In Paris they had survived another Bastille Day, this time without bloodshed. A mob of people, half of them women—fishwives, Robert our informant called them, and I thought of Madame Margot who had helped me with Cathie that fatal day—had marched to Versailles on the 5th of October and camped there in the courtyard for the night, shouting for the royal family. They were thousands strong, prepared to do damage too, and it was only the intervention of Lafayette and the National Guard that turned the day from near disaster to a triumph.
The King and Queen, with the two children and the King’s sister, Madame Elizabeth, were persuaded, indeed forced, to leave Versailles and take up their residence at the Palace of the Tuileries in Paris, and the procession from the one place to the other was, so Robert wrote us, the most fantastic sight imaginable. The royal coach, escorted by Lafayette and a number of his National Guard recruited from the Paris sections, set out with a motley crowd of citizens some six or seven thousand strong, carrying crowbars, muskets, bludgeons, brooms, all shouting and singing at the tops of their voices, “Long live the Baker, and the Baker’s brats.”
“They were six hours on the road,” wrote Robert, “and I watched the circus at the tail end of the journey, turning into the Place Louis XV. It was like a menagerie of ancient Rome, and the only things that were lacking were the lions. There were women, half-naked some of them, sitting astride guns as though they rode elephants, and they had torn branches from the trees on the way and decorated the guns with foliage. Crones from the faubourgs, fishwives from the Halles, street girls with the paint still on their faces, and even respectable shopkeepers’ wives prinked out in their holiday best with hats on—they might have been the mænads fêting Dionysus! No loss of life, except one unfortunate incident before the cohort left Versailles. One of the King’s bodyguard, like an idiot, fired at a lad of the National Guard and killed him. The result of it, that same member of the bodyguard and his companion were torn to pieces. Their heads, on pikes, led the van as the procession marched for Paris.”
Michel, to whom the letter was addressed, read it aloud. He and François thought it all good fun, but they had never seen, as I had, the faces of Parisians before a riot, nor smelled the stale air in the streets with the damage done.
I snatched the letter from my brother, for between his laughter and his stammer he made little sense. Robert went on to say that now the King was in Paris among his people things would settle down, bread would be more plentiful, and honest merchants like himself could sleep at night without fear of broken windows.
“I’m a member of the National Guard, of course,” he said, “that is, for this section of the Palais-Royal. My duties are few. We simply patrol the street, fully armed, the cockade upon our hats as a badge of office. When scum approaches—and they swarm from every alleyway these days, as bold as cockroaches—we thrust our loaded muskets in their bellies, and they vanish. The women find us irresistible. One glance and they’re hanging on us, strung about with ribboned tricolor. I’d be in high good humor but for the fact that trade is dead.”
No word in all this of Laclos, or the duc d’Orléans. Lafayette was the man of the hour, or so it seemed. Then—and it was not Robert who wrote it, but Pierre, who had seen the news in a journal at Le Mans, and had it confirmed—we learned that the duc d’Orléans, Laclos, his aide-de-camp Clarke, and his mistress Madame de Buffon had left Paris for Boulogne on the 14th of October en route for England. The excuse was a foreign mission.
“But,” he added, “the comte de Valence, colonel of the Dragons de Chartres here in Le Mans, and a friend of the duc d’Orléans, has put it about that Lafayette and certain members of the Assembly believe the duc to have been behind the march on Versailles, indeed encouraged the whole disturbance, and that it would be ‘diplomatic’ for all concerned if the prince should disappear for a while. So the people’s favorite has taken himself to London, and they say is enchanted to do so; the racing in England is so much better than in France!”
I remembered the carriage turning out of the Palais-Royal on its way to Vincennes, the two lovers lolling on the cushions, the wave of the languid hand. Had Robert staked his all on the wrong horse after all?
November passed, and we had no word from him. Michel and François were busy with the foundry work, which luckily was picking up, though slowly, for until all the new laws were passed nobody knew how they would affect our merchandise. Then, at the beginning of December, a letter came from Robert addressed to me.
“I’m in great trouble again,” he wrote, “on the brink of the same disaster that overtook me in 1780, and in ’85.”
He must be referring, of course, to his bankruptcy. Perhaps to imprisonment too.
“I received a great shock, as you may well imagine,” he continued, “when the duc d’Orléans and Laclos left Paris without a word of warning to those, like myself, who had faithfully served him during the past months. I forget who it was that said, ‘Put not your faith in princes.’ There may be, of course, some explanation, which no one has yet heard. Being an optimist, I live in hopes. Meanwhile, for my financial affairs, there is only one course to take. I can’t tell you of it in a letter, or of another matter concerning my future. I want you to come to Paris. Please don’t refuse me.”
I kept the contents of this note to myself for twenty-four hours. It had been written to me, and made no mention of Pierre or Michel. My mother was too far away, otherwise I should have consulted her. Pierre was the most obvious counselor, and he knew the law, but I was aware that he was much concerned at that time with matters of the municipality in Le Mans, and could ill afford to be absent. Besides, the very fact that he was a lawyer might make my eldest brother wary. Had he needed Pierre he would have sent for him. I turned the matter over in my mind, and in the end I took the letter to Michel.
“You must g-go, of course,” he said, without any hesitation. “I’ll m-make it all right with François.”
“No need for that,” I told him.
It was two months since Gabriel had died, and my husband was still out of favor with me. I knew it would pass, but for the moment I could hardly look at him. A few days without the guilty knowledge that I hurt him might be good for both of us. Then, with the memory of that last visit to Paris still vivid and unhappy, I said to Michel, “Come with me.”
Apart from his apprentice years in le Berry, Michel had never left our glass-house country, or seen a larger city than Le Mans. In old days, I would never have suggested it; he looked, and was, a product of the foundry, black as a charcoal burner and at times almost as uncouth. But now, with all men equal, since the Revolution had abolished distinction between persons, could not my youngest brother, if he had the mind to do so, elbow a Parisian off the pavement? Perhaps he had the same thought. He smiled at me, as he might have done years past when promoted to work on shift beside his elders.
“V-very well,” he said. “I’d l-like to come.”
We set forth for Paris within a day or two. The only concession Michel made to taste and fashion was to have his hair trimmed by the barber in Montmirail, and to buy a pair of shoes; as for the rest, his Sunday coat and breeches would have to serve.
“Had I known f-five months back I was to act as your escort,” he told me slyly, “I’d have p-prized open the closets at the château de Nouans and d-dressed up like a peacock.”
The first thing I noticed when the diligence drove into the capital was that there were fewer carriages in the streets, and the thoroughfares were bare of all but trading vehicles. Many of the bright cafés and small shops that I remembered had boards across the windows, with signs “To Sell” or “To Let” upon them, and although there were many people walking about there were fewer loiterers; most of them seemed intent upon their business, and were plainly dressed, as we were ourselves. True, it had been April when I last came to Paris, and the month was now December, bleak and wet, yet something had vanished from the scene, hard to define. The carriages and the folk who rode in them, gorg
eously if sometimes absurdly attired, had made a kind of magic, and given a fairy-tale glitter to the capital. Now it seemed just like any other city, and Michel, peering through the windows of the diligence at the murky gloom about us, observed that no doubt the buildings were very fine, but it was not all that different from Le Mans.
There were no fiacres waiting in the rue du Boulay to take up passengers from the diligence, and the man who set our luggage down said the drivers did not find it paid them now to wait for travelers. Most of them had put themselves at the disposal of the deputies.
“That’s where the money is these days,” said the fellow, winking. “Hire yourself as a driver or courier to a member of the Assembly, and your worries are over. Nearly all the deputies are from the provinces, and as easy to fleece as unweaned lambs.”
Michel shouldered our bags, and presently we found ourselves at the Cheval Rouge in the rue St. Denis. I did not wish to thrust ourselves upon Robert unprepared, and this was the only place I knew.
The patron was the son of the old people of my father’s time, but he had some recollection of our name, and made us welcome. A deputy and his wife had the best room, the one my parents always had—the new patron made much of this, for they were evidently his most important clients—and later we passed them on the stairs, a plain-featured, stout little man swollen with self-importance like a pouter pigeon, with a dim-faced wife who cooked most of their dinner in their rooms, because she did not trust the hotel chef. The deputy had been a notary somewhere in the Vosges, and until he was elected to the Assembly had never seen Paris in his life.
We were served with a meal of soup and beef, hardly as well cooked as we should have had at home, and the patron, who came over to chat with us, told us there was no holding a servant since the day the Bastille fell. They lived in hourly expectation of being made masters, and would hardly settle in one place for more than a week.
“As long as the deputies remain in Paris I shall keep the hotel open,” he said, “but when they disperse…”—he shrugged his shoulders—“it may not pay me to remain. I might do better to buy a small place in the provinces. No one wants to come to Paris anymore. Life is too dear, the times are too unsettled.”
When we had finished, Michel took one look at the rain falling on the dark empty street and shook his head.
“The b-bright lights of the Palais-Royal can wait,” he said. “If this is the capital, give me the f-furnace fire at le Chesne-Bidault.”
I was up early next morning, and looking into his room saw he was still asleep, so I let him lie there, and scribbled him a note giving him directions how to find the Palais-Royal. Then I went off alone, for somehow I felt it best to see Robert by myself, and let him know that Michel had accompanied me.
Morning in the Paris streets was always busy, with people marketing and going to work. There was little difference here, the usual jostling and rudeness I remembered. A new factor was the presence of the National Guard patrolling the streets, walking in couples, giving a martial air to the scene about them. At least they were a protection against thieves, if nothing else.
The Palais-Royal, when I came to it, wore the usual forlorn appearance of any unlived-in château, and being so large a palace perhaps it showed the more. The windows were all shuttered, the big gates closed. Only the side gates were open to admit people to the gardens and arcades. Members of the National Guard did sentry duty, but they let me pass without question, and it seemed to me they served small purpose standing there.
It was early in the morning, and anyway too late in the season for garden loiterers; but whether it was the absence of the duc d’Orléans and his household in London, or simply, as my brother had warned me, that trade was bad, somehow the appearance of the Palais-Royal had changed. The arcades themselves had a drab winter look, the paving was full of puddles. It reminded me of a fairground after the fair has gone. Many of the boutiques were boarded up, with the telltale sign “For Sale” upon them, and those that were still in business displayed goods in their windows that must have been there for months. Some flair for the times, or spirit of imitation, had seized upon all the traders; faded tricolor ribbon draped every window, and prominent among the bric-a-brac on show were models of the Bastille, made in everything from wax to chocolate.
I arrived at No. 255 and saw with a pang of disillusion, though I had expected it, the notice “For Sale” hanging on the door. The windows, though unshuttered, were bare of goods.
How different from eight months past, when, despite the riots, the windows had been backed by velvet, and some half dozen of Robert’s most saleable objets d’art set in full view of the prospective buyer! “Never crowd a window,” he used to say. “It puts the buyer off. One good piece on show suggests twenty more within. Dressing your window is an art like anything else. The rarer the bait, the more eager the customer.” Now there was nothing to draw anyone. Not even a solitary cockade.
I rang the bell with small hope that it would be answered, for the rooms above looked as blank as those beneath. Presently I heard footsteps from inside, and someone unbolted the door and opened it.
“I’m sorry. The boutique is closed. Is there anything I can do for you?”
The voice was soft and low, the manner guarded. I was staring at a young woman of about Edmé’s age, or younger, whose undoubted beauty but startled eyes suggested that a member of her own sex, dressed for a morning call, was the last person in the world she had expected to see.
“Monsieur Busson?” I enquired.
She shook her head. “He is not here,” she answered. “He is living temporarily above his laboratory in the rue Traversière. He may be here later in the morning if you care to call back. What name shall I say?”
I was about to tell her I was Monsieur Busson’s sister, when caution held me back.
“I received a letter from him some days ago,” I said, “asking, if I should be in Paris, to look in on him upon a business matter. I only arrived last night, and came straight from the hotel.”
She was still suspicious, and watched me, with her hand on the door. The curious thing was that she reminded me, in some indefinable way, of Cathie. Taller, slimmer, she had the same enormous eyes, though set in a sallow skin; and her hair fell about her shoulders as Cathie’s had done when she was first married to my brother.
“Forgive my rudeness,” I asked, “but what exactly is your own business here? Are you Monsieur Busson’s concierge?”
“No,” she said, “I’m his wife.”
She must have noticed the change in my expression. I could feel it myself. My heart began thumping, and the color rushed into my face.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, “he never told me he had married again.”
“Again?” She raised her eyebrows, and smiled for the first time. “I’m afraid you have made a mistake,” she told me. “Monsieur Busson has never been married before. You are perhaps confusing him with his brother, who is proprietor of a great château between Le Mans and Angers. He is a widower, I know.”
Here was complete confusion. I felt giddy from shock. She must have sensed it, for she pulled a chair forward, and I sank into it.
“Perhaps you are right,” I said to her. “There is sometimes confusion between brothers.”
Now, looking up at her from the chair, I found her smile engaging. Less frankly warm than Cathie’s, it was somehow youthful, artless.
“Have you been married long?” I asked her.
“About six weeks,” she answered. “To tell you the truth, it is still a secret. I understand his family might make difficulties.”
“His family?”
“Yes, this brother, the owner of the château, in particular. My husband is his heir, and was expected to marry someone of his own position. It happens that I am an orphan, without fortune. That is something the aristocracy can’t forgive, even in these days.”
I began to see it all. Robert had reverted to his old game of make-believe. Here was another practical
joke, such as joining the Arquebusiers, and giving a masked ball to the ladies of Chartres. It would test all his ingenuity, though, to keep up with this deception.
“Where did you meet?” I asked her, curiosity now boundless.
“At the orphanage at Sèvres,” she said. “There was a big glass manufactory there, as you probably know, which is now closed down. My husband unfortunately lost money in it at one time. Somehow he met the director of the orphanage over business—this was soon after the fall of the Bastille—and they made an arrangement about me. I had worked, you understand, for the director and his wife since growing up. Anyway, I came here to the boutique, and in a few weeks we were married.”
She glanced down at her wedding ring, and a second one besides, a fine ruby, which must have cost my brother a small fortune, unless he stole it.
“It doesn’t daunt you,” I asked, “to have a husband nearly twenty years older than yourself?”
“On the contrary,” she told me, “it makes for experience.”
This time her smile was more engaging still. I regretted Cathie, but I could hardly blame my brother.
“I wonder,” I said, “that he cares to leave you alone at nights.”
She seemed surprised. “With the windows shuttered and the door barred?” she queried.
“All the same…” I gestured, leaving my phrase unfinished.
“We see each other during the day,” she murmured. “Business may be pressing, and his affairs in the hands of lawyers, but Robert can always find time for an hour or two with his wife.”
It seemed to me that she had little to learn for one reared in an orphanage, however credulous she might be as to my brother’s background.
“I’m sure he can,” I answered, aware, with sudden humor, that my voice must be sounding as acid as my mother’s would have done in the same circumstances. Then, after the light feeling of amusement, came a sudden shadow. Glancing up the stairs I was reminded, all too swiftly, of my last visit, of helping poor dear Cathie up to her room and to her bed, which she would never leave again save for her coffin. Here was her successor, complacent, dewy-eyed, knowing nothing of the predecessor who had trodden those same stairs before her not eight months since. My brother might be able to forget, but I could not.