by John Hulme
Chapter Two
Arrival
"They come, they come," shouted Pierre, rushing into the Place d'Armes waving his hands. He pointed excitedly back across the Parade Square in the direction of the road that led from Auxerre to Avallon. In the distance the sound of marching feet, the ringing of iron horseshoes on the gravel road and the grinding of cart wheels could be faintly heard.
"Attention, attention," said Mayor Jean-Gillaume Carthoun quietly. He did not have to raise his voice; his audience had said little since the news arrived. Standing round the Mayor in the Place d'Armes were the more important citizens of Avallon, at least those that were left. It had only been five years since the Bishop of Dijon had paraded the bones of Saint Hugh into the local Avallon church, but during that time there had been many, almost unbelievable, changes in the lives of the villagers and their village.
Amazingly the King was dead and France was now a republic. At the beginning of the year, on January 21, 1793, King Louis XVI and been taken to the Place de la Revolution, in Paris where his head had been chopped off by that engine of the revolution still called the "Louison" in Avallon after the name of its inventor. However, most people in Paris now called it a "Guillotine", after the successful campaign by Dr. Joseph Ignace Guillotin to have it adopted as a humanitarian way of executing criminals. He had his wish on March 25, 1792, when the National Assembly voted to make the "Louison" the state means of execution.
Following a cry of "Tambours!" by Santerre, to drown out the Kings last words, the heavy blade had fallen on the Royal neck and ended the Monarchy in France. The Mayor of Avallon shuddered as he thought about it. At the time he had been an elected representative to the Convention and a member of the Girondin fraction, the more moderate members of that body. When the question "What sentence has Louis, King of the French, incurred?" had been put to them on January 16th his vote had been one of the 334 cast against execution, but 361 had been cast for the death penalty.
Violence had broken out on the streets and in the Convention chamber. Seeing what was going to happen Carthoun had hurriedly left Paris and fled back to his village, where, no one else wanting the job, he had become Mayor. Back in Paris, the death of the King had been a substantial victory for the "Mountain", the more extreme fraction of the Convention. It had also begun a series of disasters not only for the Convention itself, but for all France.
Armies of the Revolution who were guarding France against invasion suddenly lost thousands of their volunteers and 200,000 troops melted away and returned to their homes. Conscription was introduced and revolts against its enforcement broke out across the countryside. A Revolutionary Tribunal was set up on March 10 to try all suspects who might be plotting against the revolution and the new Republic, and after a perfunctory examination, forwarded its victims to the dreaded Committee of Public Safety. The "Louison", now the guillotine, suddenly became very busy.
Safely back in Avallon, Mayor Carthoun watched as Marat, dominating the Convention, had called out the names of the remaining Girondins; those whom he wanted executed. Carthoun's neck, many miles from Paris, had tingled when he read his own name in the broadsheet. From July of that year essentially all power became concentrated in the hands of the Committee of Public Safety, and its members set about systematically to remove all opposition.
What was later called "The Terror" began on September 17, 1793, when the Law of Suspects finally removed any restraint and the twelve members of the Committee became more and more extreme. South of Avallon, in the city of Lyons the Griondins who still had heads on their shoulders, finally gained control of the town and began to impose a degree of regional autonomy that the Jacobins felt would break the country apart. They had to be stopped.
Acting swiftly, the Committee of Public Safety appointed a number of "Representatives on Mission", gave them absolute power to depose elected officials, arrest suspects, draft men into the Army and set up local committees of public safety. They also gave these "Representatives on Mission" a company of well armed National Guards and their own guillotine. Then they sent them out into the countryside to restore order.
It was one of these traveling Representatives who was now approaching the Place d'Armes in Avallon, and no one was looking forward to the visit. Behind the Mayor, Simon Duroc stretched his neck and peered over the shoulders of his fellow villagers. He wanted to see what was happening.
"Keep your head down, Simon," said Collot, his friend and fellow Jacobin, "From what I have heard from Auxerre, our guests are no friends of landowners. I would not make myself too obvious if I was you."
"But why!" protested Simon, "I have been a Jacobin all my life, and good friend to the revolution and the Republic. What have I to fear?"
"They may not like the fact that your father left his village to fight for the 'whites', and never came back," said Collot, dryly. "It may go hard on you that your father fought with the nobility against the patriotic National Guard."
Simon shrugged, he could hardly deny that, at the beginning of the revolution, which had started with the declaration of a Republic in 1791, his father had been attacked as a 'landowner' (which he was not) and a parasite (which he was not) and a royalist lackey (which he was). When a region in the south had declared itself loyal to the king, he had packed his bags, said goodbye to his family and gone to join them. Simon, the eldest son, had been left in charge of the winery, his mother, brother, sister and the vines.
"I have nothing to do with monarchists or counter revolutionaries," said Simon, half to himself, "They will see that."
"Let's hope so, here they come."
First to arrive on the open ground beside the Place d'Armes were a troop of National Guard soldiers. Each wore the required red Phrygian cap, or bonnet rouge, the symbol of their revolution. They also wore pantelons, which had replaced the middle class breeches, or culottes. It was by this name, sans-coulottes, that they were known. A short jacket, or carmagnole and a pike completed their outfit, but most of them also carried a long musket slung across their shoulders. They were all city folk, mostly from the slums of Paris and their faces were almost as scary to the villagers of Avallon as their weapons.
Behind the sans-coulottes of the National Guard rode a half troop of horsemen. To call them cavalry would have been over generous. Republican armies were notoriously short of trained riders, horsemanship being a skill of the nobility. At the head of these horsemen rode a lean, angular tight-lipped man of about 34 years. He rode uncomfortably with small bobbing motions that shook his loose large black hat decorated with a huge tricolor ribbon. Around his chest and over one shoulder was an even larger version of the tricolor ribbon whose broad red, white and blue stripes were now the required colors of the revolution. Even without these symbols of office, however, it was clear that this thin, spare man was the leader of the group.
Without speaking, or acknowledging their presence, the leader of the horsemen pulled his large roan mare to a stop in the middle of the open ground, and looked over his shoulder. The last part of his entourage was just arriving. A shudder went through Mayor Carthoun's party. Bringing up the rear were three carts. On the first of these sat a man whose face was permanently twisted into a demonic grin and from whose mouth ran a perpetual trickle of saliva. He handled the reigns of the carthorse with careless ease and jerked his head in all directions, but apparently without seeing anything. Behind him, on the cart was a sight more terrifying than the driver. It was instantly recognizable as a portable guillotine that rattled and shook its heavy blade as the cart crossed the cobbles.
Still jerking his head, the driver of this death cart pulled to a halt behind the troop of horsemen and facing the Avallon villagers. With the arrival of the carts, the leader spoke for the first time.
"Citizens," he said in a thin, surprisingly reedy voice. "Citizens of Avallon, my name is Joseph Fouche and I have been sent as Representative on Mission to your village. I am here to root out any corruption, any Royalists and any clergy who may still be ho
lding to false notions of loyalty to the Capets. Make no mistake, we are at war citizens. We are at war with the enemies of France and we are at war with the enemies of the Revolution. We must be harsh with these enemies." He paused, his nose dripping, then continued, "I intend to use the fullness of the authority delegated to me for this task. The time for half-measures is over. I warn you, I will strike hard against any who defy me."
He looked around to gauge the effect of his words, but only saw scared faces. This pleased him. Joseph Fouche, a former Latin and physics professor, was one of the most interesting and unusual personalities that the Revolution produced. At the time of his visit to Avallon he was in his second transformation, this time from Girondist to a member of the Mountain. To prove himself to his new masters, he was on his way to Lyons, where, later that year, he would participate in one of the bloodiest atrocities of the Terror.
Prisoners, who had done nothing but be denounced by a neighbor, would be take from jail and shot in batches of sixty at a time. The total killed by Fouche in this way exceeded 1,667. In all, 18,000 to 40,000 people would be executed during the brief period of the Terror, and Joseph Fouche would be among its ablest and productive executioners.
"Who speaks for the citizens of Avallon?"
"I, Citizen," answered Carthoun, nervously, "I have the honor of being the Mayor of Avallon."
Fouche regarded him. It was growing cold and a small drip was forming at the end of his long thin nose. His sharp eyes locked onto the speaker.
"I require that these good citizen soldiers of the revolution be housed and fed. See to it."
"Yes Citizen, at once."
Ignoring the answer, Fouche turned and rapped out a string of orders to the National Guard soldiers standing behind him. At once a small detachment moved off in the direction of the church, and a second detachment began to unload the second cart, lifting down a heavy desk and a set of chairs which they carried to one side of the square.
"Tomorrow," Fouche continued, turning back to Mayor Carthoun and his fellow citizens, "I will hold a tribunal to assess how well the citizens of Avallon are contributing to the Revolution. All personal property will be evaluated and if any citizen has not given his fair share, it will be taken from him. All complaints by true and loyal citizens will be heard, and justice provided against any of the pettibougousie or nobility who are still continuing their oppression of these good citizens. All church property is here by confiscated by the Sate and will be turned over to me at once."
At this the small group of villagers could not help glancing in the direction of the church where soldiers were taking up positions by the main door. It was clear that they intended to prevent anyone from entering the church and to stop them from removing any of its contents.
"Of course, Citizen," stuttered Carthoun, "but you will find that we are all good revolutionaries here in Avallon." At which Fouche snorted.
"I have heard similar claims in all the villages between here and Paris, and in each village I have found those who selfishly hold back property that rightly belongs to the Sate." He paused and leaned forward on his horse, bringing his cold, hard face closer to that of the Mayor.
"And in each village," he went on softly, "Madame Guillotine has rewarded those who thought they could deceive me."
"Not here, Citizen, not here," Carthoun shook out the words. This companions stepped back involuntary.
"We'll see," murmured Fouche, "but the hour grows late and my fellow citizens and I have been on the road from Auxerre since the morning. Citizen Mayor, see to their needs. Tomorrow we will test the purity of your republican sentiments. In the meantime, no one is to go near the church, see that all the citizens of Avallon understand that."
"Of course, Citizen, but we have no priest or Cure here, and the church is empty."
"That is interesting," said Fouche in his softest voice, "because I was told in Auxerre that the church in Avallon holds a reliquary of some value. Is that not so?"
Carthoun shook with fear. Fouche was well informed. When the Bishop of Dijon had left the village five years ago, he had left the bones of Saint Hugh in their jeweled reliquary on the altar. The intention had been for the Saint to spend a few months in his home village before continuing his journey to the Chartreuse in Grenoble where he was supposed to have celebrated the 550th year of his birth. But in between, there had been a revolution.
The winter of 1788 had been one of the worst on record. Thousands had starved and hundreds had died. Riots broke out in almost all the large towns, and the authorities had enough problems quelling and feeding their populace to worry about the bones of an English Saint. So they had remained in a small church in Avallon, slowly to have been forgotten. Except, it appeared, by Joseph Fouche.
Mayor Carthoun's red face told Fouche all he needed to know, and he gave a thin, tight-lipped smile that sent shivers down the spine of the unfortunate villager.
"Citizen Sergeant," he called out, "double your usual vigilance tonight. Tomorrow I inspect the church, and if I find anything of value, Madame Guillotine will have her say."
A wicked grin spread across the face of the sans-culotte who appeared to be in charge of the soldiers. "Yes Citizen," he laughed, "all will be safe."
"Sleep well, Citizen Mayor," said Fouche, "we start early in the morning." With that he pulled heavily and clumsily on the reigns of his horse and the villagers had to jump out of the way as the large mare turned and took its rider across the square. Almost at once the Sergeant approached the dispirited group.
"You," he said pointing at Carthoun, "come with me and see to the billeting of my men." There was no refusing, and the villagers watched helplessly as two or three of the sans-culotte National Guards were apportioned to each house and home in the village.
Two men, both originally thieves from the Paris slums but now honored guards in the service of the Citizen Representative, were billeted in the Duroc household, where the only person to greet them enthusiastically was Simon. His Jacobin sympathies and his revolutionary ardor were still unabated, despite the loss of his father and the loss of most of his family's position in the village. Although, he had been allowed to continue running the winery; most citizens still needed their wine. His mother and sister were considerably less enthusiastic as the two Parisians, with true patriotic sentiment, broke open several bottles of their best vintage and demanded food.
Alain Duroc, now a sturdy, wide eyed boy of 11 years, came and stood beside his brother's chair as the men talked.
"Your Mayor will certainly kiss Madame Guillotine tomorrow," said Herbois, the older of the two men as they sat around the table eating Madame Duroc's food and partaking liberally of Simon's wine. "Citizen Fouche has a nose for these things, and Citizen Carthoun would be well advised to spend this night saying goodbye to his family."
"But Jean is a true republican and was a member of the Convention," protested Simon, "I myself was an elector for this district and helped choose him to go to the third Assembly."
"Huh!", grunted Herbois, "Gironde or Mountain?"
"Well, er, Gironde," Simon said reluctantly.
"Then he is certainly a dead man," laughed Gaudet, the other sans-culotte, stuffing more bread in his mouth, "Citizen Fouche has recently seen the light and abandoned his Girondist sympathies. He is now a supporter of Robespierre and was appointed as a Representative on Mission to Lyons where he will help Citizen Collot d'Herbois clean out the last of the Girondists from that city."
"But from what Jean has told me, it was men like him, the 180 Girondin lawyers, who took the lead in proposing legislation in the Assembly," Simon said, pushing another bottle at his guests.
"I would know nothing about that," grunted Herbois helping himself, "I stay out of politics. But it has been my experience that it is always the liberals that begin the trouble making, and then wail and beat their chests when others take over from them and put their ideas into practice. I stay a long way away from liberals. "
"We were on the stree
ts fighting the revolution with our bodies and our pikes," said Gaudet, "while the soft liberals like your Mayor were inside the Convention spouting words and making fine sounds."
"Give me an upright Citizen of the likes of Fouche every time," went on Herbois. "At least you know where you stand with him. No fine sentiments, all hard reality."
"Will he really take the church tomorrow?" asked Alain, speaking for the first time.
The two sans-culottes laughed. "He'll leave the stones, but not much else. We have sacked every church from here to Paris, and always found something of interest. Most of the priests have fled, but we always manage to catch one or two and after a few prods with a pike they usually remember where they hid the crosses and the plate."
Alain looked at his mother, and she silently motioned him to be quiet.
"The Cure of Avallon was driven out years ago," she told the two soldiers, slamming a plate of ham down in front of them to hide the gasp coming from her youngest son. It had only been last week that she had taken him to see the Cure and have him once more put his hands on the bones of the Saint, which were still on the altar. His fits of shaking and rigor still attacked him at regular intervals, and it was only a contact with the English Saint that saved him. What was his mother saying?
"We have nothing here, it was all stolen years ago," his mother went on.
"I doubt that, Citizeness," grinned Herbois, "but we'll see tomorrow. Back in Auxerre an Abbe was 'questioned' by Citizen Fouche. After the right amount of persuasion he told us not only where his own cross was hidden, but also told us some interesting facts about Avallon and the jewels that could be found protecting the bones of a Saint. But then, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"Here, Citizen, some more wine," said Simon hurriedly before his mother could answer. "We are all loyal to the Republic here in Avallon. Anything left in the church is, of course, the property of the State and Citizen Fouche is welcome to take it. In this family we have no interest in these matters."
"Which is as it should be," replied Herbois, still keeping his eyes on Madame Duroc. "This ham is excellent Citizeness, you are lucky to have so much fine food. In most of the places we have stayed, the people were not so generous to their guests, a few even tried to hide their wine or their cheese. But not here. You know how to treat someone who is defending your liberties."
"Of course," said Simon, "but you must be tired after your journey. You must take my bed tonight, I'll sleep here."
"Perhaps one more bottle," said Gaudet, "we don't often drink such fine wine. Where do you get it?"
"It is ours," said Alain, proudly.
"He means, we own it," said his brother hurriedly. He had remembered the words of warning given to him by his friend Collot earlier.
"Ahh yes," said Herbois, "once again I must congratulate you. For a good republican citizen, you live well. I must tell Citizen Fouche about your generosity and your good fortune at the tribunal tomorrow."
The implication in his words were not lost on Simon, or his mother, who put yet two more bottles on the table and gathered up her youngest son.
"Goodnight to you Citizens," she said and hustled Alain out of the room and into the kitchen. Behind her the drinking went on for another hour before the two sans-culottes finally fell asleep over the table. They never made it to Simon's bed.
(return to Table of Contents)
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