I could do all that, I thought. I’d been a teacher for thirty years. Lesson plans, leading discussions, ensuring everyone had a chance to be heard – these things were bread and butter to me. The only difference was not all the conversations would be about history. Though some would. It occurred to me we could use one week to talk about local history. I might learn something too …
I’d already decided I’d run classes on Tuesday evenings and Friday mornings. The latter probably for retired people, the former gave those with jobs a chance to attend. Pascal nodded, jotting down the details, and we agreed a start date of two weeks’ time.
‘Where will the classes be?’ he asked. I realised I had not arranged a venue. The château was too far out of the village. I needed somewhere central. ‘You could use the salle des fetes,’ he suggested, consulting a diary. ‘Yes, it is free at that time. How much will you charge?’
‘Oh! I don’t want to be paid,’ I said. ‘Or only enough to cover the cost of the hall.’
‘The hall will be free for you if you are not charging your students,’ he said, smiling. ‘This way the whole village benefits.’
‘Parfait,’ I said. Already I was looking forward to holding my first class.
‘I will see you at your first lesson, then!’ Pascal smiled and shook my hand.
I collected Felix, bought a few items in the patisserie (it was always hard to pass it by without going in) and headed back to the château with my news.
Chapter 22
Catherine, 1792–93
As summer progressed into autumn, and autumn into winter, Catherine gradually regained her strength, though she felt as though she would never be completely whole again. But little Michel brought her much joy. He looked just like his father – Pierre. Catherine remembered with a shudder the time when she had briefly contemplated starting an affair with Jacques Valet. Thank God she hadn’t. She had not seen the man for many months, and nor did she want to. It had been a difficult time – little Louis’s death then Pierre’s illness had put her under a lot of stress. Jacques’ attentions had provided an escape from her worries. That was the only explanation she could give herself.
As Claudette had suggested long before he was born, Catherine had taken on more of this baby’s care herself. She spent hours each day cradling him, letting him sleep on her lap as she dozed in an armchair. She had still hired a wet-nurse – it wasn’t healthy for a baby to be fed by its own mother, she felt – but she occasionally even bathed and dressed the child, enjoying his giggles as she tickled him, laughing at his gurgles and marvelling at the perfection of his tiny fingers and toes and that perfect little curl of hair on the top of his head. Why hadn’t she spent more time with little Louis, she wondered, with regret. She’d been so convinced that she’d been doing everything right then, but now she realised that there were other ways to raise a child, ways which were so much more rewarding. Perhaps the lower classes had it right all along.
Michel thrived, and Claudette proved herself to be once more a fine nursemaid, although this time the child’s care was shared between them much more than before. Claudette seemed to approve of this, though why Catherine cared what she thought, she couldn’t say. But the household was a happy one on the surface at least, although news from Paris, reported to Pierre by letters from friends, continued to be worrying.
‘I should go to Paris,’ he said, one evening as they sat beside the fire, Catherine dandling little Michel in her lap. ‘I should see for myself what is happening.’
‘No!’ Catherine was aghast. ‘You keep telling me it is not safe, that we are not safe even here. Why would you want to go to Paris? Think of your health!’
‘I need first-hand information, to decide what is best for us to do.’
Catherine was terrified the long journey to Paris might be too stressful for him, and bring on another heart attack. Without Pierre she would be so vulnerable. At Versailles, a young widow had always been able to find another husband or lover as a protector, but here there was nobody. ‘Please, Pierre my love, do not go. Do not leave me. I would be terrified to be here on my own. Besides …’ She looked sideways at him. Perhaps this was the right time to tell him her news. She’d kept it quiet for a few months. ‘I am once again with child. I am scared, after Michel’s birth. I want you to stay here with me.’
He fell to his knees at her feet and wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘Oh, my darling. Of course I will stay, then. If you need me, I am here.’
At Christmas, when the first snow had fallen and there was no chance of Pierre going anywhere, there came two pieces of unwelcome and unsettling news. One a local event, and one national.
Pierre had ridden down the valley through the snow to collect his mail. He returned ashen-faced, having opened and read it in a café on the way home. Catherine was in the drawing room, embroidering clothes for her new baby which she was sure would be a girl, when he flung open the door and strode in, slamming the door closed behind him.
‘What is it?’ she said, putting her work down, and patting the seat beside her for him to sit.
‘The King is on trial.’
Five words. That was all he could say, before he stood again, pacing the room, and finally with shaking hands picked up a bottle of brandy and a glass and poured himself a large measure.
‘On trial? But, for what?’ Catherine knew that the King had been arrested in the summer, but Pierre had told her that was all for show, and they would not actually put him on trial.
‘For many things, which he has denied. But chiefly for conspiring with foreign armies to start a counter-revolution. His exiled brothers were raising troops, ready to march on Paris and reinstate the monarchy.’
‘Is this true?’ Catherine felt a flutter of hope. Of course, if one of Louis’s brothers was able to fight, and restore things to how they were, there was hope yet … Though as time went on she was beginning to understand that things could never go back to how they were. This revolution was like a boulder rolling down a hillside. It could not be stopped or reversed.
Pierre nodded. ‘I believe it is, yes. Louis – Citizen Capet as they are calling him now – denies it, but there is no denying that when he made that ridiculous escape attempt, he had amassed troops at that time ready to march to Paris. It does not look good for him, Catherine. My informer wrote this letter before the defence had been heard, but …’
‘What? Tell me!’
‘There are suggestions that if found guilty he will be … executed. By guillotine.’
Catherine clapped a hand to her mouth. She felt sick. How could the State kill the King? In the old days, he was beholden only to God. How could a court of mere men find him guilty? It was all wrong. ‘But surely he will not be found guilty? If he denies the charges, then they must believe him! He is the King! He is our ruler!’
‘Was our ruler, my dear. Not any longer. He is just an ordinary citizen now, they say. As is the Queen, and her children.’
At the mention of Marie Antoinette, Catherine could hold back tears no longer. The dear Queen – how was she coping with having her husband on trial? What would she do if he was found guilty … if he was executed? It did not bear thinking about. For a moment Catherine wished she had never left Versailles. Perhaps she could have supported the Queen through these difficult times. But at what cost? Their own safety, probably.
‘There’s more bad news, I am afraid,’ Pierre said. His voice was softer now, and he sat down beside Catherine and took her hand. She steeled herself to hear it.
‘The Queen?’ she whispered.
Pierre shook his head. ‘She is safe inside the Tuileries for the moment. They will not harm her. There are no charges that can be brought against her. No, my dear. The other bad news is closer to home.’
She looked at him questioningly.
‘It is about Père Debroux. He has been arrested. We have no priest now, not one that has not sworn the oath, at least.’
‘What will happen to him?’
&
nbsp; ‘He will remain locked up, I believe, until or unless he agrees to take the oath of allegiance. There are many priests imprisoned now, across France.’
Catherine closed her eyes for a moment, in silent prayer for the priest. That he would not suffer while incarcerated. That he would find strength in his faith. ‘And what of us? How should we worship?’
‘We either no longer take Mass, or we attend church in the village along with everyone else.’
‘With the new priest who has sworn the oath? Who supports the Revolution?’ It went against everything they believed in.
‘We have no other choice. And I fear that we will be looked upon badly if we do not go to church. Those who support the non-juror priests are deemed to have committed crimes themselves.’
‘But that’s us! We have supported Père Debroux!’ Catherine stared at him in horror. Was he saying that they themselves were now criminals, for feeding and housing a priest?
Pierre rubbed a hand across his forehead and nodded. ‘So we should go to church, with this new constitutional priest, and make it look as though we now accept the Constitution, and all the changes, ourselves. If we do not, I fear that we may find ourselves in danger. We need the local people to love us, to accept us as their own.’
‘But they do, don’t they?’
‘I’m not sure they all do. We must take steps to address this. On Sunday we will walk to the village and attend Mass there.’
There was no arguing with him. He had made up his mind, and she must do as he bid. It would be the right thing to do. Pierre was always right about these things.
Even so, when Sunday morning came around it was with trepidation that Catherine donned her boots and her warmest cloak, and set off for the walk through the snow to the village, across its little central square, and into the church. She had not set foot in it since Père Debroux had been forbidden to lead public worship. She had not even set foot in the village since those days, either, other than a few visits to little Louis’s grave. As they entered and walked to the front of the church to take their places in the front pews, as was their right as the local nobility, all heads turned in their direction. She spotted Jacques Valet leaning against a wall, and felt herself colouring as he stared insolently at her. Catherine steeled herself to keep her gaze forward and her head high. They had done nothing wrong. They were guilty of nothing, save the accident of their noble birth. But still, she thought she heard mutterings from the people, mumbles of ‘shame’ and ‘get rid of them’ and ‘traitors to France’. As she slid into a pew beside Pierre she whispered to him.
‘They cannot really think we are traitors to France, can they?’
‘Ssh. We will talk about this later. It is not safe to do so here.’
It was the longest church service she had ever sat through. The priest’s sermon seemed more of a political speech, including many references to the new order, loyalty to the State and the Christian duty of showing brotherhood to one’s neighbours. He was a tall thin man, with a piercing gaze, that he turned frequently in their direction as he spoke about the desire for liberty and equality for all men. Catherine thought hard about his words. Liberty for all she agreed with. No man or woman should be a slave. Only criminals should be denied their freedom. Brotherhood – well yes. Hard to argue against helping out one’s fellow humans who were in need. She and Pierre always did that, did they not? They had certainly stuck their necks out to help Père Debroux.
But equality? These peasants, these uneducated, illiterate farmers and shepherds, they were not the equal of herself and Pierre, surely? To be truly equal, everyone would have to have the same level of schooling, to own the same things, have standard, equal housing. Equality meant the end of the nobility, as well as the end of the monarchy. If all men had the same things, there would be no incentive for anyone to work harder to better themselves. No, Catherine thought, as the new priest droned on, equality would not work in practice. There would always be a need for a hierarchy. One where she and Pierre were at the top, as was their right. Their God-given right; at least it had been, under the ancien régime.
Christmas was a subdued affair. Catherine dared not attend church again, using her delicate condition as an excuse to stay at home, but Pierre went every Sunday and made a point of speaking to the local people at every opportunity, treating them, he reported back to Catherine, as though they were indeed equals. ‘As though,’ he said, ‘I am a bourgeois merchant, rather than as though they are nobility, of course. They do not know the etiquette we used to adhere to at Court. They have not the knowledge of how to behave in polite society, so to be equal I must reduce myself to their level, rather than expect them to raise themselves up. And I believe it is working. They smile at me. They are friendly. We chat of this and that, and I believe they like me and also still have respect for me. Even the fellow Jacques Valet nodded respectfully at me.’ Catherine suppressed a shudder at the mention of that man. How could she ever have found him attractive?
January was long and cold, and Catherine felt isolated, confined to the château by the snow, her pregnancy, and her fear of the local people. At the end of January came news from Paris, reaching Pierre by letter just a day before it reached the villagers. He told Catherine in his study, in private, making sure no servants could overhear them.
‘The King has been found guilty and condemned to execution.’ He did not look her in the eye as he told her. Catherine was stunned at the news. Despite Louis’s trial she had not believed he would be found guilty, and even if he was, she’d been so sure that it would just mean he was kept locked in the Tuileries for a few more years or perhaps sent into exile, until the country came to its senses at last.
‘They won’t actually do it, will they?’ she whispered.
Pierre’s mouth was set in a tight line. ‘They will.’ And then he strode out of the room, leaving her alone to try to take in the news.
Less than a week later another letter arrived, confirming that the King’s execution had taken place in the Place de la Révolution in Paris, by guillotine. Catherine took to her bed and wept for a week, for the quiet, gentle man she remembered from her days in Versailles. He had not deserved this. He was guilty of nothing, beyond trying to govern the country as best he could, following in the footsteps of his grandfather Louis XV and all his forebears. It was not fair. Damn this revolution! Her heart went out to Marie Antoinette, imprisoned in the Tuileries with her children, now widowed. If only that escape attempt had worked! If only they had been able to get themselves into exile, raise an army and quash the Revolution. But now she increasingly wondered if it could ever have worked. They might have fought back for a while but in the end the revolutionaries had the support of the masses and were bound to win. She realised that the King’s only chance had been to work with the Revolution, not against it.
‘Sometimes things just don’t work out the way we want,’ Pierre had said, sadly, when she had voiced her frustration to him. He looked older, she thought. His hair was grey and thinning, and there were lines on his face – a deep furrow between his eyes – that had not been there back in their days in Versailles.
As the snow melted and the spring flowers blossomed on the hillsides, Catherine’s pregnancy came to term. She was attended by the same midwife as before, but no doctor. She gave birth to a daughter, and this time her labour was uneventful and thankfully quick, taking just three hours from her first pains.
‘We shall name her Marie,’ she said to Pierre, but he shook his head.
‘No. We must not mark ourselves out as royalists. I have been pretending we have no sympathy for the plight of the Queen, when speaking to the local people. We cannot name our daughter after her.’
He was right, she knew it. In the end he suggested they call the infant Jeanne. A fine, Christian name, recalling a heroic woman who fought for her faith. Perfect for this new France they found themselves living in. Catherine remembered another Jeanne – Jeanne de la Motte – the woman whose actions in the affair of t
he diamond necklace had helped turn the people against Marie Antoinette. But she smiled and nodded and agreed on the name for their infant.
Claudette was delighted with the new addition to the family. ‘I love little girls,’ she said. ‘And Michel is so happy to have a sister.’ Even Madame Bernard smiled as she gazed on the baby for the first time and nodded her approval.
The year wore on, the news about the Revolution became more and more worrying, but Catherine felt safe in her château, with the small number of servants who had stayed – Madame Bernard, Henri, Claudette, the cook, a couple of other maids, and two lads who worked in the stables and the kitchen garden.
France seemed to be at war with everyone – against the British and the Dutch now, while the war against Austria rumbled on.
In the summer, as Jeanne learned to smile and suck her toes and Michel was running everywhere, babbling and beginning to learn a few words, Pierre’s correspondents and the few newspapers from Paris they were able to obtain, began mentioning a man called Robespierre. France, one letter said, had been on the verge of falling apart, the Revolution failing. But Robespierre, a member of the Committee of Public Safety, had mounted a campaign against all enemies of the Revolution, and in late summer, declared that a Reign of Terror had begun, and all those guilty of conspiring against the Revolution would be hunted down and executed. Even many who had been members of the original National Assembly and part of the Revolution of 1789 were now deemed enemies, and had to flee for their lives.
‘Paris is emptying,’ Pierre told Catherine. ‘I am glad we are here, so far from it all.’
‘And are we safe here?’ she asked, for the thousandth time since their flight from Versailles.
Pierre nodded, but with less conviction than usual, she thought. He’d been a member of the aristocracy, a member of Louis XVI’s government, and these were now crimes, it seemed. Along with harbouring a non-conformist priest. But he was far from it all, and in this remote, difficult-to-reach spot, surely he would not be found? Catherine bit her lip. She could only pray she was right.
The Secret of the Chateau Page 21
