by Frank Yerby
“A bientôt, Pierre,” Jean said, and gripped his outstretched hand. Then he turned his horse in the direction of the Tuileries, while Pierre rode back towards Saint-Antoine. And it came to Jean Paul then that unaccountably, by these few simple words, his whole day had been ruined.
He dressed with unusual care that night, conscious that the new clothes he had bought for his meeting with the Queen were very fine. They were almost a la mode muscadine, but Jean was too conservative by nature to descend to that ridiculous level of foppery. The new elegants of Paris were called muscadins because of their habit of carrying handkerchiefs perfumed with that scent; and everything about their dress was carried to the same extremes.
Yet, Jean mused, as he dressed himself, many of their innovations are really smart. The cut’s good; ‘tis in the colours that they go awry.
His own frock-coat avoided this danger: it was fawn-coloured instead of crimson or pale blue, as a true muscadin would have had it. Though it was cut in the claw-hammer style they had introduced, it did not descend half-way below the knee the way the elegants liked theirs, but was sensibly knee-length in the back. The velvet collar was dark brown, above the three little redingotes, or short capes. Jean had seen purple, green, or scarlet collars shrieking their contrasts to other violent colours in the dress of the more fashionable of his contemporaries.
But he had to admit that he had gone a little to the extreme in the method of fastening the coat. The great, brown cloth buttons did not pass through buttonholes worked directly in the other side of the coat, but instead through straps of chamois sewed alternately to each side, so that the top buttoned on the left, the middle on the right, and so on. His skin-tight breeches were pale grey, tied below the knee with dark brown ribbons; and his dark tan jockey boots, turned down so that their fawn-coloured inside showed, had been imported from England at the cost of a young fortune.
He gazed apprehensively at his scarred face in the mirror; hut below his hair, carefully clubbed into a Cadogan and powdered with a soft, mouse-grey powder, the face was not at all too bad. Lace spilled out over his hands at the wrist, and the stock wound around his throat was snowy. He had contented himself with only one watch, and absolutely no scent at all.
Sighing, he picked up his brown felt hat, of the very newest mode, newer even than the bicorne, which had replaced the tri-cornered aristocratic hat at the beginning of the Revolution. It had a round brim, entirely flat, and a tall, almost conical crown, which was cut off flat at the top. Jean spent some minutes adjusting the hat to the proper angle half-way between jauntiness and too stiff conservatism; but the results at the end pleased him.
He regretted that Lucienne was dancing, and was not home to see him. He had, he felt, achieved the minor miracle of being every inch the man of fashion without descending one iota into foppery. He picked up his gloves and a short swagger-stick, which, cunningly weighted with lead, was the only weapon he dared take with him.
He mounted and rode out of Paris, going towards the house of Mirabeau’s friend Clavière. He, Renoir Gerade, and Mirabeau had often met in that house to discuss their so far quite futile plans; but he had no intention of ever reaching that house.
There was need for haste now. Strange how the hand of God Himself seemed so often to intervene in the affairs of men! Mirabeau, the lion—scarce two and forty years—was visibly fading before their eyes. Since Christmas-time he had been sick, but knowing his giant strength none of his friends had been much troubled by it. But the earth-shaker had not got better.
He’s dying, Jean Paul thought, and the truth of the idea startled him. Mirabeau—dying! Impossible—but true. He spoke seldom now, and in a voice that was but a hollow echo of his former lion’s roar. He dragged himself to the Salle à Manège; once, a week ago, he would have fallen had not eager hands supported him.
He seems a little better now, Jean mused; but I must prevail upon the Queen to see him. Everything depends upon that. Only Mirabeau can persuade her.
She will not ask the King to cross the border, they say now. But she is for Metz; dear God! can’t she see that in the eyes of Cordelier and Jacobin that is merely the same thing. A few short leagues from the army of Bouille in Austria—she might as well have Louis attempt the whole thing and cross over. What difference to Republicans if she is in Austria, or if she is two hours’ march away from the aid of counter-revolutionary armies? The Midi, oh my Queen—then no one can hold you disloyal to France!
He rode searching for the cross-road. It wouldn’t be easy to find in the darkness. But neither a light nor an escort would have been feasible. They could ill afford to attract attention now.
I wonder, he thought, how Renoir fares in Austria? A man of parts, that Renoir! Strange that not even Mirabeau knew he spoke German like a native, thanks to fifteen years spent in Alsace with his uncle’s family, who were of that stiff-necked race. Useful man, Renoir Gerade—of enormous tact and discretion. He has, I think, absolutely no need to confide in anyone, being himself entirely self-sufficient. I envy him that. I have lived so much in solitude that I have grown to have a horror of it; I need human society—love; Renoir has little need of anyone—I doubt that he confides in God in solitary prayer!
His hands tightened on the reins. It seemed to him that the beat of hoofs on the road had doubled. He drew his mount to a stop. Yes, there it was again. Another rider coming towards him in the darkness, where there should have been no other rider, and he almost entirely unarmed, lacking for the first time in years the comforting weight of pistols in his pockets.
He gripped his weighted swagger-stick hard. If the other came close enough . . .
The other rider came on, broke around a curve ahead at a brisk canter. In the moonlight Jean could see the white oval of his face. The other drew up his horse scant yards from Jean Paul.
“M’sieur Marin?” he murmured.
“Yes,” Jean growled.
“I am the Duc d’Aremberg,” the man said without offering him his hand; “I am here to conduct you to the Queen.”
Jean nodded. “Lead on,” he said.
The young noble whirled his horse smartly about. Jean clapped spurs to his own mount and drew abreast. He was aware that his silent companion was studying his face in the moonlight, and clearly as upon a printed page he could read the Duc’s thoughts:
Dear God, to what pass has the world come when a villainous blackguard with a face like this can have an audience with the Queen!
Jean smiled. The thought amused him.
“Do you,” he asked, “know aught of the Comte de Gravereau? Is he still in Austria?”
The Duc d’Aremberg regarded him with grave eyes.
“Why?” he said.
“He,” Jean said, “is my brother-in-law. Or at least he was—up to my sister’s tragic death.”
“You jest,” d’Aremberg said shortly.
“No,” Jean smiled; “we Marins have a strange affinity for the noblesse. Simone de Beauvieux is my sister-in-law.”
He wasn’t boasting, and d’Aremberg knew it. He was simply putting the young noble’s thoughts in order. The danger existed that the young man might lead him astray, prevent, in fact, his seeing the Queen. That had to be avoided. He had at all costs to remove the influence of his monstrous face.
“Ah!” d’Aremberg said, and his tone was warmer, “those Marins! Sound people, your family; I understand you have suffered quite as much as we nobles. You lost your château, too, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Jean said grimly, “and my sister lost her life at the hands of the peasantry of Provence.”
“Murderous beasts!” d’Aremberg spat. “My sympathies, M. Marin!”
“Thank you,” Jean said. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Yes,” d’Aremberg replied, “Gervais is in Austria, where he has been performing notable services on behalf of Their Majesties. Brave man, de Gravereau—and clever. ‘Tis said he keeps the Emperor precisely informed of all events inside France. How
he does it, no one knows; but my cousins there write that he often anticipates what action the National Assembly is going to take.”
“Very clever,” Jean said.
“Indeed it is. I realise now your reason for identifying yourself more precisely. You’ll forgive me saying so, M. Marin, but, as man to man, your face was scarcely calculated to inspire confidence. How came you by so formidable a wound?”
“An accident,” Jean said smoothly. “I was lucky it was no worse. An inch or two in either direction and I would have lost my sight. However, it has its advantages. On more than one occasion I have been able to out-face the mob by merely frowning at them. If I could only manage to act as villainously as I look, I might one day become master of France!”
“You have a sense of humour,” d’Aremberg laughed. “Had such a thing happened to me, I fear I should have grown quite morose.”
“No point in that,” Jean said.
He had, he found, as the guard opened the gate to the back entrance to Saint Cloud, gained his objective. D’Aremberg was at ease now; he would, he was certain, see the Queen.
But that event happened so quickly as to take him entirely by surprise. Two minutes after they had dismounted, d’Aremberg led him into her presence. She was seated on a bench at the top of a knoll. She was wrapped in furs against the cold, but she took her hand quickly from her enormous muff and offered it to him.
Jean bowed deeply and kissed it, confusion stopping his voice. He was aware first of all that here was a rarely beautiful woman, still young, scarcely in her middle thirties; and secondly, that she was as regal as she was lovely.
He saw that her hair was not powdered, but naturally almost white, grown so from care, from sorrow; her first-born dead at a tender age, the same people who knelt before her in the streets, who raised statues of snow and ice in her honour because of her gifts to them of fuel and food during the terrible winter of ‘88, spitting at her now in the streets, cursing her, calling her l’Autrichienne! the Austrian, that foreign woman, holding her the cause of all the evils that had beset France.
But he saw, too, that all her misfortunes had stiffened her resolution. Her face was perfectly calm; her blue eyes, after one quick dilation at the sight of his scarred face, became instantly serene again, and remained so.
Whatever her faults, Jean thought quickly, this one is truly a Queen!
“Your most obedient servant, Madame,” he murmured.
“Are you?” Marie Antoinette said crisply; “I doubt that, M. Marin. My most obedient servants don’t sit in so-called National Assemblies and plot against the good of France!”
Jean took a half-step backward; but the Duc d’Aremberg came instantly to his aid.
“You must confound M. Marin with some of the others, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly. “He is related by marriage to two of our noblest houses: de Gravereau, and de Beauvieux. Additionally, he has suffered tragic losses at the hands of the people, equal, in fact to those of any noble. His château near Marseilles was burned; and his own sister perished.”
The Queen’s gaze softened.
“My condolences, M. Marin,” she said. “Yet I find it most strange that you can sit among those directly responsible for your sister’s murder. Perhaps you can explain this thing to me.”
Jean smiled; he had recovered his poise now.
“Your Majesty, with your permission, I can only reply to that with another question. Is not the royal carriage equipped with brakes?”
“Yes—but I don’t follow you, M. Marin. What have brakes and carriages to do with this?”
“I, Your Majesty, and men like me—are the brakes of the nation. Without us, France would run pell-mell downhill into anarchy. And we can only function within the Assembly. That is why I am here: to beg Your Majesty to desist from your very natural and understandable resentment and make use of us!”
“I see,” the Queen murmured; “a pretty simile, eh, d’Aremberg?”
“Indeed it is, my Queen!” the Duc smiled.
Jean pressed his advantage.
“Your Majesty spoke of our plotting against the good of France. It is my mission, and my most earnest desire, to convince you that the contrary is our intent. At the risk of offending His Grace, the Duc, I must point out to you, Madame, that it was the noblesse who were the worst enemies of the crown. Hear me out, my Queen! Not intentionally, not with malice—but from folly, and extravagance, they brought France to this pass. The people were not led into revolt, Your Majesty—they were driven! At the moment, they are like horses who have broken their bridles, racing like mad towards anarchy, towards total destruction of all that we—my friends and I, as well as you and the noblesse, my Queen—hold dear.”
“You are eloquent,” Marie Antoinette said.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jean smiled. “I want Your Majesty to see that you must make use of us. Since the fall of the Bastille the nobles have increasingly fled France; lately even men of good-will and conservative temper have been so badgered, so threatened, that there is no longer in the National Assembly any Right—any good, honest conservatives; a small sprinkling of moderates alone hold out against the raging herd.
“The crown must have friends in the Assembly; I cannot emphasise that too strongly. And, unfortunately, the friends Your Majesty does have she has been constrained to reject. . . .”
“You mean, of course,” the Queen said stiffly, “de Lafayette, and Mirabeau.”
“Yes. You consider them both traitors because they turned against their class. But, my Queen, a hundred thousand nobles are not France! There is a higher loyalty—the loyalty to the nation—to Your Majesty’s twenty-four million subjects. Your Majesty must know that there is a movement afoot to dispense with the crown entirely and form a republic; Mirabeau, whom you scorn, my Queen, has checked that movement almost singlehanded, with a little help from a few moderates like myself. Consider, Your Majesty, the force of character of a man who, openly rejected by the crown he wants to aid, yet continues to aid that crown, despite rejection and scorn.”
“You want me to see the Comte de Mirabeau, don’t you?” the Queen said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jean murmured; “that’s why I’m here.”
The Queen frowned thoughtfully. Then, very slowly, she smiled.
“Very well, M. Marin,” she said gently, “tell the old ogre I’ll see him.”
She stood up, and Jean knew the interview was at an end. He bowed once more and kissed her hand, then backed away towards the gate.
“You may turn round and walk normally,” the Queen said; “it is too dark for that sort of courtesy. But I thank you for it, M. Marin—so few people today bother to observe even the slightest forms of court etiquette. I have lost something, I think, from having had so few contacts with my better bourgeois families. Your manners and bearing, M. Marin, would do credit to a Duc. Am I right, d’Aremberg?”
“You are entirely correct, my Queen,” the Due said.
“My thanks for your patience, Your Majesty; and to you, my lord, for your gracious aid. Adieu, then—your servitor, Madame!”
It came to Jean Paul as he rode away from Saint Cloud that he had not observed the slightest detail of her dress, in order to satisfy Lucienne’s hungry curiosity.
Oh, well, he thought, I can tell her enough. . . .
It was finished, finally, and the destiny of the whole French nation was changed—was lost, by the intervention of Destiny into the affairs of men. True to her promise, the Queen saw Mirabeau, though the meeting was much delayed by a recurrence of the old lion’s illness.
“She was,” Mirabeau told Jean in a fading rumble, “charmed by me—now, now we’ll accomplish it! We can save France. . . .”
But on April 4th, 1791, Gabriel Honoré Riquetti, Comte de Mirabeau, Deputy to the National Assembly, confounded all the world, and all the possible plans of royalty, by the simple act of dying.
Jean was with him at the end, and wept; for Mirabeau’s death was as thunderous, a
s Olympian, as his life. The noble lion of the Third Estate despaired utterly; and only he could save the crown. He knew it, Jean Paul Marin knew it, all the world knew it. Handsome, vain Generalissimo de Lafayette was not the man for the work. Brave enough, generous enough—but too wanting in depth, in true intelligence. This was Mirabeau’s judgment, and Jean Paul could only agree with him.
Yet in his lucid intervals Mirabeau charged his little group to carry on; despairing himself, he would not let them despair. A letter was dispatched to Austria, commanding Renoir Gerade to return. But, because of the circuitous route by which it had to be sent, and the precautions taken to prevent its falling into the wrong hands, Jean knew it would be some months before his old friend could return to France.
In those months life went on as before: one tumult after another. It is strange, Jean Paul reflected, that the ennui born of constant excitements becomes as boring as any other. We yawn at bloodshed now; shots and screams at midnight no longer awaken us.
“Nothing could awaken you, Jeannot,” Lucienne laughed when he told her this, “not even I. What has happened to you, my poor darling? Have you suddenly grown old?”
“No,” Jean smiled; “just tired with the kind of fatigue I could never support. ‘Tis of the heart, the spirit. When Mirabeau died I lost hope, and this feeling descended upon me. I know my body is not tired, but my head and the thoughts inside it weigh tons.”
“You—you’re afraid about the Queen, aren’t you?” Lucienne said.
“Yes. She doesn’t see any of us now—no one in our group. We fear that she’s listening to other counsellors, who will work her ill. There’s something afoot, too—we know that. Comings and goings—mysterious men admitted to the royal chambers only by tickets. . . . A new yellow coach being tested in the streets. . . . Name of God! Do they mean finally to flee? They should have gone months ago, before Mirabeau died. And this magnificent yellow coach—surely they cannot be as stupid as that!”
