Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel

by Delors, Catherine

  The mere idea of paying Marcelin in kind made me wince.

  “I hope at least,” he continued, “that you’re clean and won’t damage my furniture.”

  “You will not find a more careful tenant than me, Citizen Marcelin.”

  “Your friend said you’ve a child. How old it is? Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “A little girl, seven years old and very quiet.”

  “I hope so. I don’t want any complaints from the other tenants about noise, or anything else for that matter.” He wagged his finger at me. “If I find out that you’re a harlot and receive men here, I’ll report you to the Section. The Municipality just passed a new ordinance against whoring. I want none of that on my property. The last thing I need these days is trouble of any kind. Speaking of which, what did you say your name was?”

  “Gabrielle Labro. I am a widow from Aurillac, in the Départment of Cantal.”

  “Don’t worry, a pretty little woman like you can find a new husband in a trice. I’ll need to see your passport. Like I told you already, I don’t want any trouble with the authorities.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, you see, Citizen Marcelin, my poor husband died last July. I found his affairs in a bad shape and discovered that his estate was owed over 1,000 francs by a caterer in Paris. The executor of his will is a rascal who declined to do anything to collect the debt. I decided to come here to take the matter into my own hands.”

  Villers had often said that I was a poor liar, but I had reached a time when telling untruths was a necessity. For inspiration, I recalled the fellow with large yellow teeth I had met on the stagecoach to Noirvaux five years earlier.

  I looked straight at Marcelin as I continued: “On the stagecoach, I met with a stranger who proposed to help me find the caterer and assert my rights once we arrived. He seemed so very obliging. Unfortunately, he stole my portfolio, which contained my passport and most of my money.”

  “It’s odd,” said Marcelin, his eyebrow raised. “You don’t look like someone who’d fall into that kind of stupid trap. But then you never know with women. Their brains seem to be located in their nether parts. Actually, it’s true of many men too. So you want the room or not? I haven’t all day.”

  “I will take it.”

  “It’ll be twelve francs for the first week then, plus another hundred since you have no passport. And again, if you cause any trouble, I’ll report you to the Section. Don’t complain that you haven’t been warned.”

  The same night, we moved our belongings, which were now reduced to my most treasured books, a few undergarments, shoes and jewellery, to our new lodgings. The doll Margaret of course accompanied us, hidden in a sack. Louise had handed me earlier that day a note from Lauzun.

  I have spoken with the Duke d’Orléans. He is willing to help with your passport provided that you meet with him to discuss the matter. I had expected better from him.

  Please forgive me for failing you at such a time. I am sorry,Belle, more sorry than words can express.

  Good-bye, dearest, tender friend, for it would be too cruel to say farewell. Be safe.

  65

  “It is ugly here, Mama,” Aimée said when she looked around at the garret. “Can we not return to our old lodgings?”

  “No, my treasure, we cannot. We should be grateful to have a roof over our heads. I cannot afford anything better than this.”

  “So we are poor now?”

  “Yes, in a way, we are poor, but at least we are together. I am not in jail anymore. The prison was far uglier than this.”

  “You will not go back to jail, Mama, will you?”

  “No. But we must be very careful. You have to tell everyone that your name is Aimée Labro and that your Mama is Citizen Labro.”

  “I liked my old name better.”

  “I find Aimée Labro very pretty too. Labro was the name of my nurse when I was little. I loved her and am proud to honour her memory in this manner. I am sure that you will become accustomed to it.”

  “And I do not like it when people are rude to you. Like Citizen Marcelin. Why does he not take off his hat when he talks to you? And he says thou to you. Why does he not call you My Lady?”

  I could not repress a smile at the idea of Marcelin addressing me in such a manner.

  “Because nobody says these things anymore, Aimée dear. Those who still do go to jail.”

  “But Manon calls you My Lady. Will she go to jail?”

  “She does it out of habit, but it is a mistake. You are fortunate, because you are very young and it will be easier for you to accept these changes.”

  “But everything was so much better when we lived on Rue Saint-Dominique. I had you, and Miss Howard, and Manon, and all of my dolls.”

  “I know, dearest, but we have no choice. Also, please remember not to say Rue Saint-Dominique. It is called Rue Dominique now. We do not use saints’ names for the streets anymore. Indeed it is better to forget that we ever lived there. And you must not mention Miss Howard to anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she is English, and people think all Englishmen are spies. And the fact that you had a governess means that we were rich.”

  “Is it wrong to be rich now?”

  “No, but when one has lost one’s money, it makes people wonder.”

  “Did we lose our money because Monsieur de Villers died?”

  “Yes, and it also has to do with many other things.”

  “Is he dead forever?”

  I knelt in front of Aimée and looked into her eyes. “Yes, my dearest, the dead are dead forever. Their souls go to Heaven, and they do not come back. But we keep alive in our hearts the memory of those we loved. Then we join them for eternity when we die ourselves.”

  I saw tears in Aimée’s dark eyes. “So the Duchess is dead forever too?”

  “Yes, dearest. I know that it is very hard to lose the people we loved and the things we liked, but we must accept our fate and thank God for the blessings He still bestows on us.”

  I pressed Aimée in my arms, fighting my own tears.

  On the 20th of September, the authorities created a new document, called a Civic Certificate, which was to be delivered by the Sections of Paris to good citizens upon their request. The next day, Marcelin popped out of his door as I entered his building. He lived in the porter’s lodge, out of miserliness perhaps, and probably also to better keep an eye on his tenants.

  “Citizen Labro,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about something. Since you have no passport, it’d be good if you could procure one of those new Civic Certificates. You just need to go to the Section. They’ll be happy to oblige a little widow like you.”

  “Certainly, I will go tomorrow.”

  “Fine, Citizen, but no later than that. You see, I like you because you seem a quiet sort of person, but I don’t want to be accused of hiding aristocrats.”

  At eight in the morning the next day, I left Aimée with Manon and went to the Marseilles Section, which had jurisdiction over my new lodgings. I entered a vast hall, where a crowd was gathered. I walked to a guard seated at a desk and told him that I had come for a Civic Certificate.

  “You’re not alone, Citizen,” he said. “All of these people are here for the same thing. You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  He wrote my name, now Gabrielle Labro, on a sheet of paper. “Have a seat,” he said, “if you can find one.”

  An old woman made room for me next to her on a bench. She was staring at me, and I was so afraid of being recognized that I almost left. Names were called, but things seemed to be proceeding very slowly. It was three in the afternoon before the guard called Gabrielle Labro. I followed him into an office where a man, smoking a long curved pipe, was seated. In a corner was a wicker basket filled with bottles of wine. He did not rise nor did he offer me a seat.

  “So, Citizen,” he said in the familiar mode, “where and when were you born?”

  “In Aurillac, in the Départment of Cantal, on th
e 14th of July, 1769.”

  “Ah, the same day as the glorious storming of the Bastille. A good start. Let’s have a look at your baptismal certificate.”

  “I did not take it with me when I left Auvergne. I did not think I would need it.”

  “You were very careless. All right then. Have you a residence certificate to prove that you have been honourably known in Paris since the beginning of the Revolution?”

  “No, I only arrived last July.” I told him the story of Widow Labro’s woes.

  “Are you telling me, Citizen Labro, that you arrived in Paris only two months ago, and that you have no passport?”

  “It was stolen, along with most of my money.”

  “I don’t care about your money, but without a passport, I can’t give you a Civic Certificate. What proof have I that you are not an aristocrat or some other enemy of the Nation?”

  “Citizen Secretary, you must believe me. My landlord threatens to turn me out if I cannot produce a Civic Certificate.”

  “Your landlord sounds like a good patriot. Listen, Citizen, I have nothing against you, but you are precisely the kind of suspicious character who should not receive a Civic Certificate. You say you arrived in Paris two months ago from Auvergne. How do I know that you are not an émigrée, illegally returned from the Netherlands or Germany? Can you at least produce a certificate of residence from Aurillac? Now, don’t start crying.”

  Tears had come easily enough. I was hungry and my long wait had unnerved me. The man rose, offered me a chair in front of his desk and patted my back.

  “I didn’t mean to be harsh, Citizen,” he said. “But even if I gave you your Civic Certificate, you’d also need the signature of the President of the Section. He wouldn’t give it to you. So I’d be in trouble, and you still wouldn’t receive what you want.”

  My tears redoubled.

  “Do you know, Citizen,” he continued, “that we must keep a list of the names, descriptions, and addresses of those who are denied a Civic Certificate? Believe me, if I were you, that’s not the kind of list where I’d want to find myself. I’ll tell you what I’ll do, and that’s already a great deal: I am not going to deny your Certificate, though in all fairness I should, so I won’t have to put you on that list. I’ll just prepare a Certificate, without giving it to you, and mention that you were adjourned until production of further proof. That way you won’t be in trouble. Really it’s all I can do for you.”

  I believed him. I dried my tears and, after fetching Aimée, returned to my lodgings.

  Marcelin pounced on me before I could reach the stairwell. “So, Citizen Labro, do you have your Civic Certificate?”

  “No, but it was not denied either. The Section needs to see my baptismal certificate. It will take only a little while to have it sent from Auvergne.”

  “So they wouldn’t give it to you, would they? You look like you’ve been crying. I told you, it doesn’t always work. All right, I’ll give you a couple more days, but if you don’t have it by the 1st of October, I’ll report you.”

  September of 1792 witnessed the inception of the new National Convention that had replaced the old Legislative Assembly. The first act of the new Representatives was, by a unanimous vote, to confirm the overthrow of the monarchy and proclaim a Republic. The year 1792 became Year One of the French Republic, One and Indivisible.

  Another event occurred, of lesser importance to the general public, but which would have a grave incidence upon my situation. During the night of the 15th of September, a gang of thieves broke into the Garde-Meuble, where the Crown jewels were kept. Diamonds, pearls, sapphires, emeralds and rubies were found on the streets of Paris. Good citizens returned them to the Garde Meuble. A beggar woman, having discovered “little stars” lying on the ground, brought them to the nearest police station and left without claiming any kind of reward.

  The thieves were arrested a few days later. They were accused of being part of a royalist conspiracy to raise funds for the émigrés. The affair was thus deemed a political case and assigned to the 17th of August Tribunal, which sentenced them to death. A jeweler who had purchased some of the Crown diamonds at a bargain price was guillotined a few days later for receiving the Nation’s stolen property. No one in Paris dared purchase precious stones. Overnight my diamonds, the sole source of my expected financial independence, became worthless.

  Worse, I read in the Moniteur about the case of the novelist and royalist journalist Cazotte. During the September massacres, he had been jailed at L’Abbaye, where he had been acquitted. Following his release, he was arrested again and tried before the 17th of August Tribunal. Cazotte was found guilty and guillotined. The Moniteur listed Pierre-André as one of the three judges who had signed the death sentence. It was all too clear that the Tribunal did not intend to give any legal authority to the verdicts of the improvised people’s courts formed in the prisons. My acquittal at La Force would not protect me.

  Marcelin was ready to report me to the Section, which would lead promptly to a second arrest. The prospect of standing trial before the 17th of August Tribunal was dismal. My use of a false identity would make my case worse. After the theft of the Crown Jewels, Paris was abuzz with rumours of royalist conspiracies. Given my association with the Court, I would be assumed to be part of those plots.

  Lauzun could do nothing. The Duke d’Orléans had put on his assistance a price I was unwilling to pay. Pierre-André remained my sole possible ally. If I wanted to appeal to him, I could delay no longer.

  66

  In the afternoon of the 27th of September, I prepared to go to the main Courthouse. My only hope was the memory Pierre-André had kept of me. I gazed at myself in the cracked mirror hanging above the chest of drawers in my garret. It reflected a pale, hollow-eyed face and a countenance matching my widow’s dress. I shook my head in dismay. Would he recognize in me the blooming girl of fifteen he had met by the river, or even the young woman of the Champ de Mars, with a rose between her breasts?

  I took Aimée to Manon and kissed my daughter good-bye, or farewell, depending on the outcome of my attempt. I repeated to myself for the hundredth time the reasons for my decision to seek Pierre-André’s help. Aimée, poor child, saw my anguish and did her best to conceal her own. She held back her tears and threw her little arms around my neck. I left with Manon a note to my sister Madeleine, begging her to forgive my trespasses and to raise my daughter as her own. I asked Manon to find a way to send it if I did not return within twenty-four hours. Aimée squeezed my hand and I was off to the courthouse.

  After entering the great gilded gates, I took a long look at the flights of stairs leading to the front doors. To my right was, through a small locked courtyard, the entrance to the prison of La Conciergerie, where were held those scheduled to appear before the 17th of August Tribunal. It might be the first step on their journey to the guillotine. I shuddered and looked away. I crossed the Cour du Mai, the main courtyard, and climbed the monumental stairs. Once inside the sprawling building, I asked an usher for directions to the premises occupied by the Tribunal. It was shortly after six in the evening.

  A gendarme, who did not seem much older than me, was seated at a desk in a white and gold antechamber. I told him that my name was Labro and that I came to see Citizen Coffinhal to report a conspiracy related to the massacre of the Patriots on the 10th of August. The guard went down a hallway. He returned after a few minutes.

  “Citizen Coffinhal has no time for you,” he said. “You must report the facts to Citizen Fouquier, the head of the Grand Jury. You’re in luck; he’s still at work. I’ll take you to him directly.”

  I sat in one of the chairs facing the gendarme’s desk. “I am not leaving. I want to speak to Citizen Coffinhal and no one else.”

  The gendarme looked unhappy. “Well, when Citizen Coffinhal says no, I leave it at that. I don’t see why I should make him cross. Citizen Fouquier, on the other hand, is good-humoured and soft-spoken, especially with the ladies, I mean female ci
tizens. So it’d be wise of you to talk to him.”

  “No, that would not do at all,” I said, looking straight at the gendarme. “Citizen Coffinhal and I are from the same country. I have documents of the utmost importance that are written in my native language, which is also his. If I cannot see him tonight, I will have to send him word that you would not let me speak to him. He will probably be very unhappy, because this is an urgent matter.”

  The gendarme hesitated. He sighed and disappeared once more. I heard a voice shouting upstairs. The gendarme returned, a little paler, and asked me to follow him.

  We went down the hallway and up a corkscrew staircase. I was shown into a room on the second floor of one of the medieval towers. From the window, one could see the Seine glowing grey in the light of the late afternoon. Across the river, the ragged offerings of the used clothes peddlers, hanging from poles, floated gently in the wind like the flags of poverty.

  The room was furnished with a marqueterie desk, in front of which were two chairs for visitors. A hat à la Henri IV, upturned in front, with black feathers, a matching cape and a gilded medal on a tricolour ribbon, all part of the new judges’ uniform, lay on a small table. I could not help noticing that the hat was the same shape as the one worn by the Representatives of the Nobility at the opening of the Estates General, except for the dark colour of the feathers.

  Pierre-André, dressed in black down to his stockings, was seated at the desk. He was reviewing papers and gave no sign of looking up when I entered. He said in the Roman language, without rising or inviting me to have a seat: “Come to the point, Citizen Labro. I hope for your sake that you are not disturbing me for nothing.”

  Pierre-André had used the patriotic thou. Yet, in his mouth, it brought to mind the past. I forgot all of the speeches I had rehearsed for the occasion.

  “Citizen Judge,” I said, also in the Roman language and in the familiar style, “you may remember me…”