Mistress of the Revolution (13 page)

I was growing accustomed to the idea that I was free at last. Yet my relief was tempered by concerns about the future. I ordered the carriage to go to Aurillac, where I stopped at Maître Carrier’s chambers. I had met him during the signing of my marriage contract and on occasion in Cénac when he came to attend to the Baron’s business. Although there was nothing objectionable in his manners, he made me uncomfortable and I had always avoided him.

Many say that Carrier was ugly. That is not true. He was tall, thin, a bit stooped and olive-skinned. There was a certain countrified air about him and he spoke French with a thick Roman accent. His father had been a peasant from Yolet, a village close to Vic. Pierre-André, the son of a lawyer and a convent-educated lady of the bourgeoisie, was far more polished in manners and language. Yet that day, the unease I felt in Carrier’s presence was not enough to deter me from my purpose. I announced myself to one of his clerks and was shown into his chambers without delay.

“Well, Madam,” he said, bowing, “it seems too long since I last had the honour of seeing Your Ladyship. Please allow me to offer my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“You had no need to come here. I would have been happy to call on you at Cénac.”

“You are very kind, Sir, but what brings me is a delicate matter which I wanted to discuss in your chambers.”

He looked straight into my eyes, smiling. “I am honoured by your trust, My Lady. I hope that it will be in my power to assist you.”

“You are, of course, familiar with the provisions of my late husband’s will.”

“I drafted it.”

“I need to know its contents.”

“Your Ladyship, like the other heirs, will have to wait until I come to Cénac to read the will after the funeral.”

“What harm would there be in telling me of its terms now? Please, Maître Carrier, I am sure that you would not be so unfeeling as to deny a poor widow’s request.”

“Indeed, Madam, there is nothing I find so moving as a lady in distress.” He was not smiling anymore, but watching me, his eyes narrowed, in a manner that made me squirm in my chair. “And I have always felt the most respectful admiration for you.”

“Should I be worried?”

“You should be aware of an unfortunate circumstance: you waived, by marriage contract, all of your rights to the assets and estate of the late Baron. Thus he was not bound to leave Your Ladyship a
sol
more than agreed to in the contract.”

“And pray what was that?”

“I will not keep you in suspense any longer, Madam. I will go directly to the relevant provisions of the late Baron’s will.”

He pulled a bundle of papers from a drawer in his desk and read:
“To my beloved wife, the High and Mighty Lady Marie Gabrielle Aliénor de Montserrat de Castel: the sum of 3,000 francs; I also confirm all gifts of jewellery and personal property made by me to said Lady before and during our marriage, without any limitation of value.
”

I stared at him in amazement. He paused to look at me, then resumed his reading. “
To my legitimate daughter Aimée Françoise Marie, the sum of 3,000 francs.
Then, Madam, there are various legacies to servants, including a rather generous 1,000 francs to one Marie, or Maryssou Magne, the housekeeper at Cénac. Then we go back to what concerns you:
Should my wife be pregnant at the time of my demise, the sum of 3,000 francs to the child of her body if such child be a female, and to such child the remainder of my estate should it be a male
. And finally:
Should my wife bear a male child, I give her an additional 100,000 francs and for life the income of the Barony of Cénaret.
That, Madam, is 11,000 francs per annum.
Should my wife fail to bear a male child, the remainder of my estate to my cousin, François-Xavier Alexandre de Laubrac
.”

Carrier put down the will. “You wanted to know. You do now.”

I hid my face in my hands. “Are you telling me, Maître Carrier, that all I can expect is 3,000 francs, with the same sum going to my daughter? Is that what the marriage contract provided?”

“The marriage contract required 3,000 francs for you, Madam, and another 3,000 for each daughter. Of course, the Baron could have left you and your little girl more if he had so chosen.”

My cheeks were burning. I interrupted Carrier. “What is the value of my late husband’s estate?”

“Probably a little under two million.”

“And of that, I am to receive 3,000 francs! What if I were pregnant now?”

“Ah, that would make things interesting. The estate would be held in abeyance until the birth of your child. If it were a female, nothing would change, except that she too would receive 3,000 francs, but the birth of a male would of course be a very fortunate circumstance for you, as well as a severe disappointment to Monsieur de Laubrac, whose hopes are totally contingent upon the absence of a direct heir.”

“Thank you, Maître Carrier. You have been most helpful.”

He smiled again. “I will always remain, with all due respect, at Your Ladyship’s service and that of your honourable family.”

Carrier’s words were very much on my mind as I greeted Monsieur de Laubrac and his wife on the day of the Baron’s funeral. She was draped in a vast quantity of black crape, which made her frame still more formidable than usual. She smothered me against her bosom.

“Poor, poor child,” she said, “so young and such a dreadful misfortune. Fear not, Madam, my husband will not mind your staying another week at Cénac. This will give you ample time to pack your things. As I told the new Baron:
We would not want to rush the dear Dowager Baroness out of her former house, would we?
”

To me, dowagers were ancient ladies with doddering heads and snowy hair. Madame de Laubrac’s haste irritated me. The Marquis arrived. Our mother, he explained, had been too grieved by the Baron’s death to attend. Madeleine alighted from her carriage and embraced me in silence.

The family repaired to the parish church for the funeral service, which was celebrated with all the pomp required by the Baron’s rank. The local nobility attended, along with all of his vassals. The little church could not accommodate such a crowd, and many had to follow the service from outside. The Baron’s coffin, covered with a black and silver pall, was then brought back to Cénac, where it was laid to rest in the crypt beneath the chapel, among the dust of his ancestors. It was put down on iron sawhorses, between the bodies of his first wife and elder brother. Dozens of coffins of all sizes, some, like the Baron’s, made of lead, and some, older ones, of stone, crowded the confined space. I felt that the ghosts of the Peyre family were rising around me. I had not attended my son’s funeral nine months earlier and indeed had never entered the crypt before. I gasped when I saw a tiny box, draped in dusty white silk, resting on a kind of shelf carved in a wall. I was suffocating and sought the support of my brother’s arm.

I regained enough composure to return to the house, leaning on him. In the main drawing room, Maître Carrier read the will in front of the assembled family. I kept my eyes down and gave no sign of emotion.

After the attorney was done, I said: “Maître Carrier, I know that all umarried and widowed women must report their pregnancies to a ministerial officer of the King. You are, I believe, such an officer.”

“Indeed.”

“Then I must report to you the fact that I am with child.”

Carrier grinned. “I will come back tomorrow to take your official declaration, Madam. So after all, this time will be one of congratulations as well as condolences.”

Monsieur de Laubrac had recovered enough to hiss to his wife: “The woman is lying.”

I raised my eyes. My brother rose, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and faced Monsieur de Laubrac. “You insulted my sister, Sir.”

“Surely,” intervened Carrier, “Her Ladyship would not make such a claim without good reason.”

“You, stay out of this,” said Monsieur de Laubrac, red in the face. He turned to my brother. “My deepest apologies to you, My Lord, and to Her Ladyship. I would not dare impugn her veracity.”

I put my hand to my stomach. “Your apology is accepted, Sir. Now I will retire to my apartment and take some rest.”

I curtseyed to the company. The idea of keeping Monsieur and Madame de Laubrac in suspense for some time gave me great satisfaction. My brother joined me a few minutes later in my apartment. He seized me none too gently by the elbow.

“Gabrielle, what is the meaning of this? Are you really with child?”

“I certainly intend to remain pregnant until further notice.”

He released my arm. “How can you make light of such matters? You should know that our sister Hélène wrote Madeleine to offer to receive you among her novices at the Convent of Noirvaux. Your 3,000 francs would not normally be enough of a dowry for Noirvaux, but Hélène will make an exception in your favour. I have also approached the Bishop on your behalf. You will, as a widow, need a dispensation before being allowed to take the veil.”

I frowned. “Is this not premature, Sir? I have not expressed the slightest wish to become a nun.”

“Do you think we are placed on earth for the sole purpose of following our whims? Your husband is not yet cold in his grave and you are already showing signs of your old willfulness. But you would be wise not to spurn your family’s help so hastily. You might find that 3,000 francs is not quite enough to support you in the style to which you have grown accustomed.”

I sighed. “I am aware of it. I am not seeking a quarrel with you, Sir. I have entertained the hope that you would take me back. Please let me return to Fontfreyde. You used to be so fond of me when I was little. You were so good to stay with me to wake my husband. How can you forsake me now that your kindness is my only hope?”

The Marquis shook his head. “What are you trying to do, Gabrielle? I love you as much as ever, but I am not weak enough to yield to your entreaties when I know that it would not be proper.”

“What could be improper about a brother offering a widowed sister his help? Remember that Aimée is your goddaughter. Noirvaux is not a teaching institution. What would you suggest I do with her if I took the veil?”

“You need not worry on Aimée’s account. Mother will raise her at Fontfreyde. I will treat her as my own daughter. As for you, I do not want you back. Do you think I forgot your scandalous affair? You were disgraced by that scoundrel!”

For the first time I raised my voice to my brother. “I was not disgraced, Sir. That scoundrel, as you call him, had respected my innocence. Did he not propose? And was not his offer more advantageous than the one you accepted? He would have settled 20,000 francs on me; he would not have left me destitute as the Baron did. How could you forget it when you arranged my marriage contract?” I glared at the Marquis. “And what about my feelings, Sir? Did you care at all about them?”

“Do you really fail to see what was disgraceful about that business? An alliance with any commoner would have been a stain upon our honour. But to imagine you in that man’s power! The thought that he would have been your master is simply unbearable. Under no circumstances would I have let you fall into the paws of that giant brute.”

I stared at the Marquis in shock. Until then, I had deceived myself into believing that family pride had been his main motive. Now I recalled how he had touched me that afternoon in the Fontfreyde drawing room. I had been blind. He had been jealous of Pierre-André. My brother had forced me to marry the Baron to keep me away from the man I had loved.

“I understand you now, Sir, better than I ever wished,” I said. “Please send my most respectful regards to Mother.”

He left without another word. I did not join the guests at the funeral dinner.

Madeleine declined to interfere. In her eyes, our brother, as the head of the family, was the sole judge of what was to become of me. I had to make plans. I was not with child. I would have to be careful and keep certain things from the maids, who might be bribed by the presumptive heir to spy on me. In a few months I would have to admit my mistake. The new Baron and his wife would then throw me out of Cénac.

My 3,000 francs, added to Aimée’s, would give us an income of around 300 francs per annum, just enough to secure modest accommodations in Vic. There I found lodgings consisting of a parlour, two bedrooms and maid’s quarters on a second floor on the main street, just a stone’s throw from the Coffinhal house. It did not matter, for Pierre-André never visited there anymore. The remainder of my income would barely pay for our food, clothing and the wages of one maid. We would be poor as church mice.

Shortly afterwards, Maryssou announced the visit of the Chevalier des Huttes. The Chevalier, Jean-Baptiste Pagès des Huttes, was about my brother’s age and a great friend of his. I had seen him often at Font-freyde before my marriage. He also was a Captain in the Regiment of the Queen’s Bodyguards, the
blue gentlemen
, as they were called because of the colour of their uniforms. The members of that corps, put in charge of Her Majesty’s personal security, were recruited among the minor nobility. The Chevalier’s duties required him to spend much of his time in the Palace of Versailles. When he was on leave in Auvergne, he resided in his fine house in Vic or his manor in the mountains. He had sometimes been our guest at Cénac and had attended the Baron’s funeral.

“I need not ask how you are feeling, My Lady,” he said. “You look very well.”

“Thank you, Sir, well enough.” I could not guess the purpose of his call and waited for him to speak.

“I hear that you are enquiring about lodgings in Vic,” he said, “which surprised me in light of your condition.”

I looked into his eyes. “Are you, like Monsieur de Laubrac, accusing me of lying?”

“Certainly not, Madam, but the Marquis told me yesterday of your plans to go to Noirvaux if your hopes of giving birth to the Baron’s heir were disappointed. Why then would you need lodgings in Vic?”

“These are my brother’s plans, not mine. He seems to think, as he did before, that he can dispose of me without any regard for my wishes.”

The Chevalier sighed. “I must be the only man in whom he confided before your wedding. He was absolutely right when he forbade your marriage to Pierre-André Coffinhal. In my opinion, that young man’s departure is no great loss for Vic. Oh, he is full of intelligence and energy, but he was overly indulged by his late mother. Added to his stature and physical strength, that may explain his insufferable arrogance. And that voice of his! When riding past the inn in Vic, I could hear it through the closed door, booming over the clamours of all the other patrons put together. Even his plainness never seemed to lessen his insolence. By the age of sixteen, he had bedded all of his mother’s maids and was turning his sights on mine. I remonstrated with him. Far from expressing contrition, he told me that, though he was ugly, my maids enjoyed his attentions and were eager to continue his acquaintance. According to him, so were most females once they discovered that his size, so to speak, matched his height.”

I felt myself blushing to the roots of my hair. “This is, I suppose, the sort of banter to be expected from a man, especially a very young man, when there are no ladies present. It is not fit to be repeated to one.”

The Chevalier looked embarrassed. “You are right, Madam. Please forgive me. I am truly sorry to have upset you. I was trying to explain why I thought, and still think, the Marquis justified in forbidding your marriage to the younger Coffinhal. It was characteristic of him to raise his sights to you without thinking twice about it, as if there were no striking disparity between you and him.” The Chevalier shook his head. “I am a nobleman, but the Marquis would have balked if I had sought to marry you. Imagine what he, the head of one of the most prominent families in the province, must have felt at the idea of giving his sister to the grandson of a peasant! That would have been a most unsuitable match for you.”

I frowned. “True. My brother had a more suitable match in mind.”

“Please hear me, My Lady. I do not approve of forced marriages, especially where the bride is so young as to be still a child. It pained me to see you so unhappy during the signing of your marriage contract. I strongly advised the Marquis to find a way to break the engagement, but he disagreed. Now you are no longer under his authority, and I do not like to see you again forced into a path against your inclination.”

“You are very kind, Sir. What are you offering beyond your opinion? Are you asking for my hand in marriage to rescue me from the convent?”

He smiled. “Please do not think ill of me, My Lady, if I do not. My purpose, I am afraid, is more prosaic. What I propose is to take you to Paris when I return there in three weeks. One of my closest friends happens to be the Dowager Duchess of Arpajon, your late father’s cousin. She is a lady of unimpeachable respectability. She could present you at Court and introduce you to the best society while offering you the benefit of her advice and protection. She likes the company of bright, cheerful young persons. If I told her of your situation, I am sure that she would be delighted to offer you her hospitality.”

“Then what would I do? I cannot remain with her forever.”

“A lady such as you cannot fail to find a situation at Court or a suitable husband in Paris. I will write the Duchess if you will allow me to do so. Should she accept, I would be happy to convey you to the capital.”

“And pray what would you expect in return for this service?”

“The pleasure of Your Ladyship’s company during the carriage ride to Paris, which I usually find very tedious on my own.”

I must have looked skeptical.

“I may be naive, Madam,” added the Chevalier, “but I believe that, on occasion, people, at least decent people, do things because they believe them right, without any expectation of a return. I will consider myself amply repaid if I earn your friendship.”

I accepted the Chevalier’s offer. The reader, before judging me too harshly, must remember that I was seventeen. When I found myself alone, I did feel some misgivings about the wisdom of my decision. What if the Chevalier took advantage of me? He could argue that I had agreed to elope with him, that I had thrown myself into his power of my own accord. Yet my doubts were swept away by the prospect of discovering the most fascinating city in Europe, which I had often imagined from the descriptions given by Pierre-André and the Baron.

My other choice, since the convent still did not tempt me, was to enjoy the pleasures of genteel poverty in a small town, my life over before I was eighteen. My best prospect in Vic would be, counting on extreme good fortune, to marry some widowed nobleman of a bilious disposition, probably as brutal as my late husband, but less rich and saddled with a family of hostile children. I was not joking when I had suggested to the Chevalier that he wed me. He was relatively young, handsome, good-humoured and sensible, infinitely superior to any other man whom, as a widow with a young daughter, I could expect to marry based on the sole appeal of my charms and 3,000 francs. I would have accepted him on the spot had he proposed.

A week later, the Chevalier came back to show me the Duchess’s response. I only remember the sentence: “If your young friend is half as charming as you depict her, I will be fortunate to have such a companion. Bring her to me, by all means, along with her little girl.”

I threw my arms around the Chevalier’s neck and kissed him on the cheek.

Later on the same day, I entered the stables of Cénac, which had been so stringently forbidden to me. A groom stared at me when I ordered him to saddle one of the horses.

“But, My Lady,” he said, “we have no side saddles here.”

“No matter. I can use a man’s saddle, or still better, I will ride bareback.”

He saddled one of the horses in a hurry, muttering under his breath and glancing sideways at me as if I were a madwoman.

“Where will Your Ladyship be going?”

“For a ride.”

It was the first time since my marriage that I enjoyed the pleasure of riding. I no longer cared whether I confirmed Monsieur de Laubrac’s doubts as to my pregnancy. I called on my former maid Thérèse Petit and my godson, Gabriel, now over one year old and walking around in a very assured way. He was a handsome child, robust for his age and much like his late father in looks and manners. There was the son the Baron had so wished for. Yet neither little Gabriel nor his mother had been remembered in my husband’s will. I gave Thérèse one hundred francs as a farewell present. She cried when I took my final leave of her.

I paid another farewell visit. I rode, as I had done so many times in my maiden days, to the Labro cottage. I kissed the whole household good-bye, Jacques included and Mamé last of all. I turned around to look at them one last time. Mamé, surrounded by her sons, waved at me. Tears were rolling freely down my cheeks. I decided to ride to the river, where I had not set foot since my last assignation with Pierre-André, before my marriage. The stones in the middle of its current were still covered with snow, but the merry song of the water held a promise of spring. I stood a long time on the pebble bank, unable to make sense of the past or the future.