So I continued to make excuses that it was difficult travelling with a child and they came to us.
Chariot was two—old enough to be left to the care of his excellent nurse and I was to make the journey to Aubigné because my mother had sprained her ankle and was unable to make the proposed spring visit to Tourville.
‘She longs to see you,’ wrote my father. ‘Do try to come. I know little Chariot is too young to travel, but if you could spare us a week or so it would so please your mother.’
I decided that my desire to stay away from Aubigné must be conquered. I still thought of Sophie on the night before I had left, standing at the foot of my bed, so tragic in the wedding-dress she believed should have been hers, with the veil falling away from her poor scarred face. Surely over the years she had come to terms with her fate; surely common sense must tell her that I was not to blame for what had happened to her. Although I had looked, I had never found the artificial flower which had caused her such distress, and presumed it had been mislaid when the maid was packing for me at some time.
I arrived at Aubigné in the early afternoon. My parents were waiting for me and I laughingly protested to my father that he would suffocate me in his embrace. My mother looked on with that expression of pleased content which she always wore when my father and I were together.
I was showered with questions. How was I? How was Chariot? Had I had a good journey? How long could I stay?
‘Soon Chariot will be old enough to travel,’ said my mother. ‘We thought you would like your old room. We haven’t used it since you went. I don’t like the thought of anyone else in it. Silly of me. But there are so many rooms in the castle.’
She was babbling on in her excitement and I felt happy to be with them.
But I was not so happy to be in that room of memories. I hoped I should not dream of a ghostly scarred figure coming into my room.
We dined alone.
‘Armand will be back tomorrow,’ said my father. ‘He is at Court. There is a great deal of trouble brewing. Last year’s harvest is the cause of it. You remember how severe the weather was. It has been difficult to keep down the price of grain. The King is most disturbed. He really does seem to care. A change from his grandfather … that wicked old reprobate.’
It was a year since Louis XV had died and young Louis with his wife Marie Antoinette had, so we had heard, been overcome with emotion when they had been called upon to rule. Louis had been nineteen and his Queen eighteen and it was known that they had knelt and prayed: ‘Oh God, guide us and protect us. We are too young to rule.’ And the whole nation had been moved by the plight of these two young people, but heartened by their realization of their duties and determination to carry them out, which was in such contrast to the old King. It had seemed that a new era was coming to France, so it was unfortunate that right at the start of the new reign there should have been such a hard winter producing a bad harvest.
‘Young Louis did well in putting Turgot at the head of finances,’ said my father who seemed unable to keep his thoughts from politics. ‘He is a good, sincere man who is eager to do his best for his country. But it is not going to be easy to keep down the price of corn and if the cost of bread goes up, which seems inevitable, that is going to make the people restive.’
‘Oh dear,’ I sighed. ‘There are always these troubles. I want to hear about Aubigné. Sophie … ?’
There was a brief silence.
Then my mother said: ‘She keeps to her turret. I do wish she would be with us more. She is becoming a hermit. Jeanne chooses which servants are to go in and clean. She really is rather autocratic. But what can we do? We have to bow to her. She really is so necessary to Sophie.’
‘I hope I shall be able to see Sophie while I am here.’
‘She refuses to see people. It is very sad to think of her up there … her life slipping away.’
‘Is it possible for anything to be done for her?’
‘There are lotions and creams. Jeanne is always going out to the markets and bringing things back. How effective they are I cannot say. Not very, I should think, for Sophie stays up there and it is really only Jeanne who has any communication with her.’
‘It would be better if she went into a convent,’ said my father.
‘Is she likely to?’
‘No, Marie Louise is more likely to do that.’
‘Marie Louise is a very good girl,’ said my mother.
‘Too good for this world,’ answered my father shortly.
My mother lifted her shoulders. ‘She should never have married,’ she said. ‘She cannot bear children. I think they have given up the attempt.’
‘One can’t blame Armand,’ went on my father. It was clear that he had no great love for his daughter-in-law. ‘She is so pious. The chapel is always in use. Once a day used to be enough. Now she spends most of her time there. Her servants have to attend with her. It is most depressing. At this moment she is staying the night at the Convent de la Forêt Verte. You know it. It is only three miles from the château. She is endowing it with a new altar. Lottie, this place has changed since you left us.’
‘Your father longs for the days when you were here, Lottie,’ said my mother. ‘Then Sophie behaved more normally. She was always quiet, and then there was that other girl … ’
‘Lisette,’ I cried. ‘I often think of her. I wrote to her but she never answered. How is Tante Berthe?’
‘The same as ever.’
‘I do want a word with her before I go. I should really love to see Lisette again.’
‘She was a very pretty girl,’ said my mother.
‘And still is, I don’t doubt,’ I replied. ‘It would be so interesting to see her again. I shall certainly beard Tante Berthe in her den. She is still in the same quarters, I suppose.’
‘Just the same. She is very proud of them and no one is allowed to go in without an invitation.’
‘What a martinet she always was!’
‘But an excellent manager,’ said my father. ‘We have never regretted her coming.’
‘I am surprised that she allowed Lisette to escape. She used to watch over her so carefully. Lisette used to be really scared of her … the only person she ever was scared of.’
Then we talked of other matters but I went on thinking of Lisette and the fun we used to have together. That was inevitable now that I was at the château.
The next day Marie Louise came back from the convent. She was far from good-looking and despised those little aids to beauty which most women seemed to use nowadays. She wore her hair very simply tied back. None of those Marie Antoinette styles for her. Her gown was dark grey and decidedly drab. When I expressed my pleasure at seeing her and said that I hoped we should be together sometime, she told me she sewed for the poor every afternoon and if I would care to join her she would find some work for me to do and she could tell me about the altar she was going to build for the Forêt Verte.
I did not find the prospect very exciting and as needlework had never appealed to me, I allowed the invitation to lapse.
It was pleasant to see Armand. His unsatisfactory marriage did not appear to have changed him at all. He was of a placid nature and apparently took what came to him in a philosophical way. I was sure he had a pleasant mistress somewhere—several perhaps—and he was quite content to leave matters as they were.
The Comte, however, was less ready to accept the state of affairs. My mother told me how disturbed he was by Armand’s sterile marriage.
‘There is the family line … the estates and everything. Your father is worried about that. However, he is delighted with little Charlot.’
Then we talked of my son and she wanted to know what he had done and said, for he could chatter away quite intelligently now, which we both declared was miraculous; and we spent a great deal of time talking of him.
I did see Tante Berthe in her rooms when I was granted an interview. I thought how I should have laughed with Lisette afterwards, if onl
y she had been there to laugh with me.
Tante Berthe in black bombazine, very plain but most elegantly cut and very severe, was a most dignified lady. She made tea for me, which showed how conscious she was of the ways of society, for tea-drinking was becoming quite a fashion in France. It was called Le Thé anglais. In fact, my father had told me, it was now the mode to look English. The Parisian shops were full of cloth from England and long coats with triple capes were being worn with stock hats. The shop windows displayed signs: ‘English spoken here.’ Lemonade-sellers were now offering le punch, which was said to be exactly as drunk in England.
I expressed my surprise to my father, for there had never been great friendship between our countries.
‘It is not a matter of friendship,’ said my father. ‘Most Frenchmen hate the English now as much as they did after Crecy and Agincourt. It is simply a fashion to turn people’s minds away from the trials of the country.’
In any case Tante Berthe had her tea.
‘Just as the English drink it,’ she said. ‘You would know, being partly one of them.’
I declared it was delicious and she asked how I was getting on and how the baby was.
I answered these questions but very quickly came to the subject of Lisette.
‘I rarely hear from her,’ said Tante Berthe. ‘She is kept so busy.’
‘I should love to see her.’
That was greeted with silence.
‘Does she seem happy?’
‘She has a little one now.’
‘A little one? A baby?’
‘Yes. A little boy.’
‘Oh, I would love to see her. Do tell me how I can get into touch with her. I will ask her to come and visit us.’
‘I don’t think that would be wise, Mademoiselle Lottie.’
‘Not wise? But we were always such friends.’
‘Oh, she has her life now. It is not the life of the château but she is beginning to grow content.’
‘Please tell me where I can find her.’
‘She wouldn’t want that.’
‘I am sure she would want to see me as much as I want to see her’.’
‘It was hard for her to get accustomed to farm life after living as she did. It was above her station. She’s settling in now. Leave well alone. She is happy now. You must not remind her of the life she once had.’
‘It was strange that she should marry a farmer. She always used to say that she would marry into nobility.’
‘Real life is different from dreams and it is real life that has to be lived.’
I begged once more for knowledge of Lisette’s whereabouts but Tante Berthe was adamant and refused to tell me.
‘You have your life here; she has hers. She is happy now. Don’t try to spoil it and make her discontented again.’
‘What is the name of her little boy?’
‘I don’t think you should bother yourself with such matters. It is better not.’
‘I really cannot see what harm knowing a name can do.’
Tante Berthe sat back in her chair, her lips tight. Then she drained her dish of English tea and set it down so emphatically that I knew it was time for me to go.
I went riding with my father. I was gratified to see how he enjoyed being with me. There had been a strong rapport between us from the day of our first meeting but he treated me now with respect as well as affection and was so grateful to me for giving him a grandson.
He talked to me more seriously than he ever did to my mother. She was easily alarmed and I knew that she used to fret every time he was out of her sight. He told me that he was uneasy about the state of the country. Conditions had grown bad during the last reign. There was too much poverty in France; bread was too costly and in some places people were starving. Moreover the last King had lived in the utmost extravagance. ‘Think what it must have cost to maintain Le Parc aux Cerfs and purely for the purpose of satisfying the King’s jaded appetites. Madame du Barry lived in the utmost luxury. The King never stinted himself at all although he must have seen disaster coming. He hated the mob. That was why he rarely went to Paris and built the road from Versailles to Compiegne to bypass the capital. Such a state of affairs cannot last forever. There comes retribution. It is unjust that this should seem to be approaching now that we have a new king who appears to be ready to listen to reason.’
‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Of the people.’
‘But surely there are laws to keep order.’
‘Sometimes such order breaks down. I happen to know that at the Palace of Versailles the King is in long and anxious conferences with his ministers—chiefly Turgot. They both see the dangers and Turgot has set up ateliers de charité in Limoges where bread is distributed to the poor.’
‘It may be that next year there will be a good harvest. Wouldn’t that make everything all right?’
‘It would help.’
‘Then let us pray for a good winter.’
We rode on and came to the town. That there was something unusual going on was obvious from the moment we came into it. Little knots of people were standing about. They looked at us as we rode past in a way which I thought had a certain hostility in it.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ replied my father. ‘Keep close.’
We came into the market square. Someone had set up a platform and a man was standing on it. He was very tall with a lean cadaverous face, somewhat tanned by the weather. He had flashing eyes which were of a vivid shade of blue and he wore his hair unpowdered and cut short as some peasants wore it; his clothes were ragged and ill fitting yet he wore them with a certain distinction.
He was speaking in a deep voice which could be heard all over the square.
‘Citizens,’ he cried, ‘will you let them starve us? Will you stand aside and touch your caps when the gentry pass by? Will you say, “God bless you, my lord. ’Tis right and fitting you should sup from a laden table while I go hungry? This is the law. God put me where I am and you where you are. I am content to starve and see my children starve that you may eat to the full, my lord, and spend good money on fine clothes and drink and women. Oh yes, my masters, you are you and therefore the land of France belongs to you. We are here to serve you, to grovel for the few sous you throw at us. We are here to eat the filthy stuff you call bread—if we can get it … ”’
My father had turned white and I could see that he was growing very angry. I was very conscious of those sullen people surrounding us. I turned away, believing that if I went he would follow me.
‘Comrades,’ the man was saying, ‘are you going to stand aside? Are you going to let them treat you worse than cattle? Or are you going to stand up and fight for your rights? Stand up and fight, comrades. Fight for your bread. They are taking the grain along the river now. It is for the King’s granaries … for he must have plenty, must he not? It is only you, my friends, who must starve.’
‘Come away,’ I said quickly. ‘Come with me. I am going now.’
I knew it was the only way. I turned my horse and started to move through the crowd. I was relieved that my father was close behind me and that the people moved—albeit sullenly—to let us pass through.
We came to the edge of the town before I turned my head to look at my father.
‘That rogue,’ he said, ‘is inciting the people. He is trying to raise a riot.’
‘And by the look of some of them it seems that he might succeed.’
‘He was no peasant.’
‘No … I don’t think he was.’
‘He’s an agitator. There are many about. I should have liked to take him by the scruff of his neck and expose him.’
‘That was what I was afraid you were going to do so I moved off to prevent you.’
‘You were wise. They might have killed us. This confirms what has been in my mind for some time.’
‘What is that?’
He looked at me quickly. ‘Don’t tell
your mother. It would alarm her. But for some time I have believed that there were subversive forces at work. There are men in the world whose intentions are to overthrow monarchies everywhere and the Church with them. In other words they plan revolution. Where would such men seek to begin their campaign? In the weakest place, of course. France is weak. She has suffered years of inept rule; there has been little justice in the country; the monarchy has been selfishly indulgent; the people have become poorer; some of them are indeed close to starvation. You see, France is offering these men the very ground in which to sow their seeds of revolution.’
‘And you think that man … ’
‘He is one of many. Very soon … perhaps at this moment, those men who were listening to him will be roused to fury. God knows what they will do. They will raid the shops … steal the goods … and they will kill any who try to prevent them.’
‘How glad I am we escaped.’
‘Oh, Lottie, I see evil times ahead for France unless we stop this rot. We have a new King; a good minister in Turgot; there will be others. We have a chance if only the people will let us take it.’
We rode thoughtfully back to the château.
Before the day was out we knew that what we had seen in the town square was the beginning of trouble. Armand came in the late afternoon to tell us that a mob had attacked the boats which were laden with sacks of corn; they had ripped open the sacks and thrown the corn into the river.
My father was furious. ‘This is surely not the work of hungry men,’ he said. ‘I am becoming more and more convinced that this is an attempt at organized revolution.’
Armand wanted to go out and attack the rioters but his father restrained him.
‘There’ll be bloodshed if these people have their way,’ said the Comte. ‘The King and his ministers must deal with the matter.’
It was easier said than done, for that conflict which was to become La Guerre des Farines had started.
Riots broke out in several places simultaneously, which confirmed the fact that they were organized. Shop windows were broken, food stolen, and several people lost their lives.
My mother said I must stay with them until the country was quiet again but I was very worried as to what might be happening at Tourville and the thought of Chariot in danger terrified me. I wanted to leave at once but my father would not hear of it.
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