Annette Vallon: A Novel of the French Revolution (48 page)

“There, you’re all right now,” she said. “It’s too bad you had to go and fall in love with an Englishman, Annette. Really. And Marguerite gone. You have no idea how lonely it gets. Oh, Etienne and his friend went to all the dances with me. Etienne has an eye for the ladies now, and they for him. And his friend almost got into a fight with a National Guard officer. I calmed them down. I’m going to bring you some water, now. I’ll have to take the brandy. I don’t know what you were doing tonight, and I don’t want to know, but I think nothing’s worth you ending up like this in the middle of the night and sleeping in a horse stall. You’re the most ridiculous person I know,” and she kissed me on the forehead and left. A few minutes later she came back with a jug of water and blew out the lantern.

Early the next morning, after a few hours of sleep, I rolled up my still-wet clothes, hid them under my riding cloak, and walked down through the quiet town and across the bridge with the first carts. A sentry looked at me as if he knew what I had been up to all night in town. I passed the cloisters of Saint-Saturnin, then saw the smoke rising from the chimney of our own cottage and heard our clucking chickens as I opened our little gate. I was still exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the night before. As Claudette opened the door with Caroline in her arms, and I saw my friend’s relieved expression and my daughter’s beaming face, I thought, it’s time to retire from the Chouans. Caroline reached out her arms to me, and I picked her up and nestled her in my arms.

When one keeps animals, tends a garden, cooks, cleans, goes to market, and cares for a young child with only one other woman to help, one does not need to risk one’s life in the evening to keep ennui from the door. But once I had let the Chouans know that I had other responsibilities besides riding horseback and swimming in rivers at night, William suddenly occupied the place in my thoughts that had been packed full with the details of the next or the last intrigue. I realized that in helping others, I had been also in some way preserving myself from a fearful loneliness. What I simply wanted now was William in the quotidian of my life: hoeing in the garden, walking to market, in bed each night while the stars quietly changed positions outside the window and we quietly adjusted ours within—or to wake beside me, his eyes as eager and alive for the day as his daughter’s. Was it too much to wish for, these common-place joys, to which every married couple had a right?

In what sort of illusion, I asked myself once more, was I living? I knew beyond doubt that William ached to return. I knew also that it was impossible. But since when were one’s dreams bound only by the domain of the possible?

Once a week Angelique came to dinner at the cottage. She never asked about my intrigues, though she knew I had been doing them all summer. This time she brought a guest, a young officer with gold braid on his blue coat and a red sash about his waist. I was concerned until I saw it was Philippe, the count’s son.

“Oh, didn’t you know he ’d been levied this spring?” Angelique said. We were sitting at our table, and Philippe was opening a bottle of wine he had brought, a rare treat.

“Father was furious,” Philippe said. “I was visiting the château when representatives came with the conscription notice. Father told them to leave his property at once. ‘What’s the use of being a city magistrate,’ he said to me, ‘if I can’t keep my own son from being conscripted?’ He actually threw a glass of marc across the room.

And you know how Father prides himself on his sangfroid. I told him, though, ‘I’ve finished at university at Tours. I have nothing to do. Fighting Austrians is at least useful.’ But Father didn’t talk to me for a day, as if it were my fault. Then he burst into tears when I left for training. I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t think working agrees with him. Soldiering is a very honorable profession. Especially defending one’s homeland from the barbarian hordes.”

“As long as those hordes are truly invaders,” I said. “As long as wars of defense don’t become wars of aggression. As long as they don’t use you against your own countrymen—”

“Oh, no fear of that.” He filled our glasses. Caroline sat on my lap and wanted some. I drank from my water, then gave her some. “I’m off to the Rhineland,” Philippe said, “in a week. I’ve completed all my training. One thing Father said before I left was, ‘I’ll get you into the artillery, that’s what I’ll do. No cavalry charges for you
.
’ I don’t mind. I was never that good on horseback, not like you, Annette. And I became a second lieutenant in three months. They need more officers.”

“Because they all get killed off,” I said.

“No fear of that,” Philippe said. “I have the luck of the counts of Blois in my blood. Look who’s by my side,” he added, and put his arm around my younger sister. She was beaming.

“You shouldn’t say things like what you just said, Annette,” she said. “It’s bad luck. Besides, it doesn’t apply to artillery officers.”

“Quite right,” Second Lieutenant of Artillery Thibaut said. Then he nudged my arm with his elbow. “Look at this, Annette,” he said, and he lifted Angelique’s left hand from her lap, and a ring with a small diamond sparkled on her finger.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” Angelique said, “but the marriage is put off until Philippe’s two years are up. It’s a long time.” She sighed. “They don’t want their officers to marry, but engagement is all right. Maman is ecstatic.”

“I’m glad,” I said. Angelique sipped her wine and smiled at me.

“Now he ’ll be gone, and I’ll have another war widow, so to speak, on my hands,” Claudette said at my elbow, as she placed two big dishes on the table, then sat beside me.

“Don’t talk like that either, Claudette,” Angelique said.

“It’s just an expression,” Claudette said and began serving the dinner. “Monsieur William is sipping tea in England, where they don’t have a shortage of sugar. Lieutenant Thibaut—that
does
have a good ring to it—will be sipping Rhineland wine—and there will be more lonely women here.”

“Oh, Philippe said I can still go to dances,” Angelique said. “In fact, he joked that he really just proposed to me so all the officers in town don’t get any ideas.” She smiled coquettishly at her fiancé.

“Any serious ideas,” I said. “
Bon appetit
,” and we started eating.

“Now don’t tell me,” Angelique said, “that you and Claudette caught this trout in the river.”

“No, but I’ve found that food tastes best when it’s from your own garden,” I said. “Isn’t that what Voltaire suggested is all one can ultimately do—tend one’s own garden?”

“The potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and thyme in the casserole,” Claudette said, “I had Madame Annette gather this afternoon.”

“You’re still one of the oddest persons I have ever known,” my sister said to me. “Now you’re a farmer.”

I gave Caroline a bite with her own little spoon. I was pleased she liked it.

“Have you heard about the prison break?” Philippe said. “A counter-revolutionary ring, right here among us, engineered the whole thing.”

Angelique’s eyes were now wide as two moons and blazed on me. I looked down. “It also seems,” continued the lieutenant, “that a Town Hall guard was their spy in our midst.”

“No,” I said.

“Yes, a Georges Lefevre. Disgraced forever. Must have run off with them to Brittany or wherever they went. Apparently he masterminded the plot—as complicated and bizarre as could be—a secret door, an ancient escape route through the cathedral crypt, a boat waiting on the quai—”

“No,” I said. My sister was staring at me.

“They think Lefevre could be one of the top men in the Chouans,” Philippe said, “those murderous brigands we hear about.”

“A Town Hall guard?” I said. I was laughing. I couldn’t help it.

“She’s not used to the wine,” said my protective little sister.

“It’s not funny,” Philippe said. “The representative-on-mission from Paris—a Citizen Carrier—humiliated that it happened when he was here, has left Blois. I told Father how embarrassing that was for his town, and he just laughed too—said Carrier was a ‘boor, and we ’re well rid of him.’ Sometimes I wonder about Father.”

“I think the count has always proved himself rather wise,” I said.

But what I said no longer held any weight with Philippe.

“He’s of the old world,” his son said. “He told me to be careful at the front because one day
I’ll
be count. He doesn’t realize that there are no titles anymore—or the only ones that matter are military ranks.”

“Oh, my,” I said, “I think I should check on the pear tart.”

“From your tree, of course,” Angelique said.

“Of course,” Claudette said.

While I was in the kitchen, Philippe continued. “Have you heard that some old marquis has organized a band and is terrorizing the Loire Valley?”

“How can ’some old marquis’ be so dangerous?” I asked.

“He’s wild,” Philippe said, “fought side by side with Indian savages in the American war and uses their tactics. We can never find him.”

“We?” I said from the kitchen.

“They’re talking about pulling troops away from the front to fight him and his band. A tragic displacement of manpower.”

“I remember,” I said, standing by the table with the tart in my hand, “when you were ready, that night of July 14, ’89, to go fight the mobs of the Revolution with your father and the other men. Now you’re defending their government.”

Angelique shook her head.

“I’m defending France,” the lieutenant said.

I served the tart. “The wine was such a treat. Thank you,” I said.

“And congratulations.” I kissed Angelique, then the lieutenant, and wanted to cry for my anger and frustration at a government that makes innocent young men believe in the value of perpetual war, and out of fear for my sister. “Excuse me,” I said, “I need to put Caroline to bed.”

The next night, I sang Caroline the same lullaby twenty times in a row before she fell asleep, and though she awoke the moment I put her down and I had to sing it at least once again, she finally stayed asleep.

I went downstairs to sit with Claudette and work on a wool winter suit for Caroline. Though I was slow and clumsy with a needle, it was only mid-September, and I had plenty of time. Claudette was working on new curtains.

I was a retired intriguer now. I had been lucky and knew it. When Caroline greeted me at the door after the escape through the crypt to the river, I swore to myself as I held her that
she
was all I was living for now—and to keep myself healthy for William’s return. Others could carry on the dangerous work. There were plenty of angry people out there who would be happy to do it, I thought. It was a warm autumn evening; the kitchen door stood open onto the garden. The needle was in my hand when I heard the hoot of an owl. I put the needle down and looked up. Claudette stopped too. I had told her of the Chouan signal. “If it’s
them
,” I said. “I will tell them I’ve retired.”

I walked out to the garden, filled with a subtle scent of lavender and sage. “If any here desire the services of the Mother of Orléans,” I said to the vegetables and herbs, “she is retired. She just tends to her daughter and to her garden now,” and I went back into the cottage and resumed my sewing.

A minute later, with no sound of footfall, we heard a soft knock on the open door. I looked up to see a tall man with a round, black beaver hat, a black riding cloak, leather breeches, and boots to his knees.

Long black hair fell from under his hat, and a scar sliced across his cheek. His coat was open, and one couldn’t help but notice the silver hilt of a rapier and two pistols at his belt. He doffed his hat, bowed, and said, “The Marquis de La Roques at your service, Madame.”

“Madame Williams, Monsieur, but you already probably know that, and Mademoiselle Valcroix,” and Claudette inclined her head. “I won’t say I’m ‘at your service,’ for, as you’ve just heard, I’ve retired.

But if you’re the terrible marquis I’ve heard about, and I think you are, this is still a friendly house to those who resist the Committees.

If you have a thirst you may come in and serve yourself some water from the jug on the table. Please forgive us if we continue our work.

One must take advantage of a sleeping baby.”

“That is very kind of you,” the marquis said, and did as he was bid.

“Please sit at table, Monseigneur, if you like,” I said. Claudette couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He looked so dangerous, yet had the manners of the count.

“‘Monseigneur’ is a title rarely used now, Madame,” he said. “I knew of a young marquis who, to avoid conscription in the infantry, joined the cavalry of the Revolutionary Army. He brought along his valet as an aide-de-camp, who inadvertently one evening called his master ‘Monseigneur.’ The marquis was arrested on the spot and shot the next day. I learned this story from his loyal servant—he’s now one of us.”

“That is a very tragic story, Monseigneur,” I said. “The world abounds in tragic stories now.”

“Would you like to hear one with a happy ending?”

“Please; knitting, if you have never done it, leaves the mind free and often in need of entertainment.”

“I’ll give you two.”

“If they are not too long,” I said. Claudette giggled and looked down at her needles.

“If you are in need of nourishment, Monseigneur, please partake of the loaf on the table,” I said.

He cut himself a generous slice. “This is excellent bread,” he said.

“Did you make it in that oven that looks from the outdoors like a giant beehive attached to your house?”

“Mademoiselle Valcroix did,” I said.

“You have no idea,” continued the marquis, “what it is like to taste good bread when you have been eating crusts and dried pork. This is heaven.”

“What would possess a marquis to eat in such an uncivilized manner?” I said.

He took another bite of his bread. “It’s time for my stories,” he said. “There was once a young marquis of nineteen years of age who sought glory and honor fighting for his king against the British, far on the American continent; no, not the famous Lafayette, but one of the same age, who traveled with him. While Lafayette dined with and became as an adopted son to the top-ranking American general, this other marquis slept in the woods, learned the ways of survival and the methods of fighting of the Indians. He led backwoodsmen in deerskin clothing, not trained soldiers in blue uniforms, in raid after successful raid on the unsuspecting British in their bright red coats in the dark forests. At the end of the war, he stayed with his men and their families for some time, for he liked them and the wildness of their rivers and mountains. But he was called home by the love of his own region, of his own river that flowed through it. The end.”