For a minute I didn’t even know what she meant.
“And I can tell you something else,” she said. “You’d better watch that boy with your husband as well. So they’re going to be married, are they? They’ll suit each other.”
Once we got admission tickets for the public gallery at the Riding School, but the debate was very dull. Georges says that any time now they will be discussing taking over the church’s lands for the nation, and that if she’d been present for that debate she’d have caused a commotion and got us thrown out. As it was, she called them villains and ingrates, and said no good would come of it. M. Robespierre saw us and came over for a few minutes, and was very kind. He pointed out the important people, including Mirabeau. Madame said, “That man will go straight to hell when he dies.”
M. Robespierre looked at me sideways and smiled and said to Madame, “You’re a young lady after my own heart.” This set her up for the day.
All summer the consequences of that business of Dr. Marat seemed to be hanging over us. We knew there was a warrant for Georges’s arrest, drawn up and ready, gathering dust in a drawer at City Hall. And I’d think, every morning, what if today is the day they decide to take it out and blow the dust off? We had plans—if he was arrested, I was to pack a bag and go at once to my mother, give the keys of the apartment to Fabre and leave everything else to him. I don’t know why Fabre—I suppose because he’s always around.
At this time Georges’s affairs were very complicated. He didn’t seem to spend much time in his own office. I suppose Jules Pare must be competent, because the money keeps coming in.
Early in the year something happened that Georges said showed the authorities were very frightened of him. They abolished our district, and all the others, and re-organized the city into voting areas. From now on there weren’t to be any public meetings of the citizens in a particular district unless it was for an election. Already they had stopped us calling our National Guard battalion “the Cordeliers.” They said we were just to be called “Number 3.”
Georges said it would take more than this to kill the Cordeliers. He said we were going to have a club, like the Jacobins but better. People from any part of the city could attend, so no one could say it was illegal. Its real name was the Club of the Friends of the Rights of Man, but from the beginning everybody called it the Cordeliers Club. At first they had meetings in a ballroom. They wanted to hold them in the old Cordeliers monastery, but City Hall had the building sealed up. Then one day—no explanation—the seals came off, and they moved in. Louise Robert said it was done by the influence of the Duke of Orléans.
It’s hard to get into the Jacobin Club. The yearly subscription is high, and you have to have a lot of members to back your application, and their meetings are very formal. When Georges went to speak there once he came home annoyed. He said they treated him like dirt.
At the Cordeliers anyone could come and speak. So you would get a lot of the actors and lawyers and tradesmen from around here, but you’d also get quite rough-looking types who’d walk in off the street. Of course, I never went there when there was a meeting, but I saw what they’d done with the chapel. It was very bleak and bare. When some windows got broken it was weeks before they were mended. I thought, how odd men are, at home they like to be comfortable but outside they pretend they don’t care. The president’s desk was a joiner’s bench that happened to be lying about when they moved in. Georges really wouldn’t have much to say to a joiner, if it weren’t for the present upheavals. The speaker’s rostrum at the club was made of four rough beams with a plank running between them. On the wall somebody had nailed a strip of calico with a slogan in red paint. It said Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.
After the bad time I had with Georges’s mother I was miserable when he said he wanted to spend some time in Arcis. To my great relief, we stayed with his sister Anne-Madeleine, and to my surprise we were received everywhere with great deference and respect. It was uncanny really—unnerving. Anne-Madeleine’s friends were practically curtseying to me. At first I thought the local people must have heard of Georges’s successes as president of the district, but I soon realized that they don’t get the Paris newspapers and they don’t much care what goes on there anyway. And people kept asking me strange questions, like, what’s the Queen’s favorite color, what does she like to eat. So one day it came to me: “Georges,” I said, “they think that because you’re a King’s Councillor, he asks you in every day to give him advice.”
For a moment he looked amazed. Then he laughed. “Do they? Bless them. And I have to live in Paris, with all these cynics and wits. Give me four or five years, Gabrielle, and I’ll come back here and farm. We’ll get out of Paris for good. Would you like that?”
I didn’t know how to answer. On the one hand, I thought, how wonderful to be away from the newspapers and the fishwives and the crime rate and the shortages of things in the shops. But then I thought of the prospect of Mme. Recordain calling on me every day. So I didn’t say anything, because I saw it was just a whim of his. I mean, is he going to give up the Cordeliers Club? Is he going to give up the Revolution? I watched him start to get restless. And one evening he said, “We’re going back tomorrow.”
All the same, he spent a long time with his stepfather, looking at properties, and arranging with the local notary about buying a piece of land. M. Recordain said, “Doing nicely, son, are you?” Georges only smiled.
I think that summer will always be clear in my memory. In my heart I was uneasy, because I believe in my heart that whatever is happening we should be loyal to the King and Queen and to the church. But soon, if some people have their way, the Riding School will be more important than the King, and the church will be just a government department. I know that we are bound to obey authority, and that Georges has often flouted it. That is in his nature, because at school, Pare tells me, they used to call him “the Anti-Superior.” Of course you must try to overcome the worst things in your nature, but meanwhile where am I?—because I am bound to obey my husband, unless he counsels me to commit sin. And is it a sin to cook supper for people who talk about sending the Queen back to Austria? When I asked my confessor for guidance, he said that I should maintain an attitude of wifely obedience and try to bring my husband back to the Catholic faith. That was no help. So outwardly I defer to all Georges’s opinions, but in my heart I make reservations—and every day I pray that he will change some of them.
And yet—everything seems to be going so well for us. There’s always something to celebrate. When it came to the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, every town in France sent delegations to Paris. A great amphitheater was built on the Champs-de-Mars, and an altar was set up which they called the Altar of the Fatherland. The King went there, and took an oath to uphold the constitution, and the Bishop of Autun said High Mass. (It is a pity he is an atheist.) We didn’t go ourselves; Georges said he couldn’t stand to see the people kiss Lafayette’s boots. There was dancing where the Bastille used to be, and in the evening we had celebrations throughout our own district, and we went from one party to another, and stayed out all night. I got quite tipsy, everyone laughed at me. It had poured with rain all day, and somebody made a verse saying it proved that God was an aristocrat. I’ll never forget the ludicrous business of trying to let off fireworks in a downpour; or Georges bringing me back home, me leaning on his arm, the cobbles wet and slick and dawn breaking over the streets. Next day I saw that my new satin shoes had got a watermark; they were completely ruined.
You should see us now; you wouldn’t know us from last year. Some quite fashionable ladies have given up powdering their hair; instead of piling it up, they wear it down, in loose curls. Many gentlemen have also given up powder, and far less lace is worn. It’s quite unfashionable for a woman to paint her face; I don’t know what they do at Court now, but Louise Robert is the only woman I know who still wears rouge. Admittedly, she has not a good color without it. We make our dresses from the simplest
of fabrics, and the fashionable colors are the national colors, red, white and blue. Mme. Gély says the new fashions are not flattering to older women, and my mother agrees with her. “But you,” my mother says, “can take your chance to get out of laces and stays.” I don’t agree with her. I haven’t got my figure back since Antoine was born.
The modish jewelery this year is a chip of stone from the Bastille, made into a brooch or worn on a chain. Félicité de Genlis has a brooch with the word LIBERTY spelled out in diamonds—Deputy Pétion described it to me. We have given up our elaborate fans, and now have them made out of cheap sticks and pleated paper, with bright colors portraying some patriotic scene. I have to be very careful to have a scene that fits in with my husband’s views. I can’t have a portrait of Mayor Bailly crowned with laurels, or of Lafayette on his white horse, but I can have Duke Philippe, or the taking of the Bastille, or Camille making his speech in the Palais-Royal. But why should I want his portrait when I see too much of the original?
I remember Lucile at our apartment, the morning of the Bastille celebrations, her tricolor ribbons all bedraggled, wringing out the hem of her dress. The muslin clung to her figure in the most startling way, and she didn’t seem to be possessed of much in the way of underwear. Think what Georges’s mother would have said! I was quite severe with her myself—I had a fire lit, and I took away her clothes, and wrapped her in the warmest blanket I could find. I’m sorry to report that Lucile looks quite exquisite in a blanket. She sat with her bare feet drawn up beneath her, like a cat.
“What a child you are,” I said. “I’m surprised your mother let you go out dressed like that.”
“She says I must learn from my mistakes.” She put out two white arms from her blanket. “Let me have the baby.”
I gave her my little Antoine. She billed and cooed at him for a bit. “Camille has been famous for a whole year now,” she said dejectedly, “and we’re no nearer getting married. I thought it would be neat if I got pregnant, it would hurry things up. But—there you are—can’t get him into bed. You’ve no idea what Camille’s like when he’s got one of his fits of rectitude. John Knox was merely a beginner.”
“You wicked girl,” I said. More for form’s sake, than anything. I like her; you can’t help it. Oh, I’m not a perfect fool, I know that Georges looks at her, but so do all the men. Camille lives just around the corner now. He’s actually got a really nice apartment, and a rather fierce-looking woman called Jeanette to do the housekeeping. I don’t know where he found her, but she’s a good cook, and quite happy to come round here and help when we have a lot of people to dine. Hérault de Séchelles comes quite often these days, and of course then I make a special effort. Very fine manners he has; it makes a change from Fabre’s theatrical friends. Various deputies and journalists come, and I have various opinions about them, which I do not usually express. Georges’s viewpoint is that if somebody is a patriot, it doesn’t matter about their personality too much. He says that, but I notice he doesn’t spend any time with Billaud-Varennes if he can help it. You remember Billaud, don’t you? He used to work for Georges, here and there. Since the Revolution he looks marginally cheered up. It seems, in some way, to give him steady employment.
One evening in July, a man called Collot d’Herbois came to supper. What would you think—they must have Christian names, these people? Yes, but “Collot” was what we were to call him. He was rather like Fabre, in that he was an actor and a playwright, and has been a theater manager—and he was about the same age too. At that time he had a play called The Patriotic Family at the Theatre de Monsieur. It was the kind of play that had suddenly become very popular, and we spent all evening hedging around the fact that we hadn’t actually seen it. It was a great success at the box office, but that didn’t make Collot agreeable company. He insisted on telling us the story of his life, and it appeared that nothing had ever gone right for him till now, and even this he was suspicious about. When he was young—he said—he used to be baffled at the way people were always cheating him and doing him down—but then he realized they were jealous of his gifts. He used to think he just had no luck, but then he realized that people were conspiring against him. (When he said this Fabre made signs to me that he was a lunatic.) Every topic we raised had some bitter association for Collot, and at the smallest thing his face would become congested with anger and he would make violent sweeping gestures, as if he were speaking at the Riding School. I feared for my crockery.
Later I said to Georges, “I don’t like Collot. He’s sourer than your mother. And I’m sure the play is dreadful.”
“A typical feminine remark,” Georges said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with him, except he’s a bore. His opinions are—” He paused and smiled. “I was going to say they’re correct, but of course I mean they’re mine.”
Next day, Camille said: “This hideous Collot. Much the worst person in the world. Play I suppose is unbearable.”
Georges said meekly, “I’m sure you’re right.”
Towards the end of the year Georges addressed the Assembly. A few days later the Ministry fell. People said that Georges had brought it down. My mother said, you are married to a powerful man.
The national assembly in session: Lord Mornington, September 1790:
They have no regular form of debate on ordinary business; some speak from their seats, some from the floor, some from the table and some from their tribune or desk … the riot is so great that it is very difficult to collect what is being said. I am certain I have seen above a hundred in the act of addressing the Assembly together, all persisting to speak, and as many more replying in different parts of the House; then the President claps his hands on both ears and roars Order, as if he were calling a coach … he beats his table, his breast … wringing his hands is quite a common action, and I really believe he swears … the galleries approve and disapprove by groaning and clapping.
I went to court this morning at the Tuileries, and a very gloomy court it was … . The King seemed well, but I thought his manner evidently humbled since I was introduced to him before; he now bows to everybody, which was not a Bourbon fashion before the Revolution.
Lucile’s year: I keep two sets of notebooks now. One’s for pure and elevated thoughts, and the other’s for what really goes on.
I used to live like God, in different Persons. The reason for this was, life was so dull. I used to pretend to be Maria Stuart, and to be quite honest I must say I still do, for old time’s sake. It’s not easy to break yourself of these habits. Everybody else in my life would be assigned a role—usually as a lady-in-waiting, or something—and I would hate them when they wouldn’t play it properly. If I got tired of Maria S., I would play at being Julie from La Nouvelle Héloïse. These days I wonder what is my relationship to Maximilien Robespierre. I’m living inside his favorite novel.
You have to employ some fantasy to keep brute reality at bay. The year began with Camille being sued for libel by M. Sanson, the public executioner. Strange—you don’t think of executioners having recourse to law, in the normal way, you don’t think of them having any animosity to spare.
Fortunately, the law is slow, its processes are cumbersome, and when damages are awarded the Duke is ready to pick up the bill. No, it’s not the courts that worry me. Every morning I wake up and think to myself: is he still alive?
Camille is attacked on the street. He is denounced in the Assembly. He is challenged to duels—though the patriots have made a pact never to respond. There are lunatics going round the city, boasting that they’re waiting for a chance to put a knife in him. They write him letters, these lunatics—letters so demented and so revolting that he won’t read them himself. You can tell, he says, by a quick scan, what sort of letter it is. Sometimes you can tell by the handwriting on the outside of the packet. He has a box that he throws them into. Then other people have to look through them, in case any of the threats are very specific—I will kill you, at such a time and place.
My fa
ther’s odd. About twice a month he’ll forbid me ever to see Camille again. But every morning he’s making a grab for the papers—“Any news, any news?” Does he want to hear that Camille’s been found across the river with his throat cut? I don’t think so. I don’t think my father would find any joy in his life if it weren’t for Camille. My mother teases him in the most cold-blooded way. “Admit it, Claude,” she says. “He’s the son you’ve never had.”
Claude brings home young men for supper. He thinks I might like them. Civil servants. Dear God.
Sometimes they write me poems, lovely civil service sonnets. Adèle and I read them out with suitable sentimental expressions. We turn up our eyes, slap our hands on our rib cages and sigh. Then we make them into paper darts and bombard each other. Our spirits, you see, are high. We roll through our days in a sort of unwholesome glee. It’s either this, or a permanent welter of sniffles and tears, forebodings and fears—and we prefer to be hilarious. We prefer to make blood-curdling jokes.
My mother, by contrast, is strained, sad; but fundamentally, I think she suffers less than I do. Probably it’s because she’s older, and she’s learned to ration these things. “Camille will survive,” she says. “Why do you think he goes around in the company of such large men?” There are guns, I say, knives. “Knives?” she says. “Can you imagine someone trying to get a knife past M. Danton? Hacking through all that muscle and flesh?” That’s to imagine, I say, that he would interpose himself. She says, “Isn’t Camille rather good at exacting human sacrifices? After all,” she says, “look at me. Look at you.”
We expect, quite soon, to hear of Adèle’s engagement. Max came here, and quite gratuitously praised the Abbé Terray. Much that the abbé had done, he said, had not been generally understood. Claude has consequently ceased to mind that Max has only his deputy’s salary, and that he is supporting a younger brother and a sister out of it.
A Place of Greater Safety: A Novel Page 32
