Pierre-André shrugged. “If the defendant had the insolence to claim his innocence, a little torture session brought him to his senses. Pounding iron wedges into the wooden boots tied to the poor devil’s legs worked wonders. The bones were crushed without fail. Or, if the accused were deemed sturdy enough to survive the water question, he was tied, his limbs stretched out, a funnel was inserted into his mouth and he was forced to swallow over forty pints of liquid in a row. I need not tell you what damage this did to the internal organs. Once the investigation was deemed complete, the accused heard his sentence on his knees. If he were found guilty, he underwent a final, harsher torture session, again with the boots or the water question. This was allegedly necessary to obtain the names of any accomplices, or wrench a confession if one had not been secured earlier. Some defendants were by then too exhausted to speak. Others, after admitting to everything, were too weak to sign their confessions, or fainted outright. No matter: they were revived on a mattress by the fire and given a glass of wine before the torments resumed. I do not understand how anyone could condone such cruelty, but torture remained an official part of the procedure until ’88.”
Pierre-André shook his head in disgust. “When the time for the execution came, the accused, stripped to his shirt, a rope around his neck and a candle in his hand, climbed onto the executioner’s cart. It stopped at Notre-Dame. There, on the front steps, the man was made to kneel, or was held in that position if his legs could no longer support him. He had to repeat his confession aloud in front of the crowd and ask God and the King to forgive his crime. Only then was he led to the place of execution to face a slow agony on the gallows. That is, if he were fortunate enough not to have been sentenced to the wheel. All that, mind you, to punish offenses sometimes no more grievous than stealing a few francs or hitting someone during a drunken brawl. And the procedure, torture included, was exactly the same for women, except that they could not be sentenced to the wheel.”
I shuddered. “What you tell me is still worse than the hanging I witnessed as a child.”
“You saw only the execution itself. Now look at what is happening today. No one who stands trial before us has been as much as slapped. The proceedings are public and everyone is entitled to an attorney of his choice. We appoint one for those who cannot afford one. The accused make their appearances unshackled and the only sign of respect asked of them is to rise when we enter the courtroom. No one is required to kneel, to beg for forgiveness or to die stripped of his clothes anymore. Those who claim that we are a tribunal de sang, a “tribunal of blood,” and feign to regret the justice of the Old Regime are rogues. Most cases tried before us end in dismissals or acquittals.” He sighed. “If anything, under the current circumstances I find the jurors far too lenient. All too often, following a verdict of not guilty, I have to release dishonest army suppliers. Those scoundrels become rich supplying the brave men who sacrifice their lives for the Nation with flimsy shoes or faulty guns. To tell you the truth, acquitting that vermin breaks my heart much more than the fate of the Capet Widow.”
During the following months, the Revolutionary Tribunal tried many defendants, some famous and many obscure. Among the prominent characters sentenced to death were Madame Roland, the former queen of Parisian society under the reign of the Girondins, Philippe Egalité, the ci-devant Duke d’Orléans, accused of conspiring to restore the monarchy and make himself King, and Bailly, who had been Mayor of Paris during the massacre of the Champ de Mars. Pierre-André did not sit as a judge at his trial, for he was a witness for the prosecution.
All twenty-eight Farmers General, including Lavoisier, acknowledged the best scientist of the time, were also tried and sentenced to death. The Revolution had abolished their tax collection privileges; much of the hated wall that had choked the city for their greater profit had already been destroyed amidst general rejoicing. And there were the other enemies of the Republic, the merchants who refused to accept the Nation’s paper money as payment for their goods, the bakers who let their bread become moldy rather than to sell it at the official price, the farmers who hoarded their corn while famine was still a daily concern for the poor.
I read that even Osselin, former President of the 17th of August Tribunal and now a member of the National Convention, had been arrested for harbouring the ci-devant Marquise de Charry, an aristocrat suspected of emigration.
“Well,” said Pierre-André, “Osselin was an inept judge, especially in a presiding position, but he is not a bad man. He was caught. He had procured the Charry woman various hiding places under false identities throughout Paris and the suburbs. He finally hid her in his brother’s rectory.”
“Is it not what you have done for me?” I asked. “What if you were caught?”
“For one thing, you are not an émigrée like the ci-devant Marquise. In Osselin’s case, the Charry woman was arrested several months ago. She had him called to the rescue. He vouched for her and talked the police officers into releasing her. Yet he was unable to have the case against her dismissed. He then tried to convince her to surrender of her own accord, but when she declined, he reported her himself.”
“Was she his mistress?”
“What do you think?”
“Is she young? Pretty?”
“Both.”
“Would you have reported me if you had been in Osselin’s position?”
“Of course not.”
I took his hand in mine. “You should think first of your own safety. If I were arrested, I would not even mention your name. I am grateful for all you did already and would never compromise you.”
“I would try to save you till the end, Gabrielle, no matter what you say. I spoke to Robespierre on Osselin’s behalf, but he was not inclined to let the case slip into oblivion. There are things you do not know about this business. Osselin’s own brother, who is a sworn priest, also reported him. Finally, the Charry woman had a second, unrelated lover, whom she also entertained in Father Osselin’s hospitable rectory.” He shrugged. “Everyone betrayed everyone else in some way or other. The story, you see, is somewhat less romantic than it seems at first. Robespierre was not favourably impressed by any of the characters, and I cannot blame him for refusing to intervene. I still felt that I could not let Osselin go to the guillotine without trying to do something for him.”
“What about Madame de Charry?”
“She went to Brussels for a while. She is guilty of emigration. She is doomed.”
“Poor woman.”
“The law is clear, Gabrielle. Any émigré caught within the territory of the Republic is subject to a death sentence. I need not tell you why. The only reason for them to come back to France is to spy for the foreign powers. So spare me the expression of your pity, and listen to me for a change.”
Pierre-André grasped me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “If you are ever arrested again, I want to be informed of it immediately. Do you hear me? Immediately. I will face the consequences, whatever they may be. What I do not want is to find you without warning in my courtroom or to read your name after the fact among the list of those sent to the guillotine. The earlier I know of your arrest, the better chance I will have to help you.”
With this he pulled me close.
The Marquise de Charry was indeed found guilty of emigration and sentenced to death. Osselin escaped with a deportation sentence, which was converted to life imprisonment. Madame de Charry’s second lover, Osselin’s brother and the arresting officers were acquitted.
78
It was not yet six in the afternoon, an early hour for Pierre-André’s visits, when he interrupted our game of whist. To amuse Aimée, who has always been fond of cards, I had purchased a deck in the new style. The Kings had been replaced by the Genies of the Arts, War, Peace and Commerce, the Queens by the Liberties of the Press, the Professions, Marriage and Religion, all wearing tunics in the antique style. The Knaves had turned into the Equalities of Rights, Ranks, Duties and Colours, the latter represe
nted by a Negro man holding a rifle and trampling his broken chains. There was not a crown in sight.
I rose to greet Pierre-André, who barely responded to my salutation. He was carrying a flat parcel, wrapped in the coarse canvas used for flour sacks, and did not look pleased. The size of the object, five feet in length by three in width, was familiar. My heart sank.
“Send your daughter to the other room,” he said in the Roman language.
Aimée dropped her cards and ran without waiting for me to open my mouth.
“Are you not curious to see what I brought?” he asked. “Open it.”
I reached for my scissors and with shaky hands cut the string tying the parcel. When the burlap fell to the floor, I saw myself, clad in a transparent drapery, my hair flowing down to my waist. The gilded frame bore the mention The Baroness de Peyre in bold black letters.
“So?” asked Pierre-André.
I hesitated. “I thought it had been destroyed.” Indeed I had hoped so.
“Is this all you have to say?”
I was standing next to the table, toying with the Liberty of Marriage. The female figure wore a drapery similar to mine in the painting, although not so sheer. The words Modesty and Divorce were printed on the card.
“I am thoroughly ashamed of it, Pierre-André. I was only eighteen at the time. I would never let myself be painted in this manner now.”
“Thank you for giving me this assurance. I already feel happier.”
“Where did you find it?”
“I was walking on Rue Honoré, past a used furniture shop full of portraits of aristocrats and other discards from the Old Regime,” he said. “Imagine my astonishment when I beheld, displayed in the middle of the window, a familiar face. Actually, more than a face, for the rest was familiar too. You had been given the place of honour. And rightly so, because I was reminded of what Romeo says of Juliet:
So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.
Of course I had to purchase this thing. I do not want a nude picture of you displayed in a shop window.”
I looked at the floor.
“Also, your name on the frame might cause you to be recognized,” he continued. “The merchant wanted two hundred francs for it. I told him that I would not pay more than fifty for the picture of a shameless little hussy. He argued, reasonably enough, that your state of undress was precisely what made this painting more valuable than the other portraits in his shop. We agreed on seventy francs. It was money well spent.” Pierre-André pointed at the picture. “Observe how the painter rendered the roundness of your breasts, the elegance of your arms and legs, the thinness of your waist. The fellow did justice to your personal advantages.”
“It was Madame Lebrun.”
“At least you had enough modesty not sit naked for a man. But this masterpiece must have been commissioned by one. Was it Villers?”
“Yes.”
“Did he decide how you would be painted?”
“Yes.”
“So you let him do this to you?”
I made no response.
“My hand itches,” he said, glowering, “when I think of the correction you deserve.”
I dropped the Liberty of Marriage and drew back a few paces. “Villers is no more. Please do not be jealous of the dead.”
“I am not jealous of Villers. I am speaking of you. And what about the living? By an unfortunate coincidence, I was reminded this morning of another of your suitors.”
I stared at him. “Whom do you mean?”
“Guess.”
“Lauzun? General Biron?” I asked after a pause.
“Exactly.”
“I am very sad. I read about his arrest, but did not know that his case was coming to trial. He was, he is my friend.”
“Your friend?”
“He never was my lover.”
“You must have been the only woman at Court he did not bed.”
“Perhaps. I did not keep a record of his adventures, nor did I care about them. I am telling you the truth.”
I wanted to know whether Pierre-André would sit as a judge at Lauzun’s trial but this did not seem an auspicious time to ask.
“You are dying to make some kind of request,” said Pierre-André, his eyes narrowed.
I looked at him and took a deep breath. “You made me promise not to bother you with any pleas for leniency, and I would never ask for any favours of the kind. I know how angry you are, Pierre-André. But if you are to sit as a judge at Lauzun’s trial, I beg you not to use your functions to harm him.”
“Ah! Here we are!” Pierre-André’s hands were clenched into fists. “If you must know, I was supposed to conduct his preliminary questioning, but I found an excuse not do so. I do not want anything to do with the trial of someone so closely associated with you. As to harming him, I would hardly need to do anything. It is all too clear that a General who repeatedly attempts to resign his command in wartime, as he did, is a traitor.”
I now expected my portrait to be thrown into the fire as a sacrifice to the dark god of jealousy, but Pierre-André was content to leave it standing against a wall, staring at us. I had never liked it much, but now it seemed to be mocking me. I asked his permission to cover it again with the burlap before I called Aimée to dinner.
That night, I ordered from the tavern a dish of tripoux, an Auvergne specialty of which Pierre-André was particularly fond, and a bottle of his favourite Burgundy wine. I watched him from the corner of my eye during the meal. He barely said a word and did not look at me. He retired to the bedroom, a glass of wine in his hand, immediately after dinner.
I tidied the dining parlour and put Aimée to bed on the couch.
“Mama,” she asked, fighting tears, “is Citizen Pierre-André angry with you?”
“No, dearest, he is only upset over that painting he brought here.”
“Is he going to hurt you?”
“Of course not. He is a kind man.”
I caressed her forehead and kissed her good night.
I was in no hurry to face Pierre-André’s wrath, but had to confront the consequences of my past actions. Mustering my courage, I opened the door to the bedroom. He was seated cross-legged on the carpet in front of the hearth, staring into the fire. One of his large hands supported his chin while the other rested on his knee. I wondered how fiercely they were itching. Still worse than the fear of his anger was the thought that I had incurred his contempt or even lost his affections. I approached slowly and knelt before him.
“You may beat me, Pierre-André. I hope you will forgive me afterwards.”
“Come here,” he said, reaching for the back of my neck. I stiffened. To my astonishment, he drew me close. “Gabrielle, I told you already that I have forgiven you. True, at first I was a bit upset at finding a nude portrait of you publicly displayed.” He smiled. “Now that the thing is no longer taunting me from a shop window, I might even take a liking to it.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, tears of relief and gratitude spilling over.
“You are silly,” he said. “Do you not know that I love you?”
He left early the next morning, the painting under his arm.
A week later, after a two-day trial, Lauzun was found guilty of having “left his armies in idleness” and sentenced to death. He was to be guillotined on the very last day of 1793. I could not let an old friend die without taking leave of him. Although I had never before attended any execution since the inception of the guillotine, I waited in the bitter cold at the corner of the Pont-Neuf, on the Right Bank of the river, and watched the cart, drawn by two large white horses, approach. Lauzun was alone on it, still handsome in spite of his now heavier features and greying hair. It had been shortened on the nape and the collar of his shirt cut off to facilitate the operation of the guillotine. He looked tired and bored. As the cart turned into the Rue Saint-Honoré, now Rue Honoré, he saw me and sat up. He smiled at me. A moment later,
he closed his eyes, out of sadness or because he wanted to keep one image on his mind for the rest of his life.
I walked slowly home. I remembered the premiere of Tarare at the Opera, six years earlier. Villers had died at the Palace on the 10th of August. The Duke d’Orléans had been guillotined in November. And now, of the three men I had met that night, none remained alive.
79
One day in February of 1794, Pierre-André arrived at my lodgings and embraced me without saying a word. He sat down and took me in his lap. I immediately thought of the Osselin affair.
“What is it?” I asked, looking into his eyes. “You are in trouble because of me. Are you going to be arrested?”
He shook his head. “Thank you for thinking of me first, my beloved. No, it has nothing to do with me.”
“Has something happened to my brother?”
“Confound your brother. He is fine, and will outlive both of us. No, this concerns your sister Hélène.”
I closed my eyes. I had begged Pierre-André to find a trace of her, and now that he had done so, I did not want to hear his news.
“Oh, no,” I moaned. “She is dead.”
Pierre-André remained silent for a moment.
“Yes,” he said at last, “it does seem that she is.”
I sobbed while he rocked me like a sick child. At last I asked: “How did she die? She was killed, was she not?”
“You know Carrier, of course. He was sent to Nantes as a Representative in Mission.”
“Yes, I read about it. I remember him from the time when he was the Baron’s attorney.”
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 49
