing one of Citoyenne Deperret’s creations,” he said, noting the intricate lace-and-ribbon design on the shoulder of my gown. “A brilliant designer, but temperamental, I’ve been told.”
“She is brilliant,” I said. I dared not reveal I had borrowed the ensemble.
Throughout the evening Deputy Barras was quite attentive. (I suspect him of being more interested in the show of seduction than seduction itself.) After the third toast to the Republic I was sufficiently emboldened to express my concerns regarding Comte de Montmorin’s arrest. I was encouraged by Deputy Barras’s response—more than the dismissive “We’ll see,” in any case. He made a point of introducing me to four members of the Tribunal Jury who were present. By the deference they paid Deputy Barras, I could see that it would be wise to cultivate his friendship … and no hardship, certainly. He amuses me.
Tuesday, August 28.
Tonight it begins. No carriages, no horses on the streets after nine. A crier on horseback proclaimed that the searches would begin at midnight.
What do we have to hide? Aimée burned a quantity of love letters. She read the more private passages out loud before throwing them into the fire. “I wish I had love letters to burn,” I said. Alexandre’s letters are more like sermons, extolling the virtues of the Republic.
“Leave his out where the authorities can see them,” Aimée said.
Agathe watched us furtively and suddenly I wondered: Is my chambermaid a spy?
August 29.
It was after one in the morning when the search party came, a group of twelve men pounding on the door. The leader was a Citoyen Wimpfen, a vendor of skins I remembered seeing at our section office. They went through our rooms, insisting that we wake the children so that they could search their beds, stabbing the fur coverlets with their daggers.
Aimée offered them old wine in a decanter and cold river pike. “You’ll need this for the hard night’s work ahead, citoyens,” she told them, pouring out generous glasses which flushed them finely. She is good at this. As for myself, I was afraid they would perceive my trembling.
August 29, 1792
Citoyenne Beauharnais:
Regarding the arrest and imprisonment of Citoyen Montmorin, you have been granted a hearing before the jury in one week, on the fourth day of September, at three in the afternoon.
Citoyen Botot
Director, Tribunal Jury
Thursday, August 30.
Thousands more have been arrested—clerics, priests, aristocrats. “We’re next,” Aimée said, strapping on her fencing mask.
August 28, 1792—Valenciennes
Dear Rose,
I have been promoted to maréchal de camp at Strasbourg. I depart tomorrow. I do not know how long it will take to get there as I will be inspecting the garrison towns en route. Do not worry, I have an excellent horse.
Give my love to the children.
Your husband, Alexandre Beauharnais
September 2.
Austrian troops are a two-day march from Paris. Panic has taken the city. In a back room, on a small oak table, Aimée and I assemble weapons: a meat cleaver, Aimée’s fencing sabre, Commander du Braye’s pistol. I touch the cold metal, imagine the worst. Could I? Would I?
Monday, September 3, evening.
Eugène’s birthday, his eleventh. The sounds of the tocsins filled the air, the slow passing of the hours marked by cannon.
I pulled the drapes and forbade the children to look out. Calmly I proceeded, pinning up ribbons in celebration of birth, reciting prayers toward off death. Daggers ever at the ready, I went about the day: children fed, linens mended, bedclothes aired. In little ways one conquers fear.
But now, the children asleep, I wait by the window and watch, listen and wait, the pistol on the table before me. In the dark, fear rules. What would I do if attacked? Would I have the courage to take a life? How are such things done?
September 4.
It was two, perhaps three in the morning, when I heard faint laughter and went to the window. The stars and the moon hovered over the city. Tranquillity, I thought, but then, in the dark I saw flickers of light moving. The city was vibrant with flambeaux.
Two boys appeared in the street below, laughing with drunken pleasure.
I looked closer.
They pulled, they pulled, they staggered and fell, they laughed and pulled again.
What was it they pulled?
It was then that I saw. It was the body of a man they were dragging, his long legs white, naked under a black habit—a priest.
I retched and turned, I gasped for air.
As soon as the sky lightened, I changed into my street clothes, pinned on my cockade. I set out for the Rue de Lille. Frédéric was a member of the National Guard. He would know.
It was Princess Amalia who received me, in spite of the early hour. She, too, had not slept. She led me into the garden where she invited me to sit under a blooming acacia. There, in a setting of peace and beauty, she told me what had transpired in the night. The men and women in the prisons had been slaughtered.
I felt faint. “The Comte de Montmorin? He is in the Abbaye—”
Princess Amalia took my hand.
Mon Dieu. I had had an appointment to go before the jury that very afternoon. And now it was too late.
It was then that the Princess told me that she and Frédéric were planning to escape France.
“But how? The gates, the guards …”
“Frédéric has been able, at great cost, to get passes to Saint-Martin. From there we believe we can get to England.”
England. The enemy. But wh
o was the enemy now? The enemy was everywhere.
“You’ll … you’ll lose everything.” Their estate, the Hôtel de Salm, everything they owned would be taken by the state, everything but the clothes on their backs.
“Everything but our lives.”
“Take us with you.” The words leapt from me without thinking. “Me and the children.” It was a terrible and fearful thing to do, a terrible and fearful thing to ask someone to do, but I was obsessed with one thought only: to get Hortense and Eugène out of France, to safety.
“Oh, Rose, we couldn’t. It’s impossible. You would need a passport.”
“The children, then.” Tears came to my eyes. “You could pretend they were your own.”
She reached for me, alarmed. “Rose?”
I began to tremble.
Princess Amalia looked up at the sky. She took a breath. “Yes.”
Aimée and Lucie were in the foyer when I entered. I looked away.
“Is something amiss?” Aimée put down her market basket.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said. Princess Amalia and Frédéric were leaving at dawn. I’d promised not to tell. In any case, I did not want to. I feared complications, logic—truth. I feared guilt, for thinking only of my own. I hurried up the stairs.
Eugène greeted me with a hug. Hortense ran in with a drawing she had just made. They seemed so very young. A terrible feeling began to rise up in me.
“Maman?” Eugène asked.
I gathered strength. “I have news. I’ve arranged for a holiday for you both, with Frédéric and Princess Amalia.” I had to see this through, and calmly, I knew. Otherwise I would alarm them.
Eugène appeared pleased. I was relieved.
“But I want to go to school,” Hortense said.
“There are no more schools. Remember? The schools have all been closed.”*
“You’re not coming?” Hortense’s voice had that high quavering pitch.
I took her in my arms. “I will join you soon,” I lied. I kissed the top of her head. Don’t cry, I told myself. Don’t cry!
The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. Page 20
