Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel

by Delors, Catherine

  The Chevalier pointed to the medieval towers of the criminal court building, called the Grand Châtelet.

  “It houses some of the most squalid dungeons in the city,” he said. “It is also home to the Morgue. The bodies found daily in the river or on the streets are kept there until identified or claimed.”

  I put my hand to my face, dizzy with nausea. It was a relief to leave the Châtelet to reach at last the Marais district, where the Duchess d’Arpajon lived. Marais means “swamp” in French.

  “What an odd name for such a beautiful district!” I said, marveling at the elegant mansions on each side of the street.

  “True,” said the Chevalier. “It used to flood every spring, when the river overflowed after the melting of the snows. It was the aristocratic quarter of choice a century ago, but it has now lost that distinction to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, on the Left Bank.”

  We passed the jail of La Force. Two hundred years earlier, explained the Chevalier, it had been one of the most magnificent dwellings in Paris, and now it was degraded to the rank of debtors’ prison. Little did I guess then the part it would play in my life only a few years later. The Duchess’s mansion was on the next street.

  After the carriage stopped in the courtyard, I observed that the front of the house was elegantly decorated with columns and sculpted allegories of the four seasons. We alighted and were led up a wide stone staircase to a parlour on the second floor, a vast cheerful room, handsomely furnished. I was reminded of my trepidation upon meeting my mother at the age of eleven. Her Grace the Duchess d’Arpajon, a lady of about sixty, white-haired and blue-eyed, rose to embrace me and kiss me on the cheek. That simple kindness was more than I had ever received from my mother. I felt the prickling of tears in my eyes. She hastened to order the tea things, a welcome sight after a long day of travel. Aimée sat on my lap, where she fell sound asleep.

  “Dear Chevalier,” said the Duchess, “nothing in your letters quite prepared me for the beauty of my young cousin.” She turned to me. “If you will allow it, my dear, I will call you Belle, for you remind me of the youngest sister in the tale of Beauty and the Beast. You see, I have a weakness in my old age. I like to be surrounded by young, handsome, cheerful people. I used to be considered quite attractive myself. I can say it because nothing remains of my beauty now. Your presence will remind me of those days. Apart from my friend the Chevalier, who is the last true gentleman left in the kingdom, no young people visit me anymore unless I happen to have under my roof guests like you. Without you, I was reduced to gossiping and playing lotto with ladies as ancient as I.”

  She put down her cup of tea. “Do not feel sorry for me, dear Belle. I am invited to dinners once in a while because I am still good company. Also I am frightfully fond of the theatre, the opera and gambling, quite a shame at my time of life and given the state of my finances. Before long, dear Belle, you will become familiar with all of my vices. I am afraid I have kept them all in my dotage, save the one I most cherished. Time is most unfair to us females.”

  I must have looked shocked by such a speech from a lady older than my mother. She patted my hand. “I am sorry, dear, to embarrass you with my loose talk,” she continued, her eyes twinkling. “Listen to me, an old sinner. Your blushes make me ashamed of myself, which I have not felt in forty years. I am all the more delighted to have you with me. You may give me some principles before it is too late. And it may be easier to depart for the eternal night with you at my side.”

  “I should be the one to apologize for my prudishness,” I said. “It is one of my flaws, Madam: I colour so easily. I am afraid I will make a fool of myself in Paris with my provincial manners.”

  “Nonsense, Belle. Your modesty is so rare that it will only add to your allure. You are just what this city needs. Twenty women like you would redeem its morals.”

  “Your Grace will not find so many here,” said the Chevalier.

  “I guess not,” the Duchess responded. “We shall remain unrepentant then, which will not prevent us from enjoying dear Belle’s company.”

  The Chevalier announced that he had to take his leave to reach his lodgings in the Palace of Versailles, some ten miles to the southwest of Paris, before the night. The Duchess thanked him again for delivering me to her. As he left, he bowed to kiss my hand and wished me the best of luck. Aimée, awakened, wrapped her arms around his knees and cried. I had to pry her away from him.

  “If you do not visit us very soon,” I said, “you will break my daughter’s heart.”

  “I will call at the first opportunity, Madam.”

  Aimée could not be persuaded to go to bed without me. The Duchess had ordered a cot prepared in a maid’s room, but she kindly agreed to have it moved to mine.

  “You are such a funny young person,” she said. “In my time, no noblewoman would have thought of keeping her child with her at night.”

  “I did not do so in my husband’s home, Madam, but she has become used to it during our journey from Auvergne. It would be hard for her now to sleep with a stranger in a strange room.”

  “What do you mean by your husband’s home, Belle? Was is not yours too?”

  “No, as attested by the fact that I had to quit it upon his death.”

  “That is what the Chevalier wrote me. A very odd business. My late husband did not leave me much, but he at least gave me a small pension and this house for life. What was the Baron thinking? Did he want you to beg for your bread on the streets?”

  “I will never know, Madam. He probably thought that my brother would take me back.”

  “What a pitiful arrangement! But fortunate for me, I suppose. Now, dearest, you can barely keep your eyes open. I do not want to be selfish and keep you late on your first night here. We will take our dispositions for you tomorrow.”

  My apartment looked out on a garden of trimmed boxwood hedges, in the formal French style, at the back of the house. After putting Aimée to bed, I opened one of the windows. The only noise I could hear in that delightful old-fashioned district was the evening song of the birds. There was nothing to suggest the embrace of the vast city surrounding me. Yet I could sense that I no longer lived in the countryside. The air was milder than in Auvergne, for in May the high country is still in the grip of the last winter frosts. I fell in love with Paris. Indeed I am still under its thrall, in spite of these twenty years of exile. I went to bed happy.

  The next day, I joined the Duchess for breakfast at seven o’clock. Like many elderly persons, she liked to rise early. Thanks to my late husband, my habits were the same.

  “First, we must take care of your clothes, dear,” she said. “Have you anything other than these black dresses?”

  “But, Madam, I have been widowed less than three months. It would not be proper for me to quit my mourning so early.”

  “Then wear white for your mourning. In my opinion that is more than enough for a little widow of seventeen. Have you any Court gowns?”

  “No, Madam. Pray what will I need? I know that such attire can be expensive.”

  “My dear, some of the Queen’s gowns cost over 10,000 francs. Mademoiselle Rose Bertin, her dressmaker, has made a fortune.”

  I smiled in dismay. “I have less than 3,000 francs altogether.”

  “I would lend you some of my own Court gowns, but they would be too short for you. Do not worry; you can purchase used ones from another lady’s chambermaid. I will ask Mélanie to find something suitable for your lovely figure. You must, of course, be presented to the King and Queen in order to be admitted everywhere in Versailles. I will be happy to serve as your presenting lady for that occasion. For dinners in town, young women do not dress as they used to do. I am sure that the clothes you brought from Auvergne will be fine for such occasions.”

  The same day, I wrote my sister, Madame de Montserrat, to thank her for her offer to join her at Noirvaux Abbey. I explained that I did not feel any religious vocation and believed it wrong to take the veil without a more definite
calling. I wanted to provide my own explanation for my refusal to enter her convent. I did not know in what light my family had cast my decision to leave for Paris.

  Within a week, Mélanie, the Duchess’s chambermaid, found a white Court dress suitable for my height, although it needed to be narrowed around the waist. It had a few wine stains on the bodice and smelled of its prior owner’s now faded fragrance. I was reminded of the time when I had worn my mother’s discards, but this gown was in a very different style, adorned with silver embroidery and grey ribbons. It was designed to be worn over paniers, “baskets,” giant oval hoopskirts that only allowed the ladies of the Court to go through doors sideways. A long train attached to the waist of the dress. The bodice was cut to leave all of the throat and shoulders bare. It required a special corset, the lacing of which exposed part of the chemise in the back.

  My jaw dropped at the sight of this attire. “How can anyone wear anything so immodest in public?” I asked.

  “My poor Belle,” said the Duchess, laughing, “please remember that I, at my age, have to dress in the same fashion at Court. And the chemise one wears under this corset must be sheer so your back will be almost as visible as your throat and shoulders. Believe me, you will become used to it, like many a modest lady before you.”

  As the Duchess and I examined the gown, we found a tear in the rows of lace that covered the sleeves to the elbows. Manon, the chambermaid assigned to my service in my new home, looked at the damage.

  “Don’t worry, My Lady,” she said, “that’s nothing. My sister Louise is a lace maker and can repair it in a trice. And I’ll find some matching grey ribbon to sew over these wine stains.”

  In the middle of our survey of my new finery, we received a visit from the Marquise de Bastide, the Duchess’s daughter. I had never met her before. The Duchess also had a son, who was quartered with his regiment in Lorraine. Being of a taciturn and unsociable nature, he rarely set foot in town or at Court. I would not be introduced to him until the following year.

  Madame de Bastide was tall and imposing, with dark hair, regular features and her mother’s blue eyes. When we were introduced, she barely took the trouble to nod at me. Instead, she turned her attention to my gown.

  “Very pretty,” she said, holding the skirt between two fingers and smiling with disdain. “This kind of silver embroidery was very fashionable last year, I believe. Congratulations, Madam. This gown will suit you to perfection.”

  I was not sorry when she announced that other engagements called her away.

  The next day, the gown was ready. Manon laced my new corset, attached the paniers to my waist, arranged the skirts and train, and finally tied the bodice. I sat at my dressing table. She covered my shoulders with a vast cloth and proceeded to smear generous quantities of jasmine-scented cream over my hair. I opened my mouth to protest.

  “If I don’t put pommade in Your Ladyship’s hair,” she said, “the powder won’t stick. It’ll all fall on your shoulders. Now that wouldn’t be too pretty. And your hair wouldn’t stay up either.”

  I sighed and kept silent. This was the first time I had had my hair powdered and dressed in that manner. Half an hour later, it stood in a foot-high array of pinkish grey locks and curls. I thanked Manon in a tone that lacked conviction.

  The Duchess nodded with satisfaction. “This is beautiful, Manon. The great Léonard himself, who attends to the Queen, could not do any better.”

  She sent for her jewellery case and picked diamond necklaces, bracelets, hair ornaments and earrings. She asked me to stand and tried them all on me.

  “Your Grace is too good,” I said. “I cannot accept—”

  She raised her hand to silence me. “I am afraid you have no choice in this matter, Belle. No lady was ever presented without wearing a pound or two of borrowed diamonds.”

  She arranged a few more ornaments in my hair and added yet another pair of bracelets. I felt like one of those jewel-encrusted casks that display holy relics to the veneration of the faithful. Lips pursed, the Duchess stepped back to judge the effect of the stones.

  “There,” she said, “this should be enough. Now I will show you the gait expected of a lady at Court. Look at me, Belle, and pay close attention. See how I glide slowly as if I were on skates. I barely raise my feet off the floor.”

  I could not repress a smile.

  She arched her eyebrow. “Now let us see you do it, dear.”

  I obeyed, feeling clumsy and utterly silly.

  “Not quite good enough,” she said. “Try again. Remember, you will be walking on the floors of Versailles, which are waxed often and can be very slippery. Also, you must be careful not to step on the train of the lady in front of you.”

  I bit my lip and looked at the Duchess with mingled exasperation and desperation, but she was relentless. She would not declare herself satisfied until I glided as easily in my paniers as I walked in my regular clothes. Then she made me practice the movements I would perform during my presentation. She played the part of the Queen, then that of the King, and I curtseyed before her until I felt weak in the knees.

  “Perfect,” she said after a few hours. “Shyness gives most women a sort of awkwardness, but it only makes you more graceful. This dress, which is rather dismal in itself, looks beautiful on you. These grey ribbons recall the colour of your eyes. Of course, all the ladies of the Court will notice that your attire is not new. They would find something wicked to say in any event. You are too exquisitely pretty to escape their criticism.”

  We had a final rehearsal. The Duchess smiled. Manon clasped her hands, a rapturous look on her round face. Aimée stared in mute amazement at the huge skirts of my gown, at my bare throat, which the Duchess’s rows of diamonds did not suffice to cover, at my powdered hair, bedecked with glittering ornaments.

  Before I could be presented, the Court genealogist researched my lineage and that of my late husband to verify that our nobility dated back to the year 1400. All was in order. The dreaded day came at last.

  23

  The Duchess and I left early on a fine Sunday morning for Versailles. I was attired in all of my new finery. She wore a black Court gown and the rest of her diamonds. Aimée, much to her chagrin, had to remain in Paris. Children, except those of the royal family, were not seen at Court. I dried her tears and assured her that I would be back very soon.

  After the carriage had made its way through an army of street vendors peddling cheap mementos in front of the Palace, we passed two successive sets of gates and alighted in the courtyard reserved for Duchesses. I was awed by the size of the palace. Its wings seemed to extend forever on each side of the central building.

  “I never imagined anything so gigantic,” I exclaimed.

  “What you see is nothing,” replied the Duchess. “The main palace occupies only a small fraction of the grounds. And from here, we have not a view of either of the Trianons. Each is a separate château within the park of Versailles. A make-believe hamlet, complete with its grotto and farm, was also built for the Queen.”

  Two sedan chairs, conveyances I had never used before, had been brought for us. We gathered our trains and, with the help of the Duchess’s lackeys, pushed our paniers into these devices. After much effort, the doors were closed on us. In that manner we were carried into the Palace and up the Marble Staircase, which led to the Queen’s Great Apartments. I felt my chair being lowered to the floor. One of the two lackeys who followed me opened the door. I was in the Hall of the Bodyguards, where I saw of the Chevalier des Huttes. He looked very handsome in his uniform, a blue coat, trimmed in silver braid, and red breeches and waistcoat. He was on duty and only bowed to me with the slightest hint of a smile. The Duchess’s sedan chair, covered in red velvet to mark her rank, had been allowed to advance to the next room.

  I joined her. We walked to the doors of the Salon of the Nobles, where dozens of ladies were crowded, their bulky paniers pressed against each other. The colours of their gowns jarred against the apple-green
damask that covered the walls.

  “Are you not glad to be wearing white?” whispered the Duchess. “This shade of green is the Queen’s favourite colour, and this room was redone according to her directions. Now remember to stay away from the windows whenever you are in her presence. Otherwise she would think that you are flaunting the radiance of your skin. Her complexion is beginning to fade and she resents the freshness of younger women.”

  This remark helped me remember that Marie-Antoinette, though she was the Queen, was not exempt from the petty vanities shared by many women. My heartbeat quieted and my composure returned. I followed the Duchess into the salon. The crowd parted to make way for us. All eyes were on me, and not all were friendly.

  At last I saw the Queen standing at the far end of the room. She was dressed in a blue gown embroidered with sapphires and diamonds. I tried to remember what my late husband had said of her. She did have an elongated face, a thick lower lip, bulging blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, either naturally or from too much rouge. Yet what her features lacked in fineness was compensated by the majesty of her countenance. She was almost as tall as I, but rather stout. Her breasts seemed ready to burst out of her glittering bodice.

  The Duchess made a deep curtsey and announced: “Madam, the Baroness de Peyre!”

  I advanced towards the Queen, pausing three times to curtsey. Then, bowing until my forehead almost touched the floor, I removed my right glove and seized the hem of the Queen’s gown to bring it to my lips. The Duchess, during our rehearsals, had warned me that Her Majesty never allowed any lady to complete that part of the ritual. The Queen, with a tap of her fan, did withdraw her skirt before I had time to kiss it. I put on my glove, rose and, careful not to trip on my own train, walked backwards in the direction of the Duchess. My presentation to the Queen was over.