David had painted the portrait only the year before; the Lavoisiers had paid him 7,000 livres for the work. Marie-Anne had also been taking drawing lessons from him. Doing so also allowed her access to his great soul-heart, another of the vast ones; she doubted that he even felt her touch on him.
Most of the other paintings in the warehouse were older works, and safely free of controversy, but not all. The huge ink-and-pen sketch of The Oath of the Tennis Court, David’s unfinished large-scale painting, was pinned to the wall across from Marie-Anne’s portrait, along with The Lictors Bring to Brutus the Bodies of His Sons.
“I know I told you that I wanted to borrow the portrait, but—” David pressed his lips together tightly, sucking in his breath with an audible wet sound. “Marie-Anne, I must ask you to forgive me for what I’m about to say, and understand that I have no choice in the matter. You know that my sympathies are with the Jacobins and Robespierre, as I suspect are yours and Antoine’s …” He shrugged. “I will just say it baldly. I’ve been told that if I display your portrait it might incite public agitation, since Antoine has been outspoken about tax reform and social issues.” David shook his head. “This wasn’t my choice, but the Academy’s—forced upon them by the royals. I can’t show my Brutus, either; they say it’s nothing but a Republican symbol. They want no paintings in this Salon that have any possible political interpretation at all.”
“Then why are you placing your paintings there, since so many of them lately are intended to have exactly that effect?” Marie-Anne interjected, and David shrugged. She knew why; she could feel it in the shifting patterns of his green heart: the Salon was still the premier event for French painters; it was still a showcase where careers were enhanced, and David was nothing if not passionate about his career. Politically, he might be an anti-royalist, but he also wanted to make certain that his career continued to advance, no matter who was in charge. “Jacques-Louis, Antoine and I aren’t Jacobins or Royalists,” she continued as David looked down at the floor. “Oui, Antoine has his position in the Ferme-Générale, but he’s a lowly gunpowder administrator. Neither Antoine nor I care who runs the government as long as that government is good, and as long as we’re allowed to pursue our studies—all we want is fairness for everyone. Look at me, Jacques-Louis—I have neither an abiding interest in tax collecting nor in taking down the king. We’re not advocates for either side—so neither should be our portrait painting.”
“This wasn’t my decision,” David repeated. “I’ll have the painting returned to your house. And again, my apologies both to you and to Antoine.”
Marie-Anne gave a sigh. There was no use arguing—or rather, it seemed there was nothing but arguing when it came to politics these days. “You needn’t apologize for what isn’t your fault,” she told him. “It’s the times we live in. I’m sorry for you, since it means that your newest paintings won’t be in the Salon.” She embraced him; he returned the gesture half-heartedly—she could feel him still staring at the paintings around the room. “My carriage is waiting,” she told him. “You should come to dinner at our house next week. Antoine is concerned about you.”
“I will,” he told her, the words slurred more than usual. “You’re right. It’s just the times we live in …”
Marie-Anne reflected on that as she left the studio. Returning to Paris had felt so right, like coming home after a long time spent away. And being with Antoine had also felt right. His soul-heart was different from most she’d experienced: the visual artists, musicians, and writers. His passion was also hers; he loved the exploration of chemistry, and so she nurtured his energy and bound it to herself, allowing him to fall in love with her.
And theirs was a true partnership and exploration. Oh, certainly society credited Antoine with all the breakthroughs and discoveries, but he always insisted that she deserved just as much credit even if the world would not give it to her. She could be his Muse and allow his green heart to grow, and she learned as he learned.
She had already nearly gained back all the skills and knowledge she’d lost so long ago.
Antoine also allowed her to continue to pursue her other interests and abilities. As Marie-Anne Lavoisier, she translated the Irishman Richard Kirwan’s “Essay on Phlogiston” from English to French, which allowed Antoine and others to dispute Kirwan’s ideas on the respiratory process. One of the reasons she was taking lessons from David was so that she could create the sketches and engravings of her and Antoine’s laboratory equipment for their joint treatises. As the spouse of the famous Monsieur Lavoisier, she hosted gatherings where the great minds of the day could discuss this new “chemistry” and her and Antoine’s ideas.
She felt fulfilled; she felt creatively satisfied herself as she rarely had in her long life. She was happy; she was content.
They spent most of their time together working in the laboratory conducting research. Marie-Anne and Antoine had the relationship that she’d wished she could have had with Nicolas: a true collaboration, a genuine partnership. With him, with his unknowing aid, she was as close to the secret of the elixir as she had been in her last years with Nicolas. The aged mice to which she gave the current version of the potion regressed immediately in age, and would remain that way for weeks before the sudden, aggressive aging took them.
So close. So very close. She’d made certain to write down the process and ingredients, and to place those notes in more than one place. She was determined not to lose the notes again, not after the long centuries it had taken her to come back to this place in her research.
She loved Antoine as she had Vivaldi and as she had Bernini. And there was more with him as well. She was his friend; she was his peer and equal. It made their relationship very easy.
Or it had until the last few years, with the establishment of an Estates-General; with the Réveillon Riots in Paris, caused by low wages and food shortages; when the dismissed members of the Estates-General swore their oath in the Tennis Court; when the Bastille was stormed and taken by the citizens.
The world had turned uncertain and dangerous around her. Her precious Paris had become a place she sometimes didn’t understand.
It was raining outside—a cold, teeming October rain. Pulling up her skirts, she ran from the studio to the carriage, glad for her cloak and wig, which kept her head mostly dry even if it itched her scalp. The carriage jounced as she stepped into it, the driver looking soaked and sullen as he held the door for her. Distantly, she could hear church bells ringing, which seemed strange. “What’s going on?” she asked the driver, who shrugged silently. “The house, s’il vous plaît,” she told him as he climbed onto the seat and slapped the reins at the placid horse. The carriage’s ironclad wheels rang against the cobblestones as Marie-Anne leaned back against the cushions, closing her eyes and wondering how she wanted to tell Antoine that their portrait wasn’t going to be permitted in the Salon.
She wasn’t sure how long it was when she became aware of the sound of drums and many voices, chanting in unison and shouting. She glanced out through the rain-spattered window to her right, seeing the Hôtel de Ville besieged by what appeared to be thousands of people—nearly all of them women. It appeared that the mob had successfully breached the door of the hôtel, as she could see figures running from the doors with arms full of provisions, the few uniformed guards helpless in the face of the thousands. Nearby, several women were pushing a small cannon toward the street. The drums were loud and beating a cadence. “À Versailles!” she heard the crowd roar in unison. “Apportez la maison de roi!”
To Versailles! Bring the king home!
Before Marie-Anne could react or tell the driver to move on, she felt the carriage start to rock violently, the springs protesting madly as the mob pushed at it. Before Marie-Anne could react, the doors were yanked open and grubby hands were pulling her out. She glimpsed the faces—women, all of them, poor and dirt-streaked, many gaunt, drawn, and gap-toothed, their clothing soaked in the persistent rain. “Join us!” one
of them shouted to her as she was pulled from the carriage. Her wig and bonnet were knocked from her head in the tussle, lost beneath the crowd. The rain soaked her bare head, darkening her red-hued, matted hair. Somebody pulled her to her feet, just as she was afraid that they would trample her as well. “We go to Versailles to tell our king we need bread and that he must come home to the people! Come with us!” The woman grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the carriage.
Marie-Anne had little choice but to go with the woman. The crowd was pressing all around, and she was forced to move with it. The rain beat down on them as they moved eastward on the boulevard from the hôtel, with Marie-Anne stumbling along helplessly with them. When the woman holding her arm released her, Marie-Anne began inching slowly to the side of boulevard away from the mob’s center, taking her time. She saw the women at the edges of the crowd grabbing other women who were watching, pulling them into the group as Marie-Anne herself had been drawn in. People were waving banners and flags from the houses as the group passed with drums hammering, voices raised in chants and political slogans, and torches hissing and fuming in the rain. The crowd was growing ever larger and more boisterous—not just women now but also some men. Marie-Anne saw more cannon—taken from the hôtel’s defenses, she assumed—being pulled along by women.
They were approaching the Place de Grève as Marie-Anne continued to seek the edge of the marchers. Over their heads, she could see the colorful uniforms of the National Guardsmen. The marchers began to call out to the soldiers: “Join us! We are the people! Join us!” Marie-Anne could see the Marquis de Lafayette, their commander and one of France’s war heroes, on his horse; he was talking urgently to his lieutenants as the mob began to bunch up in the face of the soldiers. The noise level rose, and Marie-Anne was afraid that the confrontation would soon turn brutal. She pushed her way to the far edge of the crowd, toward the nearest cross street. Fists and elbows flew as she fought her way through, one smashing into her mouth so hard that she tasted blood.
Then, staggering, she was free of the worst of the mob and was lurching out among the onlookers on a side street. Exhausted from the struggle, Marie-Anne leaned in the lee of an alleyway between buildings. She was disheveled, her skirts torn, her hair a mess, and she could feel blood trickling down the side of her face and taste it in her mouth. She wiped at her mouth, drawing in a hiss as she touched puffed and split lips. That brought back a brief memory of Nicolas, when he’d attacked her just before she’d taken the elixir. She’d tasted blood in her mouth then …
Marie-Anne’s eyes widened, her breath held.
Nicolas had scoffed at her in the garden of the palazzo. “There was something different with that version of the formula, some change you made but didn’t write down, or perhaps it was some accident—something introduced to the potion that you didn’t notice …”
Nicolas had been right. There had been one change that was never written in her notebook. She stared at the red stain on her fingertips.
Energy flooded back into her. She pushed herself away from the stones of the building. As quickly as she could, she left behind the cries of the mob and made her way toward home.
*
“Marie-Anne! Mon dieu, what happened to you! I was frantic with worry.” Antoine ran down the stairs to hug Marie-Anne, his wig askew on his head as the servants fretted and fussed over her. After a moment, he held her at arm’s length, his face registering distress. “You’ve been hurt, and you’re soaked entirely through. Etienne, fetch some blankets; Josette, get a cloth to clean your mistress’ face …”
“I’m fine,” Marie-Anne protested. Antoine looked so worried that she hugged him again. “Truthfully, my dear. I’m fine, especially now that I’m home.”
“What happened? The carriage driver came back saying that you’d been attacked and taken.”
As they moved to the reception room off the foyer so that she could sit and be comfortable, as the servants brought wine, bread, and cheese for her and built up the fire in the hearth nearest her, Marie-Anne slowly gave Antoine the tale from the time she left David’s studio, leaving out her epiphany regarding the elixir—she had never told him the truth about her private experiments; he thought she was working on a solution to help those with lung difficulties to breathe easier, as an adjunct to Antoine’s own research disproving the myth of phlogiston. As she talked, Verdette, their ancient gray Chartreux cat, wove her way between Marie-Anne’s legs, rubbing against her and purring contentedly when Marie-Anne finally reached down to pet her.
When she finished the story, now with Verdette curled in her lap, Antoine was shaking his head. “I didn’t know what the Guardsmen were going to do,” Marie-Anne told him. “So I pushed my way out of the mob. That’s when this happened.” Marie-Anne touched her now-scabbed and swollen lip. “Have you heard any news since?”
Antoine sighed. “Only that they have gone on to Versailles, with Lafayette’s Guardsmen escorting them. None of this will come to any good. I’m afraid for our country, and afraid for us. Women marching to beg the king for bread, and a simple portrait considered too controversial …” His voice trailed off. “You must be exhausted, dear,” he said, stroking her face. “Why don’t you take a rest?”
She shook her head, the motion causing Verdette to look up at her. “No, there’s too much I need to do. Don’t worry about me, Antoine. I’m not that fragile.” She smiled at him, feeling the gesture tug at her abused lips. “Why, I might just stay with you forever.”
Marie-Anne Paulze Lavoisier: 1791
NEARLY TWO YEARS. That was how long it took her to find the perfect balance of ingredients for the elixir. Too little blood, and the elixir worked as it had before, granting the mice an extended youth and lifetime, but still forcing the sudden and rapid aging to eventually kill them. Too much blood, and the elixir seemed to rage through them like a fire, regressing them to embryonic stages far too early to be viable, or simply killing them outright in a few moments. In her cages there were mice trapped in an eternal infancy—they were the most pitiful of all.
Nearly two years. Sometimes she thought that France itself was replicating her experiments, and—like her—eternally failing to find the right mixture. In the wake of what had come to be called the Women’s Bread March, King Louis and the royal family had been forcibly returned to Paris from Versailles, but that had not ended the crisis. The next year brought the suppression of monastic vows and religious orders, saw the nobility abolished by the National Assembly, and in February of this year, there had been the “Day of Daggers,” as Lafayette ordered the arrest of over 400 aristocrats at the Tuileries Palace. The royal family, in June, had tried to flee to Varennes, but had been captured; Louis XVI was forced to return to Paris. There were reports of a bloody slave uprising in Saint Domingue.
Finally, in the last week, the king had formally accepted the new Constitution. Marie-Anne hoped that would finally end the bloodshed and uproar, but nothing was certain. Not in these days.
Also during those two years, Verdette, the Lavoisier cat she had named after her daughter, was rapidly failing. Once an active mouser who could often be found prowling their rooms and laboratories, she now mostly slept in a reed basket made into a bed in Marie-Anne’s small lab. She seemed to want only Marie-Anne’s presence, and Marie-Anne would often look up to find the cat regarding her curiously as she mixed solutions and purified chemicals in the retorts.
Now, Marie-Anne paused as she held what she hoped was the true elixir, in a small, blue crystalline vial. She saw the mice in their cages; she could add a few drops to their food and observe what happened. Her notebook was already open, with an inkwell and two quill pens set alongside. This time … she was certain. She could sense it.
Verdette glanced at her and mewled piteously, as if in pain. That made her hesitate. She glanced at the cages of mice, then at Verdette. She went to the cat, scratching her behind her ears. Her fur was dull, as well as matted in some places; she’d stopped grooming herself a few
months ago. Antoine had mentioned several times that Verdette probably would not be alive for the turn of the new year. “We don’t really need immortal mice, do we?” Marie-Anne said to the cat, who was leaning into her fingers. “No, we don’t need that at all. And if it only gives you a few more years, well, we’ll take that too, won’t we?”
In recent months, with Verdette’s limited mobility, Marie-Anne had begun feeding her table scraps as well as the occasional mouse from her cages. Josette had brought in a lunch of a chicken breast; Marie-Anne tore a few small pieces from the breast and put it in Verdette’s bowl. She uncapped the vial of elixir and let several drops fall onto the chicken. She put the bowl in front of Verdette, who sniffed at it suspiciously and looked at Marie-Anne. “Go on,” she said. “Eat it, dear.”
Verdette took a nibble, then attacked the meat more aggressively. Marie-Anne watched, nearly holding her breath—hoping that the formula was as exact as she thought it was, praying that the amount she’d given the cat was correct, afraid that something would go wrong and Verdette would be hurt. It didn’t hurt very long when I took it, and it didn’t seem to be too painful for the mice. The reassurance did little as she watched Verdette take the last piece of chicken and swallow.
For a few moments, nothing happened at all. Then Verdette gave a yowl and came up hard on her front legs. Marie-Anne could see changes rippling through the animal, the fur moving as if insects were scurrying around underneath. Marie-Anne was certain in that moment that she’d made a mistake, that the elixir was still flawed and that she had just condemned Verdette to a horrible, agonizing death.
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