Once again my mother and I made the long journey to Paris, with Pierre to support us, and the whole wretched business of litigation had to begin all over again—and this time with Robert, a proven fraud, living side by side with common criminals.
Pierre and I refused to allow my mother to visit her son in prison. She remained in the house with Cathie and little Jacques, but we went ourselves, and I felt as if I were back again in the theater foyer… My brother was still the perfect dandy, dressed as though for a reception, with a clean shirt and neckerchief brought to him every day by one of his servers from the boutique in the Palais-Royal, along with wine and provisions, which he shared out with his fellow prisoners—a mixed bunch of debtors, rogues, and petty thieves.
These gentlemen, some dozen of them, were confined in a space about half the size of the master’s room at le Chesne-Bidault, with a grille for air high up in the dank walls and straw pallets for beds.
“I do apologize,” said Robert, advancing with his usual smile and waving a hand at his surroundings. “Rather close quarters, but charming fellows, every one of them!” He then proceeded to introduce us to his companions as if he were host in some salon, and they his guests.
I bowed, and said nothing; but Pierre, instead of remaining on his dignity, immediately shook hands with each rascal, enquiring if he could do anything to aid them, as well as my brother. They all fell to talking and discussing their cases, while I remained standing by the door, a target for the eyes of those who could not get close enough to Pierre, until one of them, bolder than his companions, approached me close and dared to seize my hand.
“Robert!” I cried—as loud as I dared, for I had no wish to be the center of attention—and my brother, aware for the first time of my distress, moved blandly to my rescue.
“We are not renowned for courtesy in La Force,” he said, “but don’t let it worry you. So long as you left your jewelry at home…”
“You know very well I don’t possess any,” I told him, more angry now than frightened. “The point is—how do you intend to get out of this calamity?”
“I shall leave it to Pierre,” he replied. “Pierre has an answer to everything. I have friends too, in the right quarters, who will do everything possible…”
I had heard all this before. I had never yet met any of his influential friends—with the exception of his highness the duc d’Orléans, who was very unlikely to come to his assistance in La Force.
“I will tell you one thing,” I said. “My mother will not raise the money to help you out of this new scrape, nor can you expect anything from my portion of the inheritance.”
Robert patted my shoulder. “I wouldn’t dream of asking either of you,” he replied. “Something will turn up. It always does.”
Pierre’s eloquence could not save his brother, or any special pleading before the judges. It was Cathie who proved Robert’s savior. She went herself and served behind the counter in the boutique of No. 255 Palais-Royal, for three months, leaving Jacques in the care of her parents. By October she had put enough money aside to stand surety for Robert, to come to an agreement with his creditor Monsieur Rouillon, and to obtain her husband’s release.
“I knew Cathie had it in her to rise to a crisis,” declared my mother when we heard the news—for by this time we were back at le Chesne-Bidault. “If I had not been sure of her character I would never have chosen her for Robert. Your father would have been proud of her.”
The months of anxiety had taken their toll of my mother, with the journeys backwards and forwards to Paris which had continued during the summer. She had never cared for the capital; and now, she told us, she had no desire to set foot in it again.
“I have one desire left,” she said, “and that is to see both you and Edmé settled. Then I shall retire to St. Christophe and end my days alone among my vines.”
It was said without rancor or regret. Her working life was over, and she knew it. Little by little she would go more often to the Touraine, taking Edmé and me with her, preparing her small property l’Antinière, an inheritance from her father Pierre Labbé, in readiness for the future.
“Lonely?” she would say to us, scoffing, when we argued gently that her farmstead was isolated, some little way from the village itself. “How can anyone be lonely who has as many interests as I have? Cows, chickens, pigs, my few acres to till, an orchard, and vines on the hillside. Anyone who cannot occupy herself with such things and be content had best give up living altogether.”
There was one further blow to her pride before she could turn her back on le Chesne-Bidault and leave the glass-house in our care. This time it was not Robert who was at fault, but Michel.
François had thought it best to tell him of our betrothal, on one of the occasions when my mother and I were absent in St. Christophe. He took it well, better than François had expected, saying that the joke had been on him, and served him right.
“There’s only one s-solution now,” he told me, when I returned, “and that’s for Aimée to live with us here, and make a quartet of it. She always t-took my part when we were children.”
It was as though the prospective marriage between François and myself had reminded him of the old forgotten days when my father was alive and he the odd man out, rejected by his parents.
“It won’t make any difference, Michel,” I assured him. “François loves you dearly, and so do I. Everything will go on exactly as it has always done, with you as master here, and he your partner.”
“Easy s-s-said,” replied my brother bitterly, “you and he like t-turtle doves above, and I alone down here.”
I was upset, and went to François, but he made light of it.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “He’ll soon get over it.”
I approached Edmé on the subject of living with us at le Chesne-Bidault and taking on my mother’s work of managing the books—for she had a good head for figures—but she would have none of it.
“I have other plans,” she told me, “and since you have brought up the subject of my future you may as well know what they are.”
She then informed me, well-nigh bursting with pride and importance, that a Monsieur Pomard, a man considerably older than herself, who had the lucrative profession of fermier général to the monks at the Abbey of St. Vincent in Le Mans (a fermier général being, in those days, a receiver of dues and taxes, on which he pocketed a large percentage), had been courting her, with Pierre’s knowledge though hardly his approval, detesting, as he did, every fermier général on principle.
“And Monsieur Pomard is only waiting for your betrothal to be formally announced,” said Edmé, “to speak to my mother on our behalf.”
So… she had held to her vow of taking a husband of middle age who, if not as rich as Croesus, was not far off it.
“You are certain,” I asked, doubtfully, “that you will be doing right, and this is not just an attempt to copy me?”
She flared up at once, much put out at my suggestion.
“Naturally I am certain,” she returned. “Monsieur Pomard is a man of great education, and it will be much more interesting living with him in Le Mans than with you three here, or with my mother in St. Christophe.”
Well, that was for her to decide. It was not my business. And not long afterwards both betrothals were officially recognized, with my mother’s full approval. Furthermore, she agreed that Edmé should not wait until she attained her majority, so that the two of us could have a double wedding, in the summer of ’88.
“Far simpler,” she declared, “to make one ceremony of it, and be dressed alike. In that way there will be no ill feeling afterwards.”
No doubt she was right, though both of us felt a certain deprivation…
There was much to do during the months preceding the wedding, our trousseaux to prepare, lists of guests to be drawn up, much going to and from le Chesne-Bidault, Le Mans, and St. Christophe—for my mother had insisted that the double wedding should take place in her nati
ve village.
She was a firm believer in etiquette on these occasions; therefore both future bridegrooms were invited there frequently for consultation. I must confess that I did not greatly admire Edmé’s choice—he was too rubicund and portly for my liking, as though he collected the wine for the Abbey of St. Vincent in addition to the tithes and taxes—but he seemed good-humored enough, and very devoted to her.
It was inevitable, in the circumstances, that my brother Michel was left on his own at le Chesne-Bidault more often than was good for him. He had few friends other than those among his fellow craftsmen at the glass-house, for his stammer made him an awkward guest in strange company. He only felt at his ease in the narrow circle of the foundry, or among the charcoal burners in the forest, or yet again amidst the strange collection of tinkers, peddlers, wandering gypsies, and vagabonds who would roam the countryside in search of seasonal work.
I noticed a certain preoccupation on his part during the autumn of ’87, particularly in November, when the three of us—François, Michel, and myself—acted as godparents to the child of one of our workmen. He was one moment jocular and rowdy, unusual for him, and the next moment silent and seemingly ill at ease.
“What is the matter with Michel?” I asked François.
My future husband, in his turn, looked discomfited.
“Michel will settle down,” he said, “when you and I are in the house to look after him.”
I was far from reassured, and asked the same question of good Madame Verdelet, who had cooked for us for many years.
“Monsieur Michel is always out,” she said abruptly. “That is to say, of an evening when he is not working on shift. He visits the charcoal burners in the forest, the Pelagie brothers, and others. He had their good-for-nothing sister working here until I sent her packing.”
I knew the Pelagies, a rough, wild couple, and the sister too, a bold, handsome girl, older than Michel.
“Things will be better,” added Madame Verdelet, “when you are here for good, and take madame’s place.”
I sincerely hoped so. Meanwhile, it was useless to worry my mother. We gave a party at le Chesne-Bidault at the end of April 1788 to all the workmen and their families who would not be able to travel to St. Christophe for the wedding, for only the senior craftsmen had been invited to the ceremony; with Monsieur Pomard’s guests as well as ours, the numbers would have been too great.
Supper was set in the furnace house for over a hundred of them, and there was singing to follow, as was the custom, and toasts, and speeches, with my mother presiding at what would be her last occasion to do so—for at any future event this would be my duty.
All went well. The cheers for François, and for Michel too, showed that our glass-house was a happy one, and the community well content. It was only when it was over, and everyone had gone home, that my mother produced a note she had received from the curé of le Plessis-Dorin, Monsieur Cosnier, excusing himself from attending the supper. “In the circumstances,” ran the note, “and with no disrespect to you, madame, I find myself unable to accept hospitality from your son.”
My mother read this aloud, and then, turning to Michel, demanded an explanation.
“I should like to know,” she asked, “in what way you have offended the curé, who is a very good friend of mine, and of all of us?”
I received a warning glance from François, and kept silent. Michel had turned pale, as he used to do in the old days when questioned by my father.
“You are w-w-welcome to his f-friendship,” he said sullenly. “He’s no f-friend of mine. He m-meddles in things that are n-not his concern.”
“Such as what?” asked my mother.
“You had b-better go to the p-presbytery and find out,” replied Michel, and with that he flung from the room.
My mother turned to François. “Have you anything to add?” she asked.
Francois looked uncomfortable. “I know there has been some trouble,” he murmured. “More than that I cannot say.”
“Very well,” said my mother.
These were the words she always used in the old days when we had misbehaved as children and deserved punishment. No more was said that night, but in the morning my mother told me to accompany her to le Plessis-Dorin. The curé, Monsieur Cosnier, was in the presbytery awaiting us. As always in our community, word of our coming had preceded us.
“What is all this about Michel?” asked my mother, coming at once to the point.
For reply the curé opened his register, which he had ready for inspection, and pointed to one of the entries.
“You have only to read this, madame,” he replied, “to understand.”
The entry stood as follows: “On the 16th of April, 1788, Elizabeth Pelagie, born of an illegitimate relationship between Elizabeth Pelagie, servant, and Michel Busson-Challoir, her employer, was baptized by us. Godfather, Duclos, workman. Godmother, the daughter of Durocher, workman. Signed, Cosnier, curé.”
My mother stood rigid. For a moment she was speechless. Then she turned to the curé. “Thank you,” she said, “there is no need to discuss this further. Where are the mother and child?”
The curé hesitated before replying. “The child is dead,” he then said. “Fortunately, perhaps, for its own sake. I understand the mother is no longer with her brothers the Pelagies, but has gone to relatives in another district.”
We bade the curé good-day and walked back up the hill to le Chesne-Bidault. My mother said nothing until we were nearly home, then she paused for breath, midway up the hill, and I saw that she was deeply shocked.
“Why is it,” she asked, “that two of your brothers should deliberately go against every principle I hold dear, and so destroy themselves in the process?”
I could not answer her. There seemed no reason for it. We had all of us been brought up in the same fashion.
“I do not believe,” I ventured at last, “that anything they do wrong is done deliberately. Robert, Michel, and Pierre too are rebels. It’s as though they want to have done with tradition and authority, and all the things you and my father respected. Had you yourself been less forceful a person it might have been otherwise.”
“Perhaps…” said my mother, “perhaps…”
Michel was on shift when we returned, but she had no compunction in sending for him forthwith, and speaking plainly.
“You have abused your position as master here, and disgraced your name,” she told him. “That entry on the parish register of le Plessis-Dorin is there for all time. I don’t know which has disgusted me more—your behavior, or Robert’s bankruptcy.”
My brother did not defend himself. Nor did he accuse the Pelagies and their unfortunate sister. One man only had earned his hatred: the curé, Monsieur Cosnier.
“He refused the child b-burial,” Michel said savagely, “and t-took it upon himself to s-send the g-girl from the district. It’s his f-finish as far as I’m c-concerned, and that g-goes for every pr-priest in the county.”
He went back on shift without another word, nor did he join us that night for the evening meal. The following day my mother and I returned to St. Christophe, and afterwards the preparation for the double wedding took up all our time. The disgrace had cast a shadow, though, upon rejoicing; it was as though the bloom had been brushed off anticipation.
It seemed strange, a few months later, to settle down at le Chesne-Bidault as wife of the joint master, and take my mother’s place in the community. I remember how she came to collect the last of her possessions, promising to be back every so often to see that all was well.
We stood at the entrance gates of the glass-house, and watched her climb into one of the foundry vehicles that was to take her back to the Touraine. Cheerful, smiling, she kissed the three of us in turn, giving last instructions to François and Michel about a batch of glass destined for Lyon which, as it was to go to a trading house well known to her and my father, had particularly concerned her.
The workmen who were not on shi
ft were all lined up in the road to see her go, along with their wives and children. Some of them had tears in their eyes. She leaned out of the window and waved her hand. Then the driver whipped up his horse and she was gone, with the sound of the carriage wheels rumbling downhill to le Plessis-Dorin.
“It’s the end of an era,” said Michel, and glancing up at him I saw that he looked lost, like an abandoned child. I touched his arm, and the three of us moved back inside the gates of le Chesne-Bidault, to begin our life together.
It was not only the finish of the rule of the Reyne d’Hongrie, who had held sway over our community of glass-houses for over forty years, but also—within a twelvemonth, could we but know it—the end of the Ancien Régime in France, which had lasted for five centuries.
Part Two
La Grande Peur
7
The winter of 1789 was the hardest within living memory. No one, not even the old people of the district, had ever known anything like it. The cold weather set in early, and, coming on top of a bad harvest, led to great distress among the tenant farmers and the peasants. We were hard hit at the foundry too, for conditions on the road became impossible, what with frost and ice, and then snow; and we were unable to deliver our goods to Paris and the other big cities. This meant that we were left with unsold merchandise on our hands, and little prospect of getting rid of it in the spring, for in the meantime the traders in Paris would be buying elsewhere—if, that is, they ordered at all. There was a general drop in demand for luxury commodities at this time, owing to the unrest throughout the country. I had heard my brothers in the past—especially Pierre—discussing with my mother the mounting frustration in the glass and other trades, with inland customs duties and various taxes all adding to the costs of production, but it was not until I became the wife of a master glass-maker that I began to realize the difficulties under which we worked.